A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Good God,’ said Ned. ‘Some chaps have all the luck. What’s he called, this paragon? Or rather non-paragon.’

  ‘George Tilbury.’

  ‘And is it a nice house?’

  ‘Quite nice. Thirties, big pile of a thing, on the cliffs at a place called Polzeath. He likes it, as you would, wouldn’t you? He can play lord of the manor and drink cocktails on the verandah, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And you really like him?’

  ‘Well, not specially, if that’s what you mean. But he’s fun and he has a rather splendid old car, an Allard, and he takes me out and about. I make him laugh, he says.’

  ‘Well, he’s lucky to have you,’ said Ned. ‘I hope he appreciates you.’

  ‘Oh, darling, he does. Lots of lovely presents and things. He’s very keen. But I’m keeping him hanging on.’

  ‘So, you’re not actually – living with him?’

  ‘You mean as in sleeping with him? Heavens, no. He’d like me to, but I wouldn’t dream of it. Not yet anyway. I value my independence far too much. Ned –’ She caught him off guard. ‘What’s really the matter?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, giving in to her finally. ‘I’m just not – not happy.’

  ‘Well, darling, I can see that. But why?’

  ‘I’m lonely,’ he said simply, his eyes meeting hers with absolute frankness. ‘So lonely. I miss Jillie so much. I really loved her, you know; she was my best friend, my confidante. She was so interested in my work, in what I planned to do, we talked about everything under the sun, politics, religion, where we wanted to travel – just everything. Except – well, you know.’

  ‘Yes. She’s a lovely girl. I liked her so much. It must be dreadful for you.’

  ‘It is rather. I keep thinking I’ll find another friend. Like her. But of course I won’t, how can I? No one has time to spend with a miserable old bugger – sorry.’ He laughed for the first time. ‘A miserable old bloke like me.’

  ‘What about another miserable old bloke like – well, you? Is there no one?’

  ‘Who I trust? No. I wouldn’t even try and find someone, I wouldn’t dare. Oh, it’s not so bad, in absolute terms, I realise that of course. I’m successful, getting rich, I’m busy all day, more and more in the National Health system – actually, it seems more worthwhile.’

  ‘Ned! You’re not turning into a pinko.’

  ‘I might. Now that really would shock you, wouldn’t it?’ He laughed. ‘About the only thing that would, I daresay. But then I come home, and – nothing. No one. I go to concerts, stuff like that, but always on my own. And musicals, you know how Jillie and I loved them? I can’t bear to go to any now. It just hurts thinking how much we’d have enjoyed whatever it is. I get asked to dinner parties sometimes – not often these days, because I’m frankly not very good company.’

  ‘Oh, darling. I’m so sorry. I wish I could help.’

  ‘You can’t. No one can. Don’t worry, you’re not going to wake up one morning and read about some doctor who’s slit his wrists or anything. I’m not that desperate. It’s probably only a phase, I’ll get through it.’

  ‘It’s more like a life sentence, if you ask me,’ said Persephone. ‘Oh, it’s all so unfair, so wrong.’

  ‘I know. It is wrong. Not us, them. But the world isn’t going to change just because I’m a bit lonely, I’m afraid. There is talk of relaxing the law, some MP is keen. Fine chance of anything happening. Oh, my God, look who’s just come in. There, see, in the black dress and the mink.’

  ‘Good Lord. How lovely she does look? Who are those people she’s with?’

  ‘The Bellingers, Wendelien and Ian – she’s an absolute poppet. Oh, Diana’s seen us. Do you mind? We’ll have to chat a bit.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind. I liked her very much when we met her at the theatre. But why doesn’t she ever have a husband with her?’

  ‘They’re getting divorced, apparently. He’s fed up with being on his own in Yorkshire and he’s got some new lady he wants to marry. He’s even providing the grounds.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Persephone briskly, ‘you do get about occasionally, darling. That’s quite a bit of gossip you’ve just passed on to me. That didn’t come from nowhere.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ said Ned, and then added, ‘She wanted to marry me once. When we were all very young. Diana, hello, and Wendelien and Ian, lovely to see you.’

  ‘Pity she didn’t,’ said Persephone lightly, with one of her sweetly malicious smiles, and then stood up and offered her cheek to Diana to kiss.

