A Face To Die For

by Jan Warburton

  Now it all made sense, but what the hell could he possibly mean by me being an experiment? He'd then walked slowly back round to the other side of his desk again, talking as he went. 'I feel in this short time that you and I have already become quite a team.'

  Enthralled, I followed him with my eyes.

  'I like the way you tick, Annabel. You have a sharp, expert eye, and what's more you know your trade. You're keen to learn; I like that. You could almost say we're two of a kind…'

  Fazed by this comment, I’d wondered what he was about to tell me?

  I shuffled on my chair, and crossed my legs; all ears now. Seated, and leaning forward on his desk, he'd clasped his slim fingers neatly together. 'Look, no one here knows this, but I'd like you to know. I actually come from a pretty humble background. I was an abandoned baby and never knew my real mother. So I was brought up in a Barnardo’s home in the East End, fostered out from time to time to various salubrious homes. Not always happy times for me, either. I've therefore had to learn things the hard way; drag myself up, so to speak, to where I am now. Therefore I feel I can relate more easily to someone like you. Oh, don’t get me wrong; I know you’ve had a much better upbringing than I, but I can tell all the same, that you've still had a pretty down to earth sort of background. You worked hard at college, just as I did, and you aim to get somewhere in life. I admire that.'

  He'd then paused, looking at his watch, almost as if a little embarrassed at having disclosed all these personal facts to me. 'Enough said.' He sighed and rising again walked round to me. I uncrossed my legs and rose also.

  'Better run along now or the others will wonder where you are.' One hand on my arm, his brown eyes looked into mine. 'Just remember one thing; I sincerely want to help you. You deserve to get on. I'd therefore hate to see you make any wrong moves; that's all.' With a tiny squeeze of my arm, he tilted his head towards the door. 'Off you go, now.'

  This revelation about his humble background had completely shattered me. Slowly, what Edward had told me that day began to register with me. My God, if he can make the grade then, damn it, I can too.

  'We'll talk again,’ he'd said, holding the door open. 'I have great hopes for you. You'll go far Annabel. Mark my words.'

  Of course I'd felt undeniably flattered, but also exultant. Suddenly Vanessa and her cronies weren't half as important as knowing that a designer as successful as Edward was genuinely interested in my future.

  Overcome with exhilaration I'd almost skipped along the passage that day to the main salon. I had just taken the first step in securing true recognition in Edward Hamilton's eyes. Wow! In my wildest dreams I could never have imagined such a thing happening. So soon too! At the time I'd barely been working there nine months.

  The way he had confided in me that day had blown me away. Yet in a way it had also been a huge compliment. He'd not asked me, but I decided to keep the knowledge about his background to myself. I felt completely different about things after that; about Edward, about my job, as well as the girls with whom I worked. Knowing how well Edward thought of me had given me instantly more confidence and pride.

  Now of course, it was all coming together; all his early good intentions towards me were about to be truly realised at last, with my wonderful new job as designer of the Miss Courtney range.

  *

  A couple of mornings later I was summoned upstairs to the Director's office high up in the Grosvenor Street building, to discuss things.

  Charlotte Bundy and Henry Clyde - known secretly with some humour within the confines of the staff rooms, as Bonnie and Clyde, sat on the far side of a large shiny regency table. Charlotte, the daughter of the late Sebastian Courtney, designer and founder of the haute couture house; smiled sweetly as I entered. This was in marked contrast to Henry Clyde's more austere, moustached countenance. Attempting a smile, he gave the appearance of having an unpleasant odour under his nose.

  'Well, Miss Spencer... Annabel.' He hesitated; his nostrils flaring as he eyed me. 'No doubt you've already been briefed by Mr Hamilton about things. It is with his encouragement, we have chosen you to spearhead our new Miss Courtney, Ready-to-Wear collection.'

  Good heavens, anyone would think this was a military exercise we were talking about. However, Edward had warned me that Henry Clyde was an ex-army officer, and that he was occasionally known to use terms like this in conversation.

  'How do you feel about it, Annabel?' asked Charlotte Bundy more gently, still smiling warmly. For her age, which I guessed to be mid sixties, she was a handsome woman. Her greying hair was elegantly coiffured, and she was immaculately dressed in a tobacco brown Courtney two piece, accessorised with three rows of beautiful cream and amber beads.

  'I ... I'm very proud, an ... and extremely delighted about it, Mrs Bundy...er Mr Clyde, sir,' I stammered.

  Pull yourself together, silly, I told myself. Good God, I'd known for two days now that this meeting was to take place, and although I'd had no idea how I would handle it, it was proving to be a daunting experience facing this awesome pair.

  Up to now I'd only seen them briefly on their infrequent visits to the showroom, when they would brush past us all with barely a nod, always with an air of supreme importance. They would then take the private lift and ensconce themselves in this office in the Director's suite on the second floor of the building. Here, from time to time, Edward would scuttle obediently at their command.

  Eventually I was able to calm my nerves a little and somehow produce a shaky smile.

  'Pull up a chair, my dear,' said Mrs Bundy.

  I looked around and grabbed a chair from the wall behind me and brought it forward. Seated, I faced them both squarely across the table.

  'Coffee?' Charlotte Bundy's delicate hand poised above a silver tray on which sat a silver coffee pot and china cups.

  'No, thank you, Mrs Bundy.' I knew a cup of anything would be a total disaster in my nervous hands right now.

  'Well then, let's get down to business.'

  I was relieved that Charlotte Bundy was taking the lead in the conversation; her manner made me feel more at ease than Mr Clyde's. But my answers still had to be directed across the table to the pair of them - which wasn't so easy.

  'I'm sure Edward has covered the basic terms of your proposed contract, salary and so on? Presumably it all meets with your approval, Annabel?'

  'Yes, it's fine?' I replied honestly, looking from one to the other. Edward had indeed explained it all carefully to me the day before. I was to be contracted initially for one year, at an annual salary of £980, and this would be reviewed at the end of twelve months. It suited me very well.

  'Good,' said Mrs Bundy. 'Now please don't be offended at us only offering you a year’s contract at first. It is quite common procedure and it is actually fairer in the long run for you and for us. You do see that?'

  'Yes, Edward has explained.' I was by now feeling less awed by the occasion and settled myself further back on my chair, trying to relax.

  'Then of course there are the new premises for Miss Courtney just a few doors down from here.' said Mrs Bundy, pausing briefly to sip her coffee. 'There you'll have a couple of offices, a small showroom and workroom. How does that sound?'

  It sounded fantastic. More than I'd expected. 'Wonderful. It sounds just wonderful.' The idea of my own premises for Miss Courtney was so exciting, but suddenly I also began to feel extremely nervous again about whole thing. Hell, suppose I couldn't cope with all that was expected of me? As I tried to overcome these new negative feelings, I flickered a smile.

  Mrs Bundy eyed me, obviously conscious of my anxiety and misgivings.

  'I know it's a huge step up for you, my dear. However, we have great confidence in you, and of course Edward will give you all the support you need. You'll be fine. I'm certain you will make Miss Courtney a label that we'll all be immensely proud of.'

  'I ... I'll do my best.' My thoughts were still spinning.

  'I'm sure you will.' Charlotte Bundy rose, fo
llowed by Henry Clyde.

  Moving towards me they both held out their hands. 'Good luck,' they each said firmly.

  I shook their hands and left; still feeling nervous at the confidence they had in me. It was scary. Not usually prone to prayer I found myself praying as the lift took me downstairs. In spite of their faith in me - Edward's, too - how could I be sure I could measure up to the House of Courtney's exacting requirements?

  *

  Apart from briefly phoning Mum and Philip in Wales to tell them my amazing news, there wasn't much chance to discuss it in any detail, as I should liked to have done. They were delighted for me, of course.

  I rarely saw them nowadays. Our house in Ealing had been sold six months ago to continue financing the hotel renovations in North Wales, where they now stayed for longer periods. Our London home was currently a large two-bedroom flat above Philip's Jaspers restaurant overlooking Haven Green, just off Ealing Broadway. So, anxious to talk it over more fully with some family at least, I accepted an invitation for Sunday lunch from Mum's sister, Auntie Joan.

  Auntie Joan and Uncle Sid lived at Richmond near the river. Joan and Mum had always been close and looked very much alike; having the same heart shaped faces and wavy, darkish blonde hair. As children, Belinda and I loved to visit them, especially during those years after the war when our father had taken to drinking so heavily and become so bad tempered and difficult to live with. The war had always been given the reason for this, and yet if other men had returned from the fighting without having the same behavioural problems, why couldn’t our father? It was a pretty poor excuse as far as I could make out for the appalling way he treated my mother and us. Trips to Auntie Joan's on the number 65 bus from the top of our road were always a welcome relief from the miserable atmosphere that prevailed most of the time at home when Dad was around.

  Auntie Joan and Uncle Sid, who seemed to understand, had always made a great fuss of Belinda and me. They had no children of their own; all down to Uncle having been invalided out of the army during the war. He had a shattered leg. I can remember often wondering how on earth a leg injury could possibly effect them having children? Then later on I learned that not only had his upper leg been partially shot way, but most of his testicles too. Nonetheless, he was a remarkably genial man and I always felt because of this he shamed my father all the more.

  I hadn't seen Joan and Sid for some considerable time and it was always a delight to have the chance to enjoy another of Auntie's memorable Sunday lunches.

  In no time after I'd arrived I started telling them all about my new job at Courtney’s.

  'Oh how lovely, Annabel! What a wonderful opportunity for you, dear!' Aunty Joan passed me a plate of the roast beef Uncle Sid had just carved. ‘Help yourself to a Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes and parsnips, carrots … and gravy’s in that jug over there.’

  I was ravenous. The past weeks managing on my own, I'd made do with mostly snack meals. In fact I was probably becoming egg bound; poached or scrambled, it was just so easy. This is a feast indeed, I thought, and as I piled my plate high, I chatted on, telling them about my wonderful job. I also had to make sure I’d allowed room for a piece of Joan’s famous blackberry and apple crumble with custard afterwards.

  Uncle Sid put down the carving knife and slowly sat down in his chair. It seemed he was in constant pain nowadays from severe arthritis in his injured leg. At times he couldn't walk far without a stick; occasionally even resorting to a wheelchair when ever he and Joan went out anywhere.

  After the meal Joan and I cleared the dishes away. Then we all sat back, and while Sid snoozed, we relaxed, chatting in front of the sitting room fire. It was cosy and warm and I was reminded of the many wonderful times Belinda and I had spent with them as children. Their house always smelled of freshly baked something or other, usually bread or cakes. Today it was especially good because Joan had made a delicious chocolate cake for tea.

  Apart from my new job, much of our talk during the afternoon was about Mum and Philip's hotel venture. Joan agreed they'd taken on a huge responsibility.

  'According to your mum’s last letter it all seems to be coming along very well and they hope to be fully open soon. All the same, it's a mammoth task for them,' Joan said. 'I do hope they're not taking on too much.'

  I had to admit that thought had crossed my mind too.

  Sid, stirring from his nap, stretched and cleared his throat. 'Well, you know Philip. He loves a challenge? What about the restaurants, dear? How are they doing these days?

  'Fine, I think. To be honest, Uncle, I don't really know. I see so little of them nowadays, especially since they sold the house. I must say, the restaurant beneath our flat seems busy most nights though, if that's anything to go by. But they're spending more and more time in Wales now.'

  'I know. We must visit them one of these days.' Sid patted Joan's hand and she smiled sweetly back at him. But I think she knew it was unlikely that they would; without a car it was an effort these days for them to go anywhere much.

  *

  Over the next few months things really took off. Officially contracted now for one year to design for the Miss Courtney, Ready-to-Wear collection, I moved along to work in my new premises two doors down in Grosvenor Street. We shared the building with a law firm, whose offices took up most of the ground floor. Yet we didn't intrude on one another; apart from sharing the toilet and washroom at the rear of that floor.

  The floors above this were my domain and the two large paned Georgian windows of the reception and my office on the first floor facing the street had MISS COURTNEY DESIGN OFFICES AND SHOWROOM sign-painted in large lettering across the windows. Outside, on the wall beside the large newly painted black door, was a smart brass plate engraved with the name and details of which floor we were on. Bay trees stood to attention either side at the top of the front steps, just as they did outside the main House of Courtney premises.

  This was a wondrously inspiring period for me as I began work on my small collection for its inaugural showing six months hence. Countdown to my first show had truly begun.

  It felt so good to be running the new set up, even though Edward spent much of the first month or two advising me. But he was pretty fair, however, during this time, always making it clear that I was the collection designer. I was also allowed to make most design and fabric choices myself.

  This was fine because as a team we'd always worked well together. And to be honest I was often quite glad to have his expert guidance, especially over early major choices when my lack of experience could sometimes leave me floundering.

  Fortunately in the early months we weren't too inundated with people phoning or calling in, so I was able to fully concentrate on my designs. A junior assistant - Lynda, whom I'd carefully chosen with Edward's help - was also taken on. An ex-fashion student from St Martins, she had already worked for about a year as a pattern grader for a large wholesale house. She was a fast pattern cutter too, with an excellent eye for design.

  With just over four months to go now, as I sketched my ideas, Lynda speedily cut the patterns and worked on the lays and samples for me. We’d work together on the more detailed drawings, however. These showed the specified seams and measurements from which she cut the master pattern.

  Fabrics were selected from vast bundles of sample swatches and each design was carefully costed out. Edward, as chief designer for Courtney’s was always asked his approval at this stage. Having been used to doing this sort of thing previously for him I already knew how his mind ticked on this score. I also had to bear in mind, the established classic Courtney image of understated chic; something I often found hard to stick to when my wild imagination wanted to run riot.

  ‘One day, Annabel,' Edward frequently protested, reigning me in. 'I don't think Courtney customers are ready for quite such revolutionary designs just yet.'

  It was frustrating at times but I obediently adhered to his orders for a basic, classic look. However I would sneak in a little added
innovation here and there whenever I could get away with it, just to prove my originality.

  A jolly little blonde cockney machinist called Violet from Brixton, who had previously worked in Norman Hartnell's workroom, joined us. It was her job to make up each sample in calico first. I loved her chatter and humour; especially the way everyone, including Edward, was called 'luv'. In voice and appearance she put me in mind of the 'Carry On' actress, Barbara Windsor.

  'All right, m'luv?' she’d always ask, when she'd completed anything for me. She often whistled or sang as she worked too; usually the latest pop or show tunes. Not even her busy sewing machine whirring away in the workroom below the studio Lynda and I shared could completely drown her voice. Altogether it was a very happy set up.

  Each calico toile would be put on a dummy first for initial changes and adjustments, before the design was finally cut in my chosen fabric and made up. Then it would be fitted on our house model Zoë, who also acted as our receptionist.

  Edward tried not to be too obstructive over my creative enthusiasm, and any occasional criticism, although not always too welcomed by me, was usually well founded. After all, I was new to the game with much to learn. I still hated it when he turned anything down though. But of course he was right to guide me at such a vital stage.

  Lynda generally supported me well although we didn't always agree over colour choices. I favoured strong colours and Lynda was very much, what I called, a neutral person, preferring beiges, greys and browns. This occasionally caused slight arguments as we selected fabrics, but mostly our collaboration worked well.

  Soon the collection of thirty-five sample garments was finished and approved. We were ready to get each design made up in standard sizes with Lynda supervising the pattern grading. This was one job I’d always loathed, so I was glad of her expertise.