Keeping her sweet wasn’t very difficult, Eliza reflected, as they sat chatting in the dressing room of the studio waiting for the make-up artist, presently working for Vogue, to grace them with her presence.
‘This is all such such fun for me, you have no idea. So much of my life is always the same, day after day after day. One day I will tell you all about it, and then you will understand.’
Eliza supposed living with a man in his seventies must have its drawbacks. Even if he was a multi-millionaire.
Eliza had only seen one show: Chanel. In spite of the savage heat, a poor seat (gained by sheer force and elbowing other people out of the way – ‘it’s like a rugby scrum,’ Fiona said, ‘you really do have to fight, I warn you’), an hour-long wait for the start and a thumping headache, she would not have missed it for the world. She was amazed by the length of the thing – over two hours, one girl after another, showing almost identical suits, and completely identical dresses, the differences often as infinitesimal as a change of button – and the solemnity of the occasion, it really was rather like being at some hugely important religious ceremony. What made it work for her really, she had to admit, was the fact that Chanel herself was there, a small, rather forlorn little figure, sitting at the top of the famous spiral staircase, dressed in a pale pink tweed suit and a boater hat, smoking throughout; Eliza hadn’t quite believed she would be there, had thought it was some kind of legend. Which Chanel was, of course, a living legend; I shall be able to tell my grandchildren about this, Eliza thought.
There was a huge drama one day which Fiona and Mariella regaled her with later, goggle-eyed: one of the newspapers had smuggled a photographer in, another got wind of it and there was a great chaos as the show was halted, he was identified and thrown literally out of the doors. The newspaper photographers were used to such hardship; the directrices of the salons despised them absolutely and would only allow them to take two pictures after each collection ‘of the ugliest girls, and more or less in the dark’, Fiona said.
‘Move this girl would you?’ Evangeline Turner, scourge of the younger fashion writers, éminence grise of the couturiers’ salons, and fashion editor of the Daily Post, waved her hand imperiously at Eliza. Eliza stared at the directrice of the salon. They wouldn’t move her. Surely they wouldn’t. She hadn’t asked to be in the front row; it was Fiona’s place – poor Fiona, who was lying in her hotel room with oyster poisoning. And she really hadn’t expected to be given it; front-row seats were for the big editors of the big glossies, Vogue and Queen, and the really prestigious papers, the Sunday Times and the Daily Express; assistants, if they got in at all, were usually right at the back behind a pillar. When she had gone with Fiona to the Chambre Syndicale office in Paris to get their passes to the collections, the woman in charge looked at them over her extremely stout bosom and told them she wasn’t at all sure she could guarantee them admission at all.
‘We do not know your magazine,’ she said, flipping through it disdainfully, ‘I cannot possibly guarantee you any tickets, or even a pass. Come back tomorrow please.’
They left. Eliza was shocked, but Fiona shrugged it off. ‘They’re so horrible, these people, they’re all the same, I sometimes think they must be bred on a farm somewhere, specially for the job. Then they all call themselves the Duchesse of this or the Princesse of that. I’m sure they’re nothing of the sort. It’ll be OK, Eliza, we’ll get passes. And tickets.’
Eliza was trying to resist the efforts of the directrice to eject her from her seat and exiling her to one five rows back, at Mrs Turner’s instigation, when Mariella arrived, looking rather flushed in a red silk dress and black fur stole. She kissed her ecstatically. ‘Darling. Where are you going? Stay here with me; I want to show you something …’
She sat down, pulling a small Cartier box out of her bag. Eliza sank down again, flashing a sweet smile first at the directrice and then at Mrs Turner. Life really didn’t get much better than this.
