‘I s’pose not. But girls can be pretty cunning, you know. And Charles seems fairly – innocent. And he’s not very sure of himself, is he? He told me how he envied me, doing something I loved and was good at. He said he wasn’t in the least good at his job, he’d only got it because someone your parents had known had put in a good word for him …’
‘Yes, well, that is true. But – that applies to loads of people, doesn’t it?’
‘Not loads of people where I come from,’ said Maddy, just slightly tartly.
‘Don’t start all that,’ said Eliza, ‘you know it makes me cross. Well, whatever the reason, it’s awful. Oh, Maddy, I love him so much, and I’m going to lose him!’
Anyone would think she was interviewing them, Matt thought. It was a bit much really. She sat there, all big dark eyes and thick fake lashes, her brown hair cut in a Vidal Sassoon-style bob, crossing and uncrossing her long legs, totally cool and in command of the situation. Who did she think she was? He felt disconcerted and then irritated with himself. She could be exactly what they needed, he was just being pathetic. He just had to get the upper hand in the interview.
He cleared his throat, looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, to remind himself exactly who she was and what she had to offer. And to buy a little time, hoping against hope that Jimbo would appear.
‘Right,’ he said, appearing to study the paper closely; unnecessarily, since he knew every word of it by heart. But he wasn’t an experienced interviewer, and it gave him something to do.
Louise Mullan.
Marital status: Single.
Born 1943. Education: Ealing County Grammar School for Girls.
O-levels: English, Maths, French, History, Geography, Biology. Secretarial course, Ealing Technical College. Typing 70 wpm, Shorthand 120 wpm, Book-keeping.
Previous Posts: since September 1962, secretary Baker & Hilliard solicitors.
Interests: Cinema, Theatre, Netball—
‘Netball!’ he said, seizing on a point of discussion. ‘Isn’t that more of a school game than an interest?’
‘Not at all,’ said Louise Mullan firmly. ‘It certainly isn’t. I play for the Ealing Ladies and also for a team that meets every Thursday in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, legal secretaries. You can play netball to a very high level, Mr Shaw. National championships at Wembley. Do you play any games?’ she added.
‘No. Not really. Well, a bit of soccer. Yes.’
‘For?’
‘Oh – just a local team. Just messing about, really.’
‘Yes, I see.’ She was obviously very unimpressed.
He wasn’t even sure that he liked her. Certainly not sure that he could work with her. She made him feel a bit of an idiot. But – she was rather perfect. Pretty. Clever. Well-spoken. Sexy. Very sexy, while being not in the least tarty. And, most important of all, seemed to know exactly what Simmonds and Shaw were about and what was required of her, over and above good shorthand and typing and what she had described in her letter as a good telephone manner.
‘You’re just starting out on your own, aren’t you?’ she said briskly. ‘So – first impressions, really really important?’
‘Really, really important.’
‘In which case, you’ll never want the office left empty, or the phone unanswered?’
‘We won’t, no.’
‘So.’ Pause. ‘So say it’s my lunch hour and neither of you are here, you won’t want me going out to get a sandwich or meet a friend?’
‘Well – probably not. No.’
‘And sometimes’ – another pause – ‘you’ll want me to work late?’
‘Just possibly – sometimes, yes.’
‘I’d say not possibly. I’d say definitely.’
‘Well – OK, definitely.’
‘It’s not a lot of money, for all that, you know. Eight pounds a week.’
‘Plus luncheon vouchers,’ said Matt desperately.
‘Which I won’t be able to spend half the time. And I’ll be taking on a lot of responsibility.’
God, she had a cheek. He had half a mind to tell her the position was actually filled. In fact—
The door burst open and Jimbo half ran in, parked his bowler hat on the hat stand, the only piece of furniture in what would be their reception area, apart from the chair on which Louise Mullan sat, and the tea chest on which Matt was perched, and started pulling off his raincoat.
