Not That Kind of Girl

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘You mean …’ I turned to her, startled.

  ‘You are taking over my job because I am going ’ome. I’m going back to Paris to marry a decent man and get away from thees terrible one I work for, for two years.’ She grinned. ‘I weesh you luck, ’Enny. He flirt for England, but don’t worry. ’E all mouth and no …’ow you say?’

  ‘Pantalon?’ I offered.

  They both laughed.

  ‘C’est bien vrai,’ said Emmanuelle.

  Flushed with success at making them laugh, I kept the bright smile going. Couldn’t turn it down actually, let alone off. I suddenly wanted this job so badly. Every fibre in my being wanted to be part of this glamorous, fun, flirty setup, in this gorgeous, spacious office, sitting at – well, presumably that was my desk, I thought, eyeing a smaller, more isolated one under the window, almost scrabbling to deposit my bag underneath it, in fact – in the same room as this terribly important, but terribly attractive man. Oh, we’d swap careless banter, no doubt, but I’d also be an indispensable part of the organization, a cog in the wheel, spinning round in my chair and calling out, ‘Laurie, darling, don’t forget you’re at Cleopatra’s Needle today!’ Or, ‘Elgin Marbles tomorrow, my love,’ or whatever it was he did. What did he do, I wondered feverishly. Suddenly I wished I’d given all this a bit more thought. Done some research. I felt like Alice, stepping through the looking-glass, away from the unmade beds, the groaning laundry basket, the rows of empty jam jars awaiting their homemade crab apple jelly, into a glorious, glamorous world, but having trouble recognizing it, it was so alien. Having trouble getting my bearings.

  ‘And you tell ’er everything she needs to know, yes?’ warned Emmanuelle, wagging her finger at him as she moved towards the door. ‘You tell ’er you always forget your plane tickets so she needs to pack them for you, and you tell ’er you never get to ze Television Centre on time so she need to book you a cab, and –’

  ‘Television?’ I interrupted, a mite too breathlessly. ‘Why on earth would you need to – oh!’ I stopped. Stared at him. ‘Golly, now I know. I knew I’d seen you before somewhere, but I couldn’t think where. You do one of those history programmes, don’t you? One of those Simon Schama-type things. I saw you last Sunday, in a bright yellow shirt in a cornfield in France, talking about those Shakespearean battles – “once more unto the bridge” and all that. I’m sure it was you!’

  He inclined his head in benign acceptance of this. ‘Or even breach, and the shirt was a mistake since it clashed with the corn, but you’re right. I was indeed prowling around Agincourt’s battlefields last Sunday. Although of course it was all pre-recorded, so I wasn’t actually there.’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ I agreed warmly. ‘It was probably filmed months ago, but how exciting! And do you go too?’ I asked, far too keenly, of Emmanuelle.

  She laughed. ‘De temps en temps, but not often abroad. Mostly because he’s forgotten his script, or his glasses, so I’m just rushing across London to find him. But you’ll get a few trips,’ she added kindly. ‘OK – I go now. Au revoir – et bonne chance!’ She waved at me as she left. Blew Laurie a kiss.

  ‘It’s not much of a travel job, I’m afraid,’ Laurie said smoothly, crossing to a sofa and indicating I should sit opposite. ‘More of a stay-put-and-hold-the-fort appointment really.’

  I hastened across, wishing I hadn’t sounded quite so much like a vacuous Miss World contestant, keen to see the world and be on television. What, sliding into shot handing him his glasses perhaps, Henny? Waving to the family?

  ‘Oh, and that’s entirely what I expected,’ I said, hitching up my skirt as I sat down so it wasn’t quite so dowager-duchess. It was a bit too tight to do that though, and my descent was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a seam splitting, as the lining of my skirt, designed to accommodate legs and not buttocks, ripped. We gazed at one another transfixed. I felt a hot flush rush up my neck.

  ‘So,’ I said quickly, clearing my throat, ‘I imagine it’s just as Emmanuelle said. Lots of – you know – admin.’

  ‘Well, a fair amount,’ he replied, recovering quickly. ‘You don’t mind that?’

  ‘No! Love admin. Golly, I do enough at home. Well, you know,’ I made a face, ‘de temps en temps.’ God, do relax, Henny. I made an effort to compose my features and look serious. ‘And of course I’m a big history fan,’ I added soberly.

