Folly's Child

by Janet Tanner

  Gary was prevailed upon and he agreed to let Sally have one of the season’s samples which had not sold well but which Sally adored – a simple sheath of sea-green satin. On Sally, who was a whole size larger than the models, it was sexily tight and revealing even though it was let out to the limits of the seam allowances and it had to be shortened by several inches.

  ‘Why am I so short and fat?’ Sally wailed.

  ‘You’re not short or fat,’ Gary comforted her. ‘It’s just that models are such beanpoles.’

  He said it as if he actually preferred Sally’s shape, professional considerations aside, and she felt herself warming to him. It was nice to be paid compliments by a man when one knew he was not saying it in order to try and talk one into bed!

  By Saturday evening Sally was having second thoughts. She had never liked blind dates – someone was bound to be disappointed and anyhow how could you possibly talk normally to a man knowing you had been forced upon him and had an obligation to be entertaining? But it was too late to back down now.

  When the men arrived Sally was favourably surprised. Tony, her date, was tall and rangy with thickly waving dark hair and in his black dinner jacket and frilly shirt he looked almost aggressively handsome. She cast sidelong looks at him as she sat beside, him in the back of Graham’s car – a powder-blue Jaguar. Not bad – not bad at all! As for Tony, if he was disappointed in her he certainly did not show it. In fact he was eyeing her curves, clearly obvious beneath the satin sheath, with frank approval and even before they were out of London he had reached for her hand and was holding it on his black-trousered leg.

  In spite of being flattered Sally was glad she was not alone with him. He was so much older than any of the boys she had been out with.

  The club, some way out of town, was another new experience for Sally. The tables looked out on the floodlit river and behind them the orchestra played for dancing on a floor almost as large as the Regency ballroom. Everyone wore evening dress and for once Sally did not feel envious of Paula, for Tony was extremely courteous and attentive to her. They drank champagne and Sally began to feel a little light-headed. When they danced Tony held her very close and she laid her face against his shoulder, further intoxicated by the smell of his aftershave and the faint aroma of cigars.

  When it was time to leave Tony helped her on with her stole and left his arm around her shoulders. She teetered along beside him on her high heels, the fresh air making her faintly dizzy. In the back seat of the Jaguar he began to kiss her and she tried to wriggle away, casting embarrassed glances at Paula and Graham. But Paula was snuggled into Graham’s shoulder as he drove fast and expertly and the swaying of the car threw Sally back into Tony’s arms. He kissed her again, differently, more deeply than she had ever been kissed before. There was something erotic but also a little threatening about the way his mouth took hers and when he drove his tongue inside she could scarcely breathe. His hand was inside her dress, fondling her breasts with a pumping motion that was in no way hesitant and she did not know how to stop him without attracting Paula’s attention. She was beginning to feel trapped and frightened, wondering just what was expected of her, and the glamour of the evening was fast fading into something almost sordid.

  She was greatly relieved to find herself back in Kensington but her relief was short lived for it quickly became apparent that the others considered the night to be still young.

  ‘Coffee?’ Paula suggested, waving her keys teasingly under Graham’s nose, and they all bundled out and climbed the stairs.

  Paula disappeared into the little kitchen, Graham following, and Sally was left alone with Tony. Without any preamble he dragged her down on the sofa bed thrusting his hand up inside her narrow satin skirt. Sally resisted, almost more afraid that he would tear it than she was of his probing fingers.

  ‘Come on, baby, what’s the matter with you?’ he whispered.

  ‘The others will be back in a minute!’ she whispered back.

  He laughed. ‘No they won’t. Not for half an hour at least.’

  ‘I’m going to help Paula with the coffee.’ She wriggled free and went out onto the landing. The kitchen door was almost closed. She pushed it open and froze. Paula was backed up against the sink, skirt rucked up to her hips, long legs splayed. Graham was hunched over her, his face buried in her tiny breasts. Although his back was towards her Sally knew that his trousers were open.

