Bond Street Story (9 page)

And in a glass-eyed, fishy sort of way the man behind the desk tried his best to be friendly. As soon as he saw the official interview form, he pointed to the foot of a further flight of stairs. The stairs, Irene noticed, were plain concrete like the corridor. Straight up to the third floor and knock on the door, he said. The name “Supervisor” was on the outside, and it was the third floor up. Three floors, and she'd see the notice on the door. There'd be no mistaking it because it said “Supervisor” ... He went on saying
it over and over again, and then withdrew into his aquarium, gasping visibly because of all the neat oxygen that he had just been inhaling.

Suddenly there was another transformation. Irene recognized it as soon as she was shown into the Supervisor's room. This wasn't Rammell's at all. Irene was back inside the Eleanor Atkinson once more. The woman, who glanced up as soon as she came in and then ignored her after she had sat down, was like every headmistress that Irene had ever known. She might have been the last descendant of a long line of them.

The desk was rather small as desks go. And very neat. There was one little wooden cup for the paper-clips and another for the pins. In between them stood an ink-stand with red ink on one side and blue-black on the other. There was a large blotter and a small calendar.

Miss Townsend was now ready for Irene. She looked up with a smile that was perfect except that it gave the appearance of having been used too many times before. She certainly knew her job, however. There was the expertness that comes of having done exactly the same thing over and over again for years. Folding her white, very nicely manicured hands in front of her as though about to open the proceedings with a prayer, and still with that exhausted played-out smile crinkling up the corners of her eyes, she addressed Irene.

“There is one question that we laike to ask all our gairls,” she said. “What is it that made you decide on Rammell's? Hed you always plenned your laife thet way?”

And from the way Miss Townsend put the question it was obvious that nothing less than a complete nun-like sense of vocation was going to satisfy her. Irene shuddered as she remembered the row there had been in Fewkes Road to get her here at all. If she had said one word against Rammell's to Miss Townsend, the little room would probably have had to be reconsecrated.

“Well, you see,” she began. “My father's always been here. So naturally ...”

There was no need, however, for her to go on any further. By now the Staff Supervisor was fairly beaming. She was like a stained-glass window that had suddenly been lit brightly from behind. At any moment it seemed possible that the window might come round and kiss her. There wasn't even any trouble about the handwriting of the carefully copied out certificate. In her present mood Miss Townsend would have been satisfied if Irene had chipped it out in cuneiform.

“Oh I see,” she said approvingly. “We wraite a very naice, neat little hend, doan't we?”

And at the first mention of “we,” Irene wondered why there had ever been any fuss about Miss Manhattan at all. She might just as well have turned up wearing her old brown school uniform with the sup-prefect's stripe. She would have felt more at home in it.

“Now, doan't worry. You'll be hearing from us,” Miss Townsend assured her. “It may take a little taime, but thet's quaite all right. We know all about you neow.”

Irene felt that she knew all about them, too. There was no escape now. She was practically on the staff already. It had all happened just the way Mr. and Mrs. Privett had always planned it. The doors of the prison-house ...

 

A new man had just come into Marcia's life. Thrust his way right in, in fact.

There was, indeed, no other way in which he could possibly have got there. He wasn't the sort of man that Marcia would ever have admitted on her own account. Really quite unthinkable. And so common, too. Common in the bluff, hearty way that she particularly disliked in men. He had called her “sweetheart” the first time they had been introduced—at a Latin-American fashion night at Grosvenor House. She had, of course, ignored him. Had simply turned her long beautiful back, and moved slowly, undulatingly away, leaving him sitting there gaping after her.

But it had been impossible to be as cold as that the next time they met. And on the very next morning, too. Because by then he was going round arm in arm with Rammell's chief buyer, nudging him, winking at him, telling him little stories. And the chief buyer was treating him with all the indulgence that would have been shown to a visiting ambassador.

