She pushed open another door and Riva followed her into a bright salon with tall windows, the panelled ceiling painted white with all the mouldings picked out in gold. She glanced towards the end of the room where a wide flight of four or five steps led up to a large archway and a bedroom, as if up to a stage.
‘Wow!’ she said. ‘It’s stunning.’
‘Isn’t it just. Lucky old me. Now, write downyouraddress in my book, or I’ll never know how to get hold of you. What have you been doing with yourself?’ Lottie planted a cigarette into a silver holder.
Riva hesitated but decided to be honest. ‘I’m a dancer, I’ve got a job in Strait Street.’
Lottie stepped backwards and would have paled if her complexion were not already so light. Her eyes widened as she faltered over her next words.
‘Um … oh … well … I was about to invite you to a dinner party at The Malta Union Club next Sunday evening. It’s a gentlemen’s club except for these dinners they do, then we girls are invited.’
‘I’d love to,’ Riva interjected. ‘I don’t have to work on Sundays. What should I wear?’
‘Ah. The thing is … it’s a bit awkward …’
Riva understood instantly. ‘Because I dance for a living?’
Lottie pulled a face. ‘Exactly. Certainly at the Union Club. I don’t mind, of course.’
Riva bristled. ‘I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of your friends. I won’t come.’ She headed for the door.
‘Wait,’ Lottie said, holding out her hand. ‘You won’t be able to tell anyone what you do, but maybe we can come up with a story. I hope we can still be friends. Do come with me. Please.’
‘And my dress?’
‘Glamorous but not too low-cut. Some of the members are rather stuffy. No Maltese of course.’
‘Oh. Why’s that?’
‘Well, it’s an old-fashioned British club, isn’t it? Founded in 1826 for British officers but now civilians too, and a few dishier types will be there. It’s in the Auberge de Provence, in the Strada Reale. Archie is sending a car for me, so I’ll ask the driver to pick you up in Kalkara first.’
Riva’s first week at work went well, although the overpowering scent of cheap cologne mixed with cigarette smoke and beer became increasingly nauseating. At least in Paris the perfume had been expensive. But this was Malta. Sometimes marvellous. Sometimes terrifying. And yet she was here now and here she must stay, at least until the way ahead became clearer and the wind called her from another direction.
In general, she liked the island. On the surface it seemed so British and yet really it was not, and the island’s thrilling history fascinated her. The tales of the Knights of St John, the Catholic warriors who vanquished ferocious Ottoman troops in 1565 and built the cliff-sized fortifications that she could see today. The folklore too. The ghost stories. The strange mix of exotic cultures, Mediterranean culture as well, plus the British of course. And as she peeled back the layers of history, she discovered when the French had invaded as well.
She had started off dancing with the other three girls, but then graduated on Saturday night to a slot of her own, just after Tommy-O’s performance. She was to dance to the music of a new black American jazz player and on her first night she danced her heart out to rapturous applause. When Erika spotted her after she finished, she came running up and gave her a hug. ‘Ishouldtear your eyes out,’ she said, ‘but you were amazing. Hats off!Bravo! Ez már derék!’
Riva grinned. ‘Er, thank you … I think.’
‘Not sure about those two,’ Erika added, glancing at the other two girls who were glowering at Riva. ‘Pay noattention. They will come round. Buthowdid you learn to dance like that?’
‘I trained as a ballet dancer but grew too tall.’
Tommy-O joined them, languid and droll. ‘You’re a dark horse,’ he said and clapped his hands slowly. ‘Tonight, my friends, a star was born.’
The next evening Riva dressed carefully in the one evening dress – as opposed to show dress – she had brought with her. Short, sleeveless, and made of black silk, it was designed to be loose – just skimming her body – and was decorated with silver beads in clusters at the neck, hip, and at the hem which fell just below the knee. Before she’d dyed her hair so dark and cut it short, the black of the dress had been a startling contrast with her lustrous red curls, and now she wondered if the overall effect might be a bit gloomy. She decided on a little glittering headband to add some extra sparkle with earrings to match. Both were just costume jewellery, whereas Lottie would undoubtably be sporting the real thing – but needs must.
When the chauffeured vehicle arrived at the Auberge de Provence, Riva got out of the car and stared at the front edifice of what could only be called a palace. If she’d imagined Lottie’s place was grand – she thought of the whole building now as Lottie’s place – this was doubly so, with an imposing baroque doorway flanked by stone pillars. The front edifice was dotted with countless windows, glittering with light from the chandeliers she could see inside.
‘Come on,’ Lottie said.
As Lottie slipped off her coat, leaving it in the car, Riva glanced enviously at her friend’s silver dress, beaded all over. It must have cost a fortune – the more beads, the more expensive the dress.
They passed a footman in evening clothes who welcomed Lottie warmly and then they climbed the stairs. At the top they were ushered into an anteroom where people were gossiping in clusters while sipping cocktails and smoking.
A rigidly upright man, possibly in his forties, with short salt-and-pepper hair, ice-blue eyes and an ebony silver-tipped walking cane came over. He smiled at Lottie, but there was no genuine warmth there.
‘And who is this delightful specimen?’ he asked, and something off about him made Riva shiver.
