‘I’ll have a talk with Brian and come back to you,’ said Jocelyn, who shifted in his chair and angled a look at her. ‘I saw that large bouquet on your desk. Lilies. Who were they from?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said almost drowsily.
Jocelyn gave his mouth a disbelieving tweak. ‘Really?’
‘They were just plonked on my desk – the note was unsigned.’
He nodded, watchful. ‘Nice to have admirers.’
‘Lovely,’ she agreed, matching his airiness, and got up to leave. He came from behind his desk to head her off at the door.
‘Are we still on for tonight?’ he asked in a low, confiding tone.
‘I don’t know. Are we?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t like to put you to any trouble – speaking as a “rampant individualist.”’
He laughed, and took her hand lightly in his. ‘No trouble. I’ll be at your place around eight.’ She tilted her head in acquiescence, and went out.
They had been seeing one another for just over a year. Jocelyn Philbrick, born to privilege, had once been the coming man in journalism: during the war he had shown his mettle reporting in battle zones around Malta and Italy. The scorching pace he had set in his career as a war correspondent had slowed down somewhat on entering his thirties. Frame had poached him from a national newspaper just after the war, and he found the perks it afforded much to his liking. He was often to be seen hobnobbing at parties and clubs in the West End, and at some point had chosen to rest on his affability rather than stretch his talent. He became attached to his position of deputy editor as to a ball and chain: he seemed stuck with it.
Freya had known little about him when she’d started at Frame two years before. He’d treated her in the lightly impersonal manner he extended to all the staff. This changed one evening. A group of them had gone to the private view of a painter, Ossian Blackler. Tall, tousle-haired and saturnine, Blackler was on his way to becoming a name: affiliation with the Soho demi-monde had imbued his work with a sheen of outlaw glamour. Freya recalled it as a warm night, for the crowd had spilled over from the gallery rooms on Lexington Street into the narrow walled courtyard behind. Beer and cigarette smoke perfumed the air. She had found herself in a cluster of people paying court to the painter, who was batting away their blandishments with a disdain that verged on rudeness.
‘I hear the BBC want to talk to you, Ossie. What will you tell ’em?’
‘To fuck off, probably,’ he replied in his flat, nasal voice. Laughter greeted this blunt retort.
‘You must be pleased with the prices your new stuff is fetching.’
He gave an irritated little snort. ‘If people are rich enough, or stupid enough, to pay ’em, I’m not complaining.’
One of his more earnest admirers then made the mistake of asking him to which school of painting he thought he belonged. Blackler turned the full glare of his scorn upon the question, mocking both the idea of schools (he drew out the syllable to sarcastic length) and the imbecility of the man for raising the subject at all. He made quite a meal of it. The laughter had gone from fawning to embarrassed by the time he had thoroughly squashed his victim, but Blackler didn’t seem to care. As he looked around the company for fresh disputation his eye alighted on Freya, who he had perhaps noticed wasn’t laughing, and was merely watching him.
‘What about you?’ he said, the sneer still in his voice. ‘What school would you put me in?’
Freya considered for a moment, then said evenly, ‘Charm school.’
There was a split second of horrified silence before Blackler sniggered, almost childishly, and everyone joined in. His dangerous mood dissolved; the combative set of his mouth unstiffened, and he started talking to Freya in a spirit of near-friendliness. Soon another gaggle of cronies arrived to colonise the space around Blackler, and Freya melted back into the anonymous crowd. She was lining up another drink at the bar when Jocelyn appeared at her side. He had evidently been witness to the encounter in the back garden.
‘You took a chance there, kid.’
She gave a little shrug. ‘It was better than having to listen to any more of his bullying.’
His look became appraising. ‘Interesting. Those men out there were so eager to impress, but you talked to him as though he was just another feller.’
‘He is just another feller,’ she replied. ‘He happens to have some talent, though not half as much as he thinks.’
