Practically the whole of a model course you spend walking up and down. When I did it I tried to make jokes so people wouldn’t look at the way I was walking. That’s all you can do really, make jokes and hope for the best. If you’re my shape and you’ve got my legs. Actually even the thin girls felt loopy walking up and down. They were very good at laughing at my jokes which was nice because they weren’t very good jokes.
They also make you walk up and down in front of a mirror and watch yourself. And look at your shape. When I was looking at my shape in the mirror, the woman said,
‘You’re pear-shaped.’
So I said,
‘I had hoped I was hour-glass.’
But she said no. I had to face the facts. I was pear-shaped. I was a bit depressed because I hate pears. ’Specially their shape. Still, if you are you are. Even if I was an old skeleton I’d still be pear-shaped. I expect if someone digs me up in hundreds of years I shall be known as ‘the pear-shaped Kensing-dearthal woman’.
There was one super woman who gave us choreography. You do choreography to break down your inhibitions. She liked me because she said I wasn’t inhibited. She said it didn’t matter about your shape if you were uninhibited. She said people forgot about your shape. Also most of the pear-shaped women she knew were uninhibited, so perhaps that’s the compensation.
We spent quite a bit of time putting on make-up and trying out different shapes for our mouths and eyes. It was rather interesting. A lot of people, when they’d finished, you wouldn’t have known they were the same person. And without any make-up on at all you wouldn’t have recognised any of them. Apparently that’s the whole thing about models. They’re not meant to have faces. In fact, if you want to be a model, it’s no good having a face. If you’ve already got a face you can never look different. If you haven’t got one then you can paint a new one on every other day if you want to. That’s why I’d have been no good even if I wasn’t pear-shaped. Because I’ve got a face. Honestly, I’ve got practically every disadvantage you can have. No really. You name it, I’ve got it.
After we’d spent two weeks walking up and down and breaking down our inhibitions and putting make-up on, we had to bring our clothes to model. All different clothes. Sports clothes, day clothes, evening clothes, everything. I had a pretty embarrassing time with sports clothes. I brought a pair of trousers and a silk shirt to model. And I’d just started modelling them when the woman stopped me.
‘I didn’t tell you to bring jodhpurs,’ she said.
‘They’re not jodhpurs, they’re trousers,’ I said.
‘They don’t look like trousers,’ she said, ‘they look like jodhpurs.’
‘It’s the shape of my legs,’ I said, but I was very embarrassed I can tell you.
We had to model with an umbrella as well. I kept on stubbing my toe and putting it in the wrong hand, and the woman got furious. She said I was doing it on purpose. When I glued up my eyes with eyelash glue, she said I did it on purpose. I didn’t want to glue up my old eye, I’m just no good at putting eyelashes on with my right hand. I’m left-handed. They never stopped me being left-handed at school, in case it made me more backward. If you’re backward already, changing hands could make you retarded practically your whole life. It could even affect the way your brain worked.
The last day of the course we had to put on a show and be given marks by a panel of people. It was pretty funny all these people trying to put on polite faces at all these really mangy clothes everyone was modelling, and pretending not to notice my being pear-shaped. The choreography woman was one of the panel, and she gave me huge winks to cheer me up.
In the end I got quite good marks, which practically killed me. They said I had a good smile, and being pear-shaped wasn’t counted against me. They said I couldn’t help it.
So there I was, an uninhibited pear-shaped ex-deb with a good smile. I suppose there’s worse things to be.
7
Of course I hadn’t stopped thinking about a superman. In spite of being a deb and all that. When I got depressed I used to think about that actor. And once when I was attacked by a sex maniac. It’s not much fun being attacked by a sex maniac. I can think of more swoony things. It’s not the bit when he leaps on you, or the bit when you try to run and your legs don’t move. It’s the awful way you get haunted afterwards. You keep on thinking everyone’s going to leap on you. No really. Once it gets dark every man you see seems about to. When I was running away from that old nutcase I kept on thinking about that actor. Mostly because of this innocence he had I suppose. Like you think about something beautiful in the dentist.