Paris was a revelation to Eliza: about how the world of high fashion really moved, about how crucial it remained to the industry; about the power of the press to make or break a house – however contemptuous the directrices might be; it also made her realise how far she had moved down the professional ladder by her move. At Woolfe’s she had been quite a large fish in a small but important pond, now she was a tiny sprat. Her role as assistant was not to attend the shows, but to wait to collect the chosen dresses from each one – booked out to a timetable by the directrices, which could entail anything up to a two-hour wait, take them to the photographic studio, where Fiona and Mariella would be waiting, and then return them, usually to a shower of abuse for being late; she had to organise slots at the studios, taxis, sandwiches, coffee, cigarettes, had to run around quite literally from dawn to dawn with bagfuls of gloves, belts, shoes, hairpieces; on two days they did photographs out of the studio, and she had to hire limos of a sufficient size to double as dressing room for Mariella, who loved it, and the challenges of pulling up her stockings and even once changing her bra while the chauffeur smoked and acted as bodyguard – ‘darling this is so much fun’. Eliza had to keep Fiona calm (not easy), wake her up in the morning (even less so), and try to stop her drinking too much at night (almost impossible). But she didn’t care; she was happier than she could ever remember, totally involved in everything, she would have scrubbed the pavements if they’d asked her without complaint. And when finally that last day, she found herself in charge of the session, while poor Fiona lay moaning in her bed, directing the hairdresser, choosing the accessories, and then actually daring to argue with Daniel Thexton and his insistence that Mariella put out her cigarette – ‘I think a cloud of smoke sort of round her face would look fantastic, let’s just try, Mariella, yes, that’s wonderful, look Daniel, don’t you think?’ – and he AGREED! That was tell-her-grandchildren stuff for sure.
She returned home exhausted, went to bed and slept for twelve hours, to be woken by Fiona with the news that Jack had actually said the pictures weren’t bad at all; and when Jeremy rang a little later and asked her if she had missed him, realised that she had hardly thought about him from one day’s end to the next.
Amanda had been able to help. Scarlett found herself lying in bed, in a very expensive nursing home in the outermost reaches of North London, enduring no more than post-anaesthetic nausea, mild stomach ache – and no longer pregnant. She returned home after twenty-four hours and to work after another forty-eight; she felt rather tired, she told Diana, as they waited for take-off, but otherwise fine, ‘and just hugely relieved’.
‘Not – not upset or anything?’ Diana asked carefully and Scarlett said no, not in the least upset, and why ever should she be?
‘Well,’ Diana said, ‘just take care of yourself, Scarlett, spoil yourself a bit, don’t try and do too much. You might feel a bit – a bit—’
‘A bit what?’
‘Sad,’ said Diana.
‘What on earth for? I’d be feeling sad if I was still pregnant. I feel a bit poor, mind you, but—’
‘Scarlett,’ said Diana, ‘however logical you’re being about this, you have just been through a hell of a mill. You haven’t just had a bad curse, your hormones must be in total turmoil—’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. I haven’t had to go through anything. Now do stop fussing; will you do the seat-belt checks or shall I?’
‘I will,’ said Diana.
‘Charles—’
‘Yes, darling.’
‘Do you want to be involved in things like bridesmaids’ dresses?’
‘Good heavens, no. Leave it to you. Trust you completely.’
‘So – you’re not even interested in what they’re like?’
He knew that tone; it meant – not trouble exactly, but an echo of it, like a far-away clap of thunder.
‘Darling, of course I am. Of course. But I don’t feel I have anything to contribute, that’s all.’
‘Well …’
‘And you�
�re so good at it, all that visual stuff. Bit like Eliza really.’
‘I don’t think I’m in the least like Eliza,’ said Juliet stiffly. ‘She and I couldn’t be more different.’
‘Well – well, I just meant with an eye for fashion. Colour and style, that sort of thing. You know, I really can’t wait to see your dress. I’m sure it’s going to be absolutely beautiful.’
‘It is,’ said Juliet, ‘but you are going to have to wait – of course. Only a few months, though. Goodness, it’s getting close. Now you are all right for the weekend, aren’t you? To talk to Mummy and Daddy about caterers.’
‘Yes, of course. Looking forward to it.’
