James
1916. Brighton. Pavillion Tea Salon.
It was 7pm in the evening and the the glass of the Pavilion Tea Salon was fogged up with the condensation from the customers inside. Outside the English winter had set in and the sky was dark and inky and the rain waters had muddied the cracks of bare ground in-between the cobbles. The amber, unmilked tea like, light of the windows projected orange squares on to the ground outside below. Occasionally the door would open to let someone in or out and the live band from inside could be heard in the world outside. Then the door would close and trap one world out and keep the other in. Passers by looked up and craned their necks at the amber windows as they passed, unable to see through the moist condensation but just able to make out the silhouettes of all the figures inside and feel the vibration of the band omitting through the glass. Inside James St Williams was in his element. He'd opened this salon only a year ago after moving down from London and it was already a roaring success.
By day, the salon filled with passersby's; usual and frequenting ladies of leisure who cared for tea and cake and to gossip. They were the middle class punters, Queen Anne white lace, doilies and umbrellas with bamboo ends. They sat primly on mahogany wooden seats at matching tables and were served their elevenses on mismatched china by a small team of waitresses, who appeared to change regularly but who all did their job well. The ever changing staff, of two or three girls, was never a threat to the ambience - just simple girls looking to earn a pretty penny doing an easy job; easy on the eye, full breasts and boyfriend penpals who they wrote to by candelight in digs somewhere across town.
By night, the salon changed in to something continental. A nod to european culture, they all thought. Just like those parisian postcards with the socialites of the day swooning and enjoying late night cafe chic, listening to roaring music in a newly liberating society. But instead of the upper class women, it attracted a different breed by night - working class women clocking off from their jobs in the local big houses. The blend was perfect and the money was flowing in for the young male owner, somewhere in his late twenties, but whose exact age nobody really knew. Nobody really knew much about him to be perfectly honest. He rocked up from London dressed dapper in tweeds and brass buttons, bought the property and began his business. That's all the people felt they really needed to know and the projected mystery added to the lure of the salon. Pieces of his past had been pieced together; some guided by his own unattended comments, and some by hearsay. But the following story had emerged and was as follows.
James was an ex fashion designer. He'd lived in East London and had ran a shop outfitting upper class women with nice outfits for their social parties. One of his client was an incredibly wealthy wife of a city lawyer. One thing had lead to another and the husband had walked in on James in a clinch with his wife. The story then diverted in to two possible endings of the already flimsy account. One ending said that James had begged the wife to leave her husband for him, but that she had refused and that James, now heartbroken, had packed up shop and fled to Brighton. He was so haunted by the memories of her and of his fashion designs which he created to compliment her form, he couldn't face being a designer again and so opened a tea shop. This explained the rows of hats he kept on display - one last jolly at the old life, they said. The other ending was that James had been a huge Cad, cut his losses and ran, half in fear of the husband, half in fear of the wife's heart trying to pin him down for something more than just a summer affair. Depending who was telling the story, dictated which version came forth. And depending how drunk they were at the time, dictated how raucous their version would be. Regardless, the story was now part of the urban myth attached to James St Williams and part of the lure of the salon.
James continued his fashion work lightly alongside the running of the tea salon and inside hats sat on model heads on shelves around the cafe. Customers could either view them as decor or could buy them out right. Most however just looked but didn't touch but occasionally on nights like this, James would allow customers to try them on. The more flirtatious of his female customers would try them on fancying themselves as his old mistresses and make flirtatious remarks and give each other knowing smiles. It was all part of the game.
