Folly's Child

by Janet Tanner

  In his seat in the fifth row Hugo had also stopped breathing and he knew it was not the shimmering beauty of the suit that caught his attention. All the clothes that had preceded it had been striking, each of them designed with a certain social event in mind – and each stunning in its own way. But not one of them had made him feel as he felt now – as if his chest had constricted beneath the weight of a stone slab.

  No, it was not the suit that had affected him so – it was the girl modelling it. Hugo watched, unable to take his eyes off her until she was lost to view, then began to leaf through his programme. The models were listed, all forty of them, but there was no indication as to which was which. Several of the names he was familiar with but the others … Renatta, Julie, Diana, Christine, Virginia – two Virginias – she could have been any of them. He closed his programme, willing himself to concentrate on the next outfit – a cloque evening dress by Norman Hartnell entitled Crush Bar – but he could think of nothing but when would the girl appear again, see nothing but her lovely, clear-featured face and shining cap of golden hair.

  You have taken leave of your senses! he told himself. You are thirty-three years old and you are behaving like a school boy! But it made no difference. The palms of his hands were damp and the blood was pounding at his temples. He couldn’t remember feeling this way about a woman ever – unless it had been the little Italian girl – what was her name? Maria something? – back home in the Bronx when he had been twelve years old. Hell fire, he had forgotten all about her until now, when a wave of emotion unexperienced for more than twenty years brought it all rushing back.

  The models entered, paraded, posed in an ever-changing kaleidoscope pattern of colour and glamour but Hugo found himself existing only for the reappearance of his mystery girl. Here she was now in a tomato red wool coat which flattered that lovely gold hair so that she reminded him a little – though he had no idea why – of a rainbow, and now in a sharp green cocktail dress, topped by a coat of ranch mink. With a falling away of his stomach Hugo realised he would not see her again – or not on the catwalk anyway. She had done her job. In a trance he watched the final spectacular ‘ The Big Top’, when models dressed as everything from clowns to circus palaminos paraded, each sponsored by an Associate Member of the Incorporated Society of London Fashion Designers – the milliners, the furriers, Berlei foundations and Aristoc stockings – and barely noticed one of them. He could think of nothing but the girl – and thank his lucky stars that she worked for Gary. Because he knew him an introduction would be that much easier but whoever she worked for Hugo’s mind was made up – nothing would stop him setting out to win her. For the first time in his adult life Hugo was in love. It was a strange and somewhat disturbing experience.

  ‘Paula, there is someone who is dying to meet you, lovey,’ Gary said. He was flushed with success – and with the free-flowing champagne.

  ‘Oh – who?’ Paula sipped her own champagne, unsurprised by the statement. There was always someone who wanted to meet the models after a show.

  ‘Hugo Varna. He’s over here from the States.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Paula had heard of Hugo. Who in the world of fashion had not?

  ‘Just be careful,’ Gary warned. ‘He seems very smitten. I don’t want to lose you, lovey, and I think he may try to poach you and whisk you off to model for him in New York.’

  ‘Wrong,’ said a voice at Paula’s elbow. ‘I don’t want to poach her, Gary. I want to marry her.’

  ‘This is getting beyond a joke, Paula,’ Sally said severely as she staggered into the tiny bedsit with yet another armful of red roses. ‘More flowers! We ran out of vases the day before yesterday and anyway there’s not a square inch left to put them. Even the delivery boy has had enough. He says he’s fed up with climbing all these stairs three times a day and will you please put the poor man out of his misery and agree to go out with him.’

  ‘Why should I? He’s obviously crazy,’ Paula said coolly.

  ‘Crazy about you. Paula, you’ll have to see him if only to tell him to stop it! This place is like Chelsea Flower Show gone mad.’

  ‘It’s hardly my fault,’ Paula said crossly. ‘I can’t be held responsible for every nut case in London.’

  ‘No – but what a nut case!’ Sally took the latest consignment into the kitchen, dumped them in the sink and turned on the tap. Deep down she knew that part of her irritation stemmed from envy – no one had ever sent her flowers, not so much as a single carnation – and here was Paula practically drowning in the most exotic blooms imaginable, Singapore orchids, delicately perfumed white freesias and armfuls of long-stemmed red roses – in December! ‘Aren’t you even going to read the card?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  The doorbell shrilled.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Paula whirled round in exasperation. ‘ That’s the front door now. You’ll have to go, Sally.’

  ‘Why? It’s bound to be for you.’

  ‘I can’t go down like this.’ Paula was wearing her old checked woollen dressing gown and she had not yet put on any make-up. ‘Get it, Sally, there’s an angel. And if it’s more flowers, tell them to take them round to the hospital or something.’

  Sally sighed. ‘ What did your last servant die of?’

  But she ran down the stairs anyway. Minutes later she was back.

  ‘Not more flowers?’ Paula asked.

  ‘No. Special delivery. But for you – of course.’ She handed Paula a small square package, gift wrapped. Paula glanced at the card.

  ‘It’s him again. What this time?’ She tore off the paper, opened the box and gasped. ‘Oh my God!’

