‘That’s fantastic,’ Lewis enthused.
‘Yes, it is. We have a real shot at this. I told Frankie about it last night in the pub.’
Lewis stiffened. He had no idea that George and Frankie were pub chums.
‘We’re going to work as a team on this one. But after seeing what you’ve done with your designs this morning, I’d like you to head the team, Lewis.’
George took the whisky bottle and replenished his glass.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Lewis said, feeling more than a little overwhelmed. George didn’t need to spell out how important this pitch was. If Studio M pulled it off, the agency would be top of the big league.
‘This job needs to be first class, if you’ll forgive the pun. Visually striking without being too unconventional. Pioneering, powerful and reliable. That’s the image the airline wants to project.’
George cocked his head to one side. ‘If you come up with a top design, you’ll have proved to me that you’re good enough to be a partner. What do you say?’
‘I would be honoured, George,’ Lewis said, his heart racing.
‘I need to keep hold of my talent,’ George told him. ‘I could let any of the others go, but not you, Lewis. So do you accept?’
‘Of course I accept!’
George got up and clapped him on the back. ‘Good man! I know it’s short notice but I want you to come up with a few preliminary ideas by tonight. We can meet in the pub to go over them before we have dinner with the Phoenix Airlines man.’
Lewis’s elation was short-lived. ‘I think I might need a little more time –’
‘We don’t have that option, Lewis. We have to act now. If you’re going to be my partner here at Studio M, this is what’s expected of you.’
Lewis could feel the whisky coursing through his veins. He pressed his hot palms together, gripped his hands. Think. Think.
‘Can we not postpone the pitch until tomorrow morning after we’ve bonded with the executive over dinner?’
If he and Marnie worked all night long then they had a chance of coming up with something, but to create a design all on his own by the end of business today felt utterly impossible.
‘I fear we may lose them to a competitor if we don’t win him over tonight. Time is of the essence.’
George polished off his whisky. ‘I’m sure you can hook them with your genius. I have every confidence in you.’
Lewis nodded, feeling his face flush again. He had no time at all. And how could Marnie help him when she was busy with her secretarial duties all day long?
Back out in the main office Frankie and Pete were both immersed in work. Marnie was sitting at her desk with her back to him, typing away, but he could see the tension held in her body. He stood gripping the piece of paper with the old Phoenix Airlines letterhead as if it was a telegram of doom.
He sat down at his desk, closed his eyes and searched for ideas. He was a graphic designer, for God’s sake. He was that before Marnie came along. He could do this on his own.
It was just that she was so good. She came up with ideas so quickly. He was so tempted to ask her for help, but he couldn’t – not in front of the others.
He picked up a pencil and sharpened it then pressed its end against the blank piece of paper on his drawing board, so hard it snapped off. He sharpened it again and dragged it across the page, but his mind was a total blank. His ideas had no definition, and all he ended up with was a twirl of doodles. Could he not even draw any more?
‘So?’
Marnie was standing over him. Her dress was a blue placard of calm in front of his face; her thighs perfectly smooth in flesh-coloured nylons.
Lewis looked up at her. He was relieved to see that her eyes were darting with excitement.
‘Did he like them?’ she whispered.
‘He loved them,’ Lewis whispered back. ‘They were a huge hit.’
She grinned from ear to ear, her face alight with energy, and Lewis was struck by how young she looked.
‘Did you tell him about me?’
Lewis looked back down at the Phoenix Airlines letterhead.
‘Not quite,’ he mumbled.
‘What do you mean?’ she whispered, leaning over him so close he could smell her Ma Griffe perfume. He noticed the corner of her breast through the unbuttoned top of her dress. It seemed unreal that he had cupped that breast in his hand only this morning. Kissed her pink nipple a few short hours ago.
‘I can’t talk now,’ he said, blushing as he glanced over at Pete and Frankie. ‘Look, I’ll take you for lunch.’
If they went for an early lunch maybe she could help him with a few ideas for the Phoenix Airlines pitch.
She glanced down at his desk. ‘What’s that?’
