It was inevitable. Mr. Rammell had been seeing even more of Marcia. Practically every evening, in fact. And on Saturdays and Sundays, too. But he had kept her off the dangerous subject of islands. Had simply not referred to it. Whenever he had seen that fatal, far-away-from-it-all expression coming into her eyes, he had started hurriedly to talk of something else. Mink wraps, for instance. It was one mink wrap, in particular, a pale, electric blue one, that had been the cause of all the trouble. Marcia had worn it—heavily insured, of course—at a Charity Ball the previous evening and had forgotten to take it back into Bond Street the next day. She was wearing it, absent-mindedly draped round her shoulders, when Mr. Rammell arrived on the following night. And she looked marvellous, Mr. Rammell reflected. Simply marvellous. The blue of the mink, the dark violet blue of her eyes, the smooth sheen of her hair, the blackness of her dress that made her arms seem somehow whiter, more slender, all affected Mr. Rammell deeply. “My God,” he thought, “that’s how I’d like to have her portrait painted. Just ... just to show people. Show ’em how beautiful she really is.” But because he had never been brought up to pay compliments, didn’t really know how to set about them, all that he said was, “You’re looking very nice to-night, Marcia.” And Marcia, knowing her line by heart, replied: “I’m glad you think so.”
As she said it, she removed the mink wrap slowly, reluctantly and folded it across the end of the couch.
“I ... I ... shouldn’t really be wearing it,” she admitted. “Not now. It’s ... it’s out of stock, you know.”
But Mr. Rammell would not hear of it.
“Put it on again,” he told her. “I like it.”
It was as the pale fur went round her shoulders again, stroking her, that Mr. Rammell noticed her expression changing. Like a cat, it occurred to him: like a cat when its chin’s being tickled. She looked soft, sensuous, purry. He wanted—and this was unusual with him—to get up there and then so that he could embrace her. But Marcia saved him the trouble. She came across to him herself, walking with the upright, faintly swaying motion of the trained model, and knelt down beside his chair. She looked lovelier than ever now that she was near him. Her forehead was faintly puckered. And her eyebrows were arched even more steeply upwards. Mr. Rammell recognized the signs. Knew that there must be something on her mind. Guessed that she was going to say something probably.
“Have ... have you thought any more about it?” she asked him.
A little shudder of apprehension ran through him.
“About what?” he asked cautiously.
But Marcia was playing for time now. Being discreet. And tactful. The very last thing that she wanted was to appear to be rushing him.
“About seeing,” she said. “You ... you remember. You promised. Not really promised.” She was pouting a little now. Looking schoolgirlish. As though ready to smile or break into tears according to the answer. “Just promised about seeing. You ... you do remember, don’t you? You did say you’d see if you could see.”
Mr. Rammell paused.
“You mean about ...” he began.
Marcia nodded. It was a smile after all. And one of her very sweetest smiles, too.
“I knew you wouldn’t forget,” she assured him. “I was quite sure you wouldn’t. About ... about seeing, I mean.”
This was it. There was no escape from it now. Mr. Rammell braced himself.
“Well, I can’t,” he told her. “I have seen. And I can’t. Can’t get away from Bond Street. It’s impossible. Absolutely impossible. Just can’t be done. That’s all there is to it.”
He felt better when he had said it. More confident in himself. But he was totally unprepared for the effect that it had on Marcia. She covered her face with her hands as though he had hit her.
And when Mr. Rammell took her hands in his and looked down at her he saw that she was crying. Her eyes were big with tears. Real tears. The kind that go sliding down and make a mess of eye-black.
“You ... you do mean now, don’t you?” she asked brokenly. “Just now. Not ... not never?”
“Of course not, dear,” he lied to her. “It may be easier later on. But I can’t at present. Not suddenly, I mean. You understand, don’t you? I’ll see again later.”
“How ... how much later?”
Now he was really cornered. He could feel himself sweating quietly inside his collar band.
“In the spring,” he told her, adding unromantically: “After the Sales. When everything settles down again.”
