A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My darling girl, where do you think you’re going to change?’

  Diana looked around her and shrugged. ‘Here? Not much different from behind a bush on Hampstead Heath. That was my first day ever modelling. I was so excited I’d have stood naked in Piccadilly Circus. I feel a bit like that now,’ she added with a grin.

  ‘That’s why you’re such a great model,’ said Freddie, kissing her on the cheek. ‘You’ve never got tired of it. Now come on, we should get back to the Pierre. We’re meeting Ottilie there at nine.’

  Ottilie, a terrifying Valkyrie-style six-foot blonde, with a face like an iceberg and hair like hemp, plus her retinue, were waiting for them in the foyer, with a mountain of clothes.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, her expression daring a smile to come near it. ‘Let’s go up to your room, Diana, and we can unload these and plan the shoot.’

  She stalked towards the lift; Diana and Freddie followed meekly.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he hissed in her ear. ‘It’s the American way. They feel they have to frighten everybody.’

  ‘Oh. She’s succeeded.’

  But once talking about shots and clothes and locations, a remarkable change came over Ottilie. She didn’t exactly smile but her face eased into an approximation of one; she knew a good idea when she saw it, liked a lot of theirs, threw in several of her own; and she was swift to seize opportunities and use them: so when a yellow cab broke down in the middle of Third Avenue, steam pouring from its bonnet like a volcano, she told Diana (also dressed in yellow) to get behind it and start pushing. Or hiring a helicopter – ‘I’ll argue with Miss Dickens about the cost’ – so they could fly past the Chrysler building in all its lace-like loveliness, with Diana’s profile etched against it.

  They went up to a jazz club in Harlem, where she slipped the trumpeter ten dollars to let Diana blow it for two dizzy minutes; and agreed they should take the Staten Island ferry at two in the morning, and then had Diana, wearing a huge-skirted white ball gown, standing recklessly on the boat rail, with only the make-up lady hanging onto her dress for security, waving to the Statue of Liberty as they went past.

  The entire shoot took three days, not two, and at the end Ottilie hugged them both and said they had been ‘quite good’.

  Next day, their last, they got a call from Miss Dickens’s secretary; could they come down to the offices right away.

  ‘This is it,’ said Freddie. ‘She hates them.’

  He always said that; it was the only time he ever displayed any lack of confidence.

  American Fashion was based just off Times Square. It was rather unglamorous, very different from Vogue or Style, too many people crammed into too few offices. Even Miss Dickens shared her office with not only her secretary but also the beauty editor. She was unlike any fashion editor or editor Diana had ever seen, being tiny and rather timid looking, with mousey brown hair, half-moon spectacles, and clothes that looked at least five years out of date.

  ‘She says she’s too busy to go shopping or get her hair done,’ Freddie said. ‘She makes a thing of it; she can look fabulous, I’m told.’

  The room was filled with now-familiar people: Ottilie, the beauty editor, the accessories editor, Miss Dickens’s assistant. The desk was entirely covered with sheets of contacts. Miss Dickens was looking at them with a magnifying glass, occasionally pushing one towards Ottilie, and saying something in a low voice; she totally ignored Diana and Freddie as they came in. The silence was a long one; Diana was just beginning to think Freddie for once was right and she did hate the pictures when she put down the magnifying glass, looked at them over her half-moon glasses and smiled, a delighted child-like smile.

  ‘I adore them,’ she said. ‘Absolutely adore them. What a team you are. These are way, way beyond anything even Ottilie has produced before and I can tell you, that is something. This one with the taxi – and the trumpet – oh, and you practically falling off the Empire State, Diana – they’re just fantastic. I am thrilled. I’m giving them four spreads, not two. We can’t really afford it, but they’ll pull in a lot of advertising. Well done. Both of you. Now look, are you free tonight, because I want to dine with you.’

  ‘Miss Dickens, you’re having dinner with the Elizabeth Arden people tonight,’ said her assistant.