‘I’ll explain at lunch. It’s something big.’ He paused. ‘For both of us.’
He put his hand on her leg. He checked the others couldn’t see him and let his fingers inch up it until his knuckles were hitting the hem of her dress then looked up into her eyes. He could feel her melting beneath his gaze. Without saying a word, she bent down and kissed him on the lips. He gasped at her spontaneity, her daring.
Then the phone began to ring. Marnie pulled away, rushing over to her desk to answer it.
‘Good morning, Studio M,’ she said in perfect Queen’s English. Sometimes it was impossible to tell she was Irish at all.
She thrust the phone out in front of her.
‘It’s for you. I think it’s Lizzie,’ she whispered, her hand over the receiver.
What did his sister want now? She never rang him unless she needed something – usually money.
‘You’ve got to come and get me now,’ Lizzie said when he greeted her.
No ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’. There never was.
‘What’s wrong, Lizzie?’
‘My name is Elizabeth,’ she began, speaking at such a rate of knots it was hard for Lewis to keep up. ‘No one calls me Lizzie any more. What kind of a name is Lizzie for an artist? Elizabeth Bell, now that has stature, don’t you think? That’s what the man at the gallery told me anyway. If I want to be taken seriously as an artist I need a more dignified name. I mean, no one calls the queen “Lizzie”, do they? I’m sure even her husband doesn’t call her that . . .’
It was clearly one of his sister’s manic days. He didn’t want to have to deal with Lizzie’s moods today.
‘Christ, Liz . . . Elizabeth, will you slow down?’
‘Don’t interrupt me! God, Lewis, do you know how bossy you are? Always telling me what to do? My whole life you’ve bossed me around. It’s worse than having a father, I tell you, much worse!’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she said, suddenly softening her tone. ‘I just need you to come and get me in that sweet little car of yours and take me somewhere.’
‘I can’t. I’m at work. I can’t bunk off whenever I want.’
‘Don’t be so condescending. I work too. I sold a painting last night,’ she announced.
At last his sister was making money again.
‘That’s why I need a lift.’
‘I’m really busy. Is it urgent? Can I not take you tomorrow?’
‘Please, Lewis,’ Lizzie begged. ‘I don’t want to lose the sale. I need you.’
How many times had Lizzie needed him? He told himself his sister was fragile. She’d had a terrible childhood. Her constant demands were understandable. Yet he’d had the same childhood and somehow he managed to be self-reliant. There were the late-night phone calls, the drunken sobbing down the phone, the panicked drives to the emergency room to see his sister lying there, ashen-faced and distant.
‘You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself,’ is what he’d heard his mother tell Lizzie after her third suicide attempt. And despite his anger at his mother for being so heartless towards her own child, deep down he couldn’t help agreeing.
Not long after that incident their mother had decided to have her da
ughter committed to a psychiatric unit. Lizzie had been diagnosed with clinical depression and prescribed antidepressants.
Six months later, when she had come out of hospital, she had been different. She might still be a handful now and again, but there had been no more suicide attempts and she was so much calmer. Lewis believed those drugs had saved his sister’s life. Indeed when she came out of hospital she’d even announced she wanted to do something with her life and be a painter. He was proud of her successes, though frustrated by her ability to blow her money as fast as she made it.
And finally Lizzie had found her own little family of other artists, musicians, writers and various thespian hangers-on of the hip art scene of London. It wasn’t hard for his sister to make friends, especially with men. Lizzie looked exactly how you were supposed to look in 1967. She was a lost little waif. Innocent – sexy. It was why she got away with all her attention-seeking behaviour – and Lewis knew that she had no shortage of admirers. Even if they were usually stoned most of the time. The dope must be good for her, Lewis reasoned. It made her happier, more settled.
Yet there had been times recently when he’d been a little disturbed when he visited his sister. Her long legs looked way too skinny in the look she favoured – black tights and short shift dresses like Edie Sedgwick, that druggy muse of Andy Warhol’s. Her pretty face was paper pale, her big eyes, layered by thick kohl and long false eyelashes, were darkest evergreen, holes to nowhere.
