The 11.18 pulled in to the station. It would get her into Paddington just in time to get a taxi to Mayfair and then she would probably get the 4.45 home again. She knew the timetable back to front: life as an author seemed to consist of an awful lot of lunches.
Niggle always took her to ‘the Trat’ – La Terrazza – in Soho because he loved its casual chaos and the fact there was always someone in there he knew as well as a good arty smattering of actors or singers or photographers. Niggle was a shocking star-fucker on the quiet and loved to drop names, but he was also good at spotting talent, and had taken a punt on more than one hopeful penniless writer he had ended up getting drunk with at the Trat – they kept the prices deliberately low because they knew critical acclaim didn’t always mean money.
Mirabelle was just as starry but a little quieter and pricier than the Trat, tucked away down Curzon Street in Mayfair. She gave her coat to the maître d’ and checked herself in her compact, feeling nervous. She had come here for professional advice, not a liaison, she reminded herself. Yet when she saw Terence Miller already at the table she felt such a burning curiosity and fascination, she had to stop and gather her thoughts. It had seemed such a good idea when she’d been standing in the telephone box, but now it seemed like madness. What on earth was she expecting to come of it? She felt foolish and impulsive but it was too late now, because he had seen her. He didn’t wave or stand up. There was just the merest flicker of recognition with no smile. His face was carved from granite.
She was going to make an idiot of herself.
Then she remembered: he had written to her. He had invited her to lunch. Which must mean he wanted to see her, surely? He had made the first move.
The maître d’ escorted her over to the table and pulled out her chair. All the other customers were far too busy perusing their menus or knocking back their drinks to notice her. Terence stood up, a glass in one hand, until she had settled herself, then sat down.
‘Hello. Good journey?’
‘Uneventful. I didn’t see any murders out of the window. No mysterious handsome strangers sat in my carriage.’
‘How was your meeting?’
She remembered she’d told him she had a meeting. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Fine. Just a catch up with my editor.’
She took out a cigarette, which he lit for her. She inhaled deeply. Nervous. Come on, Margot. You’re not frightened of anyone.
‘So. You eat your words, then?’ she ventured. ‘Not such a load of old rubbish after all?’
‘Enjoyable rubbish,’ he corrected her.
‘Cheek!’
A black-jacketed waiter came to take her drink order. She asked for a whisky and soda. That might make her feel less . . . awestruck. She realised she was a little in awe of Terence. Not his intellect. She wasn’t intimidated by his intellect. It was his assuredness. His self-control. His . . . almost disinterest in her. He couldn’t be totally disinterested, or why write to her? Yet he seemed profoundly unmoved by her presence. Most men were transfixed. It was a new experience.
She opened the menu. The last thing she wanted was food.
‘You sounded a little overwrought when you phoned.’
She looked up. Those eyes. She’d forgotten those eyes. If she was putting them in one of her books, she would call them silver. She wondered what he would do if she told him that. Laugh, probably.
She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I just can’t write at the moment. I just can’t do it. I stare at the paper in my typewriter and it’s as if my mind is empty. I feel as if I’ve used up all the words I know.’
He seemed intrigued by her predicament. ‘I don’t have the luxury of writer’s block. I have a huge team of people waiting for me to deliver.’
She raised her eyebrows. How arrogant he sounded.
He softened, realising his tone was inappropriate.
‘I just feel the pressure, that’s all. You know all those names at the end of a film? They all rely on me to turn it in before they can get paid.’
‘Well, I have people waiting too. Hundreds of thousands of readers. Obviously they won’t starve if I don’t deliver . . .’
If she was a little spiky, it’s because he deserved it. He laughed, knowing that he did.
‘I’ve never had writer’s block. My problem is knowing when to stop.’
‘Maybe I could steal some words from you?’
‘Help yourself. But I don’t think they’d fit very well.’
‘Oh, you mean they’re too long?’
