One night that summer, she and Charles went with a party of friends to Brads, the newest of the new nightspots. It was wonderfully unstuffy, the dress code dizzily informal, the food fun – hamburgers and hot bacon sandwiches – and the music loud, it was as far removed from the polite formality of the traditional nightclub as jeans and open-neck shirts were from dinner jackets. It was soon after midnight when Eliza, lying back temporarily exhausted after an energetic bossa nova, heard someone shouting above the din.
‘Charles, old chap! Lovely to see you,’ and into view, smiling and waving just slightly drunkenly in their direction, came the most glorious-looking man.
‘Jeremy!’ said Charles. ‘Come and join us. Eliza, I don’t think you’ve met Jeremy. Jeremy Northcott. We were out in Hong Kong together. Jeremy, this is my sister, Eliza.’
‘Hello,’ said Eliza, smiling just a little coolly while digesting this Adonis: tall, blond, absurdly good-looking, the patrician nose and chiselled jaw saved from cliché by a slightly lopsided grin, showing, of course, perfect teeth.
‘Hello to you,’ said Jeremy and sat down abruptly next to her, clinging to his glass of red wine with some difficulty. ‘I think we met a couple of times at Eton, Fourth of June and so on.’
‘Really?’
She was sure she would have remembered him, he was so extraordinarily good looking, but then you did get a bit dazzled there, the standard was pretty high.
‘Yes, think so. And I was at the Harlot’s Ball the year you came out, but I didn’t manage to dance with you, too much competition.’
Eliza giggled.
‘Well, maybe we could put it right some other time,’ she said.
‘That’d be marvellous.’
He smiled at her again; he really was knee-shakingly attractive.
‘Well, what have you been doing with yourself, you old bugger?’ asked Charles. ‘Where are you living now?’
‘In a flat I kind of inherited in Sloane Street,’ said Jeremy.
‘Lucky you,’ said Charles. ‘That’s the sort of inheritance I’d like.’
‘Yes, it’s quite jolly there. What are you doing then, Charles? Working in the City, I heard?’
‘That’s right, with a firm of stockbrokers. Not a bad life. Hours are fairly agreeable, lot of decent chaps there. Pretty good really. How about you?’
‘I’m working in advertising,’ said Jeremy. ‘Terrific fun. Firm called K Parker Dutton, KPD for short. Don’t know if you’ve heard of it?’
‘I certainly have,’ said Eliza, smiling at him. ‘It sounds like complete heaven to me. Is it true you all have your own offices complete with sofas and fridges?’
‘Absolutely true.’
‘You on your own, Jeremy?’ said Charles. ‘You’re very welcome to join us.’
‘No, sorry, whole crowd of us, including a rather tedious cousin who I’m bidden to look after. I must get back in a tick.’ He looked at Eliza. ‘Lovely to meet you again. Think I can’t take you up on your invitation to dance just now. Another time perhaps?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘We must arrange an evening,’ said Charles. ‘Been to the Saddle Room yet?’
‘Yes, I’m a member. Great idea. So what are you up to, Eliza? Working girl?’
‘Is she ever,’ said Charles. ‘You’re looking at a bona fide career woman, Jeremy. Eliza works in fashion.’
‘Really? How amazing.’
‘Well, yes, it is a little bit amazing,’ said Eliza. ‘I love it anyway.’
‘So, what exactly is it? Are you a model?’
‘No,’ said Eliza, not sure whether to be flattered because he should think that possible, or irritated that he should think modelling a career. ‘No, I work for Woolfe’s, department store in Knightsbridge. I do the publicity.’
‘Oh, I know Woolfe’s. Great store. Publicity, eh? I know what that means, taking all the fashion editors out to lunch?’
‘Well, that’s only a very small part of the job,’ said Eliza, ‘but yes, that is one of the perks. And telling them about everything in the store, hoping they’ll write about it. And then making sure—’
‘Steady on, Eliza,’ said Charles, ‘Jeremy’s supposed to be enjoying himself, he doesn’t want a lecture on the PR industry.’
‘No, no,’ said Jeremy, ‘it’s my line of country, you know. Look, I must get back to the cousin, I can see her looking a bit wan. Let’s have lunch soon, Charles, here’s my card, give me a ring. And I’ll fix that evening at the Saddle Room. Lovely to meet you, Eliza. Bye for now.’
And he unwound his considerable height from the sofa and made his way back across the room.
‘He seems very nice,’ said Eliza.
‘I knew you’d like him,’ said Charles rather complacently, ‘and he’s fearsomely rich. His family owns a bank. Now if you married him that would solve all our problems. Summercourt included.’
‘Charles!’ exclaimed Eliza, hurling a packet of cigarettes at him. ‘I said he was very nice, not that I wanted to marry him. Please stop going on about it. I am just not interested in getting married at the moment; I’m only interested in my career, OK?’
‘OK,’ said Charles.
Chapter 6
‘Scarlett, could I possibly go up the front on the way back?’
‘OK. As long as Brian agrees.’