When I got really dismal I used to sit around and think I’d probably never meet anyone like that again. I thought I’d probably end up being a spinster. And everyone saying poor-dear-it’s-a-very-Sad-Story she-was-disappointed-in-love. You know how they do. Or I thought I’d probably have to be a maiden aunt. Actually I could never decide which was worse, being a maiden aunt or marrying a weed. If you don’t find a superman that’s about the only choice you’ve got. Or being an eccentric. I think I’d go in for being an eccentric if I didn’t find a superman. I’d wear a straw hat and live in the south of France. Sometimes I think that’d be better than marrying a superman and becoming disillusioned. People’s faces go so funny when they’re disillusioned. Their eyes go all small and they spend the whole time thinking someone’s doing them out of something. And saying I’m-not-such-a-fool-as-I-look-oh-no. And waving their fingers in your face.
Anyway, though I didn’t have a superman to swoon over I had a good collection of weeds. The one I liked best was this terribly rich one. I hate to think about it now but I really did like him. I mean it’s no good pretending I didn’t like him because I did. You get all these girls who fall in love with drips, find out they’re drips, and then go round swearing they weren’t in love with them, they just felt sorry for them. I wasn’t in love with this rich weed; he just amused me. I think I liked him best because he was the richest and he had this oil well. And he thought being rich was a joke. It’s no good having an oil well if you don’t split your sides about it. That’s the trouble; most people take them frightfully seriously. They really think it’s frightfully serious being rich and having an oil well.
I’ve forgotten where I met him, this rich weed. Anyhow, he used to take me out quite a lot. My grandmother thought he was swoony. Anyone rich is swoony to her. No, I’m not being mean. That’s just how she thinks. I mean, she doesn’t only like rich people, she likes poor people too, but rich people have this particular appeal for her. She liked it when he sent me huge bunches of flowers and presents. She said that was what she understood.
We spent a good deal of the time drinking champagne. I thought you could never get tired of drinking champagne. But you do. Everyone swooned when I drove up with him. They wouldn’t have swooned if I’d come by myself. It was the oil well they were swooning about. I know it’s corny but I never realised till then that people really minded about money. Not really cared for it. But they really do. It doesn’t matter if you’re some frightfully rich fiend in human shape; if you give them a big tip they’ll smile and practically kiss your feet. I think it’s a bit frightening. Because supposing you become a fiend, if you’re frightfully rich, no one tells you, and you just go on being a fiend till you die. It makes you think.
Old Cecil – he was called Cecil, this rich weed – was on his way to being a fiend when I met him. But I didn’t notice it at first. Of course he didn’t have a chin or anything. But when you’ve been a deb you don’t expect people to have chins. I mean a chin is a rare luxury. Not something you come across just like that. And the thing is, if you use your imagination, you can pretend they’ve got chins. And Cecil could be amusing. At the beginning anyway when I hadn’t heard any of his jokes. When I was hearing them the second time round it wasn’t so easy to imagine he had a chin. That often happens to me actually. I think someone’s really amusing; then when I’ve been out with them a couple
of times I realise they’ve just got these four or five jokes they tell you, and that’s all. Except for these jokes they’re hell’s boring.
What got me down about Cecil in the end was him telling me about his mistresses and looking flabby. I can’t bear chinless people talking about sex. I think all chinless men should be eunuchs. I don’t mind if they propose to me, that’s quite jokey-jokey, but when they look all flabby and start telling me about their mistresses and talking about sex I want to nun. I couldn’t stand it when Cecil went on like that. I used to start talking to the waiters or the people at the next table or something. Once when he just wouldn’t stop I sang.
I think I went on going out with him because I didn’t like to disappoint my grandmother. She really enjoyed thinking about the oil well and everything it was selfish to stop. But it was really torture in the end. He became more and more of a greedy pig. He didn’t care about people building all over England, ruining it. And when I got angry he said, didn’t I want to house the workers? I said, they just care about the workers, only their bank balances. And wearing their diamond bracelets at lunchtime and stuffing their faces with pâté. For heaven’s sake, you can’t eat more than three meals a day.