‘Don’t be so touchy. No. I mean they’re not very descriptive. I really only write dialogue. It’s very different from writing a book, writing a script. You have to leave as much as you can out. You have to leave room for everyone else. The actors and so on.’
‘Oh.’
‘Whereas you have to paint pictures with your words.’
‘I suppose so, although I do like my readers to use their imagination a bit. I can’t do it all for them. Have you ever thought about writing a book?’
‘Christ, I wouldn’t have a clue where to start. I know where I am with a script. Ninety minutes maximum. You’ve usually got a tight budget, so that limits what you can do. And you have to keep to a certain amount of characters. Every time you put in a new character it costs money, so you have to make sure they are worth it.’
‘I suppose I’ve never thought about it.’
‘Whereas with a book – the world is your oyster. You can even go to the moon if you want and no one is going to shout at you.’
‘I think my editor might shout if I put the moon in. I am very definitely not science fiction.’ She took another sip of her drink. ‘Well, I’m not anything at the moment, strictly speaking.’
He tutted. ‘I think writer’s block is an indulgence.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Oh?’
‘I mean, no other profession has it. You don’t get dentists going I simply can’t pull this tooth. Or a builder saying he can’t lay a brick.’
Margot had to laugh. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘I am right.’ He was buttering a roll, and he pointed his knife at her. ‘Just get on with it. There’s no getting out of it, so you might as well.’
Margot felt peeved. She hadn’t come here for a lecture. She’d come here for sympathy, or some sort of magical answer that she thought he might pull out of a hat. She hadn’t expected to be spoken to like a schoolgirl dragging her feet over an English essay. She felt silly and foolish.
In her head, he had sympathised, and they had gone to the Beachcomber at the May Fair Hotel for consoling martinis and drowned their sorrows . . .
She felt a flutter of panic. She had somehow thought he might provide her with the answer. Telling her to get on with it was no use at all. She’d told herself that hundreds of times. She thought about the pile of envelopes Sally kept giving her and she felt sick. She still hadn’t opened them. Well, she’d opened one and shoved it straight in the kitchen drawer. The rest she just piled up in her office.
The food came, but Margot barely touched her fish. There was a very nice bottle of white wine, so she drank two glasses very quickly to squash down her misgivings. She was just starting to relax, falling into that blurry comforting lunchtime drinking place, and to feel less intimidated. She put her elbow on the table and her head in her hand.
Terence leaned forward. Her heart pounded a little and she smiled up at him. It was a classic Margot move.
‘Do you want a sweet?’ he asked. ‘Or coffee? Or brandy?’
‘No. Thank you. I’m happy just to finish my wine.’
She picked up her glass, then frowned as Terence did a pen-signing signal to the waiter, asking for the bill.
‘Do you have to go?’
‘I’m afraid I do. I’m going to the theatre tonight, and I need to do some more work.’
Don’t go, she wanted to plead. The script will wait.
‘Oh.’ She felt desperately disappointed. Just as she felt relaxed enoug
h to start asking him more questions about himself . . . Oh dear – was he bored? He looked like the kind of man who had a low boredom threshold. Perhaps she should have been more forward? She had been unusually reserved at lunch. She hadn’t flirted or teased once.
She leaned forwards, her voice low. ‘It’s been a lovely lunch. We must do it again. I usually stay at Brown’s. They have an excellent dining room.’
The waiter arrived with the bill, which he signed.
‘So I believe,’ he said, but he didn’t indicate if he had registered her meaning or wanted to take her up on her offer.
He stood up and held out his hand for her to shake. As if it had been a business meeting.
‘Don’t ever be afraid of your words,’ he said. ‘They are your gift to other people.’
And he left the table.
Margot stared after him. She felt dazed. No man had ever shut her out like that. Usually by now she would be getting improper suggestions, which she invariably turned down. She wasn’t interested in anything more than a little light flirtation, which for her was an art form; almost a sport. She didn’t know how not to flirt. But having met someone who seemed totally immune to her charms, she was intrigued. She felt a combination of indignation – nobody wasn’t interested in Margot Willoughby.