  ‘And Miss Arden herself might be there,’ said the beauty editor. She looked as if she was about to burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, I can’t help that,’ said Miss Dickens. ‘Tell them I died or something.’ But Diana, who had learned a great deal about advertisers and their importance, said, ‘Miss Dickens, we can meet you after dinner. Can’t we, Freddie?’

  Freddie, who was planning to meet an old girlfriend for dinner and hoped to persuade her back to the Pierre for the rest of the night, hesitated, clearly dismayed, and then said yes, of course they could, asking hopefully if that mightn’t be a little late for Miss Dickens; she drew herself up to her full five feet and said she wasn’t senile yet and she’d meet them in the King Cole Bar at the St Regis at eleven.

  They arrived early, as Freddie said Diana ought to have time to enjoy the famous Maxfield Parrish mural of Old King Cole, which she did, but was marginally more enchanted by the doorman’s brass booth at the entrance. They sat drinking what Diana remembered from her lunch with Leo Bennett to call Mimosas. She had hardly had time to think about him since, but found herself reflecting on him now with some pleasure and whether she might try and find some excuse to see him again when she got home.

  Miss Dickens arrived late: she had clearly not considered the Elizabeth Arden people worth dressing up for and wore the same high-necked ankle-length tea dress as she had for her meeting with Diana and Freddie. She ordered some tea for herself, and sat back in a chair that was far too big for her, her tiny feet not even reaching the floor, and looked at them both intently.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I want to discuss something with you. I know we’ve only done one session, but it’s quite enough to convince me. As you know, I’m new at American Fashion and I’m still building my reputation and my team. I’d like to offer you a contract. The two of you working together, usually one feature a month, but you must be prepared to do two, to be shot generally over here. That’s because of the clothes, of course, no use featuring English clothes that the readers can’t get. But under exceptional circumstances, like a royal wedding – we do so love the royals – then it would be shot in England. Or you can go somewhere quite different, of course, providing the clothes were American: the Bahamas, or Ireland – wherever your inspired fancies took you. But this would have to be your base. What do you say?’

  Persephone read Ned’s letter, and then read it again and then again, smiling more and more as she did so. This was beyond her wildest hopes for him; she found it hard to believe it could finally have happened.

  I have found someone I love, he had written, and I wanted you to be the first person to know. Someone I am happy with, at peace with, someone who makes me laugh and talk and think. I’m not ready yet to tell you who, because we don’t want to go even slightly public with it yet; he has family considerations, and needs to think about it all carefully. I know you will find this extremely difficult (!) but it will do you no good to try and tease it out of me. I just wanted you to know. But it seems so wonderful, and I feel different, stronger, braver. God knows what we are to do about it – we can’t actually live together, of course – but the time we do spend together is so precious, so special, and such fun and I hope together we can work something out.

  It was a sad little document in its way, Persephone thought – two adults finding love for one another, and unable to acknowledge it except to a very few people – but it was lovely to know Ned was so happy. She felt very happy herself, and was touched that he trusted her enough to tell her.

  Alice woke up in the night from a horrible dream in which she was screaming and screaming – and then realised it was real, and it wasn’t her screaming, it was Kit. She ru
shed into his room and found him clutching his stomach, his legs drawn up in what was clearly agonising pain; as she took him onto her knee, shouting for Tom, Kit vomited all over her.

  ‘Tom! Tom! Ring Dr Redmond, would you? Now, quickly. There’s something terribly wrong.’

  * * *

  By the time Dr Redmond arrived, Kit was much calmer, the pain clearly easing, but pale and listless.

  Alice liked Dr Redmond. He was the ideal, trust-inspiring family doctor, middle-aged, patient, kindly faced.

  ‘Right, young fellow-my-lad, let’s have a look at you. Put him on the bed, would you?’

  He felt Kit’s tummy for a long time. Then he said, ‘His abdomen is still quite soft which is a good sign. I’d say it was a grumbling appendix. His symptoms are classic. Let’s see how he goes in the next few days. Keep him quiet, plenty of fluids. If it happens again, of course let me know. They used to rush them into surgery at the first symptom, now we leave it for a few days, see if it settles. All right? I’ll be getting back to bed, I think. I’d advise you to do the same.’

