For a while I'd suspected that short lengths of fabric and trimmings were going missing from the workroom. My other staff had been with me since the beginning so I was confident they were honest. Soon I began to wonder if Karen was responsible.
Finally, I caught the girl red-handed.
We were working late together one evening to finish some pattern cutting, which she'd been taking ages over. I'd popped up to my flat to make us some soup and sandwiches because I knew it would probably be at least seven before we'd finish. On returning to the workroom, I noticed her cavernous straw bag which she carried everywhere with her, was in a different position. It had been hanging on the back of a chair before, and now it was tucked well behind the chair against the wall. This alerted me.
'Let's have a little break now, Karen, to recharge our batteries and then we'll get stuck in again. I'd really like to finish this little batch of cutting before seven. Not too late for you, I hope?' I put down the tray.
She glanced up from the table. 'No, that's OK.'
'It's only tomato soup and cheese and pickle sandwiches I'm afraid.'
She nodded, 'That's fine, thanks.'
I then deliberately pulled the chair, which was propping her bag up, towards me to sit on. The bag fell over and several items fell out. Noticing it had happened, she lunged forward to save it but not before I was able to catch sight of a folded length of lilac mauve silk nestling lower down in the bag. Bingo! We'd been cutting out that particular fabric earlier that morning.
'Sorry, let me...' I began picking up the spilled things.
She watched me with a frozen expression, realising I must have seen the hidden fabric.
'We didn't finish off the mauve today, did we?' I queried, looking up at the roll of silk still on the shelf. 'No, of course we didn't. In that case, why is a length of it in your bag?'
Flushed and embarrassed, she averted her eyes.
'Karen?'
'I don’t know what to say. Sorry. It ... it won't happen again.'
Too right it won't, young lady! So I'd been right all along. Recently some of my costings hadn't tallied with the amount of material bought and used. Initially, I'd suspected my supplier had been sending me less fabric than I'd ordered, or possibly that my calculations had even been a little out. But when odd trimmings had also gone missing, I had to suspect theft. I was furious.
I picked up the bag and turned it out. Underneath the mauve silk was another piece of expensive, grey silk taffeta. That did it. Without any further deliberation I faced her.
'Karen, this is not acceptable. I am not prepared to tolerate dishonesty in my workroom. If you desperately wanted any fabric you only had to ask and I'm sure any remnants I didn't want at the end of the rolls could have been yours. But taking from a roll before I’ve finished with it is not only dishonest but also unforgivable, especially at these prices! It makes a total nonsense of my costing, when I find I can't get as many garments as I expect out of a roll. You surely realised that?'
She shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. I fished both fabric pieces out and laid them in front of her. She stared at them blankly; a sullen, arrogant expression on her otherwise pretty face.
'I don't know how long this has been going on, but I am not prepared to risk it happening again. Please get your things together and go.'
'What about my pay?' she asked indignantly.
'I shall forward any money owing to you with your cards.'
As I turned resolutely away I just glimpsed her reflection in the windowpane, poking her tongue at me behind my back. Fury erupted from beneath my calm.
'I saw that!' I raged. 'Now go! And don't expect a reference from me either!’
Instantly, I felt cross at myself for losing my cool, but it was done now and I wanted her out of my sight.
Later on, I briefly doubted my hasty actions, wondering if I should have given her another chance? But no, I had to be able to trust my staff. The fabrics were often very expensive and I could not risk lengths going walkabout.
I completed the pattern cutting myself and coped for the rest of the week un-aided, praying the agency would find me a replacement soon.
*
Two week's later I was still battling on alone, and just beginning to wonder whether I'd ever find a suitable assistant when Lynda phoned, explaining she'd ended her relationship with Edward. As I'd feared, their love affair hadn't survived the friction of working creatively together. It seemed within months they'd been at loggerheads.
'Things have become intolerable lately,' she said. 'So now I'm seriously looking for another job.'
I couldn't believe my luck. 'How about coming to work for me then? It just so happens I need a good assistant.'
'What! Really?'
I told her all about dismissing Shirley and the recent nasty business with Karen and how I was currently struggling on alone.
'Wonderful! I'd love to!'
'I can't offer you quite the salary you were getting at Courtney’s, I'm afraid, but I'll match it as soon as I can.'
'That's OK. I understand that. I shall be just so pleased to be free of all the Courtney red tape,' she said. 'Working for you again will be super and quite worth a drop in salary for a while, just to breath fresh air once more.'
I laughed. 'I can imagine! Didn't I go through it myself?'
What a difference it made. In no time she and I were back working together again in our old familiar routine. Things were done more efficiently and quicker than ever before, with my new collection soon well under way. Altogether, I was happier than I'd been for ages.
Despite sometimes yearning for the physical side of my relationship with Alex, I became more and more embroiled in my work and in no time it became less and less important to me. Business picked up in leaps and bounds and really started to flourish. I was soon able to put Lynda on a better salary, as well as pay Alex back the money he'd loaned me, the latter being a massive load off my mind.
Vanessa tried her best, introducing me to a horse-breeding friend of Rowley's when I stayed with them the first summer after Alex and I parted. However, apart from attending a barbecue and driving up to Wetherby races with him, I wasn't in the least attracted to him. Horsey, country types were not my bag at all.
I also went skiing again, this time to Zermatt for two weeks with Vanessa and Fiona. We had a hilariously giggly, girly time. Signor Luigi Garibaldi, a wealthy Italian friend of Vanessa’s father, owned the chalet we were staying in. It was luxurious, with a heated indoor swimming pool and breathtaking views of the mountains and countryside.
To my delight, I was soon able to pick up where I'd left off with my skiing in Klosters. At intermediate level now, I could even match Vanessa and Fiona in competence, which pleased me no end. After all they'd both skied much more than I had. Rowley joined us for a long weekend in the middle of our stay and even he was full of compliments about my ability.
Zermatt is a skier's paradise, with endless skiing possibilities for all levels of ability. The picturesque, compact village is surrounded by some of Switzerland's highest, most impressive mountains, including the Matterhorn. Apart from horse drawn sleighs it was virtually traffic free. The shops and cafes were charming and the après ski was varied and lively.
The weekend with Rowley proved to be great fun as well as memorable, marred only by Vanessa unfortunately taking an awkward fall while skiing on the Sunday and fracturing her right ankle. Once attended to, she then decided to return with Rowley to England. Unable to ski any more, she hadn't taken much persuading since she was missing baby Lucy anyway. So Fiona and I stayed on together for the second week.
Luigi Garibaldi telephoned the evening they left to speak to Vanessa.
'I'm awfully sorry,' I said, explaining that Vanessa was no longer there and why. 'Is there any message I can pass on to her when I return to England?'
'No, it is quite all right, my dear. I was simply checking that everything is satisfactory in the chalet for you, that is all. Apart from Vanessa's m
isfortune, you are enjoying good skiing, eh?' His voice was rich and lilting with a strong Italian accent, but his command of English was excellent. 'Which of Vanessa's friends am I speaking to?'
'I'm Annabel, Signor Garibaldi. I'd like to thank you so much for allowing us to use the chalet, it's absolutely beautiful here.'
'Think nothing of it, it is my pleasure, Annabel, and please call me Luigi. I have not seen Vanessa since she was a little girl and I was so sorry that I could not attend her wedding. But of course I have known her family for many years.'
His mention of Vanessa's family instantly made me think he must know Alex too and my heart lurched as it still could occasionally if I was caught off guard.
He asked me if the chalet staff, an Italian Swiss woman and her daughter, who could speak little English, were treating us well. I assured him they were.
'That is good. Well, my dear, I will allow you to continue with your holiday fun. Make good use of the chalet and the fine slopes there. Zermatt is good, eh? I hope you are enjoying the excellent après ski too?'
'Yes, it's great fun. We're having a wonderful time!'
He finished by saying that he hoped we might one day meet.
'I hope so too,' I replied genuinely. He sounded nice and from the way Vanessa had previously filled me in about him, he quite intrigued me, although I knew he was an older man.
During the last few days in Zermatt some shocking news reached me. Norman Parker Brown had died suddenly one night in his sleep from a massive heart attack. I was shattered; particularly as it was only by chance I'd learnt about it, from an acquaintance who had arrived that day from London. Apparently it had only been released to the press the day before but English papers were always at least a day late and they hadn't reached us yet. I was overcome with extreme sadness.
I tried to telephone Kate, but learnt she was talking to no one, having only just returned from Paris. What a ghastly shock for her; she would be devastated, just as indeed everyone else in the fashion and photographic world would be. It was especially sad for those of us who had known him personally.
His death affected me quite profoundly. For the rest of our stay in Zermatt and on my return I found myself frequently near to tears whenever I thought about him. Not only had he been one of the finest photographers ever, but he'd also been such a dear, kind friend to me. I had liked the man so much.
*
His funeral, held in St Martins-in-the-Fields and presided over by the Reverend Austin Williams, was well attended by hundreds of people who'd either known him or worked with him. He'd been the sort of man of whom no one could think ill. I knew I was one of many who would always be grateful for his kindness and generosity.
Gazing up at the church's magnificent baroque arches and architraves above and around me, while the choir sang The Lord is My Shepherd, it suddenly dawned on me that I would now need to find out to whom I would pay my rent from now on? With the hope that someone decent would take over the property ownership, I then realised I knew very little about Norman or his family.
Together, he and Kate had seemed such a singular entity, as if no other person counted much in either of their lives. But I supposed he had to have some family and they would be down there at the front of the church with Kate. I could just see her tilted head, elegant in black felt. Having not personally been able to speak to her yet, I'd been told she had taken it all bravely and calmly.
I remember someone saying after my sister's death, of which I was now reminded in great detail, that grief manifests itself in different ways with every individual. Just as I recalled being unable to accept Belinda's untimely demise all those years ago, Kate would also somehow be grieving in her own way. Tears now welled up in my eyes as I thought of my sister, the only other person's funeral I'd ever attended, and I realised again how much I missed her.
The burial was in a small graveyard in North London, near to where Norman had been born. An elderly brother, Vincent, was the only family member attending; all the others had either passed away or were much too old and frail to come. A funeral tea organised by his brother was held in a nearby hotel, during which, Kate, pale but composed, nodded gravely as she acknowledged everyone's condolences. I guessed she would be glad when the whole ordeal was over, so that she could mourn in private.
Whether she did or not, I never knew, but I heard she was soon modelling again, within a few days in fact, and busier than ever. I could never get hold of her anyway, despite leaving messages all over the place for her. Perhaps keeping so occupied was her way of coping best.
A month later Kate's lawyer contacted me. It seemed Kate had been the main beneficiary in Norman's will. Apart from a money legacy to his brother, the rest of Norman's estate, including his flat in Kensington and the Beauchamp Place premises, had been left to Kate. Hence she was now my landlady, which, in a sense, gave me some relief.
As far as the rent was concerned, I was to carry on much as before, paying Kate through a standing order arrangement between our two banks. She had also been happy to let it stay at the same nominal amount. She continued living in Norman's luxurious flat, although her modelling work still kept her travelling all over the world.
I saw little of her over the following year, apart from the occasional job she did for me when she was available. By now she was in tremendous demand and easily the most famous face in the business. Pictures of her constantly decorated the covers and pages of all the top fashion magazines.
To my knowledge no other man replaced Norman in her life. She kept herself very private and despite appearing occasionally on the arms of so-called eligible bachelors at huge, showy affairs, she stayed aloof from the rest of the swinging sixties party scene.
On the few occasions we saw one another, I tried to break through the enigmatic facade she had adopted. But apart from our fleeting encounters at social affairs and fashion shows, regrettably we had little chance to develop our friendship further. This saddened me, since we'd always seemed to get along so well before. If anything, since Norman's death, she'd become more remote than ever.
Things about her began to strangely disturb and fascinate me, things which had not registered with me before; such as the unusual manner in which she often tilted her head to one side as she listened to anyone talking to her. Then there were those times when I noticed she would set herself apart, appearing not to want to enter into any conversations going on around her, which added all the more to her mystique.
I so admired her unique beauty, particularly in front of the camera, and I desperately longed to know her better. It was also bizarre how, apart from obvious work-related reasons, she would often enter my thoughts during my most private, intimate moments. Why was this?
Could it be, that admiring her so, I simply wished to be like her, or perhaps I was even jealous of her because of the way everything had seemed to go her way, especially her success and fame? Yes, that had to be it.
On the other hand, could it be something else far more bewildering to contemplate? Was my own sexuality even in question here? Certainly I'd had no desire for a man since Alex. But I'd basically put that down to being addicted to my work and because the passion and dedication I now put into my designing left me almost drained of any other emotion.
Why then, was I unable to explain or refute what was becoming a constant personal inner debate?
PART THREE
CHAPTER 18
LONDON, LATE SUMMER, 1968
I tapped my pen on my desk. 'Come on now, Lynda; get your thinking cap on. We want a good name for this collection. It's got to make the right impact.'
Across the room, Lynda put her scissors aside and sat down. With glazed eyes she looked straight through me, her mind obviously ticking over. I had been doing the same for the past few days now. I’d never normally bothered with collection titles but this particular one I felt warranted making a real statement.
I poured us two cups of Earl Grey tea, placing one in front of her. She lifted her cup and took a si
p. 'Mmm, you’re right,’ she murmured, swallowing hard. ‘Something snappy and different; that's what's needed.'
*
Two days later and we were still no further on. It was even preventing me sleeping at night.
Then, one evening as we were leaving work, Lynda turned to me. 'I think we're doing this all wrong. Perhaps, if we don't try quite so hard, something brilliant will occur to us. I certainly hope so, because it's even keeping me awake at nights now!'
Slinging her oversized leather bag over her shoulder, she turned off the lights.
'I think you’re probably right,' I said with a sigh. 'We’ll wrap up thinking about it for the next few days and then, who knows, an inspiration may suddenly present itself.’
Lynda suddenly paused at the front door. 'Hang on a sec ...You just said, "Wrap up." What about a play on the word, "Wrap". For instance “Wrapped up” means “Covered up”, doesn't it, or even, “Dressed up”? I say, that just might be a seed of an idea! Why not call it something like that? “Wrappings” ... yeah, how about that?'
I switched the light back on and stared at her, half grinning. 'You might just have something there! “Wrappings” is good. A bit stark on its own though. How about, “Silk Wrappings”?'
'Even better!'
'Yes, Yes, I like that. In fact I prefer it to anything else we've come up with so far. OK then, Silk Wrappings it is.'
I heaved a huge sigh of relief. 'At last! Thank God! Now we can both get some decent sleep.'
It was the perfect name choice, particularly as the whole collection was made in different types of silk. I had recently discovered an excellent importer from the Far East for my fabrics. These included wonderful silks from China, India and Thailand in the most amazing choice of colours, from subtle neutral shades through to the most scorching hues. To my knowledge no one had created a Ready-to-Wear collection completely in silk before, and the name Silk Wrappings defined it perfectly.
By now I had become quite renowned for my distinctive designs, especially for evening and party wear. My clientele was getting more glamorous by the day. Well-known singing stars now wore my creations on the stage and on TV, as well as to attend big showbiz affairs.
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