  Chapter 37

  1954

  ‘Guess who’s asked for you for a fur shoot?’ Blanche’s grey eyes were dancing as she looked at Diana.

  ‘I don’t know. Norman Parkinson?’

  This was more wishful than realistic thinking; she had still not cracked ‘the Parks ceiling’, as she thought of it. He used only the very, very best girls: his wife Wenda, Fiona Campbell-Walter, Anne Gunning. He had also worked a lot with Barbara Goalen, who Diana probably most closely resembled, but she was not amongst his top favourites. She was one step removed in his estimation, she knew, from Barbara – just slightly less ladylike, less sophisticated – and indeed the sexiness of her glamour was what made her special in her own way, and sought after by the more imaginative younger breed of photographers. ‘Not Parks. Your old beau, Freddie Bateman. Next week and a peach of a job. He wants to take you to Austria or somewhere like that, maybe St Moritz, for four or five days. God, you’ll have fun.’

  ‘But there won’t be any snow yet, surely?’ said Diana.

  ‘I suppose you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. Well, he seems to think if you go high enough. He’s calling you tonight, from the States, around eight our time, so you will be in, won’t you?’

  Diana would. She had a hot date playing Cluedo with Jamie, his latest passion. He was spending the last week of his holidays with her. She had done her very best to entertain him, and they had indeed had fun; they had been to the Tower of London and to Madame Tussauds – he had specially loved the Chamber of Horrors – had watched the Changing of the Guard, and the Household Cavalry riding down the Mall, and had spent two days with Diana’s parents, where they had done a lot of riding.

  ‘Diana, hi.’ Freddie Bateman’s expensive East Coast voice cut across the Atlantic. ‘We’re to work together again, I hope.’

  ‘Hope so, Freddie. Nice of you to ask for me.’

  ‘Darling, it wasn’t nice at all. I love working with you, it’s fun and we make great pictures. Now then, Blanche rang me and said – and I must admit I hadn’t thought of it – there won’t be any snow yet on the slopes, too early. So that was a great idea. Any others? I’m determined to do this job.’

  ‘Well – I did have one idea. Sounds a bit wild, but what about a giant fridge? Jamie, I saw that. Put Colonel Mustard back immediately.’

  ‘Who’s Jamie? Should I be jealous?’

  ‘Desperately. He is my favourite male in the entire world. He’s seven, my son.’

  ‘If he’s a Cluedo player, count me in. I am probably the best Cluedo player in the universe.’

  ‘Really? You’re such a modest soul, Freddie.’

  ‘I know. It’s part of my great charm. Now perhaps you could explain about this fridge?’

  Diana put Jamie back on the school train with rather less regret than she had experienced before – it was hard work entertaining a small boy in London – and then went to meet Freddie at the Connaught. She had ordered a coffee and was in the lounge, carefully settling herself in front of one of the vast urns of flowers, when Ned Welles walked in.

  ‘Good Lord,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Ned. I am truly not trailing you all over London.’

  ‘It would be very dull for you if you did,’ he said, smiling. ‘I go from home to hospital and back again –’

  ‘This isn’t a hospital.’

  ‘Oh, isn’t it? Damn! I thought it was.’ He smiled at her, that slightly car
eful, heartbreaking smile that had ensnared her so long ago. ‘I’m meeting a chap who’s working on the treatment of leukaemia in children.’

  Diana could actually have very happily listened to this for some time, but Freddie Bateman appeared, kissed her rather ostentatiously on the mouth and said, ‘Good morning, beautiful lady.’

  ‘Good morning, Freddie.’ Irritated by his display of possessiveness, she drew back and looked at him coolly. ‘Ned, this is Freddie Bateman, photographer. Freddie, Ned Welles, distinguished paediatrician.’

  ‘Morning,’ said Freddie dismissively. ‘Darling, I thought we need to get out pronto and down to Smithfield, and the butchers.’

  ‘Freddie, I was waiting for you, not the other way round, and I’ve ordered coffee. I intend to drink it. Sorry. We’ll be fine. Could you bring another cup?’ she said to the waiter. ‘And Ned, what about you?’