  He smiled. ‘I’ve never heard it put quite like that before, but that’s marvellous. I don’t know what Penny told you, but I’m a military historian. I was in the Army for a while.’ He scratched his head sheepishly. ‘Got a bit of a thing about battles, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, battles. God, me too. Don’t get me on the Peloponnesian War, or we’ll be here all night!’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? Is that your subject?’

  I licked my lips. ‘Er, not just that one,’ I said quickly, wishing Marcus hadn’t mentioned it so very recently. I shifted nervously in my buckling sea of tweed. ‘Lots of battles, really. You know, the Battle of – of …’ I glanced down at my ballooning lap ‘…the Bulge, the Battle of Pearl Harbor, the Battle of Potemkin –’

  ‘Battle …ship Potemkin?’ he enquired, eyebrows raised.

  ‘That’s the one. Probably my favourite, but they’re all good, aren’t they? And of course we’ve got our very own battleground close to home that we’re so proud of.’

  He looked surprised. ‘In Kent?’

  ‘Well no, Sussex. Hastings. But it’s not far, is it?’

  He got up quickly, mouth twitching perceptibly, and turned his back on me. Clearing his throat, he rustled some papers on his desk. ‘No, it certainly isn’t,’ he agreed. ‘But to be honest, Henny, an in-depth knowledge of military history is not strictly necessary. Can you type?’

  ‘Oh, absolument. Drrrrr!!’ I drummed all ten fingers on his coffee-table to demonstrate.

  ‘Excellent. Only Penny said you hadn’t worked for a while, so I wondered –’

  ‘Ah, but I kept up my skills. You’ve got to, haven’t you? And frankly, it’s about the only thing that impresses my children these days, the fact that I’m faster on the computer than they are. Well, obviously, a few other things impress them too, but –’

  ‘Obviously.’ He smiled. Perched on the edge of his desk, he folded his arms and regarded me kindly. ‘Look. All I really need, Henny, is someone relatively flexible to field my calls, keep my diary and reply to letters and faxes. Oh,’ he grimaced, ‘and sometimes keep the journalists at bay.’

  ‘Journalists!’ I gasped. Suddenly I saw myself opening the door to hordes of paparazzi, camera bulbs flashing wildly in my face, like that guy in Notting Hill in his under-pants. Except I wouldn’t be in my underpants. I’d be in a sexy little black dress with a row of seed pearls. Or maybe a chic Chanel suit. Pale pink. Bouclé wool. Very short. Have to diet, the legs weren’t great at the moment.

  ‘Henny?’

  I came to. ‘Oh yes, I can do that,’ I assured him. ‘I’m frightfully cool under fire.’ I was dimly aware that battle analogies were tumbling ad nauseam from my mouth. ‘Marvellous at fighting the flak.’

  ‘Good. It’s really not that difficult, and Emmanuelle seems to manage it fairly effortlessly, so we’ll just play it by ear, shall we?’

  He turned and shuffled a few more papers and I took it as my cue that the interview was over. I jumped up.

  ‘So. This is you,’ he said, crossing the room athletically and disappearing back out to the landing. ‘In here.’

  I snatched up my handbag and after a quick glance over my shoulder to check my skirt was still intact even if the lining had gone, followed him across the hallway into a little office.

  ‘It’s a bit cramped, I’m afraid,’ he was saying.

  Ah. Right. So not together in the billowing drawing room. Still, this was an awfully pretty room, I decided, glancing around at the spriggy blue wallpaper and the pot plants. Emmanuelle had made it very feminine. Very homey. I spotted a photo of
a chiselled dude, presumably her fiancé, on the pinboard above the desk. And actually, I could relax a bit more if I wasn’t in the same room as Laurie. Wouldn’t make so many gaffes. And naturally I’d be popping in to lighten his historical load, take through coffee, insist he take a break and flop down on the squashy sofa when I felt he’d been working too hard. Yes, I’d be a sort of protector to this great man. And indispensable, of course. People would say, ‘Yes, he’s marvellous, but I don’t know where he’d be without Henny. She’s his right arm. He can’t move without her.’

  ‘Emmanuelle will clear some of her stuff away,’ he was saying, glancing around. ‘But what d’you think?’ He turned to me. Quite close now, his eyes intent on mine. Gosh, he was tall.