‘Everything all right, madam? Would you like some water?’ The waiter was looking at her, concerned, and she realised she must look a little peculiar.
‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ She dismissed him and looked at her watch. It was only twenty past two. Their lunch had barely lasted an hour. She might as well go back to Paddington and get the train home. She didn’t have the heart for shopping, and she definitely didn’t want to pop in on Niggle or her editor, Fanny. They would only ask about the book.
The book that didn’t even exist.
25
1967
After she had been at Hunter’s Moon a month, Margot told Sally that she absolutely had to have the weekend off.
‘But everyone still needs to eat!’ protested Sally.
‘But everyone needs a rest. Even you.’
‘I think you should come with me and Phoebe to see The Lucky Charms,’ said Alexander. ‘I’ve managed to get them a slot at the Milk Bar in Soho. Every Saturday for the next two months. Tonight’s the first one.’
‘Can I come? Please?’ demanded Annie. ‘It will give me something to talk about at school.’
Margot, in a fit of parental responsibility, said Annie couldn’t go unless Sally went.
‘I don’t trust you two.’
‘Oh great. You don’t trust your own children,’ grumbled Phoebe.
‘No. I don’t,’ said Margot. ‘And I know Annie. She won’t manage. She’ll get there and she’ll want to go home.’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Well, I’d love to go,’ said Sally. ‘And I don’t mind looking after you. It’ll probably be me who wants to go home.’
Phoebe looked at her. ‘Do you want to choose something to wear?’
‘Could I?’
‘Of course!’
Sally went into the dining room and spent an hour trying on dresses and trouser suits and tunics and skirts all under Phoebe’s critical eye. Phoebe wouldn’t rest until Sally looked as if she had walked off the pages of a magazine. In the end, they settled on a burgundy paisley dress worn with a feather boa and a floppy felt hat.
‘You look the bee’s knees,’ said Phoebe.
Her brothers wouldn’t recognise her, thought Sally, gleeful. She’d always made an effort to look nice when she went out, but life with the Willoughbys was something else. Her boring old skirts and jumpers just wouldn’t do.
‘How much do I owe you?’ she asked, but Phoebe waved her query away.
‘If anyone asks, just tell them you’ve been dressed by Phoebe. I need to get my name out there. You can be my walking advert.’
Sally made a face. ‘Really?’
She couldn’t get to grips with this family. They were so kind and generous. Yet maddening.
They all set off for London in the Mini.
‘Are we staying up in town?’ asked Phoebe. ‘It’ll be too late to drive home.’
‘We can say with D,’ said Alexander. ‘Her flatmates have all gone away for the weekend so there’s plenty of room.’
‘I thought you had broken up with her?’
‘Yes. But you know. We’re still friends.’
‘Because she’s got a big flat?’
‘Because if I didn’t stay with her she would go bananas.’
‘You’re using her, Beetle.’
‘We’ve been friends since we were thirteen. I can’t just banish her.’
‘She won’t get the message unless you cool it.’
‘Well, where else are we going to stay? The four of us?’
‘You’re asking for trouble.’ Phoebe sighed. ‘She drives me mad.’
‘Well, me too.’
‘She goes into Biba every Saturday and buys up everything she can because her father gives her handfuls of money instead of love. And she looks awful in all of it.’
‘Now that’s not fair.’
‘She hasn’t got a clue about fashion.’
‘That doesn’t make her a bad person,’ said Annie. ‘I haven’t got a clue either.’ Annie was in jeans and a jumper, with no nod to fashion.
‘Yes, but you don’t swan around as if you’re Jean Shrimpton when actually you look like the back of a bus.’
‘Phoebe!’ This was an insult too far for Alexander. ‘You’re just annoyed because you offered to make her an outfit for that wedding and she refused.’
