Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (8 page)

She stood beaming down at Miss Dubarry. Miss Dubarry sat staring gloomily at the electric fire, quite unaware of the elation she was causing her friend Delysia’s friend. Miss Pettigrew thought she must do something to lighten Miss Dubarry’s distress. She soared to the heights. With carelessness, with ease, with negligent poise, as featured in countless Talkies.

“Have a spot,” said Miss Pettigrew.

Miss Dubarry brightened.

“That’s an idea. Blessings on the woman.”

Miss Pettigrew resorted once more to the cupboard in the kitchen. She came back with a laden tray. She had put on a bottle of most things she could discover.

“Perhaps you’ll mix your own,” she said with careless airiness. “Every one to their own poison, I always say.”

Miss Dubarry rose with alacrity.

“Just a little gin I think, and…where’s the lime juice? Ah! Here. I think a gin and lime will do me grand.”

Miss Pettigrew watched her with veiled concentration.

“What’ll yours be?” offered Miss Dubarry helpfully.

Miss Pettigrew started.

A hasty refusal came to her lips, then she changed her mind. This was no time for squeamishness. A hostess must drink with her guest.

“I’ll mix my own,” said Miss Pettigrew recklessly.

Miss Dubarry retired with her drink. Hastily Miss Pettigrew filled a glass with soda and just coloured it with sherry to give it a look of authenticity. She returned to her seat.

“Mud in your eyes,” said Miss Dubarry.

Miss Pettigrew knew no happy rejoinders, so made one up.

“Wash and brush up,” said Miss Pettigrew.

They drank.

“Another?” offered Miss Pettigrew.

“I don’t think I’d better,” said Miss Dubarry reluctantly. “I mean, if we’re going to the Ogilveys’, we’d better arrive sober. I mean, we nearly always leave drunk.”

“Exactly,” agreed Miss Pettigrew.

“And then, if Tony’s there, I’ll need all my wits about me.”

“Precisely,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“So I’d better not have another.”

“The bar has closed,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“Well, perhaps just a splash ,” said Miss Dubarry.

She splashed. Already she looked a great deal more cheerful. Her air of funereal gloom had almost departed. She regarded Miss Pettigrew with interested curiosity and made no bones about satisfying her inquisitiveness.

“Friend of Delysia’s?”

Miss Pettigrew stared at her toes, glanced at the closed bedroom door, looked back at Miss Dubarry.

“Yes,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“Close friends.”

“Very,” lied Miss Pettigrew.

“Well,” said Miss Dubarry, “I always say ‘a friend of Delysia’s is a friend of mine ‘.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“She sees things in people I don’t and she’s always right, so I follow her lead.”

This sounded a little doubtful to Miss Pettigrew, so she only smiled.

“New to London,” diagnosed Miss Dubarry brilliantly.

Miss Pettigrew forbore to tell her that for the last ten years all her posts had been in and near London. Suddenly she was ashamed to acknowledge it. Obviously she had gained nothing by this advantage.

“I was born in a village in Northumberland,” she prevaricated.

“Ah!” said Miss Dubarry brightly. “Scotland.”

“Well. Not quite,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“It’s a long way from London,” said Miss Dubarry darkly.

“Yes. It is.”

“Here for good now?”

“I hope so.”

“Ah. You’ll soon learn things here. There’s no place like London. Takes time, you know. But you’ll soon leave the provinces behind.”

“Do you think so?”

“No doubt at all, with a little expert advice.”

Miss Dubarry stood up abruptly. She circled Miss Pettigrew, eyes intent, expression concentrated. Miss Pettigrew sat petrified. Miss Dubarry frowned. She held her chin between thumb and forefinger. She shook her head. Suddenly she barked, “You shouldn’t wear those muddy browns. They’re not your colour.”

“Oh!” Miss Pettigrew jumped.

“Certainly not. Where’s your taste? Where’s your artistic discrimination?”

“I haven’t any,” said Miss Pettigrew meekly.

“And your make–up;’s wrong.”

“Make-up!” gasped Miss Pettigrew.

“Make-up.”

“Me?” said Miss Pettigrew faintly.

“You.”

“I haven’t any.”

“No make–up;,” said Miss Dubarry shocked. “Why? It’s indecent, walking around naked.”

Miss Pettigrew stared at her blankly. Her mind was whirling: her thoughts chaotic. A mental upheaval rendered her dizzy. Yes, why? All these years and she had never had the wicked thrill of powdering her nose. Others had experienced that joy. Never she. And all because she lacked courage. All because she had never thought for herself. Powder, thundered her father the curate, the road to damnation. Lipstick, whispered her mother, the first step on the downward path. Rouge, fulminated her father, the harlot’s enticement. Eyebrow pencil, breathed her mother, no lady…!