But this came as no comfort to Marcia. It wasn’t definite enough. She was crying openly by now. Her make-up had started to run already. And her shoulders were heaving.
“It’s ... it’s no use,” she said. “We shan’t go for ages and ages. I know we won’t. And then I shall be too ... too old.”
Now she was really past consolation. The forbidden word had slipped out. And, in consequence, every little bit of her was miserable. She ached with sheer wretchedness. Putting her head down on her forearm, she wept and wept.
It was, in point of fact, the very last kind of manifestation that Mr. Rammell felt in need of. He had come, precisely as he had come on so many other nights. Not for passion. Not for sentiment. Not even for the sake of any immediately recognizable form of emotion. Simply for rest. For quiet. For relaxation. And here he was being practically blackmailed into booking a double passage to Bermuda.
He reached down and took Marcia’s wrists in his. Again, as he did so, their smallness, their fragility, troubled him again.
“Don’t cry, darling,” he said gently. “Please don’t. It only upsets me, too. You know it does.”
This was, as it happened, a little better than Marcia had expected. Right up to the last moment she hadn’t intended to carry things so far this evening. Hadn’t really meant to do more than remind him. And all the time she had been crying she had been afraid that he would be angry. Even be horrid. Possibly lose his temper, too. But the way he had taken it all was quite different. It showed that he minded. That he cared. That, even though he still didn’t show it properly, her life had become part of his by now.
“I ... I’ll try not to,” she promised. “It was silly of me. It’s ... it’s only because I ... I mind so much about ... about us.”
Because she was shivering a little now that the outburst, the crisis, was over, Mr. Rammell got up and fetched the wrap. He folded it round her shoulders rather as a parent covers up a child. And as he did so, he noticed how she gathered it around her. Snuggled down into it. Burrowed, almost. Soon only her eyes were left showing. And even these had begun to smile again.
A thought came to him.
“D’you like that wrap?” he asked.
“It’s a heavenly wrap,” Marcia answered.
“Care to keep it?” Mr. Rammell asked, trying to keep his voice as casual-sounding as possible. “For your own I mean.”
The reply, even after making all allowances for something appreciable in the way of a time lag, did not come as soon as Mr. Rammell had expected. That was because this time Marcia was wondering what to say. Not merely how to say it. Because right up to the moment when Mr. Rammell had spoken she had still been thinking about Bermuda. And not about the mink wrap at all. Hadn’t so much as hinted. Let alone asked. The idea of actually owning the mink wrap—or one just like it—had not crossed her mind since she had put it on before Mr. Rammell had arrived.
“It’s a heavenly wrap,” she repeated.
“But would you like it?” Mr. Rammell demanded. “That’s what I want to know. Would you like it?”
As he said it the second time, Marcia felt almost like crying again. Or laughing. Because it was all so odd and mixed up. Really, she had done nothing for it. Nothing special, that is. Except be a nuisance. She hadn’t led into it. Not been extra loving. Or thoughtful. Or endearing. It had just come.
And at the realization of what it meant—that this was love—she reached out her arms towards Mr. Rammell. Her eyes, still swimmy from the
recent tears, were gazing full into his. The words she spoke were the plain, simple truth. Truth as Marcia herself saw it.
“I ... I don’t deserve it,” she said.
Mr. Rammell was a business-like man. As soon as he left Marcia, he took out his little Morocco-leather notebook and made the single entry “mink-wrap.” Then, relieved rather than otherwise that this was how the evening had ended, he made his way back to the Square.
But he was reckoning without Miss Winters. She was behaving in a more intense fashion than ever just lately. And she had taken to a new style of hairdressing. Instead of wearing her fringe cut square across the forehead like a neat Venetian blind, she now wore it ragged and serrated. It might have been a limp black comb. In the result, she looked distraught as well as intense.
And she was obtuse, too, when Mr. Rammell spoke to her. She stood there, obviously wondering, her large frightened eyes staring out from under the saw edge of what had been her hair.
“Note to the Fur buyer, copy to Accounts,” Mr. Rammell told her. “I shall personally be buying the mink wrap worn by Marcia at the Charity Ball last Tuesday. Kindly arrange for it to be charged to my account at the bought-in price.”
