The Midnight Peacock. Katherine Woodfine

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СКАЧАТЬ he had instantly become the darling of the press – and really, Billy thought, it was little wonder. After all, Mr Sinclair always seemed to be planning some extraordinary new scheme, from ballet performances in the roof garden, to a showing of one of the new ‘moving pictures’ in the Exhibition Hall. He was frequently to be seen at London’s most exclusive social gatherings, attending the first night of a fashionable new West End show, or dining at the best table in one of the city’s finest restaurants. What was more, his department store was a place where sensational and dramatic things seemed to happen. Already, Sinclair’s had seen everything from the daring robbery of precious jewels and priceless paintings to (it was rumoured) a narrow escape from a bomb concealed in the store’s famous golden clock. In less than a year, Mr Sinclair had given the press a great deal to write about.

      But it wasn’t only the journalists who were endlessly fascinated by the debonair department store owner, Billy reflected, as he craned his neck to try to catch a glimpse of the elegant figure – immaculate as always, right down to the perfect orchid in his button hole. They might have been working for him for many months, but Mr Sinclair’s own staff still speculated about their employer just as much as ever. Although he could be seen at the store almost every day, although his photograph appeared most weeks in the society pages of the illustrated papers, Billy thought now that there was still an awful lot that they did not know about the man they called ‘the Captain’.

      ‘Of course, as you know, gentlemen – I do beg your pardon, ma’am, gentlemen and ladies,’ Mr Sinclair was saying, with a courtly bow in the direction of the single female journalist in the room. ‘As you know, we don’t do things in any ordinary, commonplace way here at Sinclair’s – so you may be sure that this will be no ordinary or commonplace entertainment. We shall be welcoming in 1910 in truly spectacular style – is that not so, Monsieur Chevalier?’

      He turned to the man standing beside him: a smartly dressed gentleman with a pointed black beard. ‘Indeed we will,’ said the gentleman, speaking with a strong French accent. ‘I am honoured – most honoured – to be launching my new scent, Midnight Peacock, at the wonderful Sinclair’s. What finer setting for a fête unlike anything we have seen before – incroyable et inoubliable!’

      There was a murmur of appreciation from the journalists, as Mr Sinclair went on:

      ‘Decorations, costumes and entertainments for the ball have been specially designed for the occasion by Monsieur Chevalier himself, taking inspiration from Midnight Peacock. Helping him to create the spectacle are artist Mr Max Kamensky, and the West End’s renowned duo Mr Lloyd and Mr Mountville, who are producing a special entertainment for the evening.’

      ‘I say! They really are going to be putting on a show,’ Billy heard one journalist whisper to another amongst a frenzy of excited scribbling.

      ‘Our guests for the evening will enjoy refreshments from the Marble Court Restaurant courtesy of our celebrated chef, Monsieur Bernard, a showcase of Maison Chevalier’s latest styles featuring our famous mannequins, and of course, the opportunity to be amongst the first to sample this magnificent new perfume,’ Mr Sinclair continued. ‘What is more, although the ball itself will be for invited guests, the festivities will spread out on to Piccadilly – and I hereby extend a cordial invitation to members of the public to gather and share in the countdown to midnight. With the support of our neighbours, we have arranged a special firework display from the rooftops of Piccadilly Circus, which will be a fitting conclusion to our evening of celebration.’

      ‘Good heavens,’ the second journalist whispered back. ‘Fireworks as well? Sinclair doesn’t do things by halves, does he?’

      ‘I’ll wager he’ll get such a crowd the authorities will have to close off the street!’ said another.

      ‘What else d’you suppose he’s got up his sleeve?’

      But at the front of the room, it was clear that Mr Sinclair was bringing his address to a conclusion. ‘I believe we have time for one or two questions,’ he said.

      A forest of hands surged into the air. Mr Sinclair singled out a young man with a curled moustache, who Billy recognised as a journalist for one of the fashion papers.

      ‘Can you tell us more about what we can expect to see at the ball?’ he asked eagerly.

      ‘Ah – we do not wish to give away too many of our secrets,’ said Monsieur Chevalier, his small dark eyes twinkling. ‘For that would spoil the surprise – would it not?’

      A bluff older man with grey hair was selected next.

      ‘What do you make of Mr Huntington’s plans, announced just this afternoon, to hold a New Year’s entertainment at his store?’ he demanded. ‘Do you see the Huntington’s New Year’s tea dance as a rival to your ball?’

      ‘I am sure Mr Huntington’s little party will be a most delightful affair,’ answered Mr Sinclair, his voice as smooth as cream. ‘Of course, our entertainment will be in a rather different league – a tea dance this certainly isn’t.’

      There was a warm bubble of knowing laughter, and then it was the young lady journalist’s turn to speak: ‘Is there truth to the rumour that His Majesty the King will be amongst your guests?’ she asked.

      Mr Sinclair gave her his most charming smile. ‘Now, of course, I couldn’t possibly comment upon His Majesty’s engagements – but what I will say is that we think this will certainly be a celebration worthy of royalty.’

      At these words, a murmur of excitement ran around the room, and more hands were thrust into the air, but Mr Sinclair was already shaking his head.

      ‘No more questions, I’m afraid. If you require more details, please apply to my private secretary, Miss Atwood. But for now, I would like to cordially invite you to remain here in the Press Club Room for a festive drink, to thank you for your support for Sinclair’s during our first year of business. And when you leave, do look out for our special Midnight Peacock window displays. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you – and may I take this opportunity to wish you a merry Christmas, on behalf of all at Sinclair’s.’

      As the members of the press accepted glasses of sherry from waiters with silver trays, two floors above them, Sophie Taylor was sitting in the window, watching the dizzy, dancing swirl of snowflakes fall on the street outside.

      The clock on the mantelpiece had just chimed four o’clock, and the light was already fading, but down below her, all along the street, the shop windows were bright and twinkling, and the pavements were thronged with people, wrapped up in overcoats and mufflers. Groups were gathering before the windows of Sinclair’s to admire the parade of Christmas trees, beautifully dressed with gleaming silver stars, candied apples and bonbons wrapped in shiny paper. Another cluster of people were exclaiming over the window dressed all in purple and gold which advertised Maison Chevalier’s forthcoming Midnight Peacock perfume. Beyond, uniformed porters hurried out to waiting motor cars and taxi cabs, their arms piled high with Sinclair’s parcels, and all the while Sidney Parker, the Head Doorman, stood at the top of the steps ringing a bell to welcome people in.

      Through the great doors and into the store, the Entrance Hall was crowded with shoppers. Even during the grand opening, earlier that year, Sophie did not think that Sinclair’s had ever been as bright and busy as it was now. Of course, everyone in London wanted to buy their gifts at Sinclair’s, and at that very moment, Sophie knew that gentlemen were purchasing pocket handkerchiefs for their young ladies, mamas and papas were selecting train sets and teddy bears, and ladies of fashion were choosing fans and gloves for their dearest companions. The Confectionery СКАЧАТЬ