“Jeremy!” said Charles. “Come and join us. Eliza, I don’t think you’ve met Jeremy. Jeremy Northcott. We were out in Hong Kong together. Jeremy, this is my sister, Eliza.”
“Hallo,” said Eliza, smiling just a little coolly while digesting this Adonis: tall, blond, absurdly good-looking, the patrician nose and chiselled jaw saved from cliché by a slightly lopsided grin, showing, of course, perfect teeth.
“Hallo to you,” said Jeremy, and sat down abruptly next to her. “I think we met a couple of times at Eton, Fourth of June and so on. And I was at the Harlots’ Ball the year you came out, but I didn’t manage to dance with you—too much competition.”
Eliza giggled. “Well, maybe we could put it right some other time.”
“That’d be marvellous.”
He smiled at her again; he really was knee-shakingly attractive.
“Well, what have you been doing with yourself, you old bugger?” asked Charles. “Where are you living now?”
“In a flat I kind of inherited in Sloane Street,” said Jeremy.
“Lucky you,” said Charles. “That’s the sort of inheritance I’d like.”
“What are you doing then, Charles? Working in the city, I heard?”
“That’s right, with a firm of stockbrokers. Not a bad life. How about you?”
“I’m working in advertising,” said Jeremy. “Terrific fun. Firm called K Parker Dutton, KPD for short. Don’t know if you’ve heard of it?”
“I certainly have,” said Eliza, smiling at him. “It sounds like complete heaven to me. Is it true you all have your own offices complete with sofas and fridges?”
“Absolutely true.”
“You on your own, Jeremy?” said Charles. “You’re very welcome to join us.”
“No, sorry, whole crowd of us. I must get back in a tick.”
“We must arrange an evening,” said Charles. “Been to the Saddle Room yet?”
“Yes, I’m a member. Great idea. So what are you up to, Eliza? Working girl?”
“Is she ever,” said Charles. “You’re looking at a bona fide career woman, Jeremy. Eliza works in fashion.”
“Really? Are you a model?”
“No,” said Eliza, not sure whether to be flattered because he should think that possible, or irritated that he should think modelling a career. “No, I work for Woolfe’s department store in Knightsbridge. I do the publicity.”
“Oh, I know Woolfe’s. Great store. Publicity, eh? I know what that means: taking all the fashion editors out to lunch?”
“Well, that’s only a very small part of the job,” said Eliza, “but yes, that is one of the perks. And telling them about everything in the store, hoping they’ll write about it. And then making sure—”
“Steady on, Eliza,” said Charles. “Jeremy’s supposed to be enjoying himself; he doesn’t want a lecture on the PR industry.”
“No, no,” said Jeremy, “it’s my line of country, you know. Look, I must get back. Let’s have lunch soon, Charles. Here’s my card; give me a ring. And I’ll fix that evening at the Saddle Room. Lovely to meet you, Eliza. Bye for now.”
And he unwound his considerable height from the sofa and made his way back across the room.
“He seems very nice,” said Eliza.
“I knew you’d like him,” said Charles rather complacently, “and he’s fearsomely rich. Now, if you married him that would solve all our problems. Summercourt included.”
“Charles!” exclaimed Eliza, hurling a packet of cigarettes at him. “I said he was very nice, not that I wanted to marry him. Please stop going on about it. I am just not interested in getting married at the moment; I’m only interested in my career, OK?”
“OK,” said Charles.
“Scarlett, could I possibly go up the front on the way back?”
“OK. As long as Brian agrees.”
Brian was one of the stewards on their flight; it was the stewards who decided which girls did economy (“down the back,” as it was known) and which first (“up the front”). The posher a girl, the more likely she was to be sent down the back; it was the totties who got given first class, a cushier number, because they were more likely to reward the stewards—those who weren’t homosexual, at least—by sleeping with them. No really classy girl would dream of sleeping with the stewards. Scarlett was seldom up the front because she wouldn’t have dreamed of sleeping with them either. She’d actually hoped to be there this trip, for a treat; it was from Vienna, almost four hours, but Diana was looking dreadful.
