As I’d expected custom was less than normal tonight. I was glad of it, yet hoping this wouldn’t be the start of a downward spiral into bankruptcy and, worse, insignificance.
Ridiculous. I still employed the most popular dance hall girl in the territory, had the best lineup of performers, the most enthusiastic chorus line. The audience would tire of the twins soon enough and be once again streaming through our doors.
Irene was tense tonight. So tense I could almost smell it. The big announcement was coming. I doubted very much that I’d like it. But there wasn’t much I could do other than take her off the stage. And that would do nothing for our custom.
Tension, however, served to make her bold. Bolder than usual, that is. Her gestures were more extravagant, her voice louder, her dancing more daring. She smiled widely, kicked her legs with abandon, sang as if her heart were breaking. And I do believe when she shouted “out darned spot” there might have been a tear in her eye. Even the audience, most of whom were here in hopes of catching a glimpse of a dancer’s knee or maybe even — if fortune’s face was shining — her knickers, and didn’t care about the quality of the performance any more than they cared about the quality of the mud they waded through to get here, seemed to be impressed. They sat a bit straighter, were a fraction quieter, and now and again nudged their fellows in admiration rather than amusement or lechery.
Ray Walker stood at the back, watching the show, something he didn’t usually do. He stared at Irene, his face long and sad and wanting.
If Irene’s big announcement was that she was leaving the Savoy for another dance hall, I would have no choice but to up her already considerable salary.
I detest feeling as though I’m at someone’s mercy.
The three poker players were hard at it when Ray I walked through the hall. Roland focused all his attention on his cards, John Turner scowled at everyone, and Count Nicky was performing to the few uninterested folk who’d stopped to watch the game.
Eleanor Jennings was in the saloon, sitting at the big round table in the centre, surrounded by men. She had a stack of her cards in front of her and was explaining the principles of photography. To my surprise, Richard Sterling stood against the bar. His boot was on the footrest and he held a glass of whisky in his hand. I had a fraction of a moment before he realized I’d arrived in which to observe him. He was watching Eleanor Jennings with an unreadable expression on his face.
He looked up, saw me. His eyes opened in what I took to be pleasure and then his face closed so abruptly someone might have brought down the shutters.
I turned away and went back into the dance hall, stomach churning.