A Vision of Loveliness (23 page)

At about half four the porter, still running very smoothly on his nice crisp fiver, called up to say that Mr Swan’s driver had arrived and the girls hurriedly slipped on kimonos and unpacked the tea chests as fast as they were brought up, filling the empty cupboard shelves. The dress rail wouldn’t fit in the goods lift so Henry’s Bill and his boy, a well-built lad of nineteen, had to bring the frocks up in silky, scented armfuls and hang them straight into Suzy’s wardrobe. Jane’s cupboard had far less in it but Larry Green’s cherry-velvet down payment and her two Hardy Amies numbers looked well and Glenda’s shoes filled the racks that ran along the floor. There was even a red satin pair to match the frock.

Henry’s driver didn’t know what to make of it all: the clothes, the slum, the smart flat: didn’t make sense. But Suzy was one step ahead of him, unravelling a whole string of chatty little lies just so that some van driver wouldn’t think badly of her.

‘Thank you so much. They seem to have taken care of everything. I was a bit worried. Where did you have to pick it all up from in the end?’

So that was it. Not her flat at all. Of course it wasn’t.

‘Some dirty little place north of Oxford Street, miss. Filthy it was. Stank of damp.’

Suzy pretended to inspect the hem of a lavender lace evening gown.

‘Oh well, no harm done. I expect they were only there over the weekend. My old lease in Bryanston Square ended at New Year so we’ve been staying down in the country while my maid found somewhere to store all our things.’

She romanced on for a bit then gave Bill a pound and Bill’s boy ten bob. Bill’s boy could hardly wait to get home and unpack the memory of Jane and her loosely wrapped kimono leaning over a tea chest.

The phone rang.

‘Mayfair 3515.’ You could hear the excitement in her voice. Like a little girl showing off. ‘Oh hello, Annie darling. That was quick. Lorna must have clocked off early. Yes we’re both very well. Now then. How do you fancy that little cleaning job we talked about? Good. Well why don’t you hop on a bus and get down to Massingham House. It’s right behind the Dorchester. I
know
, darling. Posh or what? Anyway hurry on over and then you can see how you feel about it. There’s a service entrance round the side. Number Fifty-two.’ Service entrance. Swank.

In the time it took her to pull on her bootees and her old tweed coat and hop on to a number 73 Annie had arrived at the flat.

‘Nice and warm in here. Fitted carpet. Silk, them curtains. Pure silk.’

She had wriggled into her smart navy-blue uniform before you could say three bob an hour, then she walked through the flat stroking everything.

‘You look the business, Annie my love. Like a maid in a play. You couldn’t be an angel and make sense of those shelves for me, could you?’

Annie amused herself by going through all the cupboards, folding Suzy’s sweaters into little private rainbows and stacking them neatly in the shiny blond wood pigeonholes. Then she got to work on Suzy’s frocks, grading them from the grandest ball gowns down to the mildest After Six. She’d already rinsed out their discarded stockings and hung them on the rail when the doorbell rang.

‘Mr Thomson, madam,’ said Annie, good as gold, then went back to building naughty little nests of bras and girdles in the white and gold chest of drawers.

Terry was not as impressed as Suzy hoped he would be.

‘I’ve been up this gaff before, you know. Two toilets: one pink; one blue – that right? Yeah. Definitely been here before. Two blonde birds used to live here. Soft perm. Roots done once a fortnight. Very groovy pad. Nice little business by the look of it. Much more your style. Better than that shit hole in Oxford Street.’

Annie, who had been rootling through the kitchen cupboards, suddenly appeared carrying a jug of dry martinis and three glasses. Turned out she’d been a cocktail waitress at the Embassy Club in about 1927.

‘I can’t afford for you to be here all the time, Annie darling. I was only thinking of a few hours’ cleaning – you know what a slut I am.’

‘You pay me what you was going to pay me and I’ll keep me own time, Suzy darling. I’d only be stuck in that freezing rotten flat listening to the wireless. I might just as well be here in the warm looking after all your little bits. I’ll bring a pint of silver top when I come in of a morning. Make you a nice cup of tea.’

