by Tot Taylor
Clothes: Biba, Quant, John Bates, Cardin, Grade One. Shoes: Elliott’s, Kurt Geiger. Hair: Rikki’s. Drinks: whiskey and orange. Smokes: Sobranie (occasionally). Holidays: Denmark.
‘Do you always drink orange juices?’
John stared into his glass apologetically.
‘…well… I like it. Them… I mean.’
‘But darling, it’s five o’clock in the afternoon. It’s time for alcohol!’
Iona playfully stamped her feet as she tried to attract the attention of one of the handsome young waiters.
‘I don’t mean… I “need the drink” or that kind of thing. Don’t worry about this!’ she giggled. ‘It’s not the alcohols-needing. Just that we always was used to have whiskey at around teatime in Denmark. My father always was used to…’
‘Really?’ John moved closer still. ‘We never… well… was used to…’ Iona perused the spirits list, a somewhat limited selection. ‘Mm…’ she mused. ‘I’m going to have Chivas Regal.’ The girl sounded like an expert. ‘The old man’s drink!’
The boy brightened again. ‘I’ll have a… I might as well have the same, I suppose…’
Kassandra’s was full to the brim. John assumed every one of the shimmering clientele to be in the modelling or photography business. Maybe they were actors or playwrights, or some such occupation that he took to be London-ish and very un-Cambridge. The afternoon imbibers seemed incredibly young, probably no more than 17, 18 years old, like John and Iona themselves. But the right age – the optimum age – for Now, this room of anointed people. Tamarisk was most definitely the ‘in’ place on this particular sun-drenched afternoon.
‘How much do you go to London, John?’
‘been down to the Science Museum a few times…’
‘Ah, yes. Because you’re scientific.’
The boy laughed, to the puzzlement of his companion. ‘But I’m very busy in Cambridge, working on my music all the time.’
‘You cannot work all the time, darling.’ Iona shuffled around on her seat, crossing her legs and uncrossing them, trying to get comfortable. ‘You mean “college” work, isn’t it? Nevertheless… What about girlfriends and people like this?’
John noticed the parcel lying on the bench between them. A barely concealed paperback wrapped in a thin brown bag bearing the stamp Better Books.
‘… what’s this?’
‘I just get it today. Sexus… from Henry Miller.’
The boy flipped the package over.
‘Better Books. In Soho.’ Iona continued. ‘The only place that have this sort of things. My mother told me that I can get it there and that I could… I mean… should read it.’
‘… your mother?’
Iona smiled sympathetically. ‘It’s a bit different in Denmark than it is in England, but he lives here now anyway.’ She frowned as if disappointed with herself before her smile returned. ‘My mother, I mean… not Henry!’
The girl sat back and laughed both to and at herself, having forgotten for a moment that she was now living in an atmosphere of post-war sexual mores. Her guest decided he may as well correct her.
‘She.’
‘She… that’s right. She lives here.’
‘you read a lot…’
‘Quite, yeah. Nonetheless. Quite a lot.’ She seemed to be considering. ‘I do now, anyway. I’m going to America with some modelling so I’m buying books to take with me. Monika tells me which ones, because it’s a lot of time sitting around in these situations.’ Iona pulled herself up on her seat and pushed the table further away to get more space for her legs as the waiter finally appeared to take the couple’s order.
‘is it something nice to do, though? This “modelling”? Is it a… a nice job?’
‘Oh, a very nice. Something very good, with very good designer. It’s always nice with this,’ she smiled. ‘We have to do some catwalk… for American client, to promote new designs. And catalogues of course. Everything will be updated now. Very fast. Things are moving so fast now John. I will be very “jazzy” of course.’ The girl laughed again. ‘There’ll be some dancing and…’
‘… Jazzy?’ John wasn’t sure he liked the sound of it.
‘All the models will be jazzy.’ Iona’s eyes sparkled with the thought of being jazzy. She pulled down her skirt and crossed her legs. ‘I’m model for Quorum too, and this is good labels. How ’bout you? Will you stay in London now?’