Mr. Rammell paused. In the ordinary way, he would have inquired the price. Even called the buyer down to see whether between them they could have discovered a flaw, a poor skin, a pulled seam—anything that might justify knocking a hundred or two off. All Mrs. Rammell’s furs had been subjected precisely to that kind of scrutiny. But this was different. The one thing that Mr. Rammell wanted was to be done with it.
He looked up. Miss Winters was still standing there. Still staring.
“That’s all,” he said.
“Where do you want it sent?” she asked.
“Don’t bother about that,” he told her. “I’ll attend to it.”
“Will Mrs. Rammell be collecting it personally?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Do you want any special arrangements about storage?”
“No,” Mr. Rammell replied briefly. And to show that he had already had quite enough both of the mink wrap and of Miss Winters he repeated: “That’s all.”
She was back again within ten minutes, however. An efficient girl with a strongly developed sense of doom, she had run down to the Fur buyer before actually typing out the memo. Just to make sure, as she put it. And thank goodness, she had! Because the wrap wasn’t anywhere in the building. Marcia should have returned it yesterday and the buyer simply hadn’t done a darn thing about it.
“About that wrap,” Miss Winters began, her voice taking on all the deeper voice tones of the true drama student.
“Yes, what is it?”
“It isn’t there,” Miss Winters told him. “But they’re getting it.”
Mr. Rammell started forward.
“What do you mean?”
“From Marcia.” Miss Winters went on. “She didn’t return it. But the buyer was sure it’d be all right. So she didn’t do anything. She’s on to it now. She’s asked for it back. They’re sending round to Marcia’s flat for it.”
“Then stop them,” Mr. Rammell shouted. “Stop them at once.”
Mr. Rammell paused.
“And ask Marcia to come up and see me,” he said. “Now.”
Marcia was charming about it. Absolutely charming. She was sure all the time that there must have been some horrible mistake, she said. But naturally when they had asked her for it, she couldn’t refuse, could she? And what should she do now? Because unless Mr. Rammell did something it would go straight into storage. She wouldn’t be allowed even to look at it. And she did love it so. Positively adored it. But above all things—and Mr. Rammell knew that, didn’t he?—she didn’t want to be a nuisance. Not the least little tiny bit. If Mr. Rammell himself hadn’t suggested giving her the wrap the thought of it would never even have crossed her mind ...
Even with Marcia so reasonable, it still took up time. And to prevent anything else going wrong, Mr. Rammell told Miss Winters to have the wrap sent up to his own room. He would deliver it himself, he said. When all that was over, he mixed himself a glass of bismuth and water. Took one of the small, unpleasant charcoal tablets that usually seemed to do the trick. Washed his hands which somehow had become strangely sticky for so early in the morning. And got down to the routine business of the day.
On the whole, it was a rather quiet, ordinary sort of day. Sir Harry rang up twice. Once to say that he had come to the conclusion that they were wasting their time with Soft Furnishings and ought to shut the department down completely. And the second time to say that he had a scheme for enlarging it, making it something that would knock the rest of the trade for six ... There was the usual batch of letters to dictate. The quarterly accounts to go through. A long session with Mr. Preece about overtime and special pay. A telephone conversation with the auditors about stock write-off. Two or three callers. A twenty-five-year bonus to present. An interview with the architect about the new dispatch bay in Hurst Place. And then, after lunch, more letters. A deputation from the Staff Association about a separate rest room for the Juniors. Another session with Mr. Preece. A telephone call from Sir Harry warning Mr. Rammell that they were missing all the main chances and ought to begin opening new branches at once in places like Cheltenham, Buenos Aires, Johannesburg ... A long meeting with the buyers about special discounts. Preliminary discussions with a firm of business efficiency experts about electronic computers for the counting house. An emergency call from Mr. Preece about possible Union trouble on the transport side. A message—quite a brief one this time—from Sir Harry reminding him that it was no use trying to build up an overseas business unless it was all properly researched, planned, provided for ... and what was wrong with Canada? Hadn’t Mr. Rammell ever heard of Toronto? Or Melbourne for that matter? And would he please do a paper for the Board next Tuesday? ... And then finally the day’s letters to sign, fresh from Miss Winters’s electric typewriter all looking very black and white and impersonal as though Mr. Rammell had bought the whole batch ready-made from a printer’s.