  She gasped and backed out of the kitchen, colour flooding her cheeks. Ridiculously she was shocked. She knew Paula was – well, free with her favours, had known for years, but to actually find her like that in the kitchen, shamelessly doing it up against the sink …

  Tony had followed her onto the landing. As she turned there he was leering at her. Suddenly he didn’t look handsome at all, merely lecherous. Sally was overcome with panic and could think of only one route of escape.

  ‘I have to go downstairs for a minute,’ she blustered.

  As she ran down the stairs she saw the crick of light around Gary’s door and was overcome with longing for his undemanding company. This was what Paula liked about him, she realised. He was a man to be at ease with, who could be trusted not to try to force himself upon you – not to think of it even.

  She knocked on Gary’s door and tried the handle. The door was locked. ‘ Gary?’ she called. ‘Are you there?’

  The sounds of movement within the room gave an affirmative answer though it seemed a very long time before the door opened a few inches on its safety chain and Gary peered round. He was wearing a dressing gown, she noticed, and he did not look very pleased to see her.

  ‘Gary please … can I come in?’ she asked.

  Gary coloured. He no longer looked only unwelcoming, but also flustered and almost shifty. ‘It’s not really a very good …’

  ‘Gary! Who is it?’ a man’s petulant voice called from within the flat.

  ‘It’s Sally from upstairs,’ Gary called back.

  ‘Well get rid of her, can’t you, for Christ’s sake?’

  Gary’s flush deepened. ‘ I’m sorry,’ he said helplessly. ‘I’ve got company and …’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Sally muttered. ‘ I’m sorry – for interrupting.’

  She turned away, ridiculously embarrassed. She had known about Gary, of course, but it was still a shock to practically catch him in the act, just as it had been to walk in on Paula and Graham.

  She went into the little lavatory, locked the door and sat down on the wonky seat, feeling rather sick and extremely sorry for herself. What was the matter with everybody? All any of them wanted was sex – sex – sex! All except her. Perhaps it wasn’t the rest of the world that was out of step. Perhaps it was her. What the hell was the matter with her? She must be frigid. She would never be normal. But if this was normal then she didn’t want to be. It was awful. She felt so terribly mixed up …

  Some time later she heard footsteps, tapping on the door, and Paula calling in a low anxious voice: ‘Sally, are you in there? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m all right,’ she called back.

  ‘Well come out for goodness’ sake.’

  She was trembling. ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid! What’s the matter? Sally, open this door!’

  Reluctantly she did so.

  ‘What the hell are you doing in there?’ Paula asked furiously.

  ‘Everybody wants the loo. You’re behaving like a child!’ Her hair was mussed, her lipstick smudged. She didn’t look glamorous any more, just used, Sally thought wretchedly.

  ‘Where is Tony?’ she asked.

  ‘Gone home. He said you were a waste of time – a cock teaser. Sally, how could you?’

  ‘How could you?’ Sally threw at her through chattering teeth. ‘I saw you, Paula, in the kitchen. You’re disgusting.’

  ‘At least I’m not a stupid little baby. Oh come out of there for goodness’ sake. Nobody’s going to rape you.’

  Because there was nothi
ng else to do Sally did as she was told. But halfway up the stairs the taste of stale champagne rose in her throat, bitter now like bile, and Sally dived into the kitchen where she was violently sick.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  One autumn morning Gary came bursting out of his workroom in a state of great excitement. Plans were underway for the annual private showing by the Incorporated Society of London Fashion Designers, a charity event for an invited audience which always included royalty, and this year the House of Oliver had been invited to take part.

  ‘How do you like this, lovey?’ Gary asked ecstatically, whhling Paula round the showroom in a wild dance that sent one of his tubular chairs flying. ‘We’ve made it! Just imagine, you’ll be showing to the Queen Mother!’

  ‘I’d be showing to the Queen Mother if I’d stayed with Mattli,’ Paula pointed out. ‘In fact I’d probably have done it last year as well. The House of Mattli is always included.’

  ‘Don’t preen, lovey. I don’t intend to let you spoil this for me. I’ve made it – and I’m going to steal the show!’

