by Anne Weale
“Yes, of course I do, but this is crazy,” she said wildly. “You’re making fun of me—you must be. I couldn’t be a model in a thousand years.”
“You think not?” David said calmly. “Personally, I’m prepared to guarantee that six months from now you’ll not only be a model, you’ll be the pick of the bunch. And I ought to know, don’t you think? Anyway, we won’t argue about it now. It’s time you were in bed. Come along, I’ll run you round to Heather’s place. She, by the way, is the very efficient secretary I told you about. Where did Mrs. MacDonald put your luggage?”
His secretary’s flat was only a five-minute drive away. The door was opened by a small, smiling, red-haired girl in a quilted nylon housecoat and fluffy mules.
“Heather, this is Jane Baron. See she gets to bed pretty soon, will you? One way and another she’s had a taxing day. Goodnight, both of you. I’ll come round about eight tomorrow.”
Handing over her suitcase, David patted Jane lightly on the shoulder, then turned and disappeared down the stairs.
“Well, come in and take the weight off your feet,” Heather said, with a grin, when he had gone. “I’m afraid this flat isn’t as plushy as David’s penthouse, but I think you’ll find the basic comforts. I was just brewing cocoa. Will you have some?”
“Yes, please.” Jane followed her into a small, gaily decorated kitchenette and put her case on the floor.
“I’m going to be a devil and have sardines on toast. How about you?” the other girl asked.
“I’ve had a meal, thanks. Just cocoa for me.” Jane sat down on the chair Heather indicated. “It’s very good of you to put me up like this, Miss Stuart,” she said diffidently. “I hope it hasn’t made a lot of extra work for you.”
“No work at all. I just put some sheets on the bed in Mary’s old room, bought an extra kipper for breakfast tomorrow, and that was it,” Heather assured her.
Her friendly happy-go-lucky manner soon put Jane at ease, and encouraged her to ask for Heather’s opinion of David’s incredible project.
“Do you think I have the makings of a model?” she asked earnestly, as they drank their mugs of hot sweet cocoa.
Heather appraised her thoughtfully. “Well, to be honest, I wouldn’t have thought so,” she admitted candidly. “But then I haven’t got David’s flair. If he thinks you have—you have! He’s never been wrong before. Anyway, I shouldn’t worry about it. Let him do that.”
After Heather had shown her the small but cosy bedroom vacated by her former flat-mate, and they had said goodnight, Jane unpacked her things. She felt exhausted, both physically and emotionally. But, although the low divan with its freshly laundered sheets and lavender-striped pillowcase looked very inviting, before she climbed into bed she spent some time staring at herself in the wardrobe mirror. And the longer she looked, the more improbable it seemed that David, for all his flair, could ever make an elegant model out of the reflection she saw in the glass.
Straight mid-brown hair; a wide, slightly lopsided mouth; a passable bosom, but no other curves to speak of—how could such unpromising material be fashioned into a semblance of glamor? Her only good features were her skin and her teeth. But even these assets were probably cancelled out by the scatter of freckles on her nose and the rather boyish squareness of her jawline.
However, since she could not return to Starmouth and the Brewsters, the only alternative to becoming David’s guinea-pig was to tell him she would not do it, and then fend for herself. Not a very attractive prospect when she had only twenty pounds saved and might not easily find a job that would support her.
It looked as if, whether she liked it or not, she would have to fall in with David’s scheme.
She and Heather had just finished washing up their breakfast dishes when David arrived the next morning.
“Good morning, Jane. Well, have you made up your mind?” he said at once, after Heather had admitted him.
She nodded. “I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Good girl. You won’t regret it, I promise you.” He turned to his secretary. “Heather, before you come to the studio, take Jane to Bond Street, will you, please? I’ve already arranged for you to attend a three-week training course at a very good model school,” he explained to Jane. “A new course starts today.”
