Fire (9 page)

Of course, he had telephoned his bookmaker as soon as he’d got the bonus, put it all on a horse running at Addington that afternoon and lost the lot.

Keith’s operation was now running very smoothly, but the longer it went on the more nervous he was becoming. He wasn’t a bad man, he knew that; it was just that no matter how hard he tried—and he had tried very hard indeed—he couldn’t keep away from the horses and the dogs, or anything else his bookie could find for him, legal or illegal. Only he never did it in public. He never went to the track, well, not any more, he certainly never went to the TAB, and he hid his copies of
Best Bets
at the bottom of the lockable drawer of his desk. He even refrained from having
a flutter in the Melbourne Cup sweepstakes the staff held every November, making a point of refusing to take part.

He had a responsible, well-paid job, he had significant standing in the community, he had a lovely home, a good wife, Nora, and three wonderful grown-up children, and he was constantly in debt to his bookie and almost everyone else with whom he had financial dealings. He lost far more often than he won, but he knew, deep in his heart, that one day he would have
that
win, the really big one that would solve all his money problems and still give him enough to bet with impunity for the rest of his life. Or at least until the next big win came along.

But he’d found himself in terrible financial strife and had had to remortgage his house to get himself out of it, though Nora didn’t know that. And he’d been stockpiling some of the money he’d stolen from Dunbar & Jones, about fifteen hundred pounds, which he’d hidden in the kitchen of the White Room on the first floor, in a metal box at the back of a high cupboard. To be extra safe, he carried the keys to the box and the cupboard constantly in his trouser pocket. It was quite a performance whenever he changed his suit, but it was worth it for the comfort and security of knowing that they were there. He told himself that this money was only to be used in a dire emergency, and not for placing bets every day, but it nearly killed him thinking about it, in that dark, airless box all by itself, just crying out to be handed over to his bookie. And he dreamed about it constantly, that one day he would open up his
Best Bets
and there it would be, the horse that every fibre of his being would tell him was going to win—an unknown, an outsider that would attract huge winnings. He would go into the White Room, unlock the cupboard, take the money and put it all on that horse,
and in a matter of hours his life would change forever.

He always woke up sweating from that particular dream, and spent most of the following day physically forcing himself not to take the money, or at least stopping himself from repeatedly checking that it was still there. And every time he took money from the store’s safe he took a little downstairs and added it to his ‘emergency box’.

Keith lit another cigarette. He had a meeting with Max Jones in five minutes, and, though he knew by now that his operation was foolproof, he still sweated every time his boss asked to see him. To steady his nerves he opened his top drawer and took a quick swing from the flask of scotch. Which reminded him—he was running out of breath mints.

A
llie didn’t go home after work, but the staff cafeteria provided sandwiches and cups of tea at a quarter past five for everyone required to work late, so she didn’t go hungry.

She freshened up and made her way downstairs to the White Room, where the fashion show was to be held and where she would meet Miss Willow and Rhonda Kendrick, another salesgirl from the dress department who would also be helping out tonight. Dunbar & Jones presented four fashion shows a year at the start of each season to showcase both the lines imported from overseas and the store’s own designs. They were very prestigious affairs catering to the store’s wealthier female clients and attendance was generally by invitation only, except for a limited number of tickets which were always at a premium.

The first-floor foyer was quite a large area, normally furnished with comfortable couches where patrons could gather if they were going into the White Room for lunch or, after hours, to a dinner or a private function. On the opposite side of the foyer were the executive offices, the credit office, and toilets discreetly positioned behind
a partitioning wall which held a telephone for the use of customers by day, or restaurant patrons by night. Between the offices on one side, and the White Room on the other, was the wide archway opening onto the dress department.

But this evening the couches had been temporarily removed and the space was crowded with display staff flitting anxiously about. In front of the archway, storemen were calmly erecting a wooden frame on which would shortly be hung a series of black curtains: the models would make their costume changes in the dress department, then walk to the left behind the curtains to appear elegantly and effortlessly in the doorway of the White Room.

‘Excuse me, miss, but are you one of the models?’ a voice behind Allie asked.

She smiled and turned around. ‘Hi. I didn’t think you were at work today.’

Sonny looked genuinely pleased to see her, which made her feel better than she had felt all day. ‘Been flat out,’ he said. ‘No time for smoko or lunch.’

‘You must be starving then,’ Allie said. ‘There are sandwiches in the caf.’

‘Nah. I went down the street before to the pie cart and got some chips.’

‘Chips won’t keep you going.’ Allie winced slightly as she realized that this was exactly the sort of thing her mother would say.

Sonny transferred his hammer from one hand to the other and shrugged cheerfully. ‘So,
are
you a model? You could be, you know.’

Allie blushed but managed to explain that she was a dresser, helping the models to change.

‘Bit of a circus, this, isn’t it?’ Sonny observed, looking around. ‘You’d think the queen was turning up.’

‘No, that’s not for another week,’ Allie said, taking him seriously. ‘The fashion shows are always like this, everyone running around like chooks with their heads chopped off, but it all usually goes well once we start.’