‘Hope so. I think my manager…’
‘And your manager is John?’
The boy nodded. ‘I forgot… you do know him, don’t you?’ He was careful not to seem too inquisitive.
‘John Pond was boyfriend with Monika – my best friend Monika – and so she was girlfriend with him!’ Iona sought to allay the boy’s fears while sounding a little unconvincing. It was clear that this was the only explanation John could expect. ‘Monika had the job with Marimekko,’ she continued, changing the subject. ‘You know this one?’
John looked blank.
‘Very famous designer. I love this pretty name they make for their company. Meaning “a dress for Mary”.’ Iona smiled. ‘I suppose a lot of people don’t know this…’
John nodded again. He was very aware that he needed to stop gawking. The only thought going through his mind at that present moment was, ‘There’s nothing wrong with her… not a thing wrong with this girl at all’. At which point a waiter threaded through the tables with a tray of drinks, giving the boy a reason to stop staring for a moment.
‘But now she is designing for herself.’ Iona smiled at the attentive waiter as she addressed her date. ‘Monika, anyway… just to start off .’
‘and is she… is she good?’
‘Good? Oh, she is good! Monika is half-Danish, half-Japanese… and this is very good… combi… nation. For business and… for looks. For style also.’
Iona gazed around the room, pretending to ignore John as she surveyed the sea of faces and returned some admiring glances. ‘Her mother was – is, I mean – Japanese. Monika is a very good-looking and she can get a lots of men.’ The girl stirred her drink, ‘nonetheless, she lives in the flat just down from me.’ Iona spoke matter-of-factly and nodded. ‘Down the stairs from my home.’
An image interrupted John’s already chaotic brain patterns. It was the ‘home’ itself. A two-up, two-down bedsit, TV sitcom layout, sliced in half like a Battenberg cake, so that the various activities in all four squares could be viewed simultaneously. A queue of rugged, good-for-nothing types lined the staircase between the girls’ apartments. Although this was the first time John and Iona had ever really spoken, he was already extremely jealous.
Iona picked up her whiskey, took a sip and laughed out loud. ‘I think you may be dark man really. Somewhere back in your mind!’ She looked pleased with herself. ‘Maybe because “night-time” name.’ Iona sipped again from her sparkling glass.
‘Did think about that… my name. Changing it. But I didn’t think there was a lot of point to it. Nightly is neither here nor there. Not very ordinary and not very unusual. Sort of “in between”… and… I’m concentrating on trying to think of a name for the group at the moment.’
‘Ah…’ Iona sat up straight, ready to help. ‘Perhaps I can think of one of these for you.’
‘oh… that’d be… great.’ John looked doubtful. ‘But I’m… probably quite close to coming up with it myself.’
‘Ha! Your ego so big you have to think everything yourself!’ Iona laughed teasingly and plonked down her glass.
‘Tell me then, clever ego man. What great names have got in your mind?’
John took a deep breath.
‘well…’ he said, rising to the challenge a little too seriously. ‘I wanted to call the group John’s Children.’ The girl immediately cut in,
‘I like this… but maybe I can think of something good for you…’ She looked over towards the bar. ‘Let me try!’
‘the other one I like is the Sleepwalkers… like Koestler?’
A blank look from the centre of attention. John leaned back and kicked his heels. He was enjoying the company very much. He was also enjoying the fact that during the short time he’d been with her the eyes of every boy and man, and girl, on tables both nearby and faraway, had strayed over to the vision sitting beside him.
‘… have to think about that one. Where exactly do you live when you’re not in Denmark?’
‘Exactly!’ The girl stamped her feet again.
‘pardon?’
‘That’s what I mean… Exactly.’ Now both of them appeared defeated.
‘I don’t mean “exactly” as in… exactly. It’s an expression… a turn of… well… it’s what we call a figure of speech.’ John suddenly seemed rather tired, ‘what I actually mean is… when you’re not in Denmark.’