  ‘Right,’ said Tom. ‘Thank you so much for coming out at this terrible hour.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all part of the job.’

  Dr Redmond followed Tom out of the room. Alice could hear him uttering calming clichés before the front door closed.

  ‘Nice chap,’ said Tom, coming back into the room. ‘Very good of him to come at this time of night.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Alice. ‘It’s no more than he should do, though – this is your wonderful National Health Service we’re dealing with. I still don’t feel very happy, Tom. What if it’s something more than appendicitis? It just feels – wrong to me.’

  ‘Alice, he’s a very experienced doctor. And with respect, he knows a lot more than you do. Come on. Back to bed. You’re probably going to have a difficult day tomorrow.’

  No change there then, thought Alice wearily.

  Chapter 55

  He was all right. No, that was unfair. He was more than all right, he was very nice. Interesting. Mildly amusing. Quite good-looking in a quiet sort of way. Light brown hair, grey eyes, tall, fairly – if conventionally – well dressed, but then she’d had enough of flamboyant dressers, they seemed to trail trouble in their wake. He was a medic too, a surgeon at St Thomas’. She’d met him through her uncle, who’d invited her to a lecture on developments in anaesthesia. At the drinks reception afterwards they’d been chatting and her uncle had spotted them together and suggested they came to supper with him. Jillie looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘Your aunt’s agreed to join me; I’d already invited Patrick.’

  ‘Oh, no, Uncle William, I can’t. I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Come on, Jillie, all you ever do is work. You know what they say, all work and no play –’

  ‘Makes Jill a dull girl,’ said Jillie, smiling at him. ‘Yes, all right, I give in.’

  She did indeed feel very dull; Julius had lit her up, made her feel sparkly and special. Since then, the lights had all gone out. She didn’t have great hopes of Patrick in that direction, but at least it wouldn’t be yet another evening reading in her room.

  They went to a small restaurant in the Strand; the chat was easy and interesting. It emerged that Patrick Brownlow was a gastroenterologist and had been working in Edinburgh, had only just come to London. At the end of the evening he asked her if he could have her phone number and she (only a little unwillingly) gave it to him. Since then, they had seen a couple of films and eaten a few meals together, always at small, unpretentious restaurants. It was all oddly soothing after the excesses of Sundays with Julius. She wasn’t in love with him, but she did like him, and felt happier than she had for some time.

  And then one night, after seeing a play, they decided to go to a small, slightly smarter restaurant called Angelo’s in Albemarle Street. They walked into the restaurant rather briskly as it was pouring with rain, with Patrick’s arm round Jillie’s shoulders (where it had never been before) in order more easily to share his umbrella, and almost collided with Nell Henderson and Julius Noble who were leaving.

  Jillie managed a smile, the introductions and an expression of delight when Nell announced that her book was to be published. ‘And it’s all thanks to you – everyone loves the surgeon bit best.’

  After some graceful protestations, Jillie handed her wet coat to the maître d’ and, with a sweet smile at Nell, said goodbye.

  To Julius she spoke not a word.

  Julius was not, anyway, in a chatty mood because Nell wanted to postpone the wedding date.

  ‘The thing is, darling, that’s precisely when they want to publish my book – not a good idea. The clash, I mean.’

  Julius’s suggestion that the publication might be postponed rather than their wedding got a very poor reception. ‘Darling, you can’t possibly realise how lucky I am to be getting published by these people at all; I can’t start arguing with them about dates. Please don’t be difficult, Julius, it’s so easy to change our date.’

  Julius said mildly that he wasn’t being difficult, merely a little disappointed, and it was a good thing they hadn’t sent out the invitations yet; they then spent most of the rest of the meal in silence.

  Finding the next morning that, along with feeling like a discarded handkerchief, he was experiencing something close to relief – and wondering, not for the first time in recent weeks, if their marriage was actually such a good idea – Julius thought he would ring Jillie and beg her yet again for a meeting. But after a little more careful thought over his breakfast, he decided against it; she had clearly found someone else and it was equally clearly at least a little serious.