  Inside the box a pair of diamond ear studs lay on a bed of midnight blue velvet, each perfectly cut facet catching and reflecting the light from the overhead lamp.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Sally said, stunned. ‘He really is crazy!’

  ‘And obviously very determined.’ There was a strange new light in Paula’s eyes; it seemed almost to reflect the glitter of the diamonds. ‘I suppose you’re right. I really will have to see him now. If only to tell him I can’t possibly accept his extravagant presents.’

  ‘I guess you won’t believe me if I tell you I don’t make a habit of this sort of thing,’ Hugo said. They were having dinner at the Savoy – the box containing the diamond earrings lay on the table between them.

  Paula smiled. ‘Actually I do believe you. Not even a millionaire can afford to go around throwing presents like this at every strange woman he meets. Well, maybe a multi-millionaire could …’ she added looking at him speculatively over the rim of her champagne glass.

  ‘I’m certainly not that,’ Hugo said firmly. ‘One day maybe, but not yet. But the flowers didn’t seem to be working so I thought – well, time for something a little more personal.’ His mouth quirked and she caught some of the force of his personality.

  ‘Of course I can’t possibly keep them,’ she said, steeling herself not to weaken.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not? Because …’ She broke off, unable to think of a single good reason.

  ‘Beautiful women have accepted presents from their admirers throughout the ages. Enjoy it.’

  ‘I can’t be bought,’ Paula said firmly.

  ‘I never thought you could. Heaven forbid I should insult you by trying.’

  ‘Then what …?’

  ‘I wanted you to have them.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘This may sound damned stupid but it suddenly occurred to me there’s not much fun in making a lot of dough if you haven’t got anyone to spend it on. You’re a beautiful girl, Paula. You should have beautiful things. Now admit it, I don’t suppose Gary pays you enough for you to be able to buy this kind of thing for yourself. So – let me buy them for you. Where’s the harm in that?’

  ‘Well …’ Paula hesitated, pretending reluctance.

  ‘Let me put them on for you.’ He leaned across the table, reaching out to unclip one of the paste sapphires
she was wearing and replacing it with the diamond. His fingers were cool and steady. ‘Now doesn’t that feel good, knowing you’re wearing the real thing?’

  A tiny smile played about Paula’s mouth. It certainly did feel good – even better than the feeling of power that came from working for Gary for a pittance. And there was something intoxicating about being pursued with such lavish determination too.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t reach to do the other one,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to put that in yourself.’

  Her smile broadened. It was a game, all a game, with the diamonds taking the place of chess pieces. If she picked the earring up now and put it on she would be signifying her willingness to play.

  Slowly, almost languidly, her eyes never leaving his, she slipped off the other paste sapphire and laid it on the table beside her plate. Then with the same deliberation she clipped on the diamond.

  For a long moment they sat motionless, their eyes still locked, and Paula was aware of a quiver of excitement deep within. The diamonds, the champagne, a man to cosset, spoil and care for her – they were all there now within her reach – everything she had ever wanted.

  On the table Hugo’s hand covered hers and she did not attempt to draw it away. His eyes still burned into hers.

  ‘Clever girl.’ The slightly ironic note was tempered by wry humour. ‘You won’t regret it, Paula, I’ll see to that.’ He paused, looking for the first time at the menu. ‘Now perhaps we should order. I think the smoked salmon and the steak – rare. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Gary had the wide-eyed bemused look of someone who had just felt the ground slip away from under his feet.

  ‘You can’t be serious, Paula! You’re not really going to the States? I warned you about Hugo, didn’t I? What the hell will I do without you?’

  ‘Don’t you mean where the hell are you going to find someone else to work for you for as little as I do?’ She raised one eyebrow, enjoying as she always did the feeling of supremacy that came from reminding him of it.

  ‘Oh Paula …’ His face became anxious. ‘I know I’ve never yet been able to repay you, but I will …’

  ‘Oh, just forget it, Gary!’ she said, impatient suddenly. That game was almost over now – she’d had her fun from it, now it was time to move on to a new game – one that she thought would be even better. But even so she could not resist adding: ‘ If ever I need anything, though, I shall know where to come. I don’t suppose I shall want for money – Hugo is wonderfully rich – but sometimes it’s nice to be able to call in favours from a friend.’

  ‘You know you can count on me, Paula. But oh, I shall miss you! Are you sure you won’t change your mind and marry me instead of Hugo?’

  She laughed. It seemed she had laughed more in these last days than in the whole of the rest of her life. Not that Hugo made her laugh – he didn’t. He was powerful and exciting and vital, but not amusing. No, the laughter must stem from the deep well of happiness within her, the feeling that she was standing on the brink of the wonderful world of all her tomorrows.

  ‘Marry you? Oh Gary, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know damned well why not. I need a man – and so do you. We’ll always be friends but marriage – oh no, definitely not.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ He looked almost regretful. ‘Pity. It would be so nice, so uncomplicated. I could make you beautiful clothes and you could cook me cheese on toast and …’

  ‘There’s a little more to marriage than that.’

  ‘Yes. It’s strange, I never really thought that Hugo …’ He broke off, turning away. ‘ He’s really swept you off your feet, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So when is the great day?’