You can keep your old oil well and yachts, and everything. My grandmother thinks I’m mad. No, honestly, mad. ’Specially when I stopped going out with old Cecil. She said she couldn’t understand it. When I said his chin got me down and he made me feel sick when he talked about sex, she said that sort of attitude wouldn’t get me anywhere.
I got a temporary job when I left secretarial college. My brother said I needed the experience. The thing was I owed him a whole lot of money. So he was pretty keen on me getting experience. I found this agency and they took me on because they didn’t have anyone else. They kept on only giving me half my wages by mistake, but they were quite jokey so I didn’t really care. Also they said I was their best girl so I felt rather sorry for them.
They sent me to this place that published hymn-books and encyclopedias. They were good hymn-books actually, and you could buy them on the HP. I shared a room with a woman called Miss Watts, and a Greek boy. I had my own typewriter and typed things on cards with numbers on them. And Miss Watts used to dictate into this tape-recorder and I typed back from it when she’d finished. I was really meant to be working for this man behind a partition, but whenever he wanted me to do something Miss Watts said I was too busy.
It was a tight fit sharing a desk with Miss Watts. But she was quite interesting. She had a brother who grew vegetables and one grandfather who’d been a Mormon. She wasn’t a Mormon, she said she couldn’t be doing with all those husbands. Because of only having a one-room flat. The Greek boy and me thought this was terribly funny. He had to add up things in books, and if he wanted a bit more money he just took a frightful long time adding up and got paid pounds and pounds for working overtime. When I left he gave me a pair of pink garters with bows on. Miss Watts was thrilled. She said it was the most romantic thing she’d ever heard. I gave her a box of chocolates and she gave me a handkerchief with a dog on. Only she cried so much I had to lend her the dog back to wipe her eyes.
The reason I left was I was meant to be going to stay with this girl in the south of France. Also I’d paid my rotten old brother back his money. This girl was an International Set type. I don’t know why she asked me to stay. I think she liked me because I wasn’t. It made a change me not being a princess or anything. She had this terribly good-looking mother she absolutely hated. She said she wouldn’t have minded her being a drunk and having lovers if she was nicer. But she didn’t even make her laugh.
They had a pink villa and Italian servants like on the movies. And lots of princes and kings staying. That was another thing. This girl’s mother was mad on kings. Honestly, you’d only got to say you were a king and she’d swoon. She wasn’t too keen on me not being in oil or being a princess, but she put up with it. We spent most of the day on the beach or water skiing, and then in the evenings we went to night clubs after dinner. They were pretty grim. Nearly all the men had bald heads. No honestly. When you looked round all you saw was bald heads everywhere. Even girls my age were dancing with bald heads. A lot of them were married to them too. Apparently their mothers sold them to the first rich lech that came along. My girlfriend, she was terrified she’d get sold too. There was this American who kept on asking her to marry him. He didn’t have a bald head but it wouldn’t be too long. And her mother was dying for her to marry him. She wasn’t in love with anyone else but she didn’t want to marry him. I mean I know supermen end up with bald heads but it’s pretty stiff starting off with one.
I met an Italian prince while I was there. He was called Carlo. Actually I’ve never met one that wasn’t called Carlo. He wasn’t amusing, but he amused me. He was typical old Roman playboy type. The sort the old Borgias chewed up for breakfast. Anyway, I used to dash about in his sports car with him, and he took me to the casino and places.
But it was hell if you were on the beach with him because he had these huge biceps. And he did nothing but flex them all the time. He thought everyone on the beach was probably swooning about his old muscles, so he stood about flexing them and then walked up and down frightfully slowly swinging his hips in one of those men’s bikinis. I practically died every time he did it. I used to hide behind the lilo and pretend I wasn’t with him. But then he’d come and stand in front of me and breathe in and out very slowly. I think he thought I was probably swooning too. If I pretended not to notice him he’d dive into the sea and swim up and down with a snorkel on. He was really embarrassing. Most of the time he was all right though.