Sonny nodded. ‘And it’s all so a room full of rich women can sit around having cups of tea and looking at clothes and then spend piles of money on them?’

Allie wanted to protest, but his interpretation of the event was actually fairly accurate. This time she shrugged.

‘So is this what you’re too busy doing tonight to go out with me?’ he asked, then grinned. ‘Well, that’s all right. I thought you might have another bloke.’

Allie frowned. ‘But I’ve already asked you out dancing tomorrow night. Why would I do that if I had another bloke?’

‘I dunno. Greedy?’ Sonny suggested, and then laughed at the look of affront on her face. ‘Nah, you’re not that sort of girl, are you.’ He made it a statement rather than a question. He almost added, not like that Irene, but thought better of it: one of the lads had spotted her slinking out of the basement behind that flash bugger Vince Reynolds, but it was none of his business and there’d be no point to telling Allie—they were mates and she probably wouldn’t thank him for it.

Miss Willow hurried up, looking agitated.

‘Allie, there you are! We’ve been fluffing about for ages, waiting for you! Come along now, we need to sort out the garments. The models will be here shortly.’

‘Sorry, Miss Willow.’ As Allie headed into the dress department she shot Sonny a sorry-but-I’ve-got-to-go look.
He smiled and gave her a little wave, then went back to his hammering.

Ruby Willow strode across the floor, heading for the discreet staff door in the back wall that led to a series of small storerooms. In one were five portable clothes racks, already hung with the garments for the show, as well as several empty trolleys. During the day Ruby had selected the clothes to be shown and sent them up to the tailoring workshop to be steamed and ironed, but now they had to be sorted into the order in which they would be worn. Rhonda hovered nearby, looking anxious. She was a very good salesgirl but tended to get upset easily, especially under pressure.

‘What are we showing first?’ Allie asked. Though this was the fourth fashion show she had attended as a staff member, it was the first time Miss Willow had asked her to help with dressing the models, and she wanted to be sure of the procedure.

Ruby perched her glasses on her nose and consulted her list. ‘Day dresses with hats, followed by leisure wear, then swimsuits, then Young Miss while the adult models are having a break.’

Allie cast her eye over the racks. ‘So we want day dresses on the first rack and leisure wear on the second?’

‘Yes, and the hats on two of those trolleys. Miss Button’s doing the compering for the hats. But we’d better put swimsuits at the end of the second rack—Young Miss, evening wear and ball gowns will take up all of the next two. And mantles and bridal can go on the last one.’

There would be six models tonight—four young women, and two fifteen-year-old girls for the Young Miss fashions. Between them they would model around
a hundred garments and ensembles, including lines from Dior, Balmain and Balenciaga, as well as couture clothes designed in-house.

‘Are they doing their own make-up?’ Allie asked.

‘Yes. Well, they’re bringing two make-up artists with them, if that’s what you mean.’

A make-up table had been set up behind the dressing rooms, where there would be no chance of the models accidentally being seen from the foyer. Dunbar & Jones prided themselves on presenting only the most glamorous models, and the illusion would be irreparably spoiled if they were to be spotted wandering about like mortal women with curlers in their hair, bare feet and no make-up.

Minutes later the models appeared like a small flock of exotic, twittering birds, escorted by Miranda de Saint-Castin, who ran the modelling agency. She was tall, slender, raven-haired, very self-assured and always impeccably attired, but ever since Miss Willow had told Allie in confidence that Madame de Saint-Castin’s real name was Mabel Biggs and that she originally came from Bulls, Allie hadn’t been able to regard her in quite the same light.

As usual, the models had come along in their casual clothes—slacks, sleeveless blouses and flat shoes. With them were their two make-up artists and a hair stylist. Allie saw that the stunning-looking dark girl was here again: even without make-up she was easily the most beautiful and exotic-looking of them all.

Madame de Saint-Castin clapped her gloved hands. ‘Now, girls, we have an hour before the parade starts and I want to get your maquillage started. Tea? Is there tea?’

‘Tea?’ the dark girl said disparagingly. ‘What about something stronger?’

The other models laughed, though Madame didn’t.

While Miss Willow sent Rhonda up to the cafeteria to get pots of tea organized, Allie found a chair and placed it near the make-up table so she could watch. Tending to a girl with long, almost platinum-blonde locks, the hair stylist first brushed the hair out, then began to back-comb it until it sat up from the crown by several inches. She then took the hair from the front and swept it back over the teased section, making a smooth dome, and tucked the ends into a ponytail fashioned from the rest of the hair. This was then twisted around several times to form a gleaming knot and pinned to the back of the model’s head, creating a very elegant and tailored effect. The stylist then sprayed the whole thing with enough lacquer to cement bricks together. The model sat very still the whole time, not even blinking when the make-up artist skilfully applied several coats of thick black mascara to her lashes. When her make-up and hair had been completed, the model rose from the table, lit a cigarette and wandered over to the tea trolley. The Young Miss models received similar treatment, though their make-up was lighter and their hairstyles less elaborate.

