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THE AUTHOR Michele Lourie was a professional singer who worked for many years throughout Australia and overseas in radio, television and theatre. The Gold Coast has been 'home' since 1966 and the heroine in this book was loosely based upon herself. Michele has had pantomimes and plays performed publicly and has co-written and published a book on drama technique for use by students. For the past ten years she has managed ski lodges with her husband in the Australian Alps. CHAPTER
ONE
(Part Sample) I stood looking out through the grime of a window that hadn’t been washed in at least ten years. The vista could hardly have been called riveting. A group of homeless men seated on a small patch of threadbare grass, backs leaning against the convict-built wall of the Central Railway Station of Sydney were reluctantly passing a bottle from hand to hand. When the precious item was held a little longer than was thought necessary by one of the band, some of the others would protest. I,
too, was in a protesting mood! My agent, Keith Rocker Crain had pulled
another swiftie on me! Despite all
its showiness, or perhaps because of it, I had a peculiar fondness for the Gold
Coast of Queensland and, in particular, Surfers Paradise, so when Keith had
offered me a fortnight’s gig at a nightclub in the heart of the city I jumped
at the chance. Surfers Paradise on the Gold Coast of Queensland was one place
where one could never be bored. Only after I had signed the contract did he
inform me that I would be called upon to play at a private function on my first
night there. “What
sort of a function?” I asked as I attempted to find a chair to sit on which
was not smothered in show biz detritus of stage photographs and posters. His
office in Elizabeth Street in the Redfern area of Sydney was the most derelict
looking space between four walls that had somehow escaped being condemned. The
six storey, dirty grey building was made up of myriads of pigeon-hole rooms
leased to seemingly dubious tenants who, according to Keith, usually vacated in
the middle of the night owing money. It was not unusual, as a visitor to the
building, to be accompanied in the lift by a furtive looking tenant carrying
files or furniture down to the street. The
walls in Keith’s two-room suite had not seen a coat of paint for the ten years
he’d occupied them, and the unframed photographs of present and past
entertainers he had represented were looking fly-spotted and raggedy. That he
never saw the need to replace them or insist the Landlord renovate was an
ongoing irritation between us. “This
is where I work, Claire, not where I socialise,” he mildly protested the first
time I had the temerity to suggest he spruce the place up. “Surely
you could get that cheapskate of a landlord to have it painted for you? He
should be grateful you’re still here.” Keith
shrugged. “What for? It would be inconvenient and interrupt my flow of work
and he would probably up the rent as well.” Unusually
for me I gave up, for a time! But I wasn’t giving up on this. “What
sort of a function?” I persisted. “A
sort of cocktail affair, a piece of cake,” he answered nonchalantly. Leaning
back in the tatty leather swivel chair he appeared to be glued to, he turned a
few degrees, his expression now hidden from me. “What
type of cake?” I countered suspiciously as I perched on the edge of his desk
and leaned over to stare into his face. His expression was bland, but I could
tell that my insistence was making him uncomfortable. He
sighed as one does when talking to a stubborn child. “A birthday. A well-known
businessman on the Coast.” I
knew by the way he threw it that this line had a hook to bait a shark. “Well-known
for what?” I said sweetly. “He
has a finger in lots of pies.” “A
baker? A candlestick maker? What exactly, Keith?” “Look,
sweetheart, he asked for you particularly. You did such a great job last
time...” I
let out a strangulated scream, slid off the desk, took a deep breath and counted
up to a double octave. “Keith,
I told you never to book me for anything that...that creepy octopus...” My
agent of approximately ten years jumped out of his chair, skirted the desk in a
bound and drew me into his strong ex-drummer’s arms. His voice took on a
familiar wheedling tone. “I
owe him a few favours, Claire, and he promised me he’d behave himself with you
this time. Come on honey, do it for your old pal, and I
promise never again...never again!” Sometimes
I am such a sucker. I knew that Drummoyne Peters – Drum as he was known to his
hangers-on, had loaned Keith the money to start his talent agency some ten years
earlier, after Keith had worked for him in one of several hotels Peters had a
monetary interest in. As Keith had said, the man seemed to have a lot of
interests in a lot of things, and I had often read about him in the newspapers
as being an entrepreneur, but several times also as a person involved in deals
that had rather shady connotations. He was one of those men who seem to just
manage to live within the perimeters of law-abiding, without quite stumbling
over into criminality. But
I had signed the contract so I was, in a way, stuck! I
had a week to get organized, although the shortness of time was never a problem
as I always lived in a sort of limbo. My family jokingly claimed that gypsies
had foisted me upon them, because I liked to move around so much. I had my own