  ‘No, no, thank you. I’m fascinated as to why you’re going to visit butchers at Smithfield. You must tell me another time. My mother has threatened to invite you to dinner with us before she returns to Cornwall; perhaps then? Should there be any awkward pauses in the conversation, which seems a little unlikely.’

  ‘How very, very sweet of her. Tell her I’d love to come, whenever it is. My evenings are suddenly emptied of games of Monopoly and Cluedo, and even gin rummy.’

  ‘Ah, Jamie’s gone back to school?’

  ‘He has. I’m exhausted.’ She stood up and kissed Ned’s cheek. ‘Bye for now, Ned. Lovely to see you.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’ asked Freddie, slightly irritably, as the taxi made its way down Mount Street.

  ‘Not any more. Once, maybe.’

  ‘Well, maybe you could concentrate on me for a while.’

  Interesting. He was jealous. And even with the highly charged sexual atmosphere he lived in, and his exposure to homosexuality on an almost daily basis, his sensitive antennae had clearly not even twitched. She would have liked to tell Ned, reassure him; he lived on a knife edge of fear, but it was hardly a subject she could broach over dinner, even with Persephone. She really liked Persephone; she was fun and different, and infinitely charming. And so beautiful.

  ‘Right. Well, here we are.’ The cab had arrived at Smithfield Market. She tapped on the glass division. ‘This’ll do, thank you.’

  ‘Wow, this is gorgeous! I didn’t expect this. All that wonderful ironwork, and it’s so big, all those arcades. Love it. You clever girl.’

  Freddie stood beaming, surveying the great colonnades of Smithfield Market, Victorian commercial architecture at its finest: the glass domes, the finials on the roofs, the clock towers at either end.

  ‘It’s like a church. This sure beats the meatpacking district in New York.’

  ‘I expect it does. Actually, just over there is the oldest church in London, St Bartholomew the Great; I’ll show it to you later. My godmother was married there. Right now we have to find a lovely friendly butcher.’

  The butchers all proved lovely and friendly – to Diana at least. The arcades, divided into stalls, housed shops, and behind them, they were told, were the vast refrigerators that stored the meat. But the vast refrigerator rooms were plain, no arches or domes or painted ironwork – just rows of slaughtered animals. ‘It’s all a bit brutal. And they don’t even look cold,’ said Diana. ‘Shame. Nice idea though.’

  ‘We can fix that,’ said Freddie. ‘Dry ice, we can bring it in, it’ll send up clouds of the stuff. We could use a couple of these guys in their overalls as props; it’s all only background, we’ll use some exterior too if it kills me, and you’ll make the pictures. Nothing brutal about you.’

  Freddie threw the contacts onto Blanche’s desk four days later. ‘They’re sensational,’ he said modestly.

  They were. Diana stood there, wrapped in sable and ermine and dark brown mink, and one particularly glorious full-length white fox, the clouds of dry ice rising round her, the porters going about their business apparently unconcerned, the carcases hanging just slightly out of focus behind her, and thus not distressing to the more tender-hearted readers of Style. She had worn a much paler than usual make-up, with huge smudged brown eyes, her lovely mouth a brilliant red, her hair drawn tightly back, so as not to distract in any way from the fur.

  ‘My God,’ said Blanche, ‘these will make the papers, I wouldn’t wonder. You two are an amazing team. I love them. What would you like to do next? Swimwear in a reservoir?’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Freddie.

  ‘It’s a terrible idea,’ said Diana. ‘Swimwear somewhere very, very warm. Otherwise count me out.’

  She was interested to discover that Freddie no longer seemed particularly attractive. Maybe because of the dreadful business of the miscarriage, maybe because she knew him better, but for whatever reason, she had no desire to go to bed with him. He was mildly indignant about it the first night, having given her a wonderful dinner at the Connaught, but by the second had found some other gorgeous creature to lure into his room.

  It was odd, Diana thought, because when they were working, and through the lens, she could almost see the raw attraction between them; but the lights off, the cameras packed away, they were just easy, professional friends. And they were a great team, they sparked ideas off one another, Freddie inspired her; her body seemed to come alive with ideas and energy and even risks for him. Only Norman Parkinson could persuade models to do the unspeakably dangerous things that she did.