Not that Marcia at first had even recognized the man. He had been wearing tails and a white tie the last time she had seen him. And in tails every rather fattish man of about fifty looks pretty much the same. It is as much a uniform as a bus conductor's. It is only by day that these white-tie people become individuals again.

For instance, the man whose arm was now linked through the chief buyer's, was wearing a brown suit and a bow-tie. He didn't look as if he could ever have worn tails in his life. There was something remorselessly provincial about him. Something that suggested black puddings and Handel's “Messiah” sung lustily and bashed into subjection in some huge local corn exchange. Marcia had no recollection of ever having seen him before.

The barbarian, however, recognized Marcia immediately. He came forward. And he asked after her feet. His own were terrible, he said, because of all that dancing. Then finding that she did not know who he was—and the simple fact of this seemed somehow to amuse him—he introduced himself. He was Neptune Swimsuits, he explained. Also Daffette Fabrics and Medici Brassières and Red Tag nylons.

He just stood there reeling the names out, and watching
what effect they had on her. Nor was he disappointed. Marcia was a sensible girl. She could see now that it didn't matter a bit his being so provincial. There comes a point when success is the only thing that really matters. And this big, red-faced man with the dreadful spotted tie was obviously nothing if not successful. Besides, Marcia had always prided herself on not being a snob where manufacturers were concerned.

All the same, Mr. Bulping—she remembered now having seen the name all over the place—was a bit disconcerting. He was so breath-takingly prompt. He sent her a little tribute that same afternoon. Not that he could have been about much. Or he would have known that nobody ever sends orchids nowadays. The mere sight of so many of them made her feel terrible. Like some ghastly left-over Gaiety Girl. And they showed, too, that Mr. Bulping couldn't really be even the least bit sensitive. If he had been, he would have recognized that orchids went with a more flamboyant type altogether.

But having received such a token there was nothing to do but to say thank you. Accordingly, Marcia had written to Mr. Bulping in her big backward sloping script, using a J-nib to give character to the handwriting. And that had provided him with her telephone number.

From then on the calls were incessant. Simply incessant. They didn't even cease when Mr. Bulping was called away up north to look after Neptune and Daffette and Medici and Red Tag and all the rest of them. It was worse, in fact. Because the farther away Mr. Bulping was from her the more unavoidable he became. He booked personal long-distance calls. And to make sure of catching her he put them through very late at night or early in the morning. At Marcia's end it was overwhelming. Like being courted by Mr. Bulping and the Postmaster-General both at the same time.

And in the result, she was finally trapped. Unable to resist the keen northern pressure any longer, she succumbed. She promised to have dinner with him when he was down on Tuesday.

Naturally, he had offered to pick her up at her flat. She was prepared for that. She refused. For years now she had been avoiding anything of the kind. The last thing she wanted was to have a large enthusiastic male advancing into the tiny living-room, and bearing down on her with that dreadful expectant expression that all men wore on such occasions.

There would have been something too horrible about it. Whereas there was nothing in the least horrible about arriving at The Chalice. The only thing that surprised her was that Mr. Bulping should ever have heard of The Chalice. She had imagined
that Park Lane and Piccadilly were about as much of London as Mr. Bulping would possibly have known. And it wasn't as though The Chalice was even right in the centre of things. Too far down at the wrong end of Duke Street for that. But select. Beautifully exclusive and select. Royalty and ambassadors and four-star generals dined there. Marcia always felt perfectly at home the moment she stepped on to zebra-striped carpet between that long double row of mirrors.

Mr. Bulping was there waiting for her. And in a dinner jacket he looked considerably better again. The brown suit and bow tie faded from her memory. Looked at closely, too, she could see his face was really rather a fine one. There was strength in it. And purpose. He was the sort of a man who might just have bought a railway. She found herself wondering what he would have looked like without his moustache ...

But even though his behaviour was quite good, it was still not perfect. For a start, sitting up on the high stool in the discreet corner bar, he called the barman “Charley.” There was something so frankly vulgar, so bank-holidayish about it that Marcia shivered. And he had such a positive way of eating potato crisps. He munched them noisily like a schoolboy, perpetually thrusting out his great red hand for more. But what was worse, far worse, was the fact that he tried to patronize her.