apartment in the northern Sydney suburb of Neutral Bay where I always kept a
suitcase partially packed. When you’re offered a gig at short notice it’s
important to be ready as well as willing. I prided myself on being both. The
evening before my departure I phoned my parents who live at St Ives on the upper
North Shore of the harbour city. My mother gave me the usual strictures about
taking care of myself and wearing clean underwear, and my father reminded me
that I’d be expected for family Sunday lunch the week after I got back. He had
deliberately consulted the calendar to make sure he was correct on the date and
waited for me to put it into my electronic diary. “Now
don’t go forgetting, girlie,” he said in his gruff, warm voice. “Your
Uncle Charlie and Aunt Edna are coming from Dubbo for the occasion.” After
crossing my heart and hoping to die if I forgot, I signed off, got the cat
basket from the laundry shelf and put it down with the door open. Eagerly my
chocolate Burmese cat with attitude moved in to settle on to the custom
fitted sheepskin. Cha Cha knew when he was on to a good thing, a talent that had
not rubbed off on me. He was on his way to his Uncle Eddie’s sumptuous terrace
house in Paddington in the Eastern suburbs where he would be pampered, nurtured
and nourished to his greedy little heart’s content. My brother Eddie had given
me Cha Cha a year earlier after one of my inevitably disastrous relationship
break-ups, in the hope of easing the subsequent miseries I always insisted on
cultivating. He had since lost his own beloved cat Ossenfeffer to old age and
good living, and was always happy to take Cha Cha while I was away from home. The drive across the Harbour Bridge in the early dusk of a warm evening filled me with the usual sentimental pride of a local. Slow moving traffic lines crowded Oxford Street giving me the opportunity to check out the passing parade on the sidewalks of one of the more cosmopolitan and freewheeling sections of the city. Window shoppers walked arm in arm, diners crowded the al fresco cafes, and buskers performed valiantly for coins and criticism. It was a microscopic world of congenial opposites and I had strolled through that world on a regular basis after many a gig. The Oxford Street area had some of the best restaurants in Sydney and arguably the best passing parade for the voyeur, and I am a confirmed people watcher. Miraculously
for that suburb of Paddington I found a miniscule parking space about a block
from Eddie’s house and once again patted myself on the back for having chosen
a small car that could practically fit into a matchbox. I had actually bought
the car…a Telstar, because I’d liked the name and considered it a good omen.
Cha
Cha was purring contentedly, his snooty nose already anticipating the delights
of his home away from home, as I trudged up the slight hill of the narrow
laneway, through the tiny leafy garden that fronted the terrace and led to the
handsome wooden door with its shiny brass knocker. Ivan, my brother’s significant
other, answered on the first tap. He was as neat as ever in bone chino pants
and espadrilles and a black open necked shirt, his blond hair immaculately cut.
His small boy face with its bright blue eyes exuded pleasure at our arrival. “Hello
Claire,” he smiled, pulling me into his arms for my expected warm hug. Cha
Cha started up a strident mewing, obviously miffed at the lack of attention, and
Ivan swept the cage from me and began making up for his tardiness. The spoilt
creature was soon ensconced on Ivan’s lap being fed a treat that would have
looked more than suitable on the hors d'oevres plate at a Vaucluse Society
Matron’s do. “Eddie’s
in the den in front of that wretched computer,” Ivan said resignedly. I
grimaced to show my solidarity with Ivan in his dislike of computers, then made
my way along the narrow central hallway with its photographs of scenes of Sydney
Harbour displayed. My brother was a keen photographer and he and Ivan spent much
of their leisure time wandering around the suburbs of Sydney, taking shots of
the more picturesque of the city’s places and people. The den was through the
small but beautifully appointed kitchen in a tiny room at the back of the
terrace on the ground floor. My brother’s deep voice called to me as I reached
the door. “I’m
just coming, Claire, just closing down.” From
behind me I heard Ivan’s exasperated comment which was definitely not
delivered in sotto voce. “Oh
yeah! We can believe that, can’t we Cha Cha? Surfing the Internet, that’s
all he does. One day he’ll drown in it!” The
youngest of my three brothers and the one nearest to me in age… four years
older…was devastatingly handsome at over six feet, with dark hair and
wonderfully expressive eyes, and a nature that could only be described as
accommodating. I had never known him to be in a bad mood and I put this down to
his being the least judgmental person I had ever known. He ran his own computer
business while Ivan worked for an events catering firm, the pair living
very contented and harmonious lives, despite Ivan’s half-serious carping. I
loved visiting especially for a meal, for I was a hopeless cook while Ivan was a
chef of gourmet standard. “Hello
my darling girl,” my brother murmured as he held me tight and kissed the top
of my head. “Where are you off to this time?” “Surfers
Paradise.” From
the lounge room Ivan let out a squeal. “Surfers!