“Why, what’s wrong?” she said.
“Oh, I’ve got the curse, feel awful. Now at least I’ll be able to sit down occasionally.”
“Course. I’m sorry.” Scarlett looked at her sympathetically. Diana had terrible period pains and was quite often actually sick. “You go and lie down for half an hour. They’re boarding late; I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Got any codeine?”
“I think there’s some in first aid. Thanks, Scarlett.”
But when it was time to board, Diana was vomiting and dizzy; the captain sent her back to the sick bay.
“You can’t fly like that. No use to anyone. Don’t worry; we’ll manage.”
The flight was only half-full. “This’ll be a piece of cake,” said Scarlett cheerfully to Brian.
“Don’t be too sure. Lot of turbulence forecast.”
The turbulence was a while coming; Scarlett began to hope it had been a mistake. She had enough to cope with without it; there was a difficult meal to serve—beef on the bone, carved in the aisle, and almost every passenger on the plane wanted theirs rare—an extremely tiresome child insisted on walking up and down the aisle behind her, and an American woman called Mrs. Berenson was intensely nervous and clutched at Scarlett every time she went past, asking how they were doing, whether there was any turbulence ahead, when they might land, was there a doctor on board.
“I have dreadfully high blood pressure, you see; I could need sedation if there were any difficulties. Oh, dear God, what was that?”
The plane had dropped slightly; it shook a little and then steadied.
The captain’s voice came over the intercom.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we may be about to experience a little turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts.”
“Oh, my God,” moaned Mrs. Berenson. “Oh, God, what shall I do?”
“Nothing,” said Scarlett gently, “just do up your seat belt and sit tight. You’re perfectly safe.”
She stayed with her for a moment, and then worked her way round the cabin, reassuring, smiling, plumping pillows, fastening belts. She could feel the plane beginning to shudder.
The child was still running behind her, giggling. “I’m sorry,” said Scarlett as politely as she could to her mother, “but I really must ask you to get your girl strapped into her seat.”
“But she’s enjoying herself so much,” said the woman.
“She won’t enjoy herself getting thrown round the cabin,” Scarlett said coolly. “Please do what I ask; it’s important.”
A wail went up from Mrs. Berenson; Scarlett hurried to her.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Berenson. Really. You’ll be fine. Here, have a sip of water.”
The tail seemed to swing round slightly and Mrs. Berenson wailed again. Such panic was infectious; other passengers were turning to stare at her nervously.
“I’ll sit with her,” Scarlett said quietly to Brian, who was behind her. “Otherwise they’ll all start screaming.”
“All right, darling. Rather you than me. She’s the color of a billiard table.”
Scarlett settled herself in the window seat.
“Here,” she said, “hold my hand. You’re going to be fine.”
“I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Berenson. Her voice was lower now, her teeth chattering. She had a very pretty, Southern belle–type accent; she was very pretty altogether, Scarlett noticed: honey blond, with fine, fair, slightly freckled sk
in and wonderful green eyes. She was far from young, probably about sixty, but slim and beautifully dressed, in a cream silk shirt and camel skirt. “We’re going to crash, aren’t we?”
“No, we’re not. The captain says it’s fine, just a bit of bad weather. Honestly, in about ten minutes it’ll be over. Deep breaths, that’s right. Now why don’t you tell me where you’re from, why you’re coming to England. I do love to know more about passengers, and we never usually get the chance. Do you have family here?”
Clinging to Scarlett’s hand, Mrs. Berenson began to talk and became calmer, telling her where she lived (Charleston, South Carolina), where she was going (London, to visit an elderly aunt), why she’d been in Vienna (to stay with a friend and visit the opera house for “the most wonderful Magic Flute”), about her three sons, all of whom were extremely good-looking, she said (and what mother didn’t claim that for her sons, Scarlett wondered, smiling at her).
The turbulence ended as suddenly as it had begun, and the plane became completely steady. Scarlett unbuckled her belt.
“I’d love to hear more, Mrs. Berenson. But I have lots to do now. Excuse me, won’t you?”