Heather had left the room, so Jane said, “David, there’s one thing I don’t understand. How am I going to pay for this training course, and for my share of the expenses if Heather lets me stay here? I don’t think you realize that I’ve only got twenty pounds between me and complete destitution. Perhaps, when I spoke about a holiday in Holland, you thought I had much more than that.”
“Don’t bother your head about money. I’ll pay for everything until you get on your feet—and you needn’t worry about ever being under an obligation to me as you were to your relations. There are positively no strings attached to this undertaking, Jane. You do believe that, don’t you? I suspect that whatever odd ideas you had about me at the flat last night were put into your head by your aunt. I can assure you I have no sinister designs on you. I’m only interested in making a top-flight model out of you. As soon as you start earning, you can pay me back every penny of these initial expenses. In fact, I’ll tell Heather to keep a strict account.”
“But what if I don’t start earning? What if I’m a flop?” she persisted. “You could be making a mistake about me, couldn’t you?”
“I could—but I’m quite sure I’m not. Anyway, I’m prepared to take that risk.” He glanced at his watch. “I must be off now. I’m not sure when I shall see you again, but meanwhile you’ll be tied up all day at the school, and Heather will keep an eye on you the rest of the time. Incidentally, I want you to be in bed by ten o’clock sharp every night. Late hours mean heavy eyes next day. A model has to keep in strict training like a professional athlete. In fact I’d better warn you now that the next few weeks are going to be darned hard work with very little play. Don’t think you’re on easy street—you aren’t!”
. And, with this astringent admonition, he called goodbye to Heather and let himself out.
Jane’s first day at the model school was even more of an ordeal than she had feared. Most of the other students were so much prettier, so much better dressed, and had so much more poise than she had. Whenever they glanced at her, she felt sure they were wondering how on earth she got through the preliminary audition which they had had to pass. Heather had told her that only about one in eight of all candidates was accepted for training and that, even after this initial “creaming,” girls were sometimes advised to give up the course if the Principal felt they were not-making sufficient progress.
Each day began with a “movement” class in the big mirror-lined Deportment Salon where the graduation fashion show would be held at the end of the course. A staff physiotherapist studied each girl, and worked out a set of exercises to streamline her figure and improve her posture.
Make-up classes were held in the Beauty Room and consultants from several of the most famous cosmetic firms explained and demonstrated their varying techniques. To Jane’s surprise, several of the girls who already seemed experts at make-up were severely criticized for hiding muddy skins under a mask of pancake.
“Spots and blackheads are a sign of laziness,” the class was told severely by the School’s own beauty consultant. “No matter how tired you are at bedtime, you must cleanse and double-cleanse.”
At the manicure and pedicure sessions, girls who had pretty well-groomed hands were reproved for neglecting their feet. At the first hair care class, a trichologist examined each pupil’s scalp and hair and prescribed treatment. Here again several of the girls with the most fashionable hair styles were warned against too much back-combing, too frequent use of sprays and too little attention to conditioning.
So by the end of the first week of the course some of the most self-confident students had become noticeably chastened, and no longer treated Jane with a touch of patronage. Nevertheless she still f
elt a fish out of water.
Going to school on the Underground every morning, and exploring the environs of Bond Street during the lunch break—still wearing her shabby navy raincoat over her cheap black hotel clothes—she was increasingly conscious of her dowdiness.
At first, to her inexperienced eyes, almost all the girls she saw had looked as if they might be fashion models. After a few days she realized that they were not models, but merely well-groomed clothes-conscious typists and shop assistants.
Those who were models were so hypnotized chic and poised that Jane was more and more convinced David had made a disastrous error of judgment about her.
She had been in London for ten days, and had not seen David since the first morning, when Heather told her he wanted her to go to his flat that night. The two girls had supper together, and then Heather went off to meet her current boy friend, and Jane set out for David’s address.
“And how are you, Miss Baron? Let me take your coat, dear,” said Mrs. MacDonald, letting her into the flat. “Mr. David’s waiting for you in the lounge. There’s a good fire there, so you’ll soon be warm again.”
“Hello, Jane. How have you been getting along?” David asked, rising from his chair as she entered the lounge.
“Oh, fairly well, I think.” She thought he looked tired, and suspected that he did not keep the early hours which he had prescribed for her.
“Let’s have a look at you,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and turning her to face the light from the lamp above his desk. “Mm, yes, a noticeable improvement. You don’t look nearly as fatigued and run-down as when you first arrived. Are you and Heather getting on all right?”
“Oh, yes, I like her very much—and I think she likes me, too.”
“She does. Her last flat-mate drove her mad with her untidiness. She tells me you’re very neat and conscientious. Now I asked you to come over because I want to give you a bit of private tuition. Once we’ve launched you, you’re going to find yourself in various situations which you haven’t had to deal with before. It will be easier for you, and create a better impression on other people, if you know how to deal with these contingencies. For example, if you go to a good restaurant, you need to know what’s what on the menu, and how to eat certain dishes and so forth. I don’t say that such knowledge is essential to your career—and don’t get the idea that you’ll be lunching at the Caprice every day—but as we’re turning a duckling into a swan, we may as well be thorough about it.”
“I noticed you tactfully omitted the usual adjective,” she said, with a faint smile.
“Oh, you mean ‘ugly duckling.’ Well, that doesn’t apply in this case. You may not be pretty in the conventional sense, but you’re far from ugly, young Jane.” His eyes held a teasing light. “Anyway, the eye of the camera—in the hands of an experienced photographer—is like the eye of a lover. It can see beauty which no one else has recognized.”
At half past nine, after a lesson on how to conduct herself in a fashionable restaurant, David walked her back to the other flat.
“Come over again on Wednesday and I’ll test how much you’ve learnt,” he said, as he said goodnight at her door.
Jane watched him stride away down the street, a tall lithe man in a Burberry, his footsteps pinging on the pavement. Then she went upstairs, had a bath, and went to bed with her “homework”—a dictionary of French culinary terms, and a book about wines and cheeses.
On Wednesday, he was pleased to find that she had studied both books closely and memorized much more than he had expected. His approval made Jane glow and, for the first time, she began to feel that perhaps, if she did exactly as he instructed, she might eventually become the “swan” he wanted to make her.
David fixed another lesson for the following week, but when she arrived at the flat on Monday night he was not at home.
“He’s out, Miss Baron,” Mrs. MacDonald told her. “I reckon it must have slipped his mind that he’d asked you to come round tonight. He isn’t usually forgetful, mind you; In fact there isn’t a more considerate gentleman than Mr. David. No doubt something important came up, and he hasn’t had a chance to telephone you. Will you come in and have a cup of tea with me, my dear?”
“Thanks, Mrs. MacDonald, but I think I’ll go home and do some reading. Goodnight.”
Jane walked back to Heather’s flat as bitterly disappointed as a child denied a rare and promised treat.
When she told Heather what had happened, the other girl said, “What a nuisance—going out in the rain for nothing. But David’s a strange man in some ways, you’ll find. One night he’ll be painting the town with some gorgeous girl, and the next he’ll drive miles into the country on his own, or read some madly abstruse book. I expect that’s what has happened tonight. Either he’s made an unexpected date, or he’s gone off on one of his lone wolf jaunts in the car. Night driving is one of his passions. Extraordinary, isn’t it?”
“Does he have a lot of gorgeous girls?” Jane asked casually.
“Quite a few—but he never gets seriously involved. He’s a curious mixture of lady-killer and man’s man. I wouldn’t call him a wolf exactly, but he certainly cracks a lot of hearts.”
Jane wondered if Heather had a secret yen for her boss and, as if she read the thought, the other girl said, “The funny thing is that, although I’m with him such a lot, I’ve never been the least bit attracted to him. I like him enormously—but not in a man-woman way. But then I have a weakness for fair men. You know, the blond blue-eyed Scandinavian types. It’s just as well, I guess. Love and one’s job don’t mix in my experience. Girls who are besotted about their bosses tend to go off in a dream when they’re taking dictation.”
Early next morning, before she left for the school, David rang Jane up.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I’m afraid I forgot about you. Look, how would you like to have a fling this evening? We could go to the cinema and have supper afterwards.”
“Oh, David, I’d love it,” she said delightedly.
“Right: I’ll pick you up at seven.” He rang off.
They went to see a Western, and afterwards he took her to supper in a little Italian restaurant with checked gingham tablecloths and red candles stuck in Chianti bottles. They had the place to themselves, because it had been pouring with rain all day and the streets were deserted, and David ordered Risotto alla Casalinga and, to drink, a fiasco of Lachrima Christi.
“Would you like some music?” he asked, indicating the juke-box in the corner.
“Yes, please.” Jane watched him put a sixpence in the machine and press a button.
Probably at random, he had chosen a record of a song which had been popular some time ago. It was called “If This Is Love” and, listening to the romantic lilting melody, Jane did not dare to look at him. She was afraid he might guess that the words of the song expressed her own feelings.
“I’m going off on an assignment in Ireland tomorrow,” David told her, when they had eaten the risotto and were finishing the bottle of strong white Neapolitan wine. “I shall be away about five days. By the time I get back, you should be ready for the final transformation.”
Jane rested her chin on one hand. “I saw Pat Knight in Bond Street today.” She had been studying the fashion magazines, and knew the faces of all the most popular models now. “She’s so lovely, David. I’m sure I shall never look like that.”
“Yes, Pat is a very striking girl,” he agreed. “And so are Jean Shrimpton and Christina Gregg and all the best girls. But models aren’t made to a pattern, remember, Jane. Each one is a different type, an individual. A few months from now you’ll walk down the street and you’ll see the office girls and shop girls aping the new Jane Baron style.”
“I hope so. I must owe you an awful lot of money by now,” she said worriedly.
“You’ll soon work it off when you’re earning six guineas an hour.” He signalled to the waiter to bring the bill. “Take care of yourself while I’m a
way. I don’t want to lose my investment before she pays dividends.”
It was only eleven when he dropped her at her door and there was a light in the sitting-room window which showed that Heather was still up. But David did not accept Jane’s invitation to join them in a cup of coffee.
“I’ve an early start in the morning,” he explained. “Goodnight, young Jane. Sleep tight.”
“Goodnight, David. Safe journey.”
She held out her hand and, to her surprise, instead of shaking it, he bent his head and kissed the inside of her wrist. Then he climbed into the car and shot away.
The evening after her last day at the model school—which was also the day David had returned from Ireland—Jane scrutinized herself in the wardrobe mirror, as she had done on her first night in London. The past three weeks had wrought a considerable change, she realized, with satisfaction.
Early nights and a generally easier life had brightened her eyes and given her a new feeling of well-being. A high-protein diet and strategic exercises had trimmed nearly two inches of her waist span and made her much more limber than before. Her hair was glossier and her hands—previously rather neglected—were now smooth and white, the nails grown to a longer, more elegant length. Although David had told her to keep to her Starmouth powder-and-lipstick make-up until he gave the word, she had now learned the delicate art of applying eye-liner and shadow and combining different shades of foundation to flatter the shape of her face. Her posture was better, and she had mastered several unconscious nervous mannerisms, notably the habit of frowning and biting her lips when she was harassed. But of course, lately, she had not felt harassed.
Next morning, a few minutes before nine, David came to collect her for a shopping expedition. This was to be the day of what he had called “the final transformation.”
On his instructions, and with Heather to guide her choice, Jane had already equipped herself with new underclothes—including a Spandex waist cinch, and a backless lace basque for evening wear—stockings, and several pairs of short and long gloves.