  ‘Oh, yes. Lovely. But – d’you mean – that you’d like me to take the job?’

  ‘Yes. If that’s all right with you?’

  ‘You don’t want me to …I don’t know, take a typing test or something?’ I seemed to remember doing that when I started in the advertising racket. But that had been years ago.

  Laurie scratched his head. ‘To be honest, how fast you type is not really an issue. You can do it with two fingers for all I care, as long as it gets done.’

  ‘Oh no, all of them!’ I waggled them, grinning.

  ‘Good.’ He put his hand on my shoulder to guide me out and down the stairs – a light, friendly touch, much as he’d touched Emmanuelle – but it turned me to jelly. But then Emmanuelle had that gorgeous hunk on her pin-board, didn’t she, so it wouldn’t affect her equilibrium. And, of course, I had Marcus, I thought guiltily.

  ‘You’re married to an adman, I gather?’ Laurie remarked, reading my thoughts as he went ahead of me down the staircase. ‘Penny said.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Except that Marcus has got his own production company now. But he was the creative director of an ad agency in London. That’s how we met.’

  ‘You worked for him?’

  ‘Yes, I was his secretary. Fell in love with the boss. Usual story.’ Oh no, Henny. I went hot behind him. ‘I – I mean,’ I stuttered, wondering what on earth I did mean, but he’d already stopped. Turned to look at me on the stairs.

  He gazed at me intently. What? I wondered nervously. Had I got lipstick on my teeth? Lost an earring? I put a hand up tentatively.

  ‘Of course,’ he said slowly. ‘I knew I’d seen you somewhere before. I was at your wedding.’

  I blanched, taken aback. ‘Were you? Heavens, I don’t remember that. How awful of me. But …well, you must have known Marcus then, because I don’t –’

  ‘No, no, I’m sorry.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘Not that wedding. It was – you know. To Rupert.’

  I felt the blood leave my face. ‘Oh. Right. You know Rupert?’

  ‘Yes.’ He turned quickly and walked on. I followed dumbly down the stairs. We reached the front door.

  ‘I’m sorry, Henny, I shouldn’t have –’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I said quickly, and laughed nervously. ‘Well, obviously it’s fine. I’ve been married for fifteen years now. Got two children. S-so how come …I mean –’

  ‘We were in the Army together,’ he said simply. ‘House-hold Cavalry.’

  ‘Of course.’ I stared. Of course. ‘You said you were in the Army.’ Somehow I’d thought the Paras though, or the Marines. Something a bit more meaty. More battle-scarred. But no, he’d been in the Guards. A cavalry officer, like Rupert. A gin and tonic officer, I used to tease. A ceremonial soldier who changed the guard at Buckingham Palace, rode out in Hyde Park on a gleaming charger, bits and buckles jangling, entertained in the Officers’ Mess at St James’s Palace. Or Jimmy’s, to the cognoscenti. Looking glamorous in mess-kit, toasting Queen and Country, smiling at his girlfriend over the silver and the crystal …

  I tried to keep a bright smile going. Tried to come up with some merry banter as Laurie opened the door. I remembered agreeing that I’d see him later on in the week, that I’d start at nine thirty, and that I’d look forward to getting the details of my contract in the post. Then I left, and Laurie shut the door. But as I walked down the street, I had a strange sensation in my legs. Had to stop at some railings. Not to hold onto them or anything, just – to touch them briefly. Steady myself.

  My head spun. So Laurie had been at my wedding. At the church in Hanover Square. In the congregation in his morning-coat, or perhaps even in a professional capacity, in the Guard of Honour. Swords raised, Rupert’s comrades had formed an arch at the door for me, the bride, to pass through. I remembered their crimson tunics, their helmets and silken head-dresses. And how they’d melted away, embarrassed, when I’d run up the church steps, hitching up my ivory silk gown, my veil flying. But I’d had to see for myself. Been unable to believe it. But then – I’d had to believe it. Had had to allow myself to be gently led away, to be passed, like a piece of delicate china, hand over hand, from brother, to uncle, to father, down the steps, back into the bridal car at the kerb.

  Then, with my father beside me, I, the unmarried bride, had been driven away. Driven home.