Once Terry had done their hair Suzy insisted on moving one of the bedroom easy chairs into the kitchen so that Annie could sit and listen to the radio in comfort. Then she began to get ready for a grateful evening with Henry Swan.

She’d chosen a dress of strapless crimson lace that came with its own built-in waspie, another present from the gentlemanly Mr Green. You could tell by the cut (another straight steal from Givenchy).

The phone rang. It was Lorna to say that she had given the new address and phone number to Johnny Whatsisname and to confirm that he would be picking Jane up at eight. Lorna was already sounding cheesed off with the answering-service lark.

‘That Canadian pest rang for Suzy again. I told him to fuck off.’ Which seemed quite a good idea, really. Why faff about with the South African accents when you could just tell it to them straight? Probably because Suzy never really liked to let go of a nice little meal ticket for those hungry Sunday nights.

Henry had already arrived by the time Jane had finished creaming the hair from her legs and armpits, buffing her fingernails, shaping her lips, plucking and pencilling her brows, lining her eyes, curling her lashes, rouging her cheeks, scenting her neck, powdering her nose and polishing her bloody elbows –
Are you armadillo-elbowed?
She carefully clipped her stockings to her suspender belt then pulled on a tiny pair of black lace panties that she’d found in one of the drawers. Brand new. Still had the label on.

The phone rang again. Some man wanting Jeanette or, failing that, was Bettina available? That was Mayfair 3515, wasn’t it? He said the number as if he were reading it – off a book of matches maybe. Jane took a tip from Lorna’s book and then hung up the cream and gold receiver before he could think of a reply.

She was nearly ready but the densely boned bodice of the cherry velvet was definitely a two-man zipper. She held the back together and went to find Suzy who was sitting on Henry’s knee in one of the big white armchairs telling him a dirty joke about the three daughters of a bishop. Jane stuck her head round the door.

‘Sorry to bother you, Suzy, but do you think you could zip me up?’

Henry followed Suzy into the hall and watched the dress close over the soft white skin. Suzy stepped back and he stood behind her, watching Jane’s reflection in one of the big gold mirrors. His hand suddenly slid down the front of Suzy’s frock but his eyes were on Jane as he did it. Suzy giggled at the picture they made: the dark-suited man and his two scarlet women, like a Sexton Blake cover. Jane flushed and turned away. What was he after? The bell rang and the other two retreated back to their armchair as Jane opened the door to Johnny Hullavington.

‘Good evening.’ Clever, the way he managed to make it sound surprised and delighted. He didn’t have to tell her how nice she looked: just the tone of his voice was a compliment. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek hello but she turned her face towards him, put her arms around his neck and surprised him with a big fat kiss on the lips. She could hardly breathe in that tight, red dress. ‘Good
evening
.’

Jane slipped back into her room to get her bag and Glenda’s Furleen and to step out of the black lace panties. He’d never know – but she would.

Once downstairs he opened the car door for her and waited while she tucked the fat skirts of her frock out of harm’s way. It was a very smart car with its own radio and a wooden panel covered in knobs and buttons. She had to remind herself not to gawp at all the fittings, to look as if handsome thirtysomething gents took her dancing every night of the week. She ought to say something. The books said to make small talk –
bore him and he will soon look elsewhere
– but it was easier said than done. The good-listener bit would have been a breeze but he wasn’t actually saying anything. What would he like her to say? Funny stories? She didn’t think he’d go for the elephant’s foreskin story somehow. Suddenly it came to her.

‘
Do try to make entertaining conversation. Men like a girl who can keep them amused and will dump a girl who doesn’t.
’

He seemed startled, but intrigued.

‘There’s a whole book full of it:
Best Behaviour
, it’s called. There was a copy on one of the bookshelves in the flat.
Never commit the cardinal sin of boring your man. Learn to charm him
. Do you think a person can actually learn charm? Like French or basket-weaving?’