  ‘I’m only teasing, Gary.’ She kissed him. ‘ I’m really happy for you. When is it?’

  ‘At the beginning of December. In the Crush Bar at Covent Garden. Oh hell, will I ever be ready?’

  ‘Of course – if you stop dancing about and get down to some work!’

  ‘Seven outfits! Seven glorious outfits! They have to be perfect.’ He turned to Sally. ‘Get Madame Fontaine on the telephone for me, will you? I must talk to her about this at once.’ Madame Fontaine was the milliner who made the hats to compliment Gary’s clothes. ‘Then chase Courtaulds. The houndstooth suiting I ordered from them hasn’t arrived. You did place the order, didn’t you? Jewellery. Let’s think about jewellery. I think I’ll approach Asprey or David Morris. Might as well start at the top …’

  ‘And while you’re about it you’d better order some sandwiches,’ Paula added. ‘ If there isn’t food at Gary’s elbow he’ll probably forget to eat!’

  Sally nodded, making notes on the pad she carried around with her. She was growing used to the constant whirl now and she quite enjoyed it. She was good at her job, she knew, and realising how much Gary had come to depend on her gave her a new sense of her own worth. Maybe she would never be as glamorous as Paula, maybe she would never have her talent for attracting men, but she had found her own little niche at last and in her own way she almost felt herself Paula’s equal.

  The grey days of November raced by at breakneck pace. The Christmas lights had been switched on in Oxford Street but they were too busy even to notice. Gary was working around the clock and he expected his entire staff to do the same. But at least they went home to their beds every night, albeit late and exhausted. Gary often did not. He had taken to sleeping on the couch in the little office at the rear of the showroom, partly so that he could continue working until he was ready to drop, partly for security reasons.

  ‘If anyone stole my collection now I’d top myself,’ he said to Paula – and she was inclined to believe he meant it. His nerves were tight as a drawn spring and he veered wildly between elation, panic and depression when he agonised over his recurring nightmare that his designs would be greeted not with enthusiasm but by silence or perhaps only the most restrained patter of polite applause. Thin as he was he still managed to lose half a stone in weight and he was liable to scream hysterical indignation or even burst into tears if anyone said a wrong word.

  The first time this happened Sally was embarrassed, the second irritated and the third seriously worried. What on earth would they do if Gary cracked up? But somehow after a cup of black coffee, a comforting hug from Paula and one of the chocolate biscuits from the tin they kept in the office he always bucked up, reverting to the enthusiasm that verged on desperation.

  When the great day arrived they had to be at Covent Garden by six in the morning for rehearsals. Preparations had reached fever pitch. Assistant stage managers rushed around with sheafs of notes, florists put the finishing touches to huge impressive displays and the air was occasionally split by loud winnings and explosions of music as Strand Electrics tested and corrected the sound equipment.

  In the theatre the Royal Ballet were rehearsing but to Paula’s chagrin the girls had all been forbidden to watch.

  ‘Do you think we might be able to creep in during our lunch break?’ she suggested to Sally.

  Sally looked doubtful. ‘We’d be murdered if we were caught.’

  ‘It would be worth it though. Let’s try.’

  Partly because she was so used to following Paula’s lead and partly because she felt oddly responsible and thought she might be able to urge caution on her headstrong sister Sally gave in. The two girls crept upstairs to one of the boxes, opened the door a crack, terrified someone might glance up and see the sliver of light, and crawled into the box on hands and knees. Then with the door safely closed again they cautiously raised themselves so that they could peep over the edge at the magic scene below.

  When rehearsals recommenced it seemed some order was at last emerging from the chaos.

  ‘I wonder if the Queen Mum knows what we go through to put this on?’ one model groaned to Paula, massaging her aching feet after yet another trip down the glorious sweeping staircase to the catwalk.

  ‘She probably goes through much the same herself,’ replied Paula, who had always thought that smiling and waving and shaking endless rows of hands must be even more wearing than modelling. ‘In any case this time tomorrow it will all be over. Make the most of it while you can!’