  Nobody who was present forgot the night that Mr Edward Welles and Sir Neil Lawson faced one another literally over the bed of a child in Mr Welles’s ward, and did battle over her.

  It began with the crying; the crying of a sick, frightened child for her mother. Sister looked at the ward clock, saw that it was after nine, and breathed a sigh of relief that Mr Welles had had a very long list; he had pulled off his surgical gloves and operating mask a full hour earlier, said he was exhausted and looking forward to getting home. With luck, they could settle the child themselves. Sister was growing very weary of the problems caused by Mr Welles’s interference. Not just the interference in itself, but the unpleasantness of having to report it to Sir Neil (these were his strict instructions now), of recording every detail of what happened, and at times being called into Sir Neil’s office, along with Mr Welles, and having to act as witness – and in such a way as to make it very plain that Mr Welles and his methods caused disruption and distress to the other patients, the nurses on duty and indeed to herself.

  The problem was that several of the nurses, the younger ones anyway, agreed with Mr Welles. The children did settle more quietly and happily if their mothers were allowed to remain with them until they went down to theatre, and certainly, if they were very poorly afterwards; Sister couldn’t work out at first how these women managed to find out how their children were post-operative, and, if the news was not good, to arrive at the entrance to the ward. But the answer was simple: if it was a difficult case and the child was high on his list, he would tell the mother to wait in the waiting room. Sir Neil’s wrath when he heard this reputedly brought him close to heart failure.

  They couldn’t go on like this, or rather she couldn’t, and in fact Sir Neil had promised her he was gathering cases and then intended to hold a meeting with the entire medical board of the hospital and get Mr Welles dealt with once and for all; but it seemed like a long time coming. She had resolved that she would put in a formal complaint herself if the next episode was not dealt with to her satisfaction.

  But Mr Welles was still in the hospital, had been worried about one of the day’s cases, and, wanting to make a final visit before he went home, walked straight over to the little girl’s bed (without seeking permission from Sister) and attempted to comfort her. He was not entirely successful
; the child’s tears turned into near-hysteria as a result of his sympathy, at which several other children, also operated on that day, began to cry as well.

  Ned was demanding to know why he had not been told of Susan’s distress when Sir Neil Lawson, who was also most unusually still in the hospital, stalked into the ward, white lipped with fury, demanding silence; and, literally shouting across Susan’s bed, to an audience of frightened children, tremulous nurses and a deeply satisfied Sister, demanded that Mr Welles should leave her to the care of the nurses, and go immediately to his office.

  Ned, driven to his own fury, refused, ‘until I have first examined and then calmed this child to my satisfaction’. They faced one another across the bed, shouting, each refusing the other the respect and indeed courtesy that was their due. It was appalling, as Ned afterwards admitted to everyone, for morale, for the children, for the nurses. The children were upset and anxious for days.

  He had no right, he knew, to set himself single-handedly against the philosophy and discipline of an undoubtedly great hospital; he had ruthlessly used his position there to turn comfort into confrontation, order into anarchy. He had behaved in a way that he had no right to do; and he resolved that he should approach his campaign in future quite differently,

  Sir Neil kept him waiting for over half an hour. When he arrived, still clearly fuming, he called Ned in and didn’t even tell him to sit down.

  ‘That was shocking, appalling behaviour. I cannot tell you how distressed I was.’

  ‘You don’t need to,’ said Ned quietly, ‘and I shall have letters of apology to Sister and to the nurses involved delivered in the morning. And to you, of course, Sir Neil.’

  ‘I’m afraid I require rather more than that. I want your absolute assurance – and most certainly in writing – that you are dropping this absurd campaign of yours, as of now, and that we will hear no more about it.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you that,’ said Ned. ‘It is too important to me. And, I still believe, to the children themselves. But I shall approach it differently – there will be no more confrontation in the wards, I assure you.’