Miss Pettigrew’s thoughts ran wildly, chaotically, riotously. A sin to make the best of the worst? She sat up. Her eyes began to shine. All her feminine faculties intent on the important, earnest, serious, mighty task of improving on God’s handiwork. Then she remembered. She sat back. Her face clouded.

“Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew in a flat voice. “My dear…at my age. With my complexion.”

“It’s a beautiful complexion.”

“Beautiful?” said Miss Pettigrew incredulously.

“Not a mark, not a spot, not a blemish. Colour! Who wants natural colour? It’s always wrong. A perfect background. No base to prepare. No handicaps to overcome. Blonde, brunette, pink and white, tanned, creamy pallor. Anything you like.”

Miss Dubarry leaned forward intent. She tipped Miss Pettigrew’s face this way: she tipped it that way. She patted the skin. She felt the texture of her hair.

“Hmn! A good cleansing cream. A strong astringent to tone up the muscles. Eyebrows definitely darkened. Can’t make up my mind about the hair yet. Nut-brown, I think. Complexion needs colour. Definitely colour. Brings out the blue of the eyes. Whole face needs a course of treatment. Shockingly neglected.”

She stopped abruptly and looked apologetic.

“Oh dear! You must excuse me. Here I am, forgetting myself again. I’m in the trade, you see, and I can’t help taking a professional interest.”

“Don’t mind me,” breathed Miss Pettigrew. “Please don’t mind me. I love it. No one’s ever taken an interest in my face before.”

“Obviously not,” said Miss Dubarry sternly. “Not even yourself.”

“I’ve never had any time,” apologized Miss Pettigrew.

“Nonsense. You’ve had time to wash, haven’t you? You’ve time to get a bath. You’ve time to cut your nails. A woman’s first duty is to her face. I’m surprised at you.”

“Ah well!” sighed Miss Pettigrew hopelessly. “I’m long past the age now…”

“No woman,” said Miss Dubarry grimly, “is ever past the age. The more years that pass the more reason for care. You should be old enough to know better.”

“I’ve never had any money.”

“Ah!” said Miss Dubarry with understanding. “That’s different. You wouldn’t believe the amount it costs even me to keep my face fixed, and I’m in the trade and that means nearly ninety-nine per cent off.”

She found her handbag and opened it.

“Here’s my card. You bring that any time you like and you shall have the best of everything. Any friend of Delysia’s is a friend of mine. If I’m at liberty I’ll do you myself. If not, I’ll get you the best left.”

“How wonderful,” gasped Miss Pettigrew. She took the card with trembling fingers.

“Edythe Dubarry,” she read, thrilled.

“It’s well seen you’re no Londoner,” said Miss Dubarry. “That name stands for something. It’s the best beauty parlour in London, though it is my own.”

Miss Pettigrew’s face began to shine.

“Tell me,” she begged, “is it true? Is it really true? I mean, can these places improve your looks?”

Miss Dubarry sat down. She hesitated. She hitched her chair closer.

“Look at me.”

Miss Pettigrew looked. Miss Dubarry gave a friendly chuckle.

“I like you. There’s something about you…well! What do you think of me?”

“Oh dear!” said Miss Pettigrew, much embarrassed. “What have I to say to that?”

“Just what you like. I don’t mind. But the truth.”

“Well,” said Miss Pettigrew, taking the plunge, “I think you have very…very startling looks.”

Miss Dubarry looked immensely pleased.

“There you are then.”

Miss Pettigrew warmed to her task. If Miss Dubarry could be frank, so could she.

“You’re not exactly beautiful, like Miss LaFosse, but you catch the eye. When you come into a room, every one will notice you.”

“There,” said Miss Dubarry proudly. “What did I tell you?”

“What?” asked Miss Pettigrew.

“What I’ve been telling you.”

“What’s that?”

“You and I,” said Miss Dubarry, “are exactly alike.”

“Oh…how can you say it!” said Miss Pettigrew unbelievingly.

“You don’t look like the kind of a woman to give away secrets,” said Miss Dubarry recklessly.

“I’m not,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“And when I see such a perfect lay figure as you, I can’t help spreading the glad tidings.”

“No?” said Miss Pettigrew, bewildered.

Miss Dubarry leaned closer.

“My hair,” stated Miss Dubarry, “is mouse coloured…like yours.”

“No!” gasped Miss Pettigrew. “Not really.”

“A fact. I thought black suited me better.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“My eyebrows,” continued Miss Dubarry, “and eyelashes are sandy-coloured. I have plucked my eyebrows and pencilled in new ones. My eyelashes, as well as being such a damnable shade, are short. I have had new ones fixed. Black, long and curly.”