  ‘Two weeks’ time, at Caxton Hall.’

  ‘Am I invited?’

  ‘What do you think? If Hugo doesn’t ask you to be his best man then you must give me away.’

  ‘Give you away, lovey? Oh, that’s a joke. You were never mine to give.’

  The world’s press was there as they emerged onto the steps of Caxton Hall, the famous American fashion designer and the beautiful model. Flash bulbs exploded around them like confetti and crowds who had never heard of Hugo Varna or Paula Bristow gathered to catch a glimpse of the celebrities and speculate on their identity.

  ‘Is it Adam Faith?’ someone asked.

  ‘No – isn’t he married already?’

  ‘Don’t know – they all get hitched and divorced so much you can’t keep up with it.’

  ‘I think it’s that film star – what’s ’er name? You know – the one in the Alfred Hitchcock film.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft! How could it be her?’

  But whoever it was, they all agreed, she made a radiant bride. Too good, really, for that nondescript looking man. She stood there for a moment, beautiful and glowing in her dress and coat of ivory silk with an enormous ivory picture hat, holding on to her new husband’s arm. Then she turned, tossing her bouquet of cream orchids straight into the waiting hands of a girl in a kingfisher blue coat and tiny netted pillbox hat.

  Sally caught it – and with the bouquet she felt, as she had so many times before, as if she could catch a little of Paula’s glamour.

  She buried her face in the flowers, closed her eyes and made a wish.

  She wished that one day some of the gifts which Paula attracted so effortlessly would be hers too. That she would be beautiful and feted and happy and these things would be hers as of right instead of reflected like sunlight on a mirror from her sister. Sally wished that one day she would be able to step out of Paula’s shadow. But in making the wish she had no idea what it would cost her to gain these things for her own.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sally missed Paula dreadfully. All too soon the first novelty of having the bedsitter to herself began to wear off and she realised how much she had depended on her sister for company. All very well to have extra space to hang her clothes, lovely to have the whole of the sofa bed to herself instead of sometimes waking up clinging to the edge or half covered, wonderful not to be faced with a stack of dirty coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays which had to be collected from all around the room before they could be washed up. But there was something very bleak about the ordered tidiness and Sally began to feel restless. At least her job kept her occupied for up to twelve hours a day, but even that was not the same as it had been now that Paula was no longer there.

  Though Sally was ready to be friendly with Gary’s other employees she found that being Paula’s sister had ‘ tarred her with the same brush’ as her mother would have put it. The other model girls, who were even more jealous now that Paula had married Hugo Varna, mistrusted Sally, and the women in the workroom considered her a snob. Added to this she had never learned to be totally at ease with Gary.

  Perhaps she should look for a new job, Sally thought, one which offered her the chance of a totally fresh start and the chance to make new friends. The world of fashion was so rarified – it would be nice to get out and breathe some fresh air. And there seemed to be endless opportunities in London for a secretary with her qualifications.

  When Sally handed in her notice to Gary he expressed regret but did not try to persuade her to change her mind. Perhaps he was as ill at ease with her as she was with him, she thought.

  A temping agency welcomed her with open arms, but Sally soon discovered she did not much care for this life either. Highly qualified though she was, Sally was a creature of habit. She liked to use a typewriter with which she was familiar and hated having to accustom herself to different filing systems, office methods and boss’s foibles. Some might sing the praises of variety – to Sally it was like the trauma of starting a new job every week or so with none of the benefits. And although she was continually meeting new people she was never in one place long enough to make real friends.

  One Saturday morning towards the end of the summer Sally had just returned from her week
ly expedition to buy groceries and visit the launderette when there was a knock at her door. Sally propped her carrier bags against a chair and went to answer it.

  The girl who stood there looked vaguely familiar though for the moment Sally could not place her.

  ‘Hi – I’m Laura-Jo. I’ve just moved into the flat downstairs,’ she said breezily and Sally’s brain clicked into gear.

  Gary had moved out of his flat a few months ago and into something more in keeping with his new successful image. Since then Sally had seen a young couple going in and out but now she realised the tenant must have changed again. She had probably seen this girl on the stairs – that was the reason she looked familiar,

  ‘Look, I’m having a housewarming party tonight,’ the girl rushed on, ‘and if you’d like to come down you’re very welcome. I thought it would be easier to invite everybody in the block rather than have them complain about the noise.’ An American accent was apparent now – that explained her exuberant friendliness, Sally thought.

  ‘You’re a long way from home,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. I’m supposed to be taking a year out of college to do Europe but it’s been two years and here I still am!’ She laughed.

  ‘Why not come in and have a coffee?’ Sally offered, liking her and reluctant to let the opportunity pass by.

  The girl checked her watch, then pulled a face.

  ‘Why not? The others can wait!’

  ‘My sister is married to an American,’ Sally said when they were seated at the heat-scarred table with mugs of coffee.

  ‘Really? Where’s he from?’

  ‘New York. She lives there with him now.’

  ‘Small world! What’s he do?’

  Sally hesitated. She did not want to foul up this promising meeting by what might sound like boasting.

  ‘He’s in business,’ she hedged ‘ I’m Sally, by the way. Sally Bristow.’