One thing about the International Set, they’re like beatniks. No one’s normal. I suppose being a king and things is a bit of a strain. And Oedipus and all those chaps were pretty royal. I mean it’s not often you get peasants being in love with their mothers or obsessed by anything in particular. They swoon over old nymphs flitting about woods and things but it’s not often they’re incestuous. Anyway I shouldn’t think you could go round with the International Set if you were normal. It’s no good just being in oil or being a princess; you’ve got to be perverted or obsessed too. Not only that, you’ve got to be bored stiff at being perverted or obsessed. It’s no good enjoying it. ’Course if you’re a princess, in oil, perverted and obsessed, you’re in clover. You can’t fail. It’s not often that happens. Sometimes, but not often.
Another thing you’ve got to be perverted in the right places, like Montego Bay or Cannes. It’s no good doing anything like that in the wrong places. There’s practically a special date when it begins. Like grouse shooting or anything else. You know: 11th March, incest begins. Also no one at your school should have been normal. Unless they were all complete nutters your small talk will be nil. You can get over that though if your butler’s really a woman. It’s not as good, mind you, but nearly.
I got on quite well with these kings actually. I think it was such a change me being normal. No really. I think they were fascinated because I was normal. ’Course I didn’t stay long enough for them to get bored of me being normal. They probably would have.
When I got home my cousin went off to be a nurse. It was pretty lonely her going off. I missed her a lot. She’s good company and everything and we shared a room at school and all that, and once she was a nurse I never saw much of her. She’s the sort of person you like to be with. I mean she laughs all the time. I like people who laugh all the time, you get jolly few girls who laugh a lot. They’re usually too busy taking their sex appeal seriously. They take their sex appeal so seriously they hardly ever think about how funny everything is. Especially their sex appeal. That’s the funniest bit of all.
She used to do this thing, my cousin. Mostly when we were at school. Though once she did it when we were staying in a hotel. She used to make me cover my mouth in lipstick, and she would too. I mean you had to really smear it on. Then we divided up the mirror into two halves and gave it huge kisses, and then w
e’d see whose mouth was the biggest. She always won. I think that’s why she played. And on bath nights at school we dressed up as tarts or Grecian statues. Never anything else because when you’ve got just sheets you’re a bit limited. Unless you’re Julius Caesar. And it’s not much fun being Julius Caesar. I mean you can’t do much when you’re Julius Caesar. Except drop dead or write long letters home from Gaul about woad.
We were never jealous of each other because we were so different. It’s frightfully boring when you get people being jealous of each other. Particularly if they’re jealous of you. I mean anything you’ve got they make you feel guilty about it. For heaven’s sake, they make you feel guilty about being alive. There was a girl I was a deb with, She like that. If she came to see me, she’d spend the whole time counting my invitations or my dresses or something. I think that’s the only reason she came. She never talked to me till she’d finished thumbing through everything. Then if I’d got a single thing she hadn’t she’d be ready to kill me, or look terribly sad. I can’t bear that. When people go all droopy and sad. I know it’s phoney because as soon as they get what they want you don’t get a drop out of them. My mother does that sometimes. She doesn’t get furious and shout, which is quite all right. She goes all quiet and sad, especially when you owe her money.
Anyway, after my cousin was a nurse I didn’t have anyone to dress up like a tart with. Not that I wanted to particularly. It’s just nice to be able to just in case. I suppose I could have had lipstick competitions with someone else, but it’s not the same thing really. I don’t know why it isn’t, it just isn’t.
It happens all the time really. I mean people going off and doing other things. Or they become completely different. That’s worse. I mean it gives you an awful turn. One minute there they are gay and funny and the next time you see them they’ve become absolute gloom-pots. Except people who become nuns: they always look much happier. That’s the sign of someone holy. Not long faces and laughing. Like the girls at school who spent their whole life in church, and were always the first to live in sin.
Coronet Among the Weeds Page 8