  Chapter Four

  I first met Rupert through Penny, when I was nineteen. Actually, that’s not strictly true. It wasn’t directly through Penny, because she didn’t know him, but through her boyfriend at the time, the lovely Philip Berrington. Philip was a cavalry officer, and by virtue of that, had invitations to a ball his Battalion was throwing at Wellington Barracks that summer. Penny was his guest and I, as her flatmate, had been tossed a double ticket if I could find someone to stump up the cash and escort me. I could – happily, since I couldn’t possibly afford it myself – and I was in heaven.

  It was to be a grand, black-tie affair to celebrate the safe return of Philip’s troop – or company or whatever it was called – from Cyprus, where as far as I could tell, he and his mates had spent a jolly six weeks water-skiing, scuba-diving and passing out in beach tavernas, coming round only to lob the restaurant chairs in the sea and be chased away by the outraged Cypriot owners. Philip would tell these tales of laddish derring-do with tears of mirth running down his cheeks, and Penny and I would laugh along with him. But I do remember asking him, as the three of us sat nursing our warm lagers in the Admiral Codrington one night, what his company was actually doing on the island. He’d looked a bit vague, but eventually scratched his head and muttered something about important garrison work that could only be carried out by highly trained security forces, so no doubt these high jinks were a smokescreen for some terribly dangerous, covert operation. I never quite got to the bottom of it.

  Anyway, the ball was to be held in June, and Penny and I were in an agony of anticipation. Penny would go with Philip, and I …well, I would probably go with Hughie Fullerton. Hughie was my supposed boyfriend at the time, and another friend of Penny’s. (All my friends, in those days, came courtesy of Penny who was far more socially savvy than I was and collected friends rather as some people collect stamps. It helped that she came from a rather grand, if slightly impoverished, family whose lack of funds had not, so far, impeded their connections.)

  Hughie was a friend of her brother’s and he took me out on a fairly casual basis. Casual in the sense that our dates were infrequent, and although we’d snogged a bit, we hadn’t done much more. I was, however, bracing myself for more, because Hughie had recently indicated that if he was stumping up eighty quid for the double ball tickets, he expected some collateral. And actually, I was resigned to that. There are only so many gin and tonics a girl can accept without incurring the quid pro quo, and apart from that, there simply wasn’t anyone else on the horizon.

  So Hughie it was. And he was fine. Fine. So what if he was a touch pink and blond for my tastes and slightly overweight with unfortunate pale eyelashes which put one in mind of a pig? So what? He didn’t make me heave, and I’d learned to keep my eyes tightly shut when I kissed him. That seemed to work. Why, only the other night when he’d put his hand on my thigh in the cinema I’d definitely felt something sti
rring deep within me. OK, I’d had my eyes firmly on Hugh Grant at the time, but still, I reckoned it was progress.

  So, from our tiny ground-floor flat in Wandsworth, Operation Battalion Ball began. Penny and I spent many happy hours making big, hand-rubbing plans as we deliberated and dithered over what to wear in Hughie and Philip’s honour. In a weak moment we even rang our respective mothers for advice, or even money. A wise move on Penny’s part, who got the latter, but not so smart on mine. Penny’s mother, although strapped for cash, instantly lobbed her an advance on her wages, which enabled her to go straight to Monsoon and secure a strapless gold lamé number which she hustled home delightedly in a carrier bag. My mother, however, ticked the advice box. She never did anything long-distance either, which was why, that same Saturday, when Penny returned to try the dress on in the flat, my mother was in the audience.

  As Penny let the shimmering fabric fall over her bronzed shoulders and skinny hips, there was a stunned and admiring silence.

  ‘What d’you think?’ she asked, looking at her reflection, then twisting around to see the back in the mirror.

  My mother sniffed. She shifted her weight meaningfully beside me on Penny’s bed, her face pained.

  ‘Well, it’s very grown-up, dear,’ she opined eventually. That, I knew, meant fast. How I longed to be fast.

  ‘You look fantastic, Penny,’ I breathed in awe.

  ‘And so will you,’ said Mum firmly. ‘Here.’

  She handed me a package. It was large, soft and squashy, and somehow I just knew it didn’t contain a hefty cheque or a Monsoon voucher. As I shook the fabric from the folds of tissue, it dawned. Out tumbled her old ballgown from the 1950s: a shiny white Norman Hartnell number which had been stuffed at the back of her wardrobe for about a hundred years and which, Mum informed me in sepulchral tones, she’d be honoured if I’d wear. I swallowed.