  Amongst the audience who headed for the Crush Bar that evening was a young American designer who had created a great stir on the New York fashion scene.

  Already Hugo Varna was a name to reckon with. He had a showroom on Seventh Avenue, appeared regularly in Vogue and Womens Wear Daily, and had been hailed as one of the most exciting designers in years, along with Bill Blass, who had transformed the ‘ fat lady’ image of Rentner’s into something more youthful and glamorous, and was now a vice-president of that company; Oscar de la Renta, Elizabeth Arden’s stylish new designer; and Geoffrey Beene. At thirty-three years of age Hugo exuded an aura of success which somehow made those who met him forget that he was not a handsome man. Without it his unimposing height (five-feet-six in his stockinged feet, five-feet-eight in the high-heeled cowboy boots he liked to wear), his prematurely receding hairline and the slight flatness of features which he had inherited from his father might have made him appear ordinary. But he was also the possessor of a towering personality and energy powerful as a surge of electrical current and no one, not even his enemies, of which there were certainly a few, thought of Hugo as ordinary.

  Although he spent his life surrounded by beautiful women Hugo had never married, and occasionally it was whispered that, like so many male designers, he might be AC/DC. But the simple truth was that he had never had time to form a relationship. To Hugo work came first, last and in between; he ate, drank, slept and lived fashion. Apart from the socialising which was a necessary part of building up a clientele, every waking hour was spent in the studio which he had found with the help of Greg Martin, his friend and financial adviser, and after the dinner parties and balls, which were more an exercise in public relations than a pleasure, he returned to his apartment and fell into bed alone.

  Twice a year Hugo went to Paris to take a look at the best of the new seasons’ designs, but otherwise he hardly ever left the United States, taking a rare holiday, when he felt the need for one, in the sunshine of Florida or the peace of the cottage he had bought as a hideaway in New England. But when the invitation to the Royal Showing had arrived in his morning mail he was sorely tempted.

  Like all Americans Hugo was fascinated by the British heritage and the idea of spending an evening in the company of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother and a princess of the royal blood, even though he was unlikely to see them except at a distance, appealed to his romantic nature. Perhaps he should accept,
and have a look at what the British designers were doing, he thought, inventing excuses so as not to admit, even to himself, that he was starstruck. And besides, the House of Oliver was amongst those showing this year. Hugo had met Gary Oliver when he had visited New York as a Student of the Royal College and the two had become friends. It would be interesting to see how he had turned out.

  Hugo accepted the invitation and flew into Heathrow on the morning of 1st December. The skies through which his plane descended were grey and lowering and when he emerged from the airport buildings a cold wind whipped swirls of dust into his face. He must have been mad to come, Hugo thought, pulling his neat dark overcoat around his thin frame. He would have been better advised to go to Florida and soak up some sun to set him up for the biting winter expected in New York. But it was too late now to duck out and he might as well make the most of it.

  Hugo took a taxi to the London Hilton where he had booked a room. Tomorrow he would do a little sightseeing and then get a flight back to the States. Perhaps he would still be able to manage a few days in Florida before returning to the grindstone.

  He watched the dull grey London streets unfold outside the windows of his taxi and little knew that by the time he left London everything in his ordered world would have turned on its head and nothing would ever be the same again.

  Paula sailed down the sweeping staircase into the Crush Bar wearing the first of Gary’s outfits – a beautiful After Dark Suit in midnight blue lurex brocade entitled Premiere – to a burst of applause. Behind the scenes all was still organised chaos but not a hint of this had been allowed to intrude into the Crash Bar where the guests, all in evening dress, were assembled and not a trace of the nerves that had her strung taut as a greyhound were allowed to be apparent either. This was the most important show she had ever done and she must carry it off perfectly for Gary’s sake as well as her own.

  Sally had slipped in at the back. She held her breath as Paula appeared, as excited by her sister’s glamour as she had been the very first time she had watched her work, but nervous now too, for the build-up to the great occasion had got to her and she was also terrifyingly aware of all the things that could go wrong.