Once she was alone, Christina went upstairs and turned on all of the powerful overhead lights which she had had installed in the big studio so that she could work at night. She looked at the fabric she had finished painting that morning and nodded her head in satisfaction.
The painting was of white calla lilies on black chiffon, and she had worked on the large piece of fabric before she had started to design the actual dress. This she planned to do tomorrow, and she would design and cut the dress to fit the painted motif. She often adopted this method; other times, she would create the style of the dress or gown or coat, make the toile, cut the front and back panels, and then paint her flowers within the framework of the garment. She never limited herself, always left herself open to her art, and in a sense she let the art dictate the style of the piece of clothing. For this reason none of her hand-painted clothes were ever alike.
Christina checked several other fabrics, then returned to her office downstairs, where she seated herself at her desk. Pulling a piece of writing paper towards her, she started a letter to her parents. She always wrote to them once a week, and phoned every Sunday without fail, and her weekly letter was due today.
She sighed to herself as she filled the pages with lies… lies about the paintings she was selling… lies about her social activities… lies about her life in general. She had to invent because she had no personal life at all at the moment, and no boyfriend either, since she had quarrelled violently with Rob Petrie. He had been put out with her for ages, because she spent most of her days and nights working, and their relationship had been terminated by him just after Christmas. Oh well, Christina thought, I don’t really have time for men at this juncture in my life. I’m far too busy carving out a career for myself.
Putting her elbows on the desk, resting her head on her hand, Christina racked her brains for something exciting to make up, to recount to her mother. Audra so loved hearing about her dazzling social life with Jane and the Sedgewicks and the other celebrated people she met at their parties.
Leaning back in the chair, she put down the pen, thinking suddenly of Dulcie Manville. What a good friend she had been to her, and how sweet she had been to her parents when they had come to London for her graduation. Jane had moved out of the Walton Street flat, had gone back to her parents’ Mayfair home for a few days, so that Vincent and Audra could stay with her. They had enjoyed being with her, and their trip had been an enormous success all around.
The Sedgewicks had given a party for Jane and her, to celebrate their graduation. Dulcie had seemed taken aback when she had met her father, and now Christina smiled to herself as she remembered Dulcie’s reaction. She had taken her to one side, and remarked, ‘You might have told me your father looked like Robert Taylor, Christie. My goodness, if he were an actor his face would be his fortune, my dear.’ Later that evening when she had repeated the comment to her parents, her father had looked tickled to death but her mother had seemed put out, even irritated; she had known then that her mother was terribly jealous of Vincent.
Those two, Christina muttered under her breath, reaching for the pen again. I’m always on a roller coaster ride with them; they’re either at each other’s throats or in each other’s arms. She thought of her parents with a sudden rush of warmth and affection. She loved them both very much, and she had always tried to walk a line between them, doing a balancing act in a sense, endeavouring not to take sides, not wishing to hurt either one. And I think I’ve succeeded, she added to herself, as she attempted to finish her letter of lies. But they’re only white lies, she thought.
It was nine o’clock when Christina finally left ‘the factory’ and headed up the King’s Road towards Sloane Square. Her thoughts still lingered on her mother as she walked along at a brisk pace. She had managed to convince Audra not to send any more money, by vehemently insisting her work was now selling well. But what troubled Christina was that Audra was still working at Leeds Infirmary. ‘She won’t listen to me, lass,’ her father had said when she had tackled him about it during the Christmas holidays. ‘Your mother’s always had a mind of her own, and I’d be the last one to make her change it.’ Audra had not listened to her either, and she had eventually let the matter drop, hoping that her mother would decide to retire from nursing soon.
Well, at least I have the satisfaction of knowing she is keeping the money she earns for herself, Christina thought, dropping the letter in the box at the Post Office in Sloane Square. It’s a huge relief to know she’s no longer working simply to support me.
Ever since she had given up her art, Christina had not thought too much about this move. As far as she was concerned, her decision was irrevocable, and she religiously refused to dwell on her disappointment, nor did she harbour any regrets. Carving a niche for herself in the world of high fashion, and in a big, big way, had now become the most powerful motivating force in her life. Christina believed that only by making money, vast amounts of it, could she repay her immense debt to her mother by surrounding her with comfort and every luxury imaginable. And she hoped soon to be able to do this; she could not wait for the day.