Sweetheart, please take me with you. We never get to go on holiday anywhere.
Someone…and we’re not saying whom, are we Cha Cha?…Someone is always too
busy.” My
brother gave me a wink as we moved towards the lounge area. Ivan was seated on
the white leather sofa with Cha Cha on a red brocade cushion contentedly purring
beside him, one paw resting on Ivan’s knee. “I’ll
be gone for two weeks and then I’ve got a month’s contract lined up for that
new jazz club here in the Cross,” I said rather glumly. “You
sound as though you’re not that keen to be going,” said Eddie. I
shrugged. “I
love Surfers, you know that, but I’m a little tired of living out of a
suitcase. It’s only been a month since I got back from Cairns.” “Oh
don’t mention that place,” said Ivan quickly with a frown and a roll of his
eyes. What
he really meant was that I should not mention the two-timing saxophonist I had
left behind there…the handsome streak with the kissable embouchure from the
risingly famous band Brain Force. Ivan was constantly warning me to stay away
from musicians in the romantic way, and from the run of luck I’d experienced
lately I was beginning to think he had a valid point. I had been badly burnt by
this last experience, wasting six months on a relationship that had definitely
been only one-way in exclusivity, though I hadn’t found that out until quite
late. It had not been an amiable break-up and I was still hurting. “Going
to Surfers Paradise will be the best thing for you, sweetheart. You get away
from memories that are not good, and maybe you’ll meet a nice bank manager or
chemist or something.” He
was sounding like my mother but again I could see his point. I needed a little
time to adjust my wounded pride and, since the saxophonist and Brain Force were
due back in Sydney the following week, it was also a good idea to put space
between the dirty double-crosser and my broken heart. I cheered myself up on the
drive back to my apartment by fantasising how I would meet a gorgeous new love
in the holiday mecca of Australia. During
the hour and half flight from Sydney to Coolangatta my mood was newly
optimistic. I’d even decided that I would do my utmost to enjoy the evening of
Drummoyne Peters’ party and put behind me any memory of the host’s sleazy
ways. The affair was certain to be an eye-popping event given the character of
the man and the society make-up of his Gold Coast set, and there would be no
shortage of members of the latter. This could well turn out to be the party of
the season. I
took a taxi from the airport for the twenty minute drive to the Surfers
Beachside apartments, a high-rise situated a few blocks from the main centre of
the city. The Gold Coast Highway route took me through suburbs of well-kept
houses and apartment blocks with extended views of the Pacific Ocean in all its
splendour. I loved how the beaches seemed to go on and on forever and couldn’t
wait to get myself into the water and beneath the warmth of a sun that appeared
to shine ad infinitum. Keith
owned a two bedroom holiday apartment in the beachside block that he always made
available to any member of his stable of entertainers for work or rest periods.