‘Please, Lewis,’ Lizzie pleaded.
‘I’m right in the middle of something here. Did you take your pills?’
He couldn’t just walk out of work. Why couldn’t she understand that? Why did she make him feel guilty?
‘Yes, of course, I promise I have. Please come, Lewis . . .’
He could hear her crying, but she had cried too often. So many times he had come running only to discover that her tears were false.
‘I’ll come tomorrow straight after work.’
‘I have to go today,’ she whispered.
‘It’s only twenty-four hours. Why don’t you call Mother? She has a car. Why don’t you ask her to help you for once?’
Lizzie hung up. Mentioning their mother always got rid of her. Lewis tried to dismiss her persistent whine from his head, but it was hard because he had always felt so responsible for her.
‘Everything okay?’ Marnie asked, her eyes curious.
‘It’s just Lizzie being Lizzie,’ he explained, trying not to be bothered, but he could feel his tension tightening its grip. He wouldn’t be able to relax now until he managed to call over to her tomorrow and check she was okay.
Marnie walked round behind him. She put a hand on each of his shoulders and rubbed them just for a moment. He heard her bangles jangling on her wrists, felt the tension in his body beginning to ease. He remembered his admission of love to her this morning and her lack of response.
As if sensing his thoughts Marnie took her hands off his shoulders and returned to her typewriter. She had never told him she loved him. He didn’t understand why he still wanted her, why he let her wound his heart. How had she managed to get under his skin? No other girl had done that to him.
He tried to focus on Phoenix International Airlines. The obvious thing was to create an image of a phoenix, but how to make it stand out? As he took his eyes off Marnie he noticed Frankie sitting at his drawing board, staring right at him through his fancy glasses, his lips pursed tight as if he was in deep thought. When he suddenly smiled, Lewis knew that Frankie had seen Marnie touching him. But so what if Frankie suspected that he and Marnie were having a relationship? Yet the knowledge that Frankie went for drinks in the pub with George disturbed him. Exactly how close were they? Not so close that George was offering Frankie a partnership at least.
Lewis tried to settle at his drawing board. He summoned images of the phoenix to him. A huge bird of prey like an eagle. Rising from the ashes. But he knew that the airline wasn’t named after the bird but after the place. So what about an image from Arizona? One of those Western movie cacti? He shook his head. That had to be the worst idea he’d ever had.
Lizzie’s call had stressed him. As much as he tried not to, he was now worried about his sister. All they had was each other. They were fatherless, and his mother hardly counted.
It was no good. He got up from his drawing board and went over to Marnie’s desk.
‘Could you dial Vauxhall 4391 for me, Marnie?’ he asked. ‘I need to ring Lizzie back.’
She brushed his hand with hers – smiled at him sympathetically.
‘Lizzie, it’s me again,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ Lizzie sniffed.
‘It’s just I’m really under pressure. I’ll come straight after work, I promise.’
‘Thanks, Lewis,’ she said, subdued. ‘Love you. You are the best brother.’
As Lewis sat back down at his drawing board he thought back to all those desperate years of their childhood. They had been like soldiers marching from one battleground to another. Each time more wounded, hurting even more inside, the hope that they would finally be with their mother fading every time. There had been only one oasis in all that time. Just one home.
Berkshire, 29 October 1954
Lewis and Lizzie walked underneath a canopy of chestnut trees, conker shells strewn at their feet. Lewis searched for the shine of the perfect unpicked chestnut with at least the potential of being a winning sixer. He shoved conkers into his pockets until they were bulging. But really it was pointless. He had no one to play conkers with apart from his sister, and she was no good at all.
They trudged up the long drive, each carrying a brown box suitcase tied with thick green twine, as they’d come apart so many times. Their mother had left them at the end of the tunnel of trees, and thus as usual they had to walk up to the house without her. Their shoes were noisy, each footstep swivelling in the wet gravel, as they shuffled as slowly as they could towards the strange house. All around them was hushed, foreboding. A wood pigeon cooed mournfully; a magpie cackled in response. Sunlight showered them through the horse-chestnut leaves, and the smell of wet earth stuck in the back of Lewis’s throat. He shivered. The day was early and despite the sun, it wasn’t warm yet.