He was. Well, he would have been if it hadn’t meant staying overnight at the Judds on Saturday. They were perfectly nice of course; very nice indeed. Just rather – well, dull. He couldn’t find much to say to either of them; once he’d finished talking to Geoffrey about his golf, which he himself didn’t even play, and his company, and Carol about her tennis and her charity work; they didn’t chat and they didn’t joke, and they didn’t know anyone he knew – except Juliet of course – and dinner was eaten in the rather large and cold dining room, even if it was just the four of them, and then Carol and Geoff sat and watched TV and he and Juliet would go out for a drink to the pub. And there was always a huge song and dance about his room, and whether he’d been comfortable and if he’d slept all right. It was rather as if they were at pains to point out that it was his room and where he slept and there was to be no straying from it to visit Juliet. Which was wholly ridiculous, as there would be ample opportunity for him and Juliet to sleep together during the week as they both had flats in London – albeit shared with other people. They were hardly likely to risk the wrath of her parents by doing it under their roof.
But of course they didn’t sleep together, because Juliet was determined to go to the altar a virgin and Charles – well, Charles totally respected that. Of course he did. It wasn’t easy, in some ways, but in others it quite suited him. He wasn’t sexually confident, never had been; he was prepared to wait for the honeymoon when they would both be relaxed and could take their time.
‘You look tired,’ said Matt. ‘Really tired. You OK?’
They were in what Scarlett called her pub, in the Old Brompton Road. She’d been avoiding him for weeks, and he’d been worrying about her, still feeling the old sense of responsibility about her; and she’d finally agreed to meet.
‘Yes, I’m perfectly OK,’ said Scarlett. But she didn’t sound it. She sounded irritable, scratchy. It was unlike her. Maybe she had a headache, or was about to come on or something. Girls did get very odd around that time. The only girl he’d ever known who was always the same, day in, day out, permanently up and running as you might say, was Louise. She was amazing. Really amazing. Just as well really, the way they depended on her …
‘Well – that’s good. Been working hard?’
‘Yes, I always work hard. Matt, I’m fine. What is this?’
‘Nothing. What you want to drink?’
‘Oh – Scotch I think. Yes. On the rocks.’
‘Bit early for that, isn’t it? You usually have a G and T this sort of time.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t want one today. I’ve gone off gin.’
She had too; ever since drinking it neat, lying in that agonisingly hot bath, willing it to do its work, the very thought of it made her feel sick.
‘Fine. You go and sit down.’
When he got back, she was studying herself in her compact mirror.
‘I don’t think I look tired,’ she said.
‘Well – maybe not. I like the hair.’ She’d got it drawn back off her face, and up into a sort of ponytail of curls. ‘It must have grown fast.’
‘Thanks, Matt.’ She smiled at him. ‘The curls are false.’
‘Never! Good match. Anyway, very sexy.’ But that seemed to have been the wrong thing to say too; she frowned slightly, shifted in her seat.
‘So how’re things?’
‘Oh – you know. Fine.’ She pulled off her gloves, her hands, unusually for her these days, bare of rings; in fact the only jewellery she was wearing was a very simple string of pearls. ‘What about you?’
‘Yeah, OK. Better than OK, actually, f—bloody brilliant. We are so busy, Scarlett, you’d never believe it. Last night Jim and me was in the office till after one, just catching up on paperwork.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘It is. The sky’s nothing like the limit. We’re looking for premises of our own, can’t manage cadging off Robertson any longer.’
‘Well – that’s wonderful.’
Matt and Jimbo had agreed, as they yet again found themselves in the office at midnight one night, that they needed help.
‘We can’t go on like this,’ said Matt. ‘I mean it’s great that we’re so busy, but I’m knackered. What do you think we should do?’
‘Take on some more staff. I reckon we need a couple of trainee negotiators. They’d be dirt cheap. And then a junior, maybe, to help Louise.’
‘Sounds OK. But we can’t fit them in here. We’ll have to move. That’ll be expensive too.’
‘You don’t think we could cadge another room off Robertson?’
‘No,’ said Matt, ‘I don’t. He’s done enough for us. Anyway, it looks bad, us squashed into two rooms in his place. Let’s talk to Louise, tell her to look out for somewhere. Once we’ve done the sums, that is.’
They did the sums, and told Louise their plans.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘you’re talking about taking on three people.’
‘That’s right, yeah.’
‘Two trainee negotiators and a junior.’
‘Correct.’
‘So I’ll have help too.’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘With what exactly?’
‘Well – what you’re doing now. The paperwork. The letters and filing and that.’
‘So – they’ll be blokes, will they? These negotiators?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Two young chaps – already got feelers out—’
‘Fine. Well, better be looking for a replacement for me then.’
‘What?’
‘You heard. I’m off.’
‘Now Louise …’
‘Don’t you “now Louise” me, Jimbo Simmonds. How dare you. How dare you bring in some spotty boy lording it about, having to be spoon-fed for weeks, and you’ll be expecting me to help him, I daresay?’
‘Well – we did think you might, yes. As you’re so fab at it all, know so many clients and that—’
Matt had imagined this bit of flattery would calm Louise down. He was wrong.
She stood up and picked up her bag, made for the door.
‘Where you going?’
‘I’m going home.’
‘Louise, it’s only half past five—’
‘Yeah, and you’ve clearly forgotten that’s when I’m supposed to leave. Not staying here, sending out mailings, hanging around waiting for you, buttering up clients, keeping them sweet, showing them particulars, having my legs looked at—’
‘But—’
‘You listen to me, you pair of jumped-up barrow boys. I’d say at least twenty-five per cent of the business we’ve got in the past two months has been down to me. Who suggested Mr Banks looked at the place in Camden Town, who sent Valerie bloody Hill over to that new office block in Chiswick, who found Joe Evans that space in Streatham, you just tell me that. And who missed four out of five lunch hours last week and neither of you even thought of getting me a sandwich? Eh? Well, I’ve had enough. Quite enough. Valerie Hill’d employ me tomorrow and not just as a secretary either, if I so much as hinted I’d like to work for her. So – I’m off. You’re pathetic, the pair of you.’
They found themselves offering her the job of negotiator, bringing her salary up to a thousand – well, they’d started at seven fifty, and she’d picked up her bag again – and told her she coul
d start the minute she found her own replacement. It had been an interesting half-hour.
Chapter 15
‘That was just amazing.’
‘Good.’
‘I can’t believe how amazing it was.’
‘Pleased to be of service. You’re not so bad yourself.’
‘Well thanks a lot.’ She punched him gently in the chest. ‘You’re such a romantic, you know.’
‘Sorry. You’re great too. Fantastic. Very, very sexy. How’s that?’
‘Better.’
He could tell she was disappointed; that she was hoping for the words. The three words. The ones girls wanted, especially after sex. But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t because he’d never felt them. Or rather it. Sometimes he wondered if he ever would. He presumed he’d know it when it came …
But what he did feel for this one, Gina she was called, short for Georgina, was pretty strong.
She was gorgeous, for a start. Not quite his usual type: light brown hair, long of course, with sort of blond streaks drifting in it. Huge grey eyes. Small heart-shaped face. Full, slightly pouty mouth. Very small, with firm, round little breasts. Great legs. Really great legs. And she was very, very good in bed.
She came a lot too, not just once, but over and over again, yelling each time louder and louder, biting him, clawing at him; and then when it was over, she would turn to him, smiling, with the face of an angel, and tell him she loved him. What man could ask for more?
He had met her at a party, given by a friend of Jimbo’s. She had wandered in, alone, looking rather shy – that was a laugh, given what he had discovered about her pretty soon after – and he’d put her at about seventeen.
In fact she was twenty-two, and she worked in a fashion boutique in the King’s Road, on commission, she was paid almost no salary. Nevertheless, she made quite a lot of money. She had a pale blue Mini, and she’d stuck transfers of big white daisies on the doors. She lived with six other girls in a flat in Barons Court; she smoked a lot of dope, but she said she’d had a really bad experience with LSD and it had scared her off for good.
The Decision Page 17