He was very generous in that way. I had used it on several occasions over the
years, the last when I had worked at Drummoyne Peter’s birthday celebrations
the previous year. It was furnished as a beach apartment; most of the chairs
were woven cane with washable seat cushions in bright hues and the floors were
tiled and scattered with throw rugs. It had nothing much in the way of personal
objects. It was just plain comfortable and convenient. After
quickly unpacking my one suitcase, I grabbed a large fluffy beach towel from the
well-stocked linen cupboard and headed to the swimming pool. I could have gone
to the beach just across the road from the apartment building but I decided to
leave that for the morning. Now I needed a little exercise after the plane ride,
followed by a nap to rejuvenate my senses and ample time to dress and ready
myself for the evening’s work. The 25-metre pool was an ideal place to start
my programme. Feeling
rested and full of energy that evening, I walked down two blocks to a Chinese
restaurant and treated myself to a dish of salt and pepper squid with steamed
rice and some dim sums on the side. A taxi got me to the party address on the
marine parade of Surfers Paradise by 6.45 pm, to be met at the elevator doors by
a security man who checked my identification against a long list of names on his
board. He was a large specimen of maleness, his square face sporting an
impassive expression, his muscled arms straining against the blue sleeves of his
uniform. I idly wondered if he wouldn’t have felt more comfortable investing
in a larger size shirt, but hesitated to put my thoughts into a voiced
suggestion. “I’m
one of the hirelings,” I explained deferentially as I noticed him returning to
the top of the list for a second scan. “Maybe you’ll find my name on a
separate list of workers.” He
shrugged and kept laboriously thumbing down the page. A group of brightly clad
partygoers entered the main door of the marble floored entry area and queued
behind me. They already seemed to be in a high state of jollity. “What’s
up, Tony?” came the voice of a young fellow to my right and back. “Caught a
gatecrasher, have we? Nice tasty gatecrasher, I must say!” I
smiled benignly and turned away slightly from the breath of beer that fanned my
cheek. “Oh,
come on man!” complained another impatiently. “Since when does old Drum bar
anything as pretty as this? Let’s in, man!” The
security guard raised his solid head and glared witheringly at the speaker then
went back to his search. I leaned over and touched him gently on the arm. “Perhaps
you’d like to check these people through before me,” I said softly. “Good
idea! Then we can get Drum to come down and fetch you up himself.” There
was some sniggering at this witty sally, but both my friend who barred the
doorway and myself ignored it. It took a few minutes to clear the crowd then I
had his uninterrupted attention once again. This time he found my name, misspelt
as Brainey, apparently a source of amusement to him, for he managed a
slight, almost imperceptible smile before ushering me into the elevator. Almost on the stroke of seven o’clock of a balmy evening I rode the lift up to the twenty-first floor to step out into the most spacious vestibule I’d ever seen, aside from an International Hotel. I realized this was the penthouse, but the size of this entrance area verged on the ridiculous. A thirty-member orchestra fronted by a Philharmonic choir could have fitted into it in comfort. The decor was as extravagant as the place was large. Against gold-speckled pale green walls a life-sized Buddha sat in one corner, presiding over a tumble of rocks through which a miniature waterfall struggled to feed a pool of plump goldfish. A gold painted archway led into a long hallway, flanked on each side with those paintings of stylized underwater scenes, in which fish seem to be attempting to escape out of the frames. I always think they should have a sign under them, like those on the fire cases in buildings: “In case of fire, break the glass”, only in this instance it might be “In case of freedom, break the glass.” As
I walked down the passageway I saw several rooms leading off it, all the doors
closed and each with cute little name tags spelling out its particular use…Toilette,
Main Boudoir; Macho Den; Favoured Guest Boudoir, Cuisenaire
and Cloak & Dagger Room. The interior decorator had obviously been a
frustrated wit. As
I entered the main room I began to feel like the fish I’d passed in the
hallway, gasping for air. The large semi-circular area was chock full of men in
the latest Armani suits and smugly satisfied expressions in earnest
conversations with women in the latest plastic surgery make-overs and casual
outfits…each worth more than my whole wardrobe in total. Amongst this
glittering crowd moved waitpersons with trays of drinks and canapés. It all had
the look of extreme decadence and I had to admonish myself severely for my
cynical outlook. After all I was not an invited guest to the Gold Coast party of
the season…I was merely the entertainer. The
renowned Gold Coast socialite photographer, Regina King – herself a singer
entertainer in the early days of the Coast - was snapping away with the
enthusiasm of a baby turtle, while her subjects pushed their way to her
attention by acting like sharks in a feeding frenzy. I stood transfixed as I
watched the spectacle. Spying