They had stopped at the traffic lights at the bottom of Curzon Street.

‘No. I think you’re absolutely right. There are some things that can’t be taught. What an astonishing girl you are.’

He reached across and squeezed her hand.

There was a group of girls waiting for a 137 on Park Lane and they looked up as the car passed and Jane could almost hear the envious little thoughts being broadcast from that chilly wet bus stop as a better-looking, better-dressed, better-spoken girl glided by. Acting the part, she turned to smile at Johnny and almost squirmed with pride at the sight of his handsome profile caught in a passing headlight. Like a drawing of a boyfriend.

Part Two

Chapter 18

In surrendering herself outside marriage,
a woman sacrifices
inner
status
.

Madge had pitched up at Carpenter’s just in time for the next round: a bottle of light ale; a brandy and soda; gin and French for Sylvia; gin and tonic for Janey; a double Scotch and water for Reggie (as long as someone else was paying) and three double gins with orange for Madge who’d missed nearly an hour’s drinking time and wanted to catch up. Ted the barman lined them up tidily in front of her then neatly clammed a fresh ashtray over the full one.

Madge had spent the best part of the missing hour fighting for mirror space in the ladies’ powder room of the Café Royal, making good with Pan-stick and eye pencil after a day’s work in a fur showroom off Bond Street somewhere where she was part saleslady, part house model. She was tall and very skinny (thanks to a special diet of Camp coffee, Granny Smiths and gin) and well-groomed enough to show off the skins. Although she hadn’t ever been particularly pretty, she looked so much classier, so much
happier
once she was safely wrapped up in a full-length ranch mink with dolman sleeve and half belt that she turned out to be surprisingly good for business.

Madge had grown up just outside Aldershot and her first pair of high heels – stolen from her big sister when she was sixteen – had carried her up the hill to her first army dance, her first glass of gin and the first in a long line of stupid, randy men who didn’t care if she lived or died provided she came across. At least Reggie paid the electricity bill for the grotty ‘open plan’ bedsit in Clapham that she shared with her Mario Lanza records and a pair of blue Persian cats (Bezique and Canasta). Reggie even paid the vet’s bill once. Suzy said that Madge ought to come to some sort of arrangement with that vet. Cut out the middle man.

The thick peachy paint on Madge’s cheeks cracked slightly as she smiled her thanks for the drinks. Alpaca Pete gallantly slid off his stool and she hoicked herself up on to it, wincing as the top of her high-waist girdle rolled over and wedged itself into her ribs.

Pete was in the middle of a very rude joke.

‘So. The eager young bridegroom says, “Don’t worry, my angel. Hubby doesn’t mind if you make naughty noises in your knickers.” Well, anyway, next morning after a night of mad, passionate love – close your ears, Janey my darling – his lovely young bride tiptoes across the honeymoon suite to the bathroom and she goes and farts again: “That’s right! Stink the fucking place out!” ’

Madge, already knocked for six by the three double gins, practically fell off her stool laughing.
You should find his funny stories extremely amusing
. Only it wasn’t amusing. Jane wasn’t laughing although she would have photographed that way: head thrown back, Suzy-style, to show those lovely white teeth. What was funny about it? Poor cow, stuck for life with a pig like that. Doreen always said a man wouldn’t respect you if you let him take ‘liberties’. All the books said the same. Doreen never went into details about these stolen liberties but the pickled-onion look on her face suggested terrible ordeals from the inside pages of the
News of the World
:
hands over stocking tops; interfered with; consenting party; intent to ravish; intimacy took place; the flogging you so richly deserve
.

Jane’s stocking tops had been strictly off limits (for Johnny anyway). Johnny might be a textbook boyfriend but men were men all the world over. Jane had an idea he had a woman in Streatham he went to (which would explain him killing time in the Locarno that night). He knew South London surprisingly well for someone who lived in Gloucester Road. What was the exchange rate south of the river? Fur? And if so, which sort? Squirrel if you were lucky.