So she thought he was overrated? Freya sensed Jocelyn’s expression changing as they talked on; it was as though he had never quite listened to her before. On her part, she could see he was handsome, fairly clever, but also a little complacent, pleased with himself – and he was old, too, at least ten years older than her. But something had bonded between them; a few weeks later he invited her to another private view, smarter this time, on Bruton Street, and afterwards they went for dinner. That date led to another, until one evening, when they had been canoodling at his flat, he suggested that she stay the night. She noticed him flinch with surprise when, after a moment’s thought, she assented, and realised that he had expected her to say no, as most ‘nice’ girls would have done. She should probably have played a little harder to get, but she despised coyness. He would find out soon enough that she was no pushover.
Back at her desk the bouquet of lilies had become insufferable. She picked them up and, with only a small stab of ingratitude, tossed them in the bin. Then she thought of the letter from the Envoy in her bag, and wondered if they were serious about taking her on. If so, it would make for an interesting conversation with Joss.
14
The Villiers Gallery was situated on a paved court linking the Charing Cross Road with St Martin’s Lane. It specialised in modern photography, though of late it had become a magnet to a gathering of artists and theatrical types who found a common purpose in drinking, bitching and moaning about money. A poster across the glass-partitioned door announced this evening’s event, a private view of Jerry Dicks’s recent photographs. The Public Image concentrated its gaze on celebrities of the arts and entertainment world, framed not in their professional habitat but on the street, in public, as if the photographer had caught them on the wing. Certain of his subjects were conscious of the lens looking up at them – Dicks used a Rolleiflex camera, held at waist level – while others seemed quite unaware of it as they walked down a street or mooched in a coffee bar. Some had the air of being suddenly, and perhaps unpleasantly, surprised, as if Dicks had crept up and snatched a shot of them when they were least prepared for it. A few looked ready to throttle him.
Freya, arriving early to beat the crowd, was beguiled by them: she loved the inkiness of the grain Dicks had achieved, and their dramatic alternation of light and dark. He had a gift, some alchemical magic, for making the most innocent face look troubled, or shifty. Most of the sitters she knew by repute; a handful of them she had met professionally; and one, in front of which she now stood, she counted as a friend. Nat Fane, alone of those portrayed, seemed unperturbed by the camera’s questing eye. He had been photographed sitting at the long zinc counter of a bar, with an aproned barman unconcernedly polishing a glass behind him. Fane was holding a cigarette between his second and middle finger – a new affectation – and challenging the camera with a knowing smirk she remembered of old.
She had been trying to arrange an interview with Dicks, confident that the magazine would run it. That morning she had gone to see the editor, Brian Mowbray, to check with him, and could tell that something was up. They sat at his desk. Mowbray was a large, well-built man whose meaty, pallid face seemed to sweat even when it wasn’t warm.
‘Joss has been telling me about this fellow Dicks, and to be frank, I just don’t like the sound of him.’
‘I wouldn’t expect you to,’ she said. ‘He’s probably quite awful. But he’s also a great photographer.’
Mowbray looked unimpressed. ‘You think so? I’m not sure he’s any better than what we ge
t from our own chaps. And they have the advantage of not being a public nuisance.’
Freya bit back the sharp riposte that was on her tongue. ‘It would still be a coup for the magazine. His photographs would make a good spread.’
For answer his mouth drooped with doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Freya, it just isn’t for us.’
‘I see.’
‘However, there is something I’d like to get you started on. We’re planning to run a story about the wives of professional footballers …’
When she confronted Joss about this afterwards he laughed, and swore he’d not put Mowbray up to it.
The gallery was starting to fill. Outside the window she saw Nancy arrive, in her office clothes, hesitating as she checked she had the right address and peering inwards for confirmation. She was one of those people, Freya thought, who look more beautiful when unconscious of being observed. She waved through the glass, and the movement of her hand caught Nancy’s attention; she waved back, smiling.
‘How was work?’ she said as they kissed one another.
‘Oh, dreary,’ replied Nancy. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all day.’
‘Let’s get a drink,’ Freya said, leading her by the arm through a press of bodies. They were halfway to the bar when Nancy, distracted, tugged Freya’s sleeve. Right in front of them, its nose at a shyly enquiring angle, was a small brindled whippet. Nancy, who had always been susceptible to dogs, bent down to pat it.
‘What an adorable creature,’ she cooed. She picked up the dog with a maternal tenderness and held her towards Freya. The dog’s eyes, dark and yearning, gazed up at her. ‘They’re the most affectionate of all, you know, whippets,’ she said, nuzzling its neck. She looked almost tearful as she spoke.
‘He’s very sweet,’ Freya said, amused by the little pietà Nancy had made.
‘Not a “he” – a “she,”’ said a dark-haired young woman, gently taking the dog from Nancy. ‘Her name’s Rhoda. My pride and joy.’
The woman’s hazel-coloured eyes and fine, shapely mouth seemed familiar from somewhere. She carried herself with a thoughtless grace; her fitted floral dress, cut deep at the neck, accentuated her bust and hips. Freya stared, admiring her, and then realised. ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’ she said, pointing at one of the framed photographs they had just passed. The woman barely glanced at her portrait: she was more interested in petting Rhoda.
‘I’ve worked with Jerry for years,’ she said in a voice that had a smoker’s edge of hoarseness. ‘That’s quite a rare one – me, with clothes on.’
‘It’s very beautiful,’ said Nancy, blushing.
‘They’re all right,’ she replied, with a toss of her head. She looked at Freya. ‘Do you know Jerry?’
‘No. I’m Freya, this is Nancy. Would you mind introducing us?’
The woman’s name was Hetty Cavendish, model and muse, and now their impromptu guide as she stopped to offer a casual comment on this or that portrait (‘He took that while we were in Spain …’; ‘Jerry didn’t get on with him at all …’). It became clear that she and Jerry spent a great deal of their time together.
Nancy asked, tentatively, ‘So do you live with, um, Jerry?’
Hetty shook her head and, belatedly twigging the implication, gave a throaty laugh. ‘God, no! – it’s nothing like that. Jerry’s queer – didn’t you know?’
They had arrived at the bar, where a short, balding man with quick eyes and a prematurely lined face was holding forth. It was difficult to tell if he was closer to forty or to sixty. Whenever someone else got a word in edgeways his black-eyed gaze glittered with hostility. Freya noticed his hand shook slightly as he raised a glass to his lips. This, as Hetty confirmed in a murmur, was Jerry Dicks. The only one present Dicks addressed with any hint of affection was Ossie Blackler, who was teasing him.
‘The one of Olivier and his missus. Did you have to get a royal appointment for that, Jerry?’
Dicks favoured his friend with a leer. ‘They’re wounded people, actors. Needy. Whenever they’re around you have to give ’em attention, cos they’re so fucking insecure. I’m always specially nice to ’em – like you ’ave to be with Arabs and women.’ His voice was lilting, refined, yet spiked with cockney inflections.
‘Well, I do know you’re specially nice to Arabs.’
Dicks cackled at what was plainly an in-joke. ‘Yeah … actors. Once when I was working with Olivier he started telling me how to arrange the lighting – in me own fuckin’ studio!’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I said to him, “Larry, I have a rule with actors. They don’t teach me how to take photographs, and I don’t teach them how to behave like a cunt.” Ha ha!’
Blackler led a bellowing chorus of laughter in response. Standing out of his sightline, Hetty turned to Freya and Nancy with a look on her face that said Are you sure you’re ready for this? Had she been on her own, Freya would have relished the challenge; but she sensed from Nancy’s appalled expression that such company would not be to all tastes. She whispered to Hetty, ‘Maybe not right this moment.’
Hetty nodded, understanding, and they sidled off. When they were well out of earshot Nancy said, sotto voce, ‘What a horrible little man. Made my flesh creep just looking at him.’
‘Hmm. He’s what my dad would call “strong meat”. But I think there might be something rather fascinating about him, too.’
Nancy pulled a face. ‘Only in the way you might find one of those wax murderers at Madame Tussaud’s fascinating.’
Freya laughed. ‘He’s not as bad as all that!’
They went for another wander around the exhibition. Freya noticed people – men – giving Nancy sidelong stares, to which she appeared quite oblivious. At twenty-seven she had grown into her looks; the gawkiness of her Oxford days had melted away, replaced by a voluptuous, long-limbed ease. Her mass of thick auburn hair, pale skin and green eyes were all the more striking for her new-found poise. But this evening she was noticeably distracted.
‘Why do you keep checking your watch?’ asked Freya.
‘Sorry, I’m just – Stewart called this afternoon. He asked me to go to dinner – and I couldn’t think of a reason not to.’
‘What time?’
‘In about ten minutes.’ She added plaintively, ‘Will you come?’
‘Me? I don’t think so. Can you imagine Stewart’s face, expecting a quiet dinner for two and I breeze in?’
Nancy conceded the point, but with such a disgruntled air that Freya was moved to speak again. ‘If it’s that much of a chore, Nance, why don’t you just finish it – hand him his coat?’
‘I know, I should,’ she said anxiously, ‘but he’s so decent and considerate – I can hardly bear to.’
‘But you must. He’s a grown-up. It will be the kindest thing to do in the long run.’
They said goodbye and Nancy went off to dinner. Left alone, Freya wondered if her motives were entirely selfless in advising her to give Stewart his marching orders. This evening, for instance, she would have liked to have dinner à deux, but instead had been usurped by Stewart, who really was a bit of a drip.
She made another tour of the party hubbub. Jerry Dicks was still surrounded by his clique, his complexion blazing like a Chinese dragon’s and his eyes blearily unfocused. She decided it might be better to catch him when he was unfuddled with drink – if he ever were. She was edging her way towards the door when a voice checked her.
‘Stay, illusion!’
She turned to find Nat Fane beaming at her. He was wearing a midnight-blue velvet suit and a white shirt open at the neck.
‘Hullo, Nat. I’ve just been examining your portrait.’
‘Ah. A bit scrawny-looking, d’you think?’
‘You at least seem relaxed. Most of them have that fugitive-from-justice look.’
‘He’s got quite an eye, old Dicks. Quite an arm, too,’ he said, mimicking the raising of a glass to his mouth. ‘You notice he photographed me in a bar. We had a couple afterwards, then I l
eft him to it. I heard he got so drunk that they had to carry him out of there feet first, like at the end of Hamlet.’
Freya had kept up with Nat since Oxford. He had arrived in London two years after she did, brimful of confidence from his reign as a theatrical princeling. One Sunday newspaper had announced him to the world as a ‘marvellous boy’ and predicted his taking of the West End by storm. Six years on that hadn’t happened. Having carried all before him as a student actor, he had been found deficient in the more exacting environs of the London stage. His debut as Tybalt in Romeo and Juliet got a savage pasting from the critics, and inclined people to wonder if he really was the actor he’d been cracked up to be. He had a second try, as Octavian in Antony and Cleopatra, which met with no greater enthusiasm.
Though he had made light of it, Freya suspected that Nat was hurt by the rejection. The comet trail he had blazed in his youth had gone off in a fizzle. Having seen him in both plays she had kept quiet, finding herself in sad agreement with the critics – since university his acting had become mannered and hectoring. Or perhaps it always had been and she just hadn’t noticed. Nat in person was always performing, always ‘on’, to such a degree that he had nothing left over when required to act in earnest. It was accepted that he would not be the next Olivier. Still, he had other irons in the fire. He had just started rehearsing his first full-length play, and a publisher had recently commissioned him to write a major history of the English stage.
‘And what of you, my dear? Frame keeping you busy?’
‘I’m rather vexed with them. My editor has just turned down a piece on Jerry there.’
‘More fool them.’
‘I’ll do it for someone else. Perhaps I could apply to you for stories about him.’
Nat gave a slight smirk. ‘Of course. I can see the headline – “Dicks Uncovered”. Let me arrange for you to meet at dinner. You can inspect the new abode while you’re at it.’
‘You’ve moved?’
‘Indeed. I fancied Mayfair, Pandy insisted on Belgravia. South Kensington was the compromise.’
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