“Of course, my dear. How kind you’ve been. Thank you.”
“It was truly a pleasure.”
They reached London two hours later; the plane landed smoothly and everyone stood up, chattering, the trauma quite forgotten. Scarlett stood at the top of the steps, smiling sweetly at everyone, and accepted Mrs. Berenson’s thanks and a promise to look out for her in future, and a kiss from the tiresome child.
Young Generation had been open for nearly a year now, and was acknowledged by everyone who mattered as a huge success. The press said so, giving it rave reviews from day one (the Evening Standard had described the opening party as “an explosion of color and music and style”) and continuing to feature it and its merchandise on a most satisfyingly regular basis, and the customers said so by flocking to it, day after day.
The party had been attended by everyone who mattered in fashion: Anne Trehearne of Queen, Ernestine Carter of the Sunday Times, Felicity Green of the Mirror, and Shirley Conran, creator of the new “Femail” section in the Daily Mail; the fashion photographer and rising star David Bailey, with his friends Terence Donovan and Norman Eales, as well as the more establishment crowd: John French and Henry Clarke; and the models, Jean Shrimpton, Pagan Grigg, Grace Coddington, and every man’s dream of a girl, blue-eyed blonde Celia Hammond.
And then there had been the designers—who would have thought Mary Quant would attend, never mind John Bates, Jean Muir, and the new names such as Maddy Brown, who (to quote the Standard again) “has done the impossible and made knitting sexy.”
Eliza had thought it would be hard settling down after the excitement of the launch, but in fact she simply found herself caught up in an ever-increasing whirlwind timetable of shows, photographic shoots, press releases, and the more mundane but possibly most important task of all, seeing to the nitty-gritty: getting clothes over to the offices of the fashion editors, making sure that Queen and Vogue—for instance—weren’t featuring the same dress, checking prices, suggesting and then rounding up accessories to accompany the clothes that the journalists called in.
It was hectic, exhausting, and absolutely wonderful. What romantic liaison could possibly compete with that?
“You all right, young Matthew?” said Mr. Barlow.
“Yes, fine, thanks.”
It wasn’t true; he had a terrible toothache.
“Good. You don’t look it. Anyway, come in; I’ve got some news for you.”
Matt followed him into his office.
“You’ve done well, lad. Very well. So I’m promoting you, Matt. Making you up to negotiator. And there’ll be a raise too. How would twelve pounds a week sound to you?”
“Pretty good,” said Matt, “but not as good as thirteen.”
“Maybe not. I didn’t say thirteen, though.”
“I know that, Mr. Barlow. But I reckon it’s what I’m worth. From what I’ve heard.”
Mr. Barlow looked at him almost severely. “You’ve got a cheek. But you could be right. How about twelve pounds, ten shillings?”
“Done. Thank you very much, Mr. Barlow.”
Matt went into the golden September evening feeling very happy. He was getting there. Next move would be getting his own agency. In a year or two. He had the energy, and he’d have some clients. He’d have no compunction about taking them away from Barlow and Stein. They’d have had fantastic value out of him; it would be time to get some out of them. Matt felt very bullish suddenly. Taking on the world.
And it was a good evening for his promotion to have happened. Charles had arranged a reunion with Happy and Nobby Tucker as well. He could tell them all about it, really hold up his head as a successful man of the world.
Matt had suggested they meet at the Salisbury in St. Martin’s Lane at seven.
“Great,” said Charles, “and then we might go out for Chinese after that if we’re hungry.”
Chinese was a new phenomenon in London; everyone was tucking into spring rolls and sweet-and-sour pork.
Matt was the last to arrive; the others were sitting at a table in the corner. Charles waved him over.
“Got a beer for you.”
“Thanks, Chas.” He sat down, raised his glass. “Cheers! Here’s to us then, good memories and all that. Thanks for organising it, Chas.”
“Yes, thanks, Chas,” said Happy.
He looked just as Matt remembered him, with his seemingly permanent smile, but Nobby was quiet.
