Jean laughed, clapping her hands. ‘Bravo!’
Bettina grinned stupidly.
‘What kind of books do you read?’
‘Well, let me see.’ Bettina affected a look of ponderment. Maybe she should profess a love for the poetry of Sappho? No. Too obvious. But why not be obvious? God, this was all so excruciating. She drained her drink.
‘Sappho.’
There. Done. She squeezed her empty glass between both hands. As if she were wringing the neck of some unfortunate bird.
‘You’re not one of those foul degenerates, are you?’ said Jean, her lips pulled back into a sneer.
Bettina gaped up at her. Fool. She was a fool. ‘Of course not, I don’t—’
‘I’m joking!’ said Jean.
‘Oh my God,’ said Bettina, her voice wire-thin. ‘What a horrible thing to do.’
‘You’re upset? I’ve upset you? Oh, come on, it was a joke.’ Jean took hold of her wrist and pulled her in. ‘Look, I’m sorry.’ She smelled like rosewater, alcohol and something mildly unpleasant – bad breath, possibly. Yes – bad breath.
‘I wanted the ground to swallow me up.’
‘I said I was sorry.’
Bettina blew out air, her eyes on Jean’s necktie. ‘I think I need to sit down.’
‘You’re not going to faint, are you?’
‘No! Take me somewhere quiet.’
‘As you wish.’ Jean offered her arm and Bettina took it, warily, slipping her hand through the gap as if it housed a coiled snake.
Chapter 16
Bettina used to come to this room to practise new dances with Bart; it was large, uncarpeted and situated above the kitchen, ensuring no one below would be disturbed by the staccato thudding. They learned the Charleston here, and the Black Bottom, both of them pink-faced and sweating through their clothes. Now it was crammed with books, the floor littered with teacups, half-melted candles and discarded clothes. It smelled strongly of men – sour ale, cologne and the fungus stink of unwashed genitals.
‘Not too cold?’ said Jean. ‘Good. Take off your clothes.’
Bettina laughed. ‘What?’
Jean took off her bowler hat and tossed it onto the bed. Her hair was short, the front bits hanging sleekly down almost to the jaw like straps of oiled leather, the back and sides climbing jerkily shorter. Looking at Bettina with a bored, irritated expression, she loosened her tie. ‘Take off your clothes.’ She pulled out the dressing-table chair, sat on it, leaned back. Crossed her legs the man’s way, an ankle resting on a knee.
‘No preamble?’ said Bettina, giggling.
‘Take off your clothes.’
Bettina looked down at herself. ‘But I’m pregnant.’
Jean waved an impatient hand. ‘Take. Off. Your. Clothes.’ She took out a box of cigarettes and lit one, her dark eyes never leaving Bettina.
Christ. Bettina shifted her weight from one leg to the other. She had in all earnest just wanted to go somewhere quiet to sit down. Have a bit of a flirt, maybe. Her feet were aching. She wasn’t drunk enough. This was all a bit much. She could just go – leave. She pulled off the headdress and groped for her dress fastener, eyes on the silver tulle curtains, her skin tingling. A kiss. That was how it was supposed to go. Not this. The dress started to drop and she held it in place with her hands.
Jean nodded.
She let it fall to the floor. Looked down at her large, blue-veined breasts, the skin goose-prickled, her taut, round stomach. A human life growing inside. Absurd.
‘And the rest,’ said Jean, her features grotesquely twisting and blending behind the thick cigarette smoke.
Bettina lifted one foot onto the bed and undid one garter, followed by the other. There was nothing about the striptease in this. Absolutely nothing. Her hands were shaking. She felt like a berk. Really, there was nothing to stop her leaving. She could put a stop to this with one word. Oh, she badly wanted a cigarette! She pinched the elastic of her knickers. God. She hated being a redhead. It was so vulgar, that nest of orange frizz. Why would anyone want anything to do with that?
‘Can’t I keep them on?’
Jean glared at her, blinking slowly.
She pulled down her knickers. Kicked them away, far away. Stood, arms covering her breasts, in the middle of the room. The squeal of a saxophone came from downstairs.
A great plume of smoke. ‘And the rest.’
She looked down at her body. ‘What do you mean, the rest? I’m quite naked.’ She put her hands on her waist. Then quickly crossed them over her breasts again. ‘Shall I take my skin off, too?’
Smiling (only just), Jean touched her upper lip. Tapped it.
The moustache. Oh, for goodness’ sake. She actually wanted to cry. This was awful. She ripped the moustache away and dropped it, watching it swoop to the floor like a baby bird’s feather. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Not even close. Sit on the edge of the bed.’
‘I’m starting to feel cold now, couldn’t—’
‘Sit on the edge of the bed.’
She sat on the edge of the bed.
Jean stood up, cigarette pinched between her lips. She undid her dress jacket, folding it in half and draping it over the arm of the chair, and then took off her cufflinks and pulled up her sleeves. She did all of this very slowly and fastidiously, the fag still pinched in the crook of her mouth. She undid her tie and took her shoes off, followed by her socks. She stood up straight, took one last puff of smoke and threw the butt on the ground. ‘Open your legs.’
Bettina stared at her thighs. They looked like squeezed slabs of luncheon meat.
Jean clapped her hands right in front of Bettina’s face. ‘Open!’
Her thighs snapped open.
‘As wide as they’ll go.’
Bettina spread them to capacity.
‘You’re a belligerent little bitch, aren’t you?’
‘How dare you?’ said Bettina. How dare she?
‘Shut up.’
Jean hunched over Bettina, placing her hands on her thighs, just above the knees. She was going to kiss her. Well, she wouldn’t kiss back. ‘Bitch’? How dare she?
But she didn’t kiss her – instead she abruptly pushed her back onto the bed with a firm shove to the breastbone. The shock of it caused a dribble of urine to come out. Jean grabbed her around the backs of the legs, yanked her closer to the edge of the mattress. And got down onto her knees.
Jean dressed slowly, an obnoxious self-satisfaction griming her face, and sat in the chair to light a cigarette. She’d hopped out of bed like the damn thing was on fire. No cuddles, no kisses. Well, of course not.
Bettina needed to use the toilet. There was an en suite just to the right of where Jean was sitting, but she remembered that the door didn’t close properly.
‘What’s your favourite Sappho poem then?’ said Jean.
So they were back to this. ‘I wouldn’t say I had a particular favourite.’
‘Right, right,’ said Jean, tapping her chin.
‘You think I haven’t read any?’ In actual fact, she had – Étienne had once bought her a copy of Sappho’s collected fragments. ‘Well, I don’t care what you think.’
‘Yes, you do,’ said Jean.
Bettina climbed out of bed and retrieved her clothes from the floor. ‘You’re very smug, aren’t you? Insufferably smug.’ She pulled on her knickers, glaring at Jean. ‘Ultimately, you’re not very nice.’
‘Nice? Who wants to be nice?’
‘I do. Most people do.’
Jean uncrossed her legs and leaned back, legs spread wide. ‘Want to know something?’
‘What?’ said Bettina.
‘Me and Petunia, we had a thing going once.’
Bettina’s fingers froze in the process of clipping stocking to garter belt. ‘That’s a lie.’