Just a normal, routine day, in fact. And now at last it was over. But not quite. Miss Winters came in. She was carrying one of Rammell’s big white boxes.
“The wrap,” she said. “It’s been sent up. Like you told me.”
Mr. Rammell felt more relaxed again by now.
“Thank you,” he said. “Get it sent down to the car, would you?”
Then a sudden thought crossed his mind.
“Just a moment,” he said. “Bring it here, would you?”
It was as he feared. The label on the box was addressed to Mrs. Rammell.
But already Miss Winters was speaking again. Beneath the windswept, urchin fringe, her eyes seemed wilder, more frantic than before. But it was obvious that she was doing her best to end the day on a cheerful note.
“I posted the insurance note to Mrs. Rammell,” she said. “That was right, wasn’t it?”
Chapter Thirty-eight
1
It was only Irene’s second day in the Fur Salon. She had been transferred there, temporarily, because the Junior assistant, Miss Anstey, had fallen sick. And suddenly at that. Pains. Shocking ones, too. Midnight call for the doctor. Appendicitis diagnosed. Ambulance at three a.m. On the operating table by nine. Off the danger-list by lunch-time. No further cause for anxiety. Nothing at all for the family to worry about. But still an awkward gap in Furs. And when a customer has screwed her courage up to the thousand-pound mark, it simply doesn’t make sense to keep her hanging around until she may have cooled off.
Miss Anstey herself was tall, ash blonde, willowy. Irene, on the other hand, was small, dark, springy. There was nothing that they had in common. Except good looks. And undoubtedly of the highest order, too. Because there is no higher tribute that can be paid to an assistant in any big store than to be transferred to Furs.
Irene loved it there. It was scarcely like being in a shop at all. More like being second
ed to Buckingham Palace. Holiday relief for one of the ladies-in-waiting, as it were. Thick, mossy carpet. Walnut chairs. Little, elegant tables with just the least fleck of gilt on the corners. Flowers, gladioluses mostly, in white vases on thin pedestal affairs. Mirrors that might have been doors. Discreet private rooms with still more mirrors. And silence. A plushy, expensive silence hung over everything. Even staff messages were passed on in whispers. Asking for a tape measure sounded like something out of a Shakespearian balcony scene. Only reverent, rather than romantic. All in all, the Rammell Salon might have been the inner-vestry of some well-endowed, go-ahead American cathedral.
And amid this calm, this quietness, burst the mink-wrap bomb. Fired off regardless of the consequences by Mr. Rammell, the barrage was taken up by Mr. Preece. Under the double fire, Mrs. Westlake, the buyer—fifty-five, perfectly groomed, blue hair, poised, soignée—went entirely to pieces. Called first to Mr. Rammell’s room in the morning to be asked who had told her to make out an insurance note to anyone, and then whisked off to Mr. Preece’s offices to explain why she allowed thousand-guinea wraps to drift about London, unchecked and apparently un-remembered, she became hysterical. First tears. Then laughter. And meaningless, contradictory explanations. Too many of them. Too garbled. In the end, there was nothing for it but to send Mrs. Westlake—still breathing, but by now hair all anyhow, tottery, pink-eyed—off to Welfare Supervisor, and then on to Earl’s Court in a taxi.
And then, with the assistant buyer, Miss Hanson—plump, fortyish and unrufflable—in command, the astonishing sequel occurred. Marcia herself came into the Salon. Not in a rush. Dreamier than ever, in fact. Practically sleep-walking. Ever so slowly, as though along some imaginary line. At her most ethereal looking, too. A pale, inner radiance seemed to be escaping from her. She shone. And over her arm, hanging in the soft, oceanlike folds of which only the best mink is capable, was the wrap ...
Bond Street Story Page 36