the piano, a white baby grand set on a raised platform in the widest point of
the room, I broke my inaction and headed for it, the gorgeous groups parting for
me like the Red Sea, or rather as if I had the black plague. Quite appropriately
I appeared to be the only woman in the room dressed in black, though I have
noted before that female locals of Surfers Paradise tend to rival the Rosellas
of our Australian bush for colour and, sometimes dare I say, for raucousness. I
began to sort through the charts from my briefcase while occasionally glancing
around the room to get my bearings. It was always a good idea I had found, to
know where the entrances and exits were in a venue. You never knew when you
might be in need of a fast getaway. There had been several occasions in the past
when a brawl had broken out and I was never on one side or the other. It was a
large room, even for a penthouse, and the thought occurred to me that Drummoyne
Peters must still be very much in the money. The furniture…mostly leather and
glass, had been pushed to the edges of the floor space and a portable dance
floor centred adjacent to the piano. The drapes that matched the cream walls
were all pulled back to allow the spectacular view of the seemingly unending
Gold Coast shoreline to be seen to perfection to the north and south. Apart from
the hallway entrance there were two floor-to-ceiling glass doors that gave onto
the wraparound terrace and I could see quite a crowd outside enjoying the mellow
weather. I
turned my attention back to the job in hand. I had a few new songs I wanted to
air, though I wondered if I should stick to the tried and true repertoire.
Mostly at functions like these the guests pay scant attention to the performer.
Let’s face it, they do have better things to think about, like who’s
sleeping with whom, who’s had the latest in facelifts, and who’s wearing
what designer label. The entertainer becomes practically invisible except to
ageing men who leave their empty glasses on your instrument while they whisper
unacceptable suggestions in your ear, usually when you are executing a
particularly difficult cadenza. I kept my eye open for one such man…mine host,
and eventually spotted him on the far side of the room beside a table buckling
with wrapped presents. Next to him was a leggy blonde in a wisp of mini skirt
and a halter top who was youthful enough to have been his daughter, but
certainly wasn’t acting the role. She was nibbling his ear like a rabbit on
lettuce. Keith
had booked me the year before for Drum Peters’ fifth wedding
anniversary party, held at his then domicile on the fashionable island of
Paradise Waters. That had been the previous occasion I’d worked in Surfers,
but the beauty hanging on his arm was around twenty-five in years and certainly
not the wife I remembered. The one I recalled had been in her late thirties with
a perpetually sour expression, which became even more vinegary when her husband
began forcing his attentions upon me. That particular night I had worn a
figure-hugging dress on my 5 foot 7 inch frame, my black shoulder-length hair
free, and this combination had somehow sent Drum into a frenzy of desire. Either
that or he had a thing about buttons. My dress had tiny examples of the same,
all the way down the front from the high Chinese collar to the hem and, on one
of my musical breaks, he proceeded to undo them with fingers that, for a man in
his fifties, showed no arthritic tendencies. His then flaming-haired wife,
Victoria, was not amused and nor was I! I was lucky to escape with the clothes
on my back and without my green eyes being scratched out. “You
going to play something, darling?” The
first bleeding obvious of the evening had arrived! He was tall, about 60
years old, greying at the temples, and dressed in an off-white tuxedo with a
pale pink tie. I began to think of the music of the fifties, and felt sure he
could have given me a suitable list off the top of his head starting with Lipstick
on my collar. Swaying a little he put his half-empty glass of champagne on
the white piano lid, the first of my glass collection of the evening! “Such
was my intention,” I replied with what I hoped was a gracious but dismissive
smile. “Well
done,” he intoned, his head nodding seriously. “And what are you going to
render us?” “Your
body parts,” I mumbled under my breath, then flashed him another pearly
winner. “This and that, bits and pieces,” I said. The
nodding continued, reminding me of the ornament on the dashboard of my Uncle
Charlie’s beloved old Vauxhall car. A little boxer dog with a swivel head that
moved within a static body to every shudder of the car, that my father’s
brother had lovingly cared for over a thirty year period. As a small child that
perpetually moving head had kept me fascinated on long trips to and from his
farm outside Dubbo. “My
name is Brian Greville and I’m a lawyer.” Reluctantly
I took the proffered hand to have mine pumped enthusiastically in tempo with the
nodding. “Claire
Blainey,” I said, and was about to ask for my appendage to be released on
account of I needed the fingers for my means of making a living, when the
appearance of a woman by my new friend’s side solved my problem. “What
are you up to, Brian?” She
had professionally blonde-streaked brown hair pulled back into a bun on the nape
of her neck, carefully pencilled eyebrows and a thin, tight mouth in a long,
dissatisfied face. No twinkle of the brown eyes accompanied this question.