‘Evening,’ he said, ‘sorry I’m late. Client meeting overran a bit. I—’
And then, almost farcically slowly, he looked at Louise Mullan, absorbed Louise Mullan, and registered rather visibly his approval of Louise Mullan.
‘You must be the secretary,’ he said, holding out a bony hand.
‘Well,’ she said, smiling at him sweetly, ‘I’ve come about the secretarial post, yes.’
‘Ah. Yes. It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Jim Simmonds. Matt – Mr Shaw’s partner.’
‘Yes, I guessed as much. I was just saying to Mr Shaw that you’d be asking a lot of me for the money.’
‘Would we?’
‘Miss Mullan has correctly pointed out,’ said Matt rather wearily, ‘that she would sometimes have to work late. And through the lunch hour.’
‘But you’d be prepared to do that?’
‘Well – if I took the job on, I would. Yes. I can’t see the point otherwise. It’s a very important position, it seems to me. Exciting though,’ she said, with a re-cross of her black-stockinged legs and a dazzling smile at each of them in turn. ‘To be in at the beginning of something. Who knows, you might turn out to be millionaires one day.’
‘We – plan to be, yes,’ said Jimbo. He smiled back at her. Matt felt irritated without being sure why.
‘Anyway – about the money. If you were to offer me the job of course.’
Which she knew they would, Matt thought; she had them by the short and curlies really. Still—
‘I’m afraid eight pounds is our top limit,’ he said firmly.
‘Plus luncheon vouchers, of course,’ said Jimbo.
‘Mr Shaw has already said that. And I have pointed out I won’t be able to use them half the time. It’s not a very high salary, you know. Legal secretaries get a lot more,’ she added.
‘Yes, but this is a really good opportunity for you,’ said Matt, ‘and the work will be extremely interesting, I can promise you that.’
‘I can see that, but I’ve still got to eat. And pay for my season ticket, and so on. I really don’t know—’
Inspiration came to Matt.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we pay for your season ticket, how about that? It’ll be a real benefit, like your luncheon vouchers, you won’t have to pay tax on it.’
A silence. Then she stood up and said, holding out a very pretty hand to each of them in turn, ‘Done.’
‘Great. Well, I think we’ll all work very well together. I can see you’ve got the makings of a negotiator yourself, Miss Mullan.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said, ‘but I’ll bear it in mind. Well, thank you. I can see it’ll be fun. And I really will work very hard. And stay late from time to time if necessary, I meant it. Oh – except on Thursdays.’
‘What happens on Thursdays?’ asked Jimbo.
‘Miss Mullan plays netball,’ said Matt.
‘Ah. OK. Fine,’ said Jimbo, with a grin. ‘So when Harry Hyams comes round, we’ll have to make sure it’s not Thursday.’
‘I’ve heard of Harry Hyams, my boss was talking about him. Famous property tycoon. Is he really a client?’
‘Not yet,’ said Matt.
‘We thought 24 June would be the best date for the wedding,’ said Juliet. ‘Midsummer Day.’
‘Lovely!’ said Sarah.
‘And – we wondered if – that is, if you’d mind if we had it here?’ Charles asked. Just slightly tentatively, Eliza thought.
‘Here! How very very nice. Darlings, that would be wonderful. We’d be honoured, wouldn’t
we, Adrian?’
‘What? Oh, yes, absolutely. Marvellous idea.’
‘And that’s all right with your parents, Juliet?’
‘Gosh, yes. They’re just thrilled at the idea. And really looking forward to meeting you.’
‘And we them. We must ask them here for lunch. Summercourt is always at its best in the summer, all the roses, and we can patch it up a bit—’
‘Mummy!’ said Charles. ‘It doesn’t need patching up. Don’t be silly. It’s beautiful.’
Eliza was having lunch with Fiona Marks, a thin, nervy creature, who talked at such high speed that it was hard to understand her without one hundred per cent concentration. She was the fashion editor of Charisma, the new ultra-chic glossy that was a talking point everywhere that autumn. Very feature-led, it was completely different from most women’s magazines, and one media commentator had already described it as a journey to another universe. In its first three issues, it had run interviews with Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem, who talked, among other things, about her infamous stint as a bunny girl, as reported in Show, the magazine she had helped to found; there had been a very graphic account of the new ‘natural’ childbirth, complete with show-it-all photographs; and an article on the death of marriage in twentieth-century life. And its ‘Twenty-Four Hours in …’ slot, photographic essays on life in such disparate places as a casualty department, an East End housing estate and a luxury liner, both above and below stairs, was already being widely copied. It had also run an extremely frank quiz on how intrinsically sexy its readers were, and another on how they viewed drugs (with the clear expectation that they would almost certainly have experimented with at least one and probably more).
‘Yes?’ said Eliza nervously. Fiona’s voice had had a rather businesslike tone.
‘Look – I don’t know if we can use those dresses, but certainly we’ll do the Courrèges-style boots, they’re wonderful. But I just wanted to ask you something. Look, how settled do you feel at Woolfe’s? I mean, I know Lindy’s leaving and you must be a bit worried about it—’
‘Oh, no,’ said Eliza, carefully airy. ‘The person who’s taking over from her is marvellous, might not be actually as young as Lindy, but my goodness, she thinks and sees young. I’m really looking forward to working with her.’
‘In that case, forget what I was just going to say to you.’
‘What?’ Eliza stopped in mid-company-line. ‘What were you going to say to me?’
‘Well, I was going to say I’m looking for an assistant. Lucy is leaving to have a baby. So disappointing and stupid, she was doing really well. Anyway, loads of people are going to be applying, half London actually; but I’d like to know if you’d be interested.’
‘Me!’ said Eliza.
‘Yes, you. Because I really think you’ve got a terrific eye and that’s what I’m looking for above all else. And someone who isn’t quite out of the normal fashion assistant mould. I want someone a bit different. Charisma being the sort of magazine it is. But if you’re really happy where you are—’
‘I’m not,’ said Eliza and heard her own voice as an odd, high squeak. ‘I’m really not. I’d love to apply for the job. Absolutely love it. Please. I mean thank you. Oh, gosh – golly.’ She wasn’t doing very well here at being stylish and cool. ‘I mean, of course, of course I would.’
‘OK. Great. It’s quite – tough there, you know. They really are determined to do something quite different and the editor, Jack Beckham, isn’t one of your fashionistas, he’s a proper, old-fashioned journalist, come up through the ranks, got the job because he worked on the Sunday Times Magazine launch with Mark Boxer. He actually sees fashion as a necessary evil, to bring in the advertising, he’d prefer to stick to features about class and politics and sex, so every single idea we do has to be sold really hard. And they have to be proper ideas, not just the new hemline or whatever. But I fancy you could cope with all that. Having been in the real world, not the Vogue/Queen/Tatler school of fashion. Anyway, let me have your CV—’
‘It’s pretty unimpressive,’ said Eliza, ‘I’ve only ever been at Woolfe’s—’
‘But you’ve done so well there. We all love you and you can’t say that for many PRs. But I still have to go through the motions of presenting you to the editor, so you do need to apply. And then he’ll give you a really tough interview, I warn you. But—’
‘Oh, God, it’s so exciting,’ said Eliza. ‘Thank you so much, Fiona, I couldn’t be more flattered or excited if you’d – well, I can’t think of anything. Crikey. It’s just amazing.’
She really must stop saying things like crikey; it made her sound as if she was back in the Sixth at Heathfield.
She got an interview two weeks later. She rather liked Jack Beckham, terrifying as he was; he reminded her of Matt Shaw. He was dark and heavily built, with quite a strong London accent that was clearly genuine – unlike Rex Ingham’s – and he looked completely out of place in the rather rarefied air of Charisma’s offices. Not that they were too much like those of most of the magazines she knew, full of pretty posh girls in miniskirts chatting up models and effete photographers. The atmosphere here was much more serious, with a couple of very intellectual-looking men – one the assistant editor – and the features department, which was next to Fashion and twice its size, was full of the sort of girls who had probably, Eliza thought, been to Oxford, clever-looking creatures with wild hair and arty clothes, with voices two octaves deeper than their twittering counterparts. Their office, moreover, was full not of clothes rails and beauty products, but great piles of books and records and a couple of tape recorders, and the pictures on the walls were not of Jean Shrimpton and Patti Boyd, but Kenneth Tynan and Norman Mailer.
They stared at her rather coolly as she waited in the corridor outside Beckham’s office; only one, a tall, aristocratically beautiful creature, smiled at her and said ‘Hello’.
Beckham’s office was full of smoke; he had a cigar smouldering in an ashtray on his desk and a cigarette in his mouth. He leaned back and studied her.
‘So you’re Fiona’s great discovery. I hear you were a deb or some such rubbish.’
‘I was,’ said Eliza, ‘but that wasn’t my fault.’
‘Well, I suppose not.’ He smiled at her. He had liked that. ‘What makes you think you can do this job for us?’
‘I don’t – yet. It was Fiona’s idea. But I’d love to try. I think Charisma is amazing.’
‘Oh yes? In what way amazing?’
‘Well – fascinating. Different.’
‘And what’s the most amazing thing you’ve read in it?’
This was a test; she’d prepared for it.
‘I think the piece about the down-and-outs. It was – well, it was great. So well written, and the photographs were—’
‘Bollocks,’ said Jack Beckham.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said bollocks. I bet you don’t have the slightest interest in down-and-outs.’
‘I—’ This was perfectly true; she smiled at him reluctantly.
‘Tell me the truth, what really grabbed you?’
‘OK, the piece about the cloakroom attendants at all the big hotels.’
‘That’s more likely. Why?’
‘Well because I – I—’
‘Go on.’
‘I must have met lots of them. And never realised what extraordinary lives they led. And the people they deal with on a daily basis.’
That was a pathetic answer; it made her sound like what she was, a spoilt, upper-class girl.
‘Good. I like that. That’s what we try to do in all our features. Turn accepted ideas on their heads. Think you can convert that into fashion?’
‘I – I don’t know. I mean – surely that’s Fiona’s job. She’s the editor. I’d just be her assistant.’
‘Yes, yes, but we don’t want some crap yes-girl in that job. We want someone with balls. Understand what I mean?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘Well, in his world, he is very important,’ said Eliza staunchly. She wasn’t going to be tricked into bad-mouthing her present boss.
‘Tell me why you think so.’
‘He’s done something amazing with that store. Especially the department I work in. It’s the first to have anything like that.’
‘Well, maybe. Like him, do you? It’ll be very different working for me, you know.’
‘I can see that.’
‘You can?’
‘Yes.’
God, she shouldn’t have said that. Now he was going to ask her in what way. But he didn’t. He laughed instead.
‘You have a certain honesty, Miss Clark. I like that. Now you’re not going to get married and have a baby like that wretched Lucy creature, are you?’
‘Absolutely not!’ said Eliza.
‘You sound horrified. I thought that was what girls like you were trained to do.’
‘I’m not like girls like me,’ said Eliza coolly.
‘I shall remember that. Hold you to it, even. Well, we’ll let you know. Lot of people want this job, you know.’
‘I’ll thank God, down on my knees every night, if I get it,’ said Eliza to Fiona over a nerve-calming coffee.
‘Eliza, if you do get the job you won’t have time for praying. We run three different fashion features every issue, you know. And just the two of us. It’s not enough.’
‘Why won’t he let you have any more staff?’
‘Because he doesn’t believe in fashion. Waste of money, paying girls like us. Now I must fly. I’ll let you know the minute I hear.’
Eliza had to wait two weeks; Jack Beckham insisted on seeing every girl who had applied. But he told her he’d actually made his mind up when she first told him she wasn’t like the other girls like her.
‘Now don’t let me down. And no marriage and no babies.’
‘Of course not,’ said Eliza.
Chapter 11
‘Eliza? Jeremy here.’
The Decision Page 12