Iona put aside her empty glass and picked up her cigarettes. ‘I’m not in Denmark,’ she replied as she slit open the plastic wrapping with her nail. ‘I’m definitely in London. As a matter of fact, I live in that road. The one up there.’ She gestured somewhere in the direction of the open door. ‘Brompton Road. Not too long – “far”, I mean. Opposite Bazaar shop. Famous, as well. The road and the shop, I think.’
John had been in the capital only two minutes but he had at least heard of Bazaar, been pre-warned about it, because Jana had always wanted him to take her there. ‘I know about it but… I don’t know where it is exactly…’
‘Exactly! Exactly what I say! And you can find exactly where, when you come to our party.’ Iona picked up a match, ‘We’re having birthday party for me – on my birthday!’ The girl chuckled. ‘Of course that is when it is!’ she laughed self-mockingly again. ‘Five… Five of May,’ Iona continued, lighting up. ‘This is big star-sign day, so don’t forget to write this one in, John!’
The fifth day of May immediately engraved itself on the boy’s psyche. Whatever else might be going on in the world at large on that particular stardate, he would certainly be back in London by then. ‘I should definitely be back in London by then…’
Iona offered a cigarette. ‘And where do you go now?’
‘Right now?’ John wasn’t sure whether or not he was being propositioned. ‘Right now… exactly now, anyway… I have to go to the hotel and try to write some songs,’ he explained. ‘John’s got me… hired me… a piano up there. After that, I’ll probably go back to Cambridge and try to record them. Unless they want me to record them here…’ He looked around as he gathered his books and papers.
‘But you do have the hit, don’t you?’ Iona finished off her second drink and peered into her empty glass. ‘I maybe take that one again…’ John laughed.
‘I hope I have “the hit”. Because that’s, well… what the record companies are looking for, isn’t it?’
‘They’re all looking for this one.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘And… and… and will this exact hit songs be about me?’
At this point the boy turned a blotchy purple and immediately faced away from Iona towards the other side of the room. A tableful of French students were arguing loudly in fashionable ‘Frenglish’. A girl in gruyere sleeves leaned across the table in order to show off her cleavage as she stared intensely into the eyes of the young raver opposite and carefully divided a flapjack into six unequal pieces.
‘I know this sound funny to you now, John. But as a matter of fact, you never know. One day they might be.’
John blushed again.
‘And is Mr Sir Pond going to do the best job for you? A clever job?’
‘Let’s hope so,’ John replied. ‘He’s a… a good… person I think. But he’s also, well… He’s what we might call a bit… volatile is the word really – what you would probably call “moody”.’
‘Ah… I didn’t know this.’ Iona looked worried. ‘Is it like violent?’
John smiled. ‘Not like violent at all, no…’ He considered for a moment. There was a certain logic to it, he thought. ‘He’s sort of… well… “volatile” might sometimes be… the bit before “violent”, in a way, I suppose.’ He smiled and picked up his half-empty glass. ‘He’s instructed me to try to get my… my “image” worked out.’
‘Ah… he gives instructions.’
‘not exactly… I didn’t mean…’
‘And what “image” is this?’ Iona played with the strap of her top and looked directly into John’s evasive eyes. ‘Because… darling…’ she whispered, temporarily forgetting herself. ‘I think you don’t exactly need this “image” at all maybe.’ The girl relit her cigarette. ‘Not really, John… because… because that… This not having image…’ Iona leaned forward across the table. ‘This will be your charm… your luck, you see. You don’t need image all the time, John.’ She moved closer still and surprised the boy by suddenly taking his hand. ‘I think you just be yourself, darling. Like you are, anyway. Not like other boys – men – I mean.’ She let go of him. ‘That is why you’re so… so charmant, I think!’
John Nightly was struck dumb. He couldn’t believe that any creature such as this wanted to take his sweaty, adolescent hand in hers. Iona elaborated.
‘It’s really… “old fashion”, what you have, John. Really… English, isn’t it? N’est-ce pas? And this is what all the girls – everyone… boys as well – is going to like about you. When you become very famous. And yes, of course… before you will become famous, surely. This will surely help.’
John cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think I’m going to get very famous… not very soon either, you know. And not that famous, anyway… probably, well… not ever…’
‘But you are going to make some hit?’
‘of course! Well, I hope I am…’
‘Then you become famous!’ She placed her hand on his arm. ‘Or how they going to sell it?’
Iona forgot herself again. Completely entranced by her companion’s good looks and his disarming naivety, she gazed into the crowd, consciously trying to avoid his searching eyes. Iona imagined running her fingers through John’s thick head of straw, letting herself lapse into the state she hoped might one day exist, as both of them, a little embarrassed, but tingling with the excitement of this faint sexual moment, brushing against each other on the hardwood bench, pretended to appear serious, disinterested in one another, artificially un-sexual, unaffected by one another, as if this little get-together was somehow illicit and needed to be curtailed.
‘Even I am become famous.’
‘are you?’ John was taken off guard. ‘I mean… well, I know you are. Of course, I know that. Because I saw you in the paper, and you’re already pretty… well, quite famous already.’
But Iona saw no humour in it. ‘I am a bit, I suppose. But… it’s not too much…’
She moved away from him slightly, so that they were no longer physically in contact. ‘What does your manager say about this… this image?’
John looked embarrassed. ‘He says it’s about… “angles” and all that sort of thing. Ideas about what I should look like. I know that everyone does have an image, but… well… Benjamin Britten doesn’t…’
Again, no reaction.
John decided to stop being light with Iona now. He actually wanted to talk about something. Anything. Properly talk. Not about himself, but talk normally. ‘Can’t think of one, anyway,’ he said abruptly, trying to round off the conversation. ‘Maybe his frizzy hair.’ He laughed as he finger-combed his own lush head of non-frizz. ‘Ludicrous as that might sound. And… Stravinsky… he doesn’t have one either.’
‘Stravinsky? Russian Stravinsky? But Stravinsky well, does have image.’ Iona became suddenly very serious. ‘My father said she had a really big nose…’
John couldn’t help but be taken aback at the reduction of the great Master to his – or her – nose, but the girl would not be put off. ‘And this is his image,’ she continued. ‘I still get these things mixed up.’ She looked rather deflated. ‘But I’m excellent on everything else… like… Mr General de Gaulle.’
>
‘what?’
‘General de Gaulle… my father said he has a big… Versailles of a nose.’
The boy gave up. ‘Well, yeh… he… and thank God that you are…’ John looked tenderly at her. ‘You are really… excellent yourself… in that… exact… department.’ The boy turned sideways on to Iona as he acted out a detailed investigation of her almost-perfect profile. ‘Really excellent, actually.’
The boy checked his own side profile in the mirror opposite. He caught himself staring into Iona’s dewey eyes. Eyes that twinkled with sensation, like those of a child collecting shells on a beach.
‘but John Pond… he is a good guy, I think. Though what is bizarre is that he’s a descendant of someone I’ve been researching – in a scientific way.’
‘John is scientific?’
The boy laughed. ‘That’s not what I meant. But, yes… he himself is actually quite scientific. Got a degree in quantum physics.’ The girl looked shocked.
‘I didn’t know this. No idea about it at all. Nothing to do with Mary Quant?’
Now they both laughed. ‘Sorry, John… only things I know is these silly things. What time the shop opens and what time it closes. Don’t know anything… anything “important”.’
Iona patted John’s knee as she picked up her scarf and gloves.
‘Let’s go to Science Museum!’
The boy got up too – excited and fired up, though slightly ill-at-ease with this level of familiarity.
‘Got to go back. Get on with some work now. I have to finish these songs by tomorrow.’
‘Have you eat some lunch?’
‘I haven’t, but…’
‘So… I come with you to there and we make sure you have some good food tonight, while you use your mind…’
John Nightly had no experience of how to handle this kind of thing.
‘that’s… that would be… very nice, of course. But… I really don’t think I can do that either. I’ve got to ring my girlfriend now and…’