Instead they raked me up and down as she looped a bare, well-tanned stringy arm
through Brian’s. Her deep blue shift was obviously a designer original, but I
knew I looked better in my off-the-peg number, and not only because she was a
good ten years older than me in my twenty-eighth year. There was something about
her that suggested a less than magnanimous disposition. “I
was just talking to this charming young lady, Patrice dear,” the lawyer said
with a tremor of anxiety overlaying his reedy tone. “She’s about to play us
a few songs.” She
tugged firmly and began to lead him away from temptation. “We
must leave the hired help alone, dear, to get on with her job,” she said over
her shoulder. I
laughed softly to myself. This little encounter had eased my dark mood. Patrice
Greville had reminded me of what I was there for, to entertain. I made my way to
the door marked toilette at the end of the hall adjacent to the foyer, to
check that I was presentable for my eager public. When I pushed open the door I
found that it was full to the overflowing. Three women were fixing their
perfectly coiffured hair at the wide wall mirrors, while another occupied the
single cubicle. As I waited I couldn’t help thinking that this room would not
be a big selling point for the penthouse…it was so cramped. This impression
was not helped by the presence of a cane stand with an aspidistra in it, bang up
against a wall hung with a curtain of cotton-woven embroidered fish. The
decorator must have had some sort of affinity with the creatures! When
I finally got to stare into the mirror I had already learned enough about half
the guests to fill a gossip column in the local Gold Coast Bulletin. Not one of
the women seemed concerned that I might be a spy or a friend of one of those
unfortunates being so scathingly discussed. I
was glad to get to the relative solitariness of the piano and did a
thirty-minute set of gentle, background songs. I became so engrossed in the work
that I was surprised to receive an appreciative round of applause from about a
quarter of the guests after I got up for my first break. I
bowed my thanks and headed for the servery bar in the corner of the room that
sported a backdrop of the Surfers’ city skyline through the glass wall behind.
This section of the apartment seemed to be all glass. I took my gin and tonic
from one of the other hired workers and wandered out into the
September-warm and less perfume-polluted air. Adjacent to what I took to be the
bedrooms behind the closed doors of the hallway was a raised section on the
patio. A large hot spa and a small swimming pool filled this area, the
surrounding deck formed of interwoven narrow wooden slats. The swimming pool
would have been no earthly good for doing laps in, but was an obligatory
accessory of any Gold Coast penthouse worth its salt. At the opposite end of the
patio was a barbecue area with another Buddha dominating the far corner, this
time reclining and demurely surrounded by variegated ferns. The soft lighting
gave a surrealistic feel to the whole area. A couple, only half hidden behind
the statue, were obviously enjoying the mood, arms entwined about each other,
issuing forth noises that sounded like marathon runners collapsing. I turned
away diplomatically and re-entered the party room. “Oh
here you are!” exclaimed a plump woman encased in a hot orange and purple
pantsuit, jet black hair emphasising every line in her fifty something face. Her
pudgy bejewelled fingers fluttered like frantic moths at a window as she
directed me to a space near the piano before bending her head to my ear. In my
absence someone had put on a CD of a rock band I did not recognise at a sound
level that assumed most of the people in the room were partially deaf. “I’m
Lois Chambers, Drum’s sister,” my kidnapper explained, as the fragrance of
Poison perfume liberally sprayed about her person began to clog my arteries.