They had reached a shallow stone staircase that led to the front door. Lewis looked up at the tall sash windows lining the front of the house. He wondered if someone was looking out at them from inside, but all he could see was himself and Lizzie reflected in the black glass.
He took a step forward but Lizzie shrank back.
‘Come on,’ he encouraged her. ‘We have to knock on the door.’
‘I don’t want to,’ Lizzie pouted, her eyes still red from spilled tears.
‘Nor do I,’ said Lewis, ‘but we have to.’
Lizzie shook her head, sniffing as tears began to well in her eyes again. She was such a crybaby, but he supposed she was a girl, and younger than him. As his mother has told him so many times, he was the man of the house. He had to take care of his sister.
‘What house am I man of, Mother?’ he had asked her. His mother had frowned for a moment, thinking. The next instant she had put on a smiling face as if she had to charm her own son, like all the other men in her life. She had squeezed his hand.
‘Whatever house you are in, my darling,’ she had told him.
Lewis looked at this imposing stone structure, with its two Roman columns either side of the doorway. Which obscure aunt or cousin of his father dwelt in this grand building? What new set of rules were he and Lizzie going to have to learn to please this relative? How long would it take him to charm them into spoiling them, out of pity, rather than love? Such a lovely boy, they always said. Lizzie was the difficult one, whining and demanding attention. But Lewis was so easy. He was a credit to his mother.
Sometimes it mystified Lewis that no matter how good he was his mother still didn’t want him. Yet all these old relatives doted on him so that when their mother decided to m
ove them on, some of them even cried on departure day – like Aunt Celia. Lewis had been quite fond of her. She had lavished him with gifts, the best of which had been his own train set. He’d had to leave it behind at Aunt Celia’s house in Suffolk, because his mother had said there wasn’t room in Mr Bailey’s car. That was one time he had actually made a fuss.
He was used to all this moving around, yet sometimes he wished that he and Lizzie could be left alone. Now he was twelve he was sure he could look after them both quite well. He dreamed of having a caravan and a horse, like the gypsies he’d seen in the lanes near Aunt Celia’s. He could make things they could sell. Pictures. He was good at art. It was the only thing he was good at. Or Lizzie could sing and dance, and he could collect money with a hat. Exhibitionism was no problem to his sister.
He glanced at Lizzie now. He could see the telltale flush in her cheeks, the lowering of her brow.
‘Oh no, Lizzie, don’t you dare. You know that first impressions are important.’
Lizzie stamped her foot, spraying gravel about her.
‘I want Mother,’ she said, her voice quivering with emotion.
‘Well, she’s gone,’ Lewis said brutally. ‘And you know you won’t see her for a while.’
‘Why not?’ Lizzie whined. ‘Why can’t she live with us?’
‘Because we have no father, remember?’
‘Because Daddy was a war hero?’ Lizzie asked.
‘Exactly.’ Lewis sighed. How many times did he have to explain this to Lizzie? ‘So Mummy has to find us a new daddy. She can’t do that with us in tow.’
He walked down the steps again and lifted up Lizzie’s limp hand.
‘Come on, it won’t be that bad,’ he cajoled her. ‘Remember they usually have cake for us the first day.’
‘I am hungry,’ Lizzie said, reluctantly letting him pull her up the steps.
It was the biggest door he’d seen in his whole life. He reached up and grabbed the knocker, which was in the shape of a fox’s head, and dropped it against the giant’s door. The sound shattered the solemn morning. A gaggle of rooks took off from a nearby tree, cawing loudly and making Lizzie squeal in fright. Despite the smile plastered on his face, Lewis felt a pinch of anxiety in his heart. What if this relative wasn’t kind? What if they were made to sleep on the floor in a cold, damp attic and clean chimneys to pay for their keep? What if he never got to eat cake again for the whole of his childhood? It could happen, and his mother wasn’t there to stop it.
The Gravity of Love Page 9