  Freddie watched her incredulously over the next few weeks, as she climbed a tree in Richmond Park to reach a mistletoe clump, so that he had to use his latest toy, a telephoto lens, to properly display the drama; as she rode a bicycle down Piccadilly without holding the handlebars; or sat in the open doorway of a helicopter as it took off, her long legs dangling.

  When these came out, in the Daily Mail as well as Style, not only her mother but also Johnathan made disapproving phone calls.

  ‘You are still a mother,’ were his terse words, ‘even though you seem to give less and less time and thought to it. Jamie told me he was really frightened when he saw the pictures, wanted to ring you and make sure you were still alive and hadn’t fallen out.’

  Jamie did indeed say this to his father; to his classmates, he boasted shamelessly about the fame and beauty and courage of his mother, adding that he couldn’t wait to try it himself.

  Diana and Freddie didn’t quite realise it, but they, along with a very few other photographers and models – including of course Parkinson and his coterie – were in the vanguard of an entirely new, freethinking approach to fashion photography. The clothes were still comparatively formal and glamorous, but the pictures took hold of them and gave them a shake. Freddie and Diana were seen as entirely original, to be relied upon to produce pages that were startling, and filled with humour as well as glamour. Vogue tried to put them under contract, but they refused; Style had provided their first showcase, and with the great Ernestine Carter of the Sunday Times booking them for a story about the new ease in fashion, as displayed by the genius of Coco Chanel, they felt altogether rather pleased with themselves and the way their careers were turning out.

  ‘Get you out to the States next,’ said Freddie, as he said goodbye to her after a month-long spell in London. ‘I’d like to see you in Glamour magazine. You familiar with that?’

  ‘Not very. It’s Condé Nast, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yup. Used to be called Glamour of Hollywood. Now it’s very much us, tag line “For the girl with the job”. So a bit forward looking. It would suit you. And us. I’ll go and see them, let you know.’

  ‘Yes, sounds fun. Well, as long as you don’t start working on it with some American girl.’

  ‘Darling, I really only like working with you these days,’ said Freddie. ‘We seem to have struck a gold seam.’

  ‘Not a mine?’

  ‘Not quite. Seams are more exciting, they have to be really worked for. Bye, darling.’

  ‘Bye, Freddie. I’ll miss you.’
r />   London seemed rather empty and her life with it.

  She wondered how she might fill it up a bit, and, as always on such occasions, her thoughts turned to Tom.

  Chapter 38

  1954

  ‘Diana? This is Persephone Welles. Hello, my dear. Apologies for not being in touch before, but I had to dash back to Cornwall. No, nothing serious, of course, just some stupid man being more so than usual. Anyway, I’m back now and staying with Ned, and we would love you to dine with us either tonight or on Thursday. Any good? Oh, splendid. And shall we say Aurora’s? You obviously like it there, as do I. Seven thirty then? See you then. Goodbye, Diana.’

  But when Diana arrived at Aurora’s, Persephone was alone.

  ‘Hello! How lovely you look. I feel like an old frump.’

  ‘Persephone, don’t be ridiculous. How could anyone be less of an old frump than you? You’ve got such style, so original, I just follow the fashion.’

  Indeed, Persephone did look amazingly stylish, in a dark red crushed velvet dress, thirties style, with a handkerchief hem, and a long shrugged-on dark navy cardigan jacket, soft and loose, skimming over her tall slender body, and rows and rows of different sizes of fake pearls.

  ‘Well, you see, for so long I had no money, and I cared so desperately about clothes, so I just learned. I hoarded everything, never got rid of something because it was out of fashion. I bought cheap clothes if the colours were good, I learned to sew and made a lot, even bought some clothes at jumble sales. My only extravagance was shoes. I will not wear old shoes. When I couldn’t afford proper ones, I bought tennis shoes, and dyed them. Anyway, Ned is coming, but not yet – some emergency at the hospital. It’s his NHS one, not his private work – he’ll often take other doctors’ evening shifts because he doesn’t have a family to get back to. Anyway, I’m not entirely sorry because I want to talk to you about him. I think you can help. He told me you wanted to marry him when you were young.’

  ‘I did. But it was impossible. I was so, so spoilt, no one with any sense at all would have looked at me, and I married on the rebound. It was a terrible mistake.’