Brian was one of the stewards on their flight; it was the stewards who decided which girls did Economy (Down the Back as it was known) and which First (Up the Front). The posher a girl, the more likely she was to be sent down the back; it was the totties who got given First Class, acknowledged a cushier number, because they were more likely to reward the stewards – those who weren’t homosexual at least – by sleeping with them. No really classy girl would dream of sleeping with the stewards. Scarlett was seldom up the front, in spite of her slightly shaky social credentials, because she wouldn’t have dreamed of sleeping with them either; she’d actually hoped to be there this trip, for a treat, it was from Vienna, almost four hours, but Diana was looking dreadful.
‘Why, what’s wrong?’ she said.
‘Oh, I’ve got the curse, feel awful. Now at least I’ll be able to sit down occasionally.’
‘Course. I’m sorry.’ Scarlett looked at her sympathetically. Diana had terrible period pains and was quite often actually sick. ‘You go and lie down for half an hour. They’re boarding late; I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Got any codeine?’
‘I think there’s some in first aid. Thanks, Scarlett.’
But when it was time to board, Diana was vomiting and dizzy; the captain sent her back to the sick bay.
‘You can’t fly like that. No use to anyone. Don’t worry, we’ll manage.’
The flight was only half full. ‘This’ll be a piece of cake,’ said Scarlett cheerfully to Brian.
‘Don’t be too sure. Lot of turbulence forecast.’
The turbulence was a while coming; Scarlett began to hope the forecast was wrong. She had enough to cope with without it; there was a difficult meal to serve, beef on the bone, carved in the aisle, and almost every passenger on the plane wanted theirs rare, and a French businessman demanded his blue; an extremely tiresome child insisted on walking up and down the aisle behind her, ‘helping her’ as she put it, and an American woman called Mrs Berenson was intensely nervous and clutched at Scarlett every time she went past, asking how they were doing, whether there was any turbulence ahead, when they might land, was there a doctor on board.
‘I have dreadfully high blood pressure, you see, I could need sedation if there were any difficulties.’
Scarlett assured her there were no difficulties as far as she knew, and that there was first-aid equipment on board.
‘My dear girl, that’s no use to me, I need a proper doctor.’
Scarlett smiled again and offered her an aspirin. It often soothed the most terrible nerves: placebo effect, she supposed.
‘Yes, that might be nice, thank you. Oh, dear God, what was th
at?’
The plane had dropped slightly; it shook a little and then steadied.
The captain’s voice came over the intercom.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we may be about to experience a little turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts.’
‘Oh, my God,’ moaned Mrs Berenson, ‘oh God, what shall I do?’
‘Nothing,’ said Scarlett gently, ‘just do up your seat belt and sit tight. You’re perfectly safe.’
She stayed with her for a moment, trying to calm her, and then worked her way round the cabin, reassuring, smiling, plumping pillows, fastening belts. She could feel the plane beginning to shudder.
The child was still running behind her, giggling. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Scarlett as politely as she could to her mother, ‘but I really must ask you to get your girl strapped into her seat.’
‘But she’s enjoying herself so much,’ said the woman.
‘She won’t enjoy herself getting thrown round the cabin,’ Scarlett said coolly. ‘Please do what I ask, it’s important.’
A wail went up from Mrs Berenson; Scarlett hurried to her.
‘There’s nothing to worry about, Mrs Berenson. Really. You’ll be fine. Please try to stay calm, you’re upsetting the other passengers. Here, have a sip of water. Did you take your aspirin?’
‘Yes. Maybe I should have a second one.’
The tail seemed to swing round slightly and Mrs Berenson wailed again. Various buzzers were being pressed; Scarlett patted her hand and hurried off.
When she passed the Frenchman’s seat he put his hand out, barring her way.
‘This wine is terrible. Open a new bottle, if you please.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t – not just at the moment.’
‘Miss, this is not what I have paid my first-class fare for. Please do what I ask.’
Scarlett walked to the service area, and started to open a fresh bottle of claret.
‘Scarlett! You can’t do that. Not while this is going on.’ Brian was frowning at her, sitting in his own seat, doing up his straps. ‘Sit down and belt yourself in.’
‘It’s either giving that frog his bloody wine, or pushing him out the window. Now just stop fussing, and think about something else, like that lovely boy you met last night.’
‘Bitch!’ said Brian and blew a kiss towards the window. She smiled at him tolerantly. He was a raging queen like most of the others.
Mrs Berenson was screaming now. Such panic was infectious; other passengers were turning to stare at her nervously, and the little girl started to cry.
‘I’ll go and sit with her,’ Scarlett said to Brian who was behind her, proffering a second napkin to the Frenchman, ‘otherwise they’ll all start screaming.’
‘All right, darling. Rather you than me. She’s the colour of a billiard table.’
Scarlett started to make her way towards Mrs Berenson, smiled at her and settled herself in the window seat.
‘Here,’ she said, ‘hold my hand. You’re going to be fine.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Mrs Berenson. Her voice was lower now, her teeth chattering. