by Janet Tanner
Sally felt even more like crying. She loved Edward. But why did it all have to be so messy and complicated? Why did it have to make her feel so horrid and ashamed?
She was still looking in the mirror making sure there were no other tell-tale signs of the evening’s activities when the living-room door was thrown open and her mother, looking very stern, appeared.
‘Sally – come in here this minute!’ she ordered.
Sally quaked inwardly. Oh God, she must have been found out! But who could have seen her in the park and reported back this quickly? Nervously smoothing her skirt and praying there were no stains she had missed, she went along the hall and into the living room.
She knew at once it was serious because her father was still up. Having to get up very early in the mornings he tended to be in bed by the time she arrived home on the last bus from Bath. But here he was, still sitting in his chair (and looking as though he wished he weren’t) whilst her mother stood on the hearth-rug, arms folded and wearing a furious expression. Sally began to tremble in earnest.
‘Well, madam!’ her mother demanded. ‘What I would like to know is why you saw fit to tell barefaced lies to your grandmother while your Dad and I were on holiday.’
Sally was so surprised she could only stare.
‘And what a stupid lie too!’ Grace went on furiously. ‘ Saying she’d broken the heel on her shoe! The minute your gran told me about it I knew it wasn’t true – and so did she, or suspected as much, anyway. Why did you do it, Sally? You know I won’t have you telling lies.’
‘I … well, Paula told me to,’ Sally said miserably.
‘Oh yes, made up a story like that that she’d have known her gran would see through … I can believe that.’
‘She did. She told me to say it.’
‘I’ve already talked to Paula about this,’ Grace said sternly. ‘She tells me she wasn’t feeling well. That was what you were supposed to tell your gran.’
‘No.’
‘Don’t he again, Sally. I suppose you thought you’d paint Paula in a bad light and make it seem as though she couldn’t be bothered to go. Well, I’m ashamed of you, I am really. No!’ she wagged a finger to silence Sally’s protest, ‘I don’t want to hear any more. But I promise you this, my girl, if you tell lies again, particularly spiteful ones, then I shall find some way of punishing you that you won’t forget in a hurry. Go on to bed now.’
Sally went, relieved at not having had her love bite spotted but filled with indignation at having been blamed so unjustly for the Gran Bristow episode.
Paula was already in bed, reading a paper novelette.
‘I’ve just caught it hot and holy for telling Gran lies,’ Sally yelled at her. ‘You’ve got to tell Mum I only said what you told me to.’
Paula did not even look up from her book.
‘No. Why should I?’
‘Because it’s not fair! They think I did it to get you into trouble or something. You’ve got to tell them the truth!’
‘I’m not saying anything. I’d only end up in the doghouse myself wouldn’t I? Just leave it, Sal.’
‘But why should I get the blame?’ Sally cried.
‘Because you’re the twit.’
‘And you’re a horrible, selfish cow and I hate you! Oh, how I hate you!’
There was a loud bang on the door and Grace’s angry voice called: ‘And you can stop that quarrelling, the pair of you. You’re like a pair of tom cats!’
‘I hate you! I hate you!’ Sally hissed under her breath.
‘Keep quiet, Sally, you heard what Mum said.’
‘And I’ll never forgive you. Never!’
But even as she seethed she knew it was not true. By this time tomorrow the whole thing would be forgotten and she would have forgiven Paula.
Paula could not help herself. It was just the way she was. Others might say they hated her and mean it. Sally never would. Whatever Paula did, however mean and underhand, however selfish, in the end Sally would find an excuse for her. Wasn’t that what sisters were for?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ever since she had left school Paula had worked in one of the big department stores in Bristol and she loved it, although the lengthy journey made for very long days and the bus fares ate holes in her meagre salary. But to Paula Ladies’ Fashions was a veritable Aladdin’s cave of delights.
She loved the rails of beautiful clothes – the tailored suits and the beaded evening dresses, the taffetta and lace and wool baratheas and most of all the furs, and when she could she would slip into one of the changing rooms and try things on. Because she was so tall and slim all the clothes looked marvellous on her and the other girls would groan their envy. It simply was not fair that anyone could look so good in absolutely everything!
Paula disagreed. The greatest unfairness, she thought, was that the women who could afford to buy the beautiful clothes simply did not do them justice, while she, who showed them off so well, had to save for weeks, even given her staff discount, for the most modestly priced item. All too often she had to watch the garment she had set her heart on disappear out of the store inside one of the giant shiny carrier bags with rope handles. One day, she promised herself, she would be rich enough to buy whatever she wanted – not only clothes but jewellery and perfume, real leather shoes and the very best cosmetics – no more Miners and Outdoor Girl from Woolworths!
Jenkinsons, the department store, occupied a grand old building in the heart of Bristol and a good third of the top floor was taken up by a restaurant – The Palm Court. Genteel and restful with lace cloths on the little tables, parlour palms in pots around what might almost have been a dais for a three-piece orchestra, and table service by waitresses in neat black dresses and white lace caps and aprons, the Palm Court was invariably at its busiest with morning coffees and afternoon teas when shoppers were tempted with an array of dainty cakes and pastries and hot toasted teacakes in silver dishes complete with lids. The clientele made a perfect captive audience and in the early autumn of Paula’s second year at the store the management decided to bring in models to show the new season’s fashions at the times when the restaurant was most likely to be full of ladies who had accounts with Jenkinsons and cheque books in their capacious handbags.
A local model agency provided the girls for the twice-weekly shows and Paula was detailed to help ‘ backstage’. When the three girls arrived she was surprised to find that in spite of their sophistication they were not much older than she was and as she watched them glide out in the first selection of fashions she felt a small prickle of excitement. If they could do it – why shouldn’t she? She was as tall as they were, she wore the clothes just as well and she was just as pretty, if not prettier. Whilst dressing the models she tried to chat to them and ask how they had come by their jobs but they were not very forthcoming. It was as if they considered themselves above socialising with a mere shop assistant. Paula was annoyed but not subdued. Her own self-confidence made her impervious to the intended snubs.
One morning as she was rushing back to the changing rooms one of the models slipped and twisted her ankle. As she hobbled and hopped in agony Mrs Freer, the Fashion Buyer, fumed.
‘We haven’t shown the cornflower blue yet and I particularly wanted it to have an airing. At the price it is, the sooner I can find a buyer for it the happier I’ll be.’
Paula, who was zipping one of the other models into a cocktail dress, felt her skin begin to prick with excitement.
‘Let me wear it, Mrs Freer!’ she suggested. ‘It fits me. And I could model, I know I could!’
The other girls looked at her with dislike but Paula ignored them.
‘Very well,’ Airs Freer said after a moment’s consideration. ‘Try it on. Hmm. It does look good on you. But you’ll need a little more eye shadow – blue to bring out the colour of the suit. And will the hat sit right on your hair?’
On the shop floor Paula wore her hair in a French pleat. Now she let it down and tied it at the
nape of her neck with a scarf. Above it, the hat sat perfectly. A touch more eyeshadow and mascara and she twirled for Mrs Freer. ‘Will I do?’
‘Yes. Now take your time, won’t you? Don’t rush. Give the customers plenty of opportunity to see you from all angles and let them feel the cloth if they want to. And don’t, for heaven’s sake, bump into a table or one of the waitresses …’
‘I know,’ Paula said impatiently. Hadn’t she been watching the models for weeks and dying for a chance to imitate them? As she walked onto the floor her heart was beating fast with excitement but her face was a smiling serene mask. She moved with natural grace, gliding between the tables, approaching customers who showed an interest to give them an extra twirl, unbuttoning the little figure-hugging jacket and posing with her hand on her waist, rucking up the jacket slightly to display the blouse underneath as she had seen the professional models do. She was enjoying herself so much that she stayed on the door longer than she should have done and it was only when she saw Mrs Freer making furious faces at her from the doorway that she turned and glided back. She felt as if she were floating on air.
‘Over exposure won’t help one bit!’ Mrs Freer hissed as she passed her and in the dressing room the other models pointedly turned their backs on her, annoyed that an untrained shop girl should have been allowed to trespass in their territory. But to Paula’s triumphant delight the suit was snapped up the moment it went back onto its hanger – a solictor’s wife who had stopped for a coffee had fallen in love with it, even if the skirt did have to be taken up four full inches to make it fit her less-than-willowy tall frame.
‘You did quite well,’ Mrs Freer admitted grudgingly, then spoiled it by adding: ‘Don’t let it go to your head.’
The remark was lost on Paula. She knew now without a moment’s doubt exactly what she was going to do.
On her very next day off Paula made herself up carefully, put on her smartest suit – a cheap version of the one she had shown in the restaurant – and caught a bus to Bristol. The model agency office was in a tall old house in Clifton and Paula splashed out some of her savings on a taxi so that she could at least arrive in style. Her stomach was turning nervous somersaults as she rang the bell but she was determined no one should realise it.
Arlene Frampton-Cox, who ran the agency, had once been a model herself – and it showed. She was tall and beautifully groomed with iron-grey hair, a smooth, high-cheekboned face and a most intimidating manner. When Paula was shown into her office Arlene looked up from a sheaf of photographs which were spread on her desk with just a hint of impatience.
‘Yes?’
‘I want to be a model,’ Paula said directly. ‘ Could you take me onto your books?’
Arlene looked her up and down with a practised eye. Although she gave no hint of it, she liked what she saw.
‘What training have you had?’ she enquired.
‘I haven’t,’ Paula admitted. ‘But I did stand in for one of your girls at Jenkinsons last week – and I sold the suit I showed.’
Arlene’s scarlet lips tightened a shade. She did not approve of amateurs, especially amateurs who thought they could step into the shoes of professional models.
‘I’m sorry but I’m afraid there is no way I could take an untrained girl onto my books. Though it may look easy there is a right way to walk, to sit, to turn, to remove a coat.’
Paula’s heart sank. She had thought she knew how to do these things but this imposing woman was making her feel very gauche, very uncomfortable.
Arlene’s mouth twitched slightly but Paula did not notice it.
‘Of course, if you wish to learn I do run classes in the art of modelling,’ she continued smoothly. ‘Twelve lessons is normal, though if a girl is particularly adept eight might be sufficient. I use a room at the Grand Hotel twice weekly, on a Tuesday and Thursday evening and do all the teaching myself. That way I can be certain my pupils are properly trained.’
‘And if I took the classes then you would take me onto your books?’ Paula asked.
‘If you do well enough I would consider it.’ The steely-grey eyes ran over Paula again. ‘How tall are you?’
‘Five nine and a half.’
‘And what are your measurements?’
‘33 – 21 – 32.’
‘Too big in the bust,’ Arlene said shortly. ‘But I dare say we could get around that. A good strong binder instead of a brassiere – it’s been done before.’
Paula shuddered. She had spent most of her life wishing she had ‘more up top’. To be told she would have to get rid of some of the little she had was not what she had expected – or wanted to hear. But she was too determined to be put off now.
‘When can I start?’ she asked.
For the first time during the interview Arlene smiled faintly.
‘Come along next Tuesday and I’ll see you are enrolled,’ she said.
‘Modelling?’ Grace repeated in horror when Paula told her of her plans. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing! Whatever put an idea like that in your head?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Paula argued. ‘ I’m the right shape – Mrs Frampton-Cox said so. And I want to do it! It’s a wonderful job!’
‘You have a good job.’
‘No I haven’t. I’ve got a crummy ordinary dogsbody job. I want to do something special.’
‘But modelling! Whatever will people say? I’ve always been so proud of you, Paula. I’d never be able to hold up my head again!’
‘Oh really!’ Paula retorted. ‘I shall be modelling clothes, not doing a strip-tease.’
‘One thing leads to another,’ Grace said darkly. ‘It’s the life, Paula. It’s not right for a young girl. Is it, Reg?’ she appealed to Paula’s father, who was reading the Daily Mirror and enjoying a Woodbine after his well-earned tea.
‘I don’t suppose she’ll come to much harm, Grace,’ he replied mildly.
Grace sighed with exasperation. Couldn’t Reg ever take anything seriously? Couldn’t he see, as she could, the moral dangers of getting into that sort of fickle world?
‘I don’t care what you say, I’m going to do it,’ Paula said and Grace shook her head resignedly. Paula might look as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth but when her mind was made up to something it took a stronger woman than Grace to talk her out of it. It had always been the same, ever since she was a little girl.
‘Well I hope you’ll look out for yourself and remember how we’ve brought you up’, Grace warned.
Paula smiled, all sunshine now she had her own way, and treated her mother to a hug that was enthusiastic yet somehow oddly impersonal.
‘I will. And when I’m famous you’ll be proud of me,’ she promised.
After only eight lessons Arlene asked Paula to wait at the end of class.
‘If you’re interested I have a job for you,’ she said shortly.
‘Really?’ Paula’s heart leaped. ‘You mean you think I’m good enough?’ she asked tentatively. She had enjoyed the classes but the first thing they had taught her was how much she did not know, denting her confidence somewhat, and she was still terrified of the daunting Mrs Frampton-Cox.
‘You’ve done quite well,’ Arlene conceded, keeping to herself the growing excitement with which she had been watching Paula over the past weeks. The girl had something – quite apart from her natural grace and outstanding good looks, quite apart from the lithe, leggy body that was simply made for modelling, there was a quality about her that made her stand out from all the others girls in the class, which drew the eye and held it, so that even someone as cynical as Arlene looked and wanted to go on looking. Sometimes, in fact, she had felt she was in danger of neglecting the rest of her pupils for though her voice continued to drone on, snapping out an instruction here, a correction there, she was in reality watching Paula out of the corner of her eye, and experiencing the same excitement of discovery that she had felt on the day when Paula had first walked into her office.
The girl could be
a top model, not a doubt of it. She needed a little experience here in the provinces first, of course, just enough to give her finesse and confidence, not too much so that she became jaded, and then …
I can get her work in London – I know it! Arlene thought, barely able to conceal her jubilation. Anyone would be delighted to have her, maybe even the top couture houses. The thought was a heady one. Though she had been quite a successful model herself Arlene had never reached those giddy heights – the thought that now a pupil and protégé of hers might achieve it made her prickle with excitement.
She glanced at the girl standing eagerly in front of her.
‘It’s a fashion show for charity,’ she explained. ‘ Two of the big stores in town are getting together to put it on. There will be two rehearsals, one on the previous Saturday, one on the afternoon of the show. I shall expect you to be there promptly, with a selection of shoes. The stores will provide the jewellery and accessories. The show is on the Thursday evening, by the way. Can you do it?’
‘Oh yes!’ Paula breathed. Already her mind was busy with the practical problems – did she have the right shoes and if not how could she afford to buy them. And Thursday was not one of her days off – how could she be free in the afternoon? But somehow she would manage it. She’d beg, borrow or steal the money for the shoes, and if she was given notice at the store when she insisted on having the afternoon off, well, so be it. Modelling was going to be her career from now on. And she was going to make sure that nothing stood in her way!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Edward had a car – an ancient but still magnificent-looking Ford Zephyr. When Sally got off the bus he was waiting for her, leaning against the bonnet, smoking a cigarette and looking more than ever the dashing young man-about-town.
‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked her.
‘It’s beautiful!’ she gasped, much impressed.