‘Yes. How rude. I could have made her look less like a galumphing heffalump, but that’s fine. It’s her prerogative.’
Phoebe looked out of the window, huffy. Annie giggled.
‘I bet you can’t wait to meet her, Sally.’
‘D’s all right. Her heart is in the right place,’ said Alexander. ‘But she does like to be the centre of attention and have things her way.’
‘She’s a spoilt cow,’ said Phoebe.
‘Phoebe! Enough.’
‘Oh, so I’m not supposed to care if my brother’s saddled with—’
‘Enough!’
Sally couldn’t help smiling. She loved their crazy arguing and the insults and the fact they all cared so very deeply for each other but pretended not to. She felt a bit sorry for the girl they were talking about. It made her remember the exchange in the café, the first day she had arrived. Hilly? Had that been the woman’s name? It reminded her of Margot’s warning, not to let Alexander break her heart. She had no intention of letting him do so. She very obviously wasn’t his type. He went for sophisticated older women or rich girls. But she did love his company and was really pleased to have been asked to see the band. She had never seen a proper band, only awful amateur ones at the tennis club.
It was dark by the time they hit London, which was crammed with buses, taxis, scooters and cars, all hell bent on getting wherever they were going quicker than the next person. The pavements were crowded with people on a Saturday night out – going out for dinner or a drink or dancing or just soaking up the atmosphere. They passed Harrods, its windows all lit up.
‘My clothes will be in there one day,’ swore Phoebe.
They swooped around Hyde Park corner and up Piccadilly. Sally realised they weren’t far from the Kitten Club, which was tucked away in a street off Park Lane, and she thought – how strange. It seems like a lifetime ago but it’s only a month.
Piccadilly Circus was blazing with light, reigned over by a huge sign advertising Coca Cola.
Alexander drove three times around Eros, beeping his horn.
‘Welcome to Swinging London, Sal!!’
Sally didn’t think she had ever been happier as they zoomed up Regent Street.
‘I hope those boys are ready. Last time I had to drag them out of a boozer on Carnaby Street.’ He plunged off the main road and into the network
of streets that was Soho, turning right left right left until he pulled up outside a murky looking nightclub with hundreds of posters stuck up on the walls outside.
‘Here we are. The infamous Milk Bar. Because they serve anything but. Hold on to your hats, girls. And your knickers.’ He jumped out of the car. There were already crowds of youngsters queueing up to get in, but Alexander barged his way to the front, gesturing to the girls to follow.
‘Oi! Don’t jump the queue,’ said a feisty girl with a fetching beehive.
‘We’re management,’ said Alexander, and the door was opened and they were ushered inside and plunged down into the basement.
It was the hottest, sweatiest, smokiest, noisiest place Sally had ever been. She loved it. There was loud music playing, and no one was standing still. They were either dancing or talking and laughing and everyone was drinking and smoking. She saw people looking them up and down as Alexander lead them over to a table – the girls to check out the competition and the boys to see what was on offer. Everyone looked so self-assured and up to the minute, but she felt confident in her outfit. Phoebe was clever. She knew exactly what suited.
Phoebe glided through the crowds like royalty. She was strikingly monochromatic, in a black tunic with black-and-white striped sleeves and white kinky boots, offset by her pale face and ridiculously long false eyelashes. Annie trailed behind her, clapping her hands over her ears. They arrived at a table at the back of the club where a very tall girl was drumming her nails on the table, looking annoyed.
‘This is Diana,’ said Alexander with a look that said I know everything we said about her makes her sound awful but please be nice.
Sally said hello. Diana looked her up and down and gave a tight smile. Phoebe was right. Diana might be dressed in the height of fashion, in a very short yellow dress with a chain around her waist, but she looked awkward. She was tall and loud and bossy, dictating where everyone should sit and what everyone should drink.
The Forever House: A feel-good summer page-turner Page 19