“What’s up then, mate?” said Matt, wincing as a potato crisp bit into his tender tooth.
“He’s a condemned man,” said Happy, “got to get married and all. Couple of weeks, isn’t it, Nobby?”
Nobby nodded and sighed heavily.
“Go on. You never are. What on earth for?” asked Matt.
“He got a girl in the club, didn’t he?” said Happy. “Silly bastard.”
“Crikey,” said Matt, “you poor bugger.” Married and a father at twenty-two. Life ended before it had properly begun. “God, bad luck, mate. Where you going to live, then?”
“With me mother-in-law,” said Nobby. “Honestly, wish I’d bought it out in Cyprus now. Be better’n this.”
“Well, look on the bright side,” said Charles slightly desperately. “It’ll be jolly nice to have a kid, won’t it? To play football with and … and that sort of thing.”
“Yeah, s’pose so. Might be a girl, though. Then what’d I do?”
There was a silence: Charles suggested another round.
Nobby looked at his watch.
“I’d best go,” he said. “Janice said I had to be home by nine; she said she didn’t know what she was doing letting me out at all when she was feeling so rough. Nice to see you all. Thanks for organising it, Chas.”
He shambled out across the bar; the others looked at one another.
“Poor bugger,” said Charles, “what rotten luck.”
An hour later the party broke up. Nobby’s ill fortune had depressed them all. Matt hadn’t liked to talk about his promotion; it seemed tactless. Happy walked away from them towards Trafalgar Square; Charles asked Matt if he’d like a bite to eat.
“Not sure,” said Matt. “Got a bit of a toothache.”
“Oh, come on. Take an aspirin. I’ve got some—here you are. Chinese’d be nice and mushy; won’t do it any harm.”
They wandered towards Gerard Street and went into one of the less flashy-looking places.
“I got some good news today anyway,” Matt said, unable to keep it to himself any longer. “Got promoted. Can’t quite believe it myself.”
“That’s fantastic, Matt. Well-done. This calls for another beer. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” said Matt.
They chatted easily for a while; Matt was surprised how easily. Chas was pretty all right, he reckoned. He’d never been able to talk to any of the other tof
fs he met, in the course of his work. They were so bloody patronising. But Chas was different: he could even listen to him talking about his work on the stock exchange without wanting to throw up.
“I say, Matt, you OK?”
“Not too good,” said Matt, wincing. “Bit on me bad tooth. Bloody agony it is.”
“When are you seeing your dentist?”
“Dunno. Haven’t got one, not really.”
“You haven’t got …” Charles’s voice trailed off. “Look, you must make an appointment right away. We go to a chap in Kensington; he’s awfully good. I’ll give you his number. Mummy and Pa pay, but Eliza and I see him on the National Health. Say you’re in pain and you’ll get in tomorrow. Damn, now I can’t find his number. Stay there and I’ll go and ring Eliza. There’s a phone box right outside. Don’t drink my beer; there’s a good chap.”
It was Charles who was the good chap, Matt thought—even if he did call his mother Mummy.
Charles came back smiling.
“Here’s the number. Frobisher 7592. Mr. Cole. Now, you must go, Matt, no chickening out. Promise.”
“I promise,” said Matt. “Er—how is your sister, by the way?”
He had never forgotten Eliza that day at Waterloo Station.
“She’s absolutely fine, thanks. She’s got a fantastic job, actually. In the public relations department for Woolfe’s. Always hobnobbing with journalists, buying them lunches. Seems to be a lot of fun.”
“She’s not married then?” said Matt. It seemed important to know.
“Good lord, no. Not yet. She’s in love with her job. And she just says no man could possibly compete with that.”
“Really?” said Matt. Eliza must have met some very dull men, if that was her view.
“Yes. Anyway, you can see her for yourself. She’s at her flat, and she said we could go round.”
“Oh,” said Matt. His toothache suddenly seemed inconsequential. “But she won’t want to see me, surely.”
“She remembered you. Said she’d love it, that we’d be doing her a favor. And that she could pretend you were her boyfriend if any of the others got back.”
More Than You Know Page 5
