Rags to Riches

At this point she asked herself what she was doing here; what she hoped to gain in this seedy, musty old warehouse that was hazy with cigarette smoke. Had she accepted Brent’s invitation because she wanted to listen to the music? Or was it because she fancied her chances with him? Accepting his invitation was a way of being with him, wasn’t it? But she wasn’t actually with him. He was on the stage sweating buckets over the one thing that possibly mattered more to him than anything else, while she was standing eight feet from the bar, watching, listening, being asked to dance by strange men in whom she had no interest, sipping beer she did not enjoy. She was not actually talking to Brent; she was not getting to know him any better. Neither was she discovering about Eleanor and the depth of his involvement with her.

Maybe she was wasting her time. Why would Brent Shackleton bother with Maxine Kite? In any case, he was inconsiderate. Look how he’d hurried off without her, leaving her to her own devices to gain admittance to the club. Totally, irritatingly inattentive. The absolute opposite of Stephen’s irritatingly superfluous gallantry. Both were as bad as each other. As soon as Brent came off stage she would make her excuses and go home. Besides, it was getting late. Henzey and Will would think she’d been abducted.

Yet, he must be interested in her. He’d asked her to this club, hadn’t he?

As she stood watching, thinking, listening, wavering between one emotion and another, she was aware that a man was standing at her side, but she avoided looking at him.

‘Excuse me,’ he said half apologetically, ‘would you mind very much if I talk to you?’

At least his approach was straightforward, even if he was a bit shy.

‘Why me?’ she asked, curious. ‘The place is full of girls.’ But her smile broadened in direct proportion to her appreciation of his handsome face and the kindly look in his soft eyes that were framed by wire-rimmed spectacles.

‘Because you look like the sort of girl who might have something to say,’ he answered with a warm but tentative smile. ‘The others? I doubt it. I’m also intrigued as to why a girl so attractive should be standing by herself.’

She chuckled amiably. ‘Oh, spare me the flattery. Attractive? Dressed like this?’

‘To tell you the truth, I’ve been watching you for some time, trying to pluck up the courage to come over and speak to you.’ He was about twenty-eight, she judged, clean and well groomed, but with an unruly mop of dark hair that gave him an appealing schoolboy look. ‘Howard Quaintance.’

‘Excuse me?’ They were having to speak in raised voices to be heard over the sound of the jazz.

He smiled pleasantly. ‘I’m Howard Quaintance…Now you’re supposed to tell me your name.’

‘Sorry. Maxine Kite…How do you do?’ She felt that, for the sake of good manners, him being so polite, she ought to offer to shake his hand.

He stood there holding a glass, his other hand in his pocket, casual, unassuming. ‘Delighted to meet you…er…Miss?…Kite.’

‘Miss, yes,’ she affirmed strenuously, amused by his unsubtle way of checking her marital status. ‘Call me Maxine. I’m quite happy to dispense with formality.’

He took a swig of beer. ‘Well, Maxine, what is such an attractive girl doing, standing all on her own in a den of inequity like this?’

‘Actually, I’m with one of the band.’

‘You don’t say? Might I ask which one?’

‘The trombonist.’

‘You don’t say…’ Maxine thought he sounded inordinately surprised. ‘A good musician. Not bad band, either, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Not bad,’ she concurred unconvincingly. ‘Between you and me, though, I’m not so sure about the pianist.’

‘Interesting you should say that,’ he remarked, focusing on the piano player.

‘I’ve been watching him and listening. If only he would syncopate they would really swing.’

‘Mmm…Interesting you should say that.’ He took a thoughtful slurp from his pint. ‘It doesn’t surprise me, though. I’m certainly no musician, but what you say doesn’t surprise me at all. You’re not a musician, are you, by any chance?’

‘I am a pianist,’ she confessed, to justify her comments. ‘But I play cello in the CBO.’

‘The CBO? Hey! You’re a classical musician. That explains your being hauled here by Brent.’

‘You know Brent?’

‘Nodding terms only, I’m afraid. Friend of a friend. Look, can I get you a drink?’

She looked at the barely touched glass of beer with distaste. ‘Would you mind?’ she replied. ‘This beer is too awful. I’d love a glass of lemonade…If it’s no trouble?’

‘Absolutely no trouble at all.’ He quaffed what remained of his pint and turned for the bar.

Great! She had a friend to talk to while Brent was busy. And he was easy to talk to. He seemed nice. She smiled cheerfully, uplifted now. It was pleasant to make new friends. What had he said his name was?…Howard? Yes. Howard Quaintance. Difficult to forget a name like that. In no time he returned and handed her the glass of lemonade. She took a mouthful eagerly to destroy the lingering, bitter taste of the beer.

‘So, how come you and Brent are on nodding terms?’ she asked.

‘Through one of the other members of the band, actually.’

Maxine felt herself go hot. Of course, this Howard was going to tell her it was the piano player, she could feel it coming with the certainty of an express train hurtling down a track to which she was tied and unable to escape. She put her hand over her eyes, and cringed.

‘Don’t tell me it’s the pianist, Howard. Please don’t tell me it’s the pianist!’

He guffawed aloud, his eyes sparkling behind his spectacles with unconcealed delight at Maxine’s gaff. ‘Oh, I’m afraid it is.’

‘Oh, God!’ She wanted the ground at her feet to open up and consume her. ‘Me and my big mouth.’

Still howling with laughter, he touched her forearm and she felt his hand, warm, reassuring as he squeezed it.

‘Don’t concern yourself, Maxine,’ he said gently. ‘Old Randolf would be the first to admit he’s no jazz musician. Actually, he’s a church organist, you know. Jolly good he is too, as choirmaster, at playing Wesley and Stainer. Does an intoxicating “All things bright and beautiful”. Took this on as a challenge. For a hoot. A tad out of his depth I think.’

She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that. I’ve gone all hot.’ Then she chuckled at her faux pas. ‘Maybe I’m too honest.’

‘Never ever say that, Maxine. Make thine honesty a vice…Shakespeare…Othello, you know.’

She shrieked with laughter. ‘Really? Shouldn’t I make it a virtue?’

He laughed with her at his own gaff.

‘So what do you do for a living, Howard, that makes you quote Shakespeare out of context? Are you an English teacher, by any chance?’

He chortled again and took a mouthful of beer, all the time looking straight into her eyes. She held the glance and recognised an untainted, well-brought-up look.

‘I’d rather not say. I don’t want to sound presumptuous, Maxine, but I rather like you and if I tell you what I do for a living you might not wish to be as affable as you are.’

‘Affable, am I?’

‘Definitely. I find you easy to talk to and hugely amusing. I also find you very direct. I like that. It’s refreshing in a girl…’ He hesitated. ‘On the other hand, we may never meet again, so there’d be no harm in telling you anyway. But, I won’t.’

She laughed at his indecision or his teasing; she wasn’t sure which it was. ‘God! You’re infuriating. Why won’t you tell me what you do?’

‘It’s of no consequence – really…But hey, I am thirsty.’ He took a long quaff from his beer, finishing it off.