Now, as she hurried along Sloane Street, tightening her headscarf against the March wind, Christina thought of the large order for clothes she had received from the actress Miranda Fowler. The star was leaving in three months for New York, where she was to appear in a Broadway play, and had asked Christina to make as many evening clothes as she could for her.
However will I get them finished in time, Christina wondered, as she let herself into the flat in Walton Street. And over a sandwich and a glass of milk she started to make notes that night, focusing on the designs with her usual concentration.
***
In the next few days it seemed to Christina that inspiration dwelt in her fingertips.
Her sketch pad was soon overflowing with the first early sketches for the Miranda Fowler wardrobe and ideas flowed out of her without cease as she visualized the clothes in her fertile imagination. Forms, shapes, styles, colours, flower formations, fabrics, embroideries… all jostled for prominence in her head. Within ten days she had edited her initial ideas and sketches, selected her favourites, completed the drawings and started to pick the materials she would use.
For several days chiffons, silks, satins, brocades, crêpes and georgettes swirled around her in a dizzying array of colours. Slowly these, too, were edited down until she had settled on silk, chiffon and georgette for the evening dresses, heavy satin for evening pyjamas and a long evening coat, brocade for two jackets to wear with silk pants.
When the actress came to have her measurements taken she was delighted with the drawings and fabrics; Christina explained that if she was to create a full wardrobe of evening clothes for her not all of them could be hand-painted. The new client said this was acceptable.
Christina worked around the clock, whilst the two French seamstresses sewed like demons to finish the wardrobe for the celebrated musical comedy star. Several weeks after she had started work on the clothes, Christina hired another Frenchwoman, a friend of Germaine’s, called Lucie James. Lucie came highly recommended; apart from being an excellent needlewoman she had a fine reputation as a cutter, and had worked at the Balenciaga salon before the war and her marriage to an Englishman in 1938. Lucie had previously been working for Mr Michael, the couturier with a salon in Carlos Place. It did not take Christina long to realize that she had a real find in Lucie. She knew Lucie would take some of the burdens of cutting the garments off her back, which meant she could devote herself to the painting.
It had been a supreme effort on all of their parts, and a monumental achievement to have the clothes ready by the date Miranda Fowler had specified. In point of fact, Christina was a little ahead of time, and early one warm evening towards the end of May, she took Jane upstairs to see the rack of clothes in the studio.
Flipping the switch, flooding the studio with light, she pulled the sheet off the rack and cried, ‘The unveiling… ta-da ta-da! And before
I show you each elegant and exquisite creation, let me just say this… once Miranda Fowler has paid me I’ll be able to finally repay you your five thousand pounds. Isn’t that wonderful news, Janey?’
‘Yes, it is, but there’s no real hurry,’ Jane said, and then she went into raptures over the stunningly beautiful outfits.
When the two girls had returned to the office, Christina said, ‘Look, I’m taking my three lovely women to dinner tonight, a special treat for them, for all the hard work they’ve put in. Why don’t you come with us, Janey? After all, you’re part of the family.’
‘Oh that’s lovely of you, but I really am whacked,’ Jane said. ‘I’ve been pushing myself hard on those costumes for the play, and I’ve got to solve the problem with those blasted ruffs tonight. They won’t stay stiff and starch is so scratchy against the actors’ necks. Oh God, why does my mother have the urge to play Elizabeth Tudor?’
Christina laughed at the look on her face, and pointed out, ‘It might do you good to come with us… it would take your mind off those ruffs.’
Jane shook her head. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I shall do some work, make a fried egg sandwich and go to bed early.’ She eyed Christina dourly and her pretty young mouth twisted in a grimace. ‘Romantic life we both lead these days, isn’t it?’
‘We’ll make up for it when we’re both rich and famous.’
‘You bet we will,’ Jane said, with a leer. ‘And listen, Crowther, don’t come banging and clattering into the flat tonight, I really meant it when I said I intend to go to bed early.’