At half past six, thirty minutes before the fashion show was due to start, Allie checked the White Room to make sure that everything had been set up properly. As usual, the tables and chairs had been rearranged to create a temporary runway down the middle of the room. It made for a tight squeeze, but the audience didn’t seem to mind—in fact the tables right next to the runway seemed to be the most coveted. A lectern, with Dunbar & Jones’s distinctive logo on the front, had been set up at the far end, where Miss Willow and Miss Button would stand and describe
each outfit as the models appeared. Behind the lectern was the most enormous flower arrangement, which the store’s florist had been working on all day. It was crammed with roses and other summer blooms, and the delicious scent filled the room.

At a quarter to seven the audience started to arrive, and Allie made her way back to the dress department ready to help the first model, who happened to be the lovely dark girl. Allie knocked outside the dressing room, but didn’t know where to look when she saw that the girl was completely naked.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ she said, mortified.

The girl waved her hand dismissively.

‘Shall I wait outside?’ Allie suggested.

‘No, you’re supposed to be helping me, aren’t you?’ the girl said, though she looked amused rather than angry. She had the widest eyes, the most gorgeous caramel-coloured skin and the most perfect nose and mouth Allie had ever seen, and she couldn’t help staring.

‘Yes, I’m your dresser,’ she said nervously. ‘Um, sorry, but what was your name?’

‘Heliopolis,’ the girl said. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Allie. That’s an unusual name. Lovely, though.’

‘What? Allie?’

‘No, your name, Heliopolis. Is it foreign?’

‘It’s Egyptian.’

‘Oh. Is that where you’re from?’ Allie asked. She knew the girl had to have come from somewhere exotic.

‘No, I’m from here. Auckland.’

‘Oh, right. Your family’s Egyptian, though?’

‘No, my family’s from New Zealand.’ Allie must have looked confused because the girl rolled her eyes. ‘Heliopolis
is the hospital in Egypt where my uncle died in the First World War. I’m named for him,’ she said slightly crossly, as though she’d had to explain it a thousand times. ‘But most people call me Polly. I’m Maori, not Egyptian.’ She picked up some undergarments from the dressing-room chair and started to undo the hooks on them.

Allie felt silly. ‘Sorry, I just thought—’

‘Most people do,’ Polly interrupted. ‘Most people don’t believe that a Maori girl could model couture clothes for Pakeha women.’ She slipped her arms into a bra and turned her back so Allie could do it up. ‘I am, though, eh? I’m doing all right, too. One day I’m going to Paris and I’ll be a world-class model.’

Allie didn’t doubt it.

Polly pulled on a girdle and wriggled it up over her hips, then sat on the chair and began to roll on a pair of very sheer stockings. The bra made her breasts look like two bullets, and Allie didn’t think she needed the girdle because her stomach was already firm and flat, but she supposed Polly had to have something to hold her stockings up.

Polly stood and studied her reflection in the mirror. ‘What am I wearing out first?’

Allie stepped outside the dressing room to fetch the first outfit. When she returned, Polly was smoking a cigarette and drinking from a small bottle.

‘Want some?’ she said, offering it to Allie.

‘What is it?’

‘Gin.’

‘Er, no thanks.’ Allie wasn’t at all sure that Madame de Saint-Castin would approve of drinking alcohol during a show. Neither would Miss Willow, for that matter.

‘Come on, a sip won’t hurt,’ Polly insisted.

‘It will. I’d be fired if Miss Willow found out.’

Polly shrugged, took another swig and slipped the bottle back under her street clothes, which were lying in a heap in the corner.

Allie handed her the first dress, zipping it up when Polly had stepped into it and fluffing the pleats so that it sat properly. The bright floral pattern looked spectacular against Polly’s darker, glowing skin. She dropped her cigarette butt into her teacup, slipped on high-heeled sandals, gloves and a hat, grabbed the handbag and stole that Allie was holding out to her, and sauntered out of the dressing room.

Allie followed her out to the black curtain, where they waited for Miss Willow to introduce the proceedings.

‘Good evening, ladies,’ Ruby began in her clear, ringing voice. ‘It is my pleasure to welcome you here tonight to Dunbar & Jones’s latest seasonal couture collection. We will, as usual, begin with a special selection of day dresses and accessories, then move on to leisure wear and swimming costumes, with our latest line in latex floral bathing caps imported especially from France. This will be followed by Young Miss, with our new summer range of Teena Louise, which I’m sure many of you mothers are anxious to view on behalf of your lovely daughters. There will then be a short interval with refreshments, after which we will recommence with evening wear and ball gowns, followed by mantles and, of course, bridal wear, the jewel in our
haute couture
crown.

‘Please note that your programmes provide an indication of the price of the items you see here, should you wish to place an order at the end of the evening. Remember, ladies, these ensembles have not yet been displayed on the
shop floor and as our valued customers you are seeing them here first. I know that many of you will be attending events to honour the imminent visit of Her Majesty the Queen next week, not to mention the many and varied Christmas engagements you have planned over the festive season, so I hope that you may perhaps see something here tonight that will fulfil your particular requirements. So, thank you for your attention, and we will now begin.’