“I’m more or less the hostess of this extravaganza, and I want to make sure
you understand what I want from you.” “To
entertain you with music and song,” I interrupted. A short but sharp retort,
as I could not waste the air in my lungs. “Yes,
yes, all that, but we’ll be having the birthday cake out soon and I want to
make sure everyone sings. For some reason at every birthday celebration I’ve
ever been to, the pianist plays the Happy Birthday song in a key that is
impossible to sing in. I should know because I am a trained singer. I attended
the Queensland Conservatorium for a year.” I
could not afford to groan for it would have meant a greater intake of breath and
possible asphyxiation. “What
key?” I said through gritted teeth. She
looked a bit taken aback but recovered quickly. “Somewhere around here!” She
intoned with full vibrato in the key of E flat, and I nodded my understanding. “Tuning
up the old tonsils, eh Lois? S’pose you’ll be giving us a little song later?
We’ll all be looking forward to that!” Lois’
fan was the shortest and roundest man in the room. Probably in his late forties
and no taller than 5ft 3ins, his youthful figure was well lost, a rotund belly
cinched in a black cummerbund that looked about to burst. Completely bald except
for a long wisp of pepper and salt hair that had been artfully combed across the
skull from one ear to the other…he reminded me of one of those kewpie dolls
that you could buy from the stalls at the Royal Easter Show. “Only
by popular request, Arnie,” modestly blushed our hostess. “I’m
requesting,” the artful Arnie assured her as she fluttered a deprecating hand
at him and hurried off, obviously to attend to other pressing matters, leaving
her admirer high and dry. Naturally he turned to me. “Arnold
Preston’s the name,” he beamed, “Hotels are my game, and I must say I’ve
enjoyed your music so far.” “Kind
of you to say so,” I returned, at the same time edging my way towards the
safety barrier of the grand piano. “I’ve
met a few entertainers in my time,” he continued, deftly cutting off my line
of retreat by placing his round body across my only avenue of escape. “Book
‘em in hotels, d’you see.” “How
interesting,” I said. “Mr Peters, our host, has a hotel too, I believe?” “I’m
the manager of it. We’ve had some real stars strutting their stuff in our
cabaret room over the years, including some from overseas. We had Diana Ross out
here a couple of years ago and a terrific success she was, besides being a
terrific girl, I can tell you.” And
I could see he was going to tell little old me all about his close acquaintance
with the big names of the entertainment world. “Terrific!”
I murmured resignedly, certain I was in for a boring recital of each star’s
name, when once again the heavens were watching over me and I was unexpectedly
rescued. A handsome knight in a white tux had charged to my side. “Sorry
to interrupt, Arnie, but I’ve been sent to summon the lovely Miss Blainey back
to her piano. The birthday cake is about to be wheeled in and my mother would
like the accompanying music to begin.” His
smile was warm and enveloping. Dark hair framed a face of near-perfect lines,
his eyes were a shade deeper green than mine, and his hand on my elbow sent
shivers up my spine. At 5 ft 10 and
mid thirtyish, he exacerbated this effect by raising finely formed brows
quizzically at me. “Your
mother.....” I feebly said, desperate to know who this Adonis could be. “Christopher
Chambers, our birthday boy’s nephew. Now may I escort you to your instrument,
Miss Blainey?” He
could have escorted me to the edge of a cliff and suggested I jump over. Where
had he been all evening? I surreptitiously checked his left hand for the single
woman’s guiding sign. There was no evidence of a ring! This definitely
warranted further investigation especially in view of the fact that he had
called me by my name - albeit by my surname only. “Claire,”
I coached in my most alluring tone. “Please call me Claire.” Smiling
lips curled at the extremities causing my toes to attempt to emulate them.
“Mother’s looking a bit frantic I’m afraid. It think it would be a
good idea to launch into your act before the sparklers run down.” Lois
Chambers was at the entrance to the room, a mahogany wooden cake trolley in
front of her. A croquembouche, its spun sugar glinting like gold in the
reflected points of the dozen or so sparklers that had been stuck in several of
its layers, was vying with the gold rings on Lois’s fingers as she waved her
arms about impatiently in our direction. I
struck up the chords to the Happy Birthday song and watched as Lois
launched herself and trolley into the room, mezzo soprano voice raised in
splendid tremolo. The crowd parted and Drum Peters walked to the centre, the
lovely blonde girl still clinging to his arm like a limpet to a rock. As the
last ringing notes died, these two were engulfed in well wishes with much
kissing on both cheeks in the European manner and squeals of delight. Sadly,
Christopher Chambers had deserted my side and joined the excited throng.
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