‘You can sleep late tomorrow—it’s Saturday.’
‘Fat chance of that.’ Jane picked up her briefcase. ‘Have a lovely meal, darling… oh, and where are you going?’
‘I’m not sure, Janey, maybe to that seafood bistro—in Elizabeth Street. You know, Le Matelot.’
‘Well, have fun.’
***
It was a few minutes after eleven when Christina walked down Walton Street later that night, after taking her three employees to dinner.
She was suddenly feeling weary.
It had been a hard few months and for the first time in ages she had relaxed during the evening, had finally let go; the rich meal at the Ox on the Roof restaurant and the red wine had also had an enervating effect on her. She could not wait to get undressed and climb into bed.
Remembering that Jane had said she was going to sleep early, Christina could not help wondering why all of their living room lights were blazing. As she drew to a stop in front of the house where they lived on the top floor, she looked up at the windows, frowning to herself.
I expect she’s forgotten to turn them off, she muttered, unlocking the street door, climbing the steep flight of stairs to their landing.
Christina was fumbling with her key chain, standing outside the door of the flat when it suddenly flew open.
Surprised, she jumped and glared at Jane. ‘Honestly, you scared me—’ she began and stopped when Jane grabbed her arm.
Jane hissed, ‘Your parents are here. And your mother is absolutely furious… she can’t take her eyes off your paintings hanging on our walls.’
‘Oh my God,’ Christina whispered back, blanching. ‘How stupid I am.’
CHAPTER 38
The coldness in her mother’s startling blue eyes blinded her.
She hesitated in the doorway. All of her strength ebbed out of her and she was gripped by a terrible internal shaking.
Her parents sat together on the sofa. They both looked as if they had turned to granite.
No one spoke.
Somewhere behind her in the hall, Jane hovered nervously.
She could move neither forward nor backward. She had turned to stone like her parents.
At last she found her voice. ‘Hello, Mummy, Daddy… this is a surprise.’
‘Apparently so,’ Audra responded in an icy tone that matched her eyes.
Christina swallowed.
Vincent glared.
The silence became protracted, overwhelmed her.
Audra suddenly sprang up, startling them.
She began to move around the room rapidly, pausing briefly at each one of Christina’s paintings, saying their names in a clipped, cold voice, ‘Elms in Winter… Sky at Gunnerside… Houghley Beck… Edith’s Delphiniums, and through the open door of your bedroom—’ She snapped off the end of her sentence, pivoted to face Christina, and glaring at her, she finished, ‘I can see Lily at Hadley. You told me you had sold all of these paintings. You lied to me, Christina. Why? And how are you managing to live? How are you paying your bills? Something is wrong, very, very wrong here. I demand to know what’s going on at once! At once, do you hear me!’
Christina moved forward, galvanized by her mother’s angry words, knowing she had to get this over with once and for all.
She drew to a stop next to Audra. She took a deep breath. ‘Mummy, I have something to tell you, something I’ve been wanting to tell you for ages…’ She looked down at her mother, so small, so fragile, and she was instantly intimidated by the sheer force of Audra’s personality, the indomitability reflected in her face. She could not go on. Her nerve failed her.
Audra’s bright blue eyes impaled hers. ‘I’m waiting, Christina.’
In a great rush of words, Christina blurted out, ‘I’ve given up my painting. I’ve become a fashion designer. I decided it wasn’t worth it, being a struggling artist. You see, I wanted to make money. My clothes are lovely, beautiful really, I know you’ll like them—’
‘You gave up your art to become a dressmaker!’ Audra gasped, stunned. She gaped at Christina. All of the colour drained out of her face and her eyes were stark with incredulity. ‘You gave up your art!’ she repeated. ‘You threw away your great gift for creating beauty for… a commercial venture. I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it!’
Audra shook her head from side to side as if denying this awful knowledge.
She suddenly cried, ‘And after all I did to give you your art! Oh my God, when I think of all my years of gruelling work and sacrifice and scrimping and scraping, and going without to give to you, and giving and giving of myself until I had nothing left to give, and always putting you first, always putting you before your father, neglecting him—’
Audra was unable to continue.
She turned to Vincent. A look of excruciating pain mingled with overwhelming sorrow settled on her face and her eyes, dark with hurt, filled with sudden tears. ‘Oh Vincent—’ She reached out for him blindly, the tears falling unchecked, blurring her vision.
He was by her side in a flash.
His arms went around her and he held her protectively against his body, one hand patting her shoulder, gentle, loving, comforting. He looked down at her and he sighed, ever so lightly, and then he lifted his head.
Vincent levelled his gaze at his daughter. He stared as if seeing her for the first time.
Christina flinched under his hard, cold scrutiny. Her mouth began to tremble.
Disdain flashed onto Vincent’s handsome face and his eyes were steely green, uncompromising. ‘You’ve just broken your mother’s heart,’ he said in a voice that shook.
Without another word he turned his back on Christina and led the weeping Audra from the room.
Christina stared after her parents speechlessly. And then she ran forward, caught up with them in the hall. ‘Daddy… wait,’ she cried, reaching out, grasping his sleeve.
He shook her hand off, a certain harshness in his movements, and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Don’t you Daddy me,’ he snapped, ‘I’ve had enough of you for one night, Christina. I never thought I’d live to see this day, live to see you hurt your mother… so cruelly.’
Christina recoiled at his words, and she remained rooted in the doorway of the flat as her mother and father crossed the landing and went down the stairs together.
From behind her, Jane whispered, ‘Oh God, Christie, that was awful, simply ghastly. Are you all right?’<
br />
When Christina did not respond, Jane put her arm around her dearest friend and drew her inside. She pushed the front door closed with her other hand, walked Christina through the hall and into the living room, pressed her down onto the sofa.
Christina began to shake uncontrollably and she looked at Jane helplessly. ‘I must go after them,’ she began and immediately burst into tears as she attempted to rise.
‘Oh darling, don’t, don’t,’ Jane murmured, her voice consoling as she lowered herself onto the sofa and took Christina’s hand in hers. ‘You can’t go after them and it wouldn’t do any good, not tonight.’ Jane gave her a quick hug and rose, hurried out.
She returned a moment later with a large handkerchief. ‘Here wipe your eyes,’ she said, giving it to Christina, ‘and I’ll get us a drink, I think we could both use a brandy.’
After mopping her eyes and blowing her nose, Christina accepted the cognac from Jane, took a long swallow. She said, ‘Perhaps I’d better ring them in a little while. They must be staying in the studio flat at Theo’s—he so adores Mummy, and Dad is a great favourite of his… they have carte blanche to stay there any time they—’
‘Oh no, they’re at a hotel,’ Jane interjected, and grimaced. ‘Oh botheration, what an idiot I am! I should have asked your father which hotel, when he mentioned it.’
‘Oh Jane…’ She fell back against the sofa, her misery growing more acute by the moment. ‘I simply assumed they were at the house in Chester Street, now I’ll never find them this weekend.’
‘Perhaps they’ll phone you tomorrow,’ Jane said, her face brightening at this thought. ‘Oh yes, I’m sure they will.’
‘I doubt it very much. Mummy is devastated and my father’s furious with me—on her behalf.’ Christina rubbed her hand over her weary eyes and asked in a low, gloomy voice, ‘Tell me what happened this evening, I mean, when did they arrive? What did they say?’
‘They arrived at about ten fifteen. I’d gone to bed earlier, but the phone kept ringing. The calls were stupid too… first Gregory Joynson called to complain that one of my costumes for Mummy clashed with a pillow on the stage—he’s such a nit. Then she rang up, worrying about those damned Elizabethan ruffs. I’d no sooner hung up on her, when Harry Manderville phoned to invite us to some stupid arts ball next month. In sheer desperation I finally took the phone off the hook. I promptly fell fast asleep. The next thing I knew, the intercom was buzzing for all it was worth. It was your father, telling me they were downstairs. Naturally, I asked them to come up, what else could I do? Besides, I was half asleep, and I didn’t even think of the paintings.’
Act of Will Page 34