Daisy

The Charmant Lounge was far flung from my usual haunts. It didn’t take me long to find, despite the supposedly “underground” nature of the place. A neon sign was fixed above the door, one of many similar doors on an anonymous backstreet. It buzzed slightly like a motel sign in an American film, and as the mosquito whining permeated my ear drums it dawned on me that somebody probably wired it that way for aesthetic effect. I felt the cold pinching my cheeks like your auntie at Christmas and, pulling my parka closer around me, I stepped inside and descended the narrow stairs to the club.

Everyone there seemed to think they were in another place at another time, no doubt 1950’s New York or something like that. A man with a ponytail bumped into me and apologised in a tone of such self-importance that I wanted to thump him. He was wearing a wife beater and dark Ray-Ban sunglasses. “You are inside,” I thought to myself. “And it is December. And you, sir, are a cretin of the highest order.”

The other patrons inspired similar sentiments in me. Finger-clicking, turtleneck-clad faux-beatniks the lot of them. A skeleton of a girl at the table next to me was discussing the finer points of a Dizzy Gillespie record just loud enough so that passers by could hear her. I guess she thought that everyone in earshot would be dreadfully impessed. I myself was not impressed at all, and it occurred to me that she and the Ray-Ban man would make a fine couple.

To my great relief, it was at that very moment that my sister appeared on stage and a hush descended upon the room. It was strange seeing my own face up there, my own body draped in silk and sequins. She didn’t introduce herself. It seemed that anyone at the Charmant Lounge worth their salt was a regular and, as a performer with a weekly slot, if they didn’t recognise Violet instantly then they had a lot of work to do.

As she broke into her first number- an old Keely Smith song I loved- despite myself I felt all cynicism subside as I became slowly entranced by my sister’s dulcet tones.

Her set lasted maybe half an hour, including an encore, after which she flashed a dazzling smile at her adoring public and walked elegantly into the wings. Pushing through the herd of wankers occupying the dance floor, I followed my sister backstage and caught up with her as she reached the door to her dressing room.

I tapped her on the shoulder and she turned around, laughed softly and wrapped her jewelled arms around me with a “Daisy, darling, come in.”.

She showed me inside. It was quite a bare room, furnished only with a chair, a vanity table and a lightbulb-framed mirror. A Matisse print was blutacked to the wall, its corners curling. There were traces of my sister here and there; a cotton jacket, a leather handbag, a pot of shell-pink nail polish, the smell of perfume in the air.

She sat down (it was the only seat- she had obviously guessed I wouldn’t be staying long) and crossed her legs gracefully.

“And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Next Wednesday’s December the tenth.”

An enquiring look passed over her face before she realized the significance of the date.

“Oh yes, of course! Thanks for reminding me, darling, I’d almost forgotten.”

This pissed me off no end, but I held my tongue. “Yeah, well, you know where to go. Four o’clock alright with you?”

“Perfect, perfect. I’ll see you then.”

I had nothing more to say, so we hugged and said our goodbyes.

When I stepped out onto the street and felt the glacial Northern air hit me, I couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. My sister was her own person and she could choose for herself whatever life she wanted, but I really did hate that conceited little dive.