“Best food in London here,” he said between crunches.

Marcia smiled faintly. In this week's
Tatler
there was a picture of her sitting at her favourite table in the corner.

“A matter of fact I came to the opening,” she said.

Mr. Bulping patted the back of her hand affectionately.

“Changed a lot since then,” he told her. “Only place in London if you want a steak.”

“I adore steak,” Marcia replied politely.

But Mr. Bulping wasn't going to let it go at that.

“Don't have to have steak if you don't want it,” he told her. “Plenty of other things. Better have a look down the menu before you make your mind up.”

There was that quick, involuntary shiver again. She hoped that Mr. Bulping hadn't noticed. But really his pronunciation of the word was appalling. Simply appalling. It must be twenty years since she had last been out with anyone who called it “meenu.”

And she didn't like it any better when Emilio himself came over. He greeted her very politely, and there was a lot of rather professional Italian handshaking. But it was clearly Mr. Bulping
whom he was really pleased to see. And he seemed to know all about him, too. He asked after his golf, his fishing, his race-horses. He lit Mr. Bulping's cigarette for him. Then when Mr. Bulping had finished both drinks and had patted his chest to show how fine he was feeling, Emilio paid them the last courtesy. Waving the manager, the head waiter, the assistant head waiter and the reception waiter all to one side, he conducted them to their table himself.

“Your table, Mr. Bulping,” he said.

It was the corner table that Marcia had always thought of as hers.

“Thanks, Emmy,” Mr. Bulping said.

Marcia was rather silent during the meal. But Mr. Bulping did not seem at all put out by the fact. Having come out to enjoy himself, it was obvious that nothing was going to stop him. He was good company enough for two. He ordered champagne. He told funny stories. He insisted on caviare. He gave Marcia his views on price controls. He called the waiter over, and said: “Here, Charley, see what's 'appening to our steak. We 'aven't got all night you know.” He sent the toast back. He promised Marcia that, if she'd give him her measurements, he'd send her a Neptune swimsuit that wouldn't be on the market until next year. He said that she ought to eat more. He blew his nose loudly. He mopped his forehead. He demanded crêpes-suzettes. He asked what scent she was wearing. He mopped the back of his neck. He bought a packet of Turkish cigarettes and invited her to fill her case with them. He unbuttoned. He asked the waiter to leave the Armagnac bottle on the table. He lit a cigar. He began to tell her about his oldest boy ...

Marcia wasn't really listening to him. She often withdrew into a dim, private world of her own while people were talking to her. But at least she was thinking about him. Thinking hard. There was a splendid self-confidence that she found rather stimulating. She could see now why the North Midlands usually feels such a contempt for London and the South. It was purely a matter of vitality. He had a way of looking round the room, taking her in as he glanced about him, that suggested that at any moment now he was ready to put in a take-over bid.

Then came that awful shiver again. And really this was too frightful. Because Mr. Bulping was banging with his spoon on the side of his coffee cup.

“Check, Charley,” he called out loudly.

Marcia had her thank-you-so-much-for-a-lovely-dinner speech
all ready by the time they got to the front door. But Mr. Bulping only laughed at her.

“What's the matter?” he asked. “Don't you like me?”

They were outside on the pavement by now, and Mr. Bulping's car came across the road to meet them. Marcia gathered her evening cloak around her. She stood there motionless, her hands clasped beneath her chin. It was one of her most beautiful attitudes.

But Mr. Bulping apparently hadn't noticed.

“Well, get in,” he told her. “Let's go somewhere where we can dance.”

It was as she climbed in that Marcia realized that she was lost. Nobody had ever really treated her like this before. She had come out, beautiful, distinguished, aloof, and now she was being rushed off her feet like a schoolgirl by this commercial gorilla from Wolverhampton. Either she was losing her grip, or it was Destiny.