“Marvellous,” whispered Miss Pettigrew, at last realizing the reason for Miss Dubarry’s surprising eyes.

“I have the insipid, indeterminate complexion that goes with that stupid colouring. I thought a creamy pallor a great deal more interesting.”

“Absolutely,” breathed Miss Pettigrew.

“My nose was a difficulty. You score over me there. But McCormick is a marvellous surgeon. He gave me a new one.”

“No,” gasped Miss Pettigrew.

“My teeth were the greatest trouble,” confessed Miss Dubarry. “They weren’t spaced evenly. Fifty pounds that cost me. But it was worth it.”

Miss Pettigrew leaned back.

“It’s unbelievable,” she said faintly, “quite unbelievable.”

“I forgot the ears,” said Miss Dubarry. “They stood out too much, but, as I say, McCormick’s a marvellous surgeon. He soon put that right.”

“It can’t be possible.” Miss Pettigrew was almost beyond words. “I mean, you’re not you.”

“Just a little care,” said Miss Dubarry. “It does wonders.”

“Miracles,” articulated Miss Pettigrew, “miracles; I’ll never believe a woman again when I see her.”

“Why!” said Miss Dubarry. “Would you have us all go naked and unashamed? Must we take off the powder with the petticoat, and discard the eyeblack with the brassiere? Must we renounce beauty and revert to the crudities of nature?”

“All but Miss LaFosse,” continued Miss Pettigrew faintly but loyally. “I saw her straight…out…of…the…bath.”

“Oh, Delysia!” said Miss Dubarry. “She’s different. She was blessed at birth.”

She glanced at the bedroom door. Her face clouded over again.

“I wish she’d hurry. I’m in an awful jam and she generally sees a way out.”

Miss Pettigrew’s eyes became misted.

“How lovely!” she thought sentimentally. “Is there anything more beautiful? Woman to woman. And they say we don’t trust each other!”

“There’s nothing like another woman when you’re in trouble,” sighed Miss Pettigrew.

Miss Dubarry shuddered.

“Good God! Don’t you believe that,” she said earnestly. “There’s not another woman I’d come to but Delysia.”

“No?” asked Miss Pettigrew in surprise.

“Well, Delysia, she’s different. I mean, with her looks she hasn’t got to worry about men. You can trust her.”

“Yes,” said Miss Pettigrew. “I know you can.”

“She doesn’t try to pinch your men. I mean, I don’t mind flirting. A woman wouldn’t be human if she didn’t, but there’s ways of doing it. She doesn’t try to turn them off you behind your back. She says the best when you’re not there.”

“Just like her,” said Miss Pettigrew proudly.

“Oh yes. I forgot. You’re an old friend of hers. Oh dear! I wish she’d hurry. There’ll be no time for her to think of anything.”

“How did you come to own a beauty parlour?” asked Miss Pettigrew tactfully, trying to turn Miss Dubarry’s mind from her troubles. “You look very young. If you don’t think I’m rude, I’m very interested.”

“Oh, that,” said Miss Dubarry. “That was very simple. I vamped the boss.”

“Vamped the boss!” echoed Miss Pettigrew weakly. “Oh dear! However could you think of such a thing?”

“Very simple. I was eighteen…an apprentice. He was getting on. They always fall for the young ones…if you’re clever, that is. I was always clever that way,” said Miss Dubarry simply. “If you act ‘marriage or nothing’ they generally give you marriage. I was very lucky. I went to his head, but he couldn’t stand the pace. He got a nice tombstone and I got the parlour.”

“We must be fair,” said Miss Pettigrew vaguely, not knowing what to say.

“I earned it,” said Miss Dubarry simply. “But there! You can’t expect to get things without a little work. And he wasn’t a bad sort. I’ve known worse. I was no fool either. I learned that business, even though I did get married. It’s paid me. Do you know, it’s worth three times as much now as when he passed out.”

“I bet it is,” admired Miss Pettigrew simply and slangily.

“I put up the prices. That’s business. And I changed the name of course. I picked Dubarry. I mean, you’ve only got to think of Du Barry and you expect things. It stands for something. I think it was a very clever choice. At least,” said Miss Dubarry honestly, “Delysia thought of it, but I was quick to be on to it.”

“A perfect name,” praised Miss Pettigrew. “A marvellous name,” she added recklessly.

She did her best to discipline her judgment. But it was no use. She was carried away. Who was she to judge? Wouldn’t she have married any man who had asked her in the last ten years to escape the Mrs. Brummegans of this world? Of course she would! Why pretend? Why pretend with all the other silly old women that they were better than their sisters because they had had no chance of being otherwise? Away with cant. Miss Pettigrew leaned forward with shining eyes and patted Miss Dubarry’s knee.