Tell the Girl

by Sandra Howard

  Three men and a woman sitting round a table in a fuggy room perused my book, my portfolio of photographs and pulls from magazines. They showed me script boards and asked questions. Did I use the product, like the product? Was I free on the appointed day? I left JWT feeling reasonably treated at least, whether or not I got the job.

  Berkeley Square was snarled up with traffic and vibrating; all the blaring, honking horns were a mechanical cacophony. Angry drivers inched forward, leaned out of their windows yelling obscenities, no nightingales to be heard ever again. I felt emotional, rooted for a moment. It was a soft beautiful day, the sunlight, ethereally pale, bleeding into thin cloud and lifting the sky.

  I suddenly realised that Alicia’s husband, Toby, was right in front of me, scanning the traffic for a cab. He turned and saw me, too. ‘Well, hello, beautiful Susannah, good to see you.’

  ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere, Toby? I’m parked round the corner, on my way to Chelsea.’

  ‘Thanks, but I must get straight to the airport, I’m in danger of missing my plane.’

  ‘How’s Alicia? All okay?’ I wondered at Toby, flying off when the baby was due.

  ‘All fine – though this sprog’s bound to pop today or tomorrow, just when I’m in Milan. Still, Alicia thinks I’m better off out of the way. Ah, at last. Taxi! See you, Susannah, must rush.’ He blew a kiss and leaped into the cab, solidly built, an enigma.

  I drove my Mini across London, absorbing the bit of intelligence. I was due at Keith Ewart’s studio in Glebe Place off King’s Road. We were doing a commercial for Black Magic chocolates. I loved working with Keith. Enthusiasm radiated out of him like soundwaves. The downside was the chocolates. Even with a bucket beside me, and spitting out every one, I still felt yuckishly sick by the end of the day. But we didn’t overrun. I had time to go home to clean up.

  Joe was just leaving. ‘I’m out tonight, wifey,’ he said, giving me a rather edgy glance, ‘since you can’t be buggered to be around. Tomorrow night too, as it happens.’

  I found some fight. ‘Funny thing, I bumped into Toby today, in Berkeley Square. He was rushing to the airport, flying out to Milan, just when Alicia’s baby is due.’

  Joe was nothing if not a good actor. ‘Well, there’s no point in him hanging around, is there?’ he said, without a flicker. ‘He’d only be in the way. I’m off, going to hear some new guys playing at that joint in Soho, the Blue Gardenia. A group called The Beatles – useless name, but I’m told they might take off.’ I was almost amused. Joe never usually told me a thing about what he was doing, but being caught out had made him slip up. Did our sins always find us out? Was I about to go down the same road?

  The Grosvenor House Hotel at eight o’clock, Sally had told me: the stylist would have all the clothes. That made a change. I usually had to take half my own wardrobe for ads.

  ‘Fancy bringing a stylist all this way,’ she’d said. ‘What it must all be costing! They’re doing the photography at a restaurant round the corner, I believe.’

  I asked at Reception for Gil Foreman and the aged uniformed man on the desk, who looked a permanent fixture, picked up the phone. I rested my heavy tote bag and eyed my reflection in a smoky mirrored pillar. I was wearing a new coat, white leather with a curly Mongolian lamb lining. The cold had been reaching in ever since being home. And underneath, the wide-belted cinnamon dress bought on the day of meeting Gil.

  I looked expectantly at the receptionist, but my smile quickly faded; he was still on the phone, arguing heatedly, and it seemed to be all about me.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sure, as you say, you’re not alone, but this young lady isn’t staying at the hotel and she cannot come up to your room.’ I stared at the ground, agonised; did he think I was a prostitute? He carefully replaced the phone and cleared his throat, I had to look up and face him. ‘Mr Foreman is on his way down,’ he said complacently.

  The lift doors opened and Gil appeared, spitting with rage. I could feel the heat of his fury. A curly-haired, slightly raddled-looking girl, carrying armfuls of black dresses, came out with him as well as a fleshy, florid man, heavy on the Brylcreem, who must be the account executive.

  Gil came up to me. ‘Hi! How goes?’ He squeezed my hand. ‘We’ll have to get straight to the restaurant, do the styling there,’ he said, looking daggers at the old boy on the desk.

  The stylist introduced herself. ‘I’m Kitty. Love the coat!’

  The account executive held out his hand. ‘Marvin Parker, Cole and Dempsey Agency.’ I shook his hand, feeling an instant dislike. He had slack wet lips, mousy hair slicked flat, and the way he was eyeing me made me wary. I knew the type.

  ‘My assistant’s round at the restaurant, setting up,’ Gil said. ‘Let’s go.’ He had one last snipe at the man on the desk before we left. ‘Isn’t it time this hotel moved up a gear?’

  Gil walked beside me; he was about my height, five eight or nine. He leaned close and I felt his breath, warm at my ear. ‘Bad start!’ I smiled back at him, feeling shivery. It was a cold night.

  The restaurant, Portofino, was in Mount Street, down a flight of stairs, dark and plush: small lamps with deep-red shades, soft dim lighting. The tables were arranged in semicircles, enclosing and intimate. They were empty apart from two couples in evening dress, settled in at the rear. ‘Your backdrop,’ Gil said, following my glance. ‘A male model’s on his way, too. And that’s Jack, Mr Muscles, my assistant, making with the lights.’ Jack grinned back in response. His black T-shirt was stretched tight over well-developed pectorals and bulging upper arms.

  Kitty and I went to the ladies’ where she hung the dresses on cubicle doors. Gil came in and held each dress against me, looking up from them into my eyes. I stared back. He chose a simple black shift, low-cut and sleeveless.

  ‘Any booze going?’ Kitty said, as he turned to leave.

  ‘Work first.’ He flicked at her corkscrew curls. ‘And tease that hair away from Susannah’s face, Kitty. I want to see both eyes.’

  She made me up, which I wasn’t used to, putting gold eye shadow on my lids, a speck under the brows. ‘Gil wants minimum jewellery,’ she drawled. ‘No distractions.’

  I felt good in the dress and ventured out shyly, to get started.

  The male model had arrived, a handsome medical student called Gordon, whom I knew. ‘We’re old friends,’ I said to Gil. ‘We’ve gazed across tables before.’

  ‘No gazing tonight, your eyes are on me. And Gordon fella, sorry mate, you’re just a buck with a back in this shot, a dark silhouette. No catching Susannah’s eye.’

  ‘Hey-ho,’ Gordon sighed, ‘so it’s not my night after all. But I’m not proud and who’s complaining?’ he said with a wink. ‘We students need the loot.’

  Marvin, the executive, grunted – he wrote the cheques. I tried to contain my dislike. He was drinking champagne and eating canapés, creamy vol-au-vents and smoked-salmon rolls, cramming them into his mouth. I didn’t give it long before he made a pass.

  We got on with the shoot. Gordon’s back and the bourbon bottle formed the frame while I fingered my glass of rich amber liquid, looking straight into the unflinching eye of Gil’s Hasselblad lens. It was no filter. He was reaching into me through that lens, speaking a translatable language.

  He shot a few reels of film then went over to the couples behind me. I turned, watching him arrange glasses and bottles with care. Then he came to sit beside me on the plush bench and played with my hair, tucking it behind my ears. My skin pricked all over. ‘The background’s a blur,’ he said under his breath. ‘Anything to keep Marvin happy.’

  I shivered as Gil held my hair tightly back from my face. I looked into his eyes, very aware of his wide mobile mouth, bottling powerful feelings that weren’t legal. I dreaded the inevitable problems with Marvin, whose beady eyes on me couldn’t be more overt.

  ‘Kitty!’ Gil called, still holding my hair. ‘I want it scraped back. Come, see.’

  She darted over. ‘Perfect. Wow! Back t
o the ladies’, Susannah, up it goes.’

  It gave me a nice long neck, but I felt more naked. My hair was protection. We carried on.

  ‘Look at me,’ Gil said, ‘keep looking.’ Other photographers would have said, ‘Look straight to camera.’ We worked well together, though; the professional rapport was there – as well as communicating in other ways.

  I could feel the tugging need in me and had a sense of being trapped, my skirt caught up in brambles, held back from where I wanted to be. The frustration was unbearable, yet breaking free would lead to other pitfalls and prickly situations, that much I knew.

  ‘All done,’ Gil said, straightening up and stretching. ‘We had it in the first shot.’ He turned to Marvin. ‘You have your picture, a hundred times over. You’ll be spoilt for choice.’

  ‘The restaurant has laid on food,’ Kitty said, pouring a brimming glass of champagne for herself. ‘Smells great, like fritto misto – fries as well, I hope.’

  Jack was dismantling lights, labelling film and packing up. Gil was telling Gordon how well he’d do in the States. ‘Don’t tempt me,’ he sighed. ‘The scalpel calls, and years of poverty!’

  Marvin sidled up and took my arm, his fleshy fingers pressing in deep. ‘Sexy dress, that,’ he said with a lascivious smile. ‘Keep it on, we’re going on the town, painting it all shades of red.’

  ‘Sorry, but I must get straight home. I’ve an early start tomorrow. And I must go and change right away.’ I struggled free of his hold. ‘I’d hate to splatter this very elegant dress.’

  ‘I’ll talk you round,’ Marvin said, drawing a nail down my arm. ‘Here, have some champagne.’ I took the glass and escaped to the ladies; shaking him off more permanently wasn’t going to be an easy or pleasant task. He’d turn nasty, I knew. And he’d keep me from Gil.

  Kitty took down my hair, taking swigs of her drink all the while. ‘Gil will sort that creep,’ she said. ‘Get him pissed, tell him where to go for skirt – tell him you’re married!’

  ‘I am.’ I held up my ring finger and she clapped a hand to her mouth and laughed. We both did.

  The food was served quickly, crispy fried fish and chips. I wasn’t hungry, which was just as well; I picked away the batter to reach a bit of unadulterated, uncalorific fish. Gordon told gruesomely funny medical jokes, enough to put anyone off their food; he had a warm heart and his priorities in the right place, I felt.

  He and the two couples didn’t linger; it was nearly midnight. Marvin, having demolished a heaped plateful, was moving in for the kill.

  My coat was on a nearby chair, tote bag beside it. ‘All set to go, Susannah?’ Gil said. ‘Shall I walk you to your car?’

  ‘She’s not going yet.’ Marvin shifted his weight closer, crushing me into his side. ‘I’ve got a date with this chick. I’m gonna show her a good time, aren’t I, babe?’

  ‘Susannah’s husband wouldn’t be pleased,’ Gil observed, shrugging on a cord jacket over the worn blue sweatshirt he was wearing. ‘We did well to get her here tonight at all. The client will love this ad, Marvin. The campaign will do great – one up for Cole and Dempsey! Order up some more booze, have a smoke, I’ll be right back. Just must see Susannah to her car.’

  He held out my white coat, but Marvin wasn’t giving up or letting go. He hung on, keeping me in his tight sweaty grasp. He smelled of stale cigar and his breath stank, too.

  ‘I’m game for a good time,’ Kitty said, downing her glass with a sexy smack of the lips. ‘Les A’s a swish joint, I’ve heard, and the Four Hundred – all on expenses, Marv!’

  ‘Sorry to be boring,’ I smiled, trying to sound sadly resigned as I wriggled free. ‘I’ll really be in the doghouse, though, if I don’t hurry home. London’s swinging, it’s a hot ticket, you’ll have a ball.’ I slung on my coat; Gil had my tote bag. He was halfway to the door.

  ‘Kitty was a brick,’ I said, climbing the stairs and out into the cold night air.

  ‘She’s a boozer and not too choosy. They’ll have sore heads on the plane.’ He slowed down a little. ‘I suppose you do have a car?’ He grinned and kissed my cheek.

  We sat in my Mini with the engine on. ‘I thought I’d outgrown cars,’ Gil said, ‘but since there’s no chance of my hotel after that little scene with the old creep on the desk . . .’

  He traced round my face with gentle fingers and brushed over my lips. I held my breath.

  ‘There’s a lot I want to ask.’ His eyes were searching, his mouth unfairly close. ‘You’re not happy, are you, Susannah? Is your husband treating you rough?’

  ‘He can be very gentle.’ I needed Gil to kiss me, more than I could stand.

  ‘But not always – that was a gentle answer! Does he drink?’

  ‘There’s that . . .’

  ‘And women? One in particular?’

  I nodded. ‘For over a year now, I think. I don’t know about others.’

  ‘I’m married, too. My wife – this sounds comically typical, just happens to be true – but ever since the second child, she hasn’t let me near her. We get by all the same, quite companionably. I look after her; love my kids to death. I could never leave.’

  I felt an acute sense of let-down, a cold demoralizing and moralizing hand, but what did I expect? ‘You’d better get back, hadn’t you?’ I forced a smile. ‘Marvin’s waiting.’

  Gil took me in his arms, those long, bandy arms that hung away from his body. He wasn’t beautiful, but as I lost myself in his big wide hungry mouth I was somewhere beyond my experience. It was more than kissing: I believed in it, believed in Gil. My heart was in a panic as his hand went to the car door.

  He didn’t open it; he turned and sat back. ‘There’s no rushing this, Susannah,’ he said. ‘We can’t anyway. I know the problems, but it’ll happen, it will.’ He took my hand and kissed each of my fingers. ‘You’re definitely coming to New York? You won’t stop working – mostly for me. I spoke to Fords and Eileen said the end of January, that’s seven weeks.’ Gil fished in his jacket pocket and scribbled on a scrap of paper. ‘Call collect on this number – early, one o’clock your time – and let me know when’s best to phone.’

  I drove home with tears streaming down my face. Was I in love? Was I going to go to New York and start an affair? Was that what my marriage had come to? How could I last through the next seven weeks?

  It was almost Christmas and I couldn’t wait to see my parents. Joe had nagged me to go down to Dorset and bring back Frankie – he loved his mynah bird, really missed the squawker – but I was madly busy and we’d be there so soon. The urge to unburden on my mother was strong, but what could she do, poor Mum, except fret?

  I worried about a present for Joe’s mother. We were seeing her on Saturday, the day before Christmas Eve when we were driving to Dorset, and I wanted to choose something she’d really like. She was alone in her flat in the wastelands of Tilbury. Joe’s father hadn’t shown his face in months.

  I came home from doing an ad for Yardley, wanting Joe’s help on what to give. He was buried in his script, uncommunicative, so I went through to the kitchen and got on with cooking lamb chops.

  ‘Would your mum like perfume?’ I called. ‘Or a new blouse, perhaps?’

  ‘Get her gin, or beers for her “friends”.’

  ‘You can if you want,’ I yelled back, irritated. ‘I’d rather give her something feminine.’

  Joe looked up finally when I came in with the supper. ‘Alicia’s had her baby,’ he said, ‘a couple of days ago. I saw it in The Times. Shouldn’t you send some flowers?’

  My insides turned. Joe knew how to punch low. ‘That’s your department,’ I muttered. ‘You’ve got more time on your hands. What did she have?’

  ‘A boy. Good chops these, nice and tender.’

  My parents’ cottage was near Bridport, thatched and in an acre of waterlogged garden. It was lit up, we had a warm welcome, but Dad looked worryingly ashen. Night call-outs, everyone’s winter ills – a country practice was hard for a d
octor and he was worn out. I was, too, after a long, not very friendly journey, and seeing Joe’s mother the previous day had been a strain. She’d looked a mess: bleached hair, black roots, empty bottles . . . Joe talked about her lovers, but I felt sure she was wretchedly lonely. I’d suggested as we left that he ask her to his first night. We had the back bedroom for her to stay in; we could stand her a new dress and a trip to the hairdressers. ‘She’d be so proud and pleased to be there,’ I said.

  I could see Joe mulling it over. He wasn’t shy of his working-class roots, he played up to them, and I was hopeful – about that if nothing else.

  The tree in the hall twinkled with the baubles and ancient, multi-coloured lights that had done all the Christmases I could remember. It was only the four of us. My brother, James, who was in the Army serving out in Kuwait, since Iraq had threatened to invade, was briefly home, but staying with his in-laws in Yorkshire. I prayed Joe wouldn’t be too obviously bored, drunk and maudlin. He hated festive family-holiday times and being contained. A regular drinks party with locals on Boxing Day was a danger area; I could see him being belittling and manipulative and turning conversational screws in a destructive Pinteresque way. He’d done it subtly before.

  He proved me wrong. Joe was as charming as only he could be. Apart from going overboard about Frankie’s cage being on a rather distant worktop. ‘Out in the scullery, is it, Frankie my bird, you old wanker? Give us a “bye byeee” then, you old fart. Let’s hear your vocals, see you’re not pining away.’

  Frankie obliged and Joe beamed. My mother advanced shyly that Frankie could now say ‘time for bed’, which made Joe even more all over her than before. He flattered her extravagantly, chatted companionably with my father – about recent events, the first man in space, the death of the farthing. He asked Dad’s advice.

  ‘How should I act a doctor, Henry?’ They were seated on either side of the fireplace, Joe’s long legs stretched out on the fireside rug. ‘The stereotype bedside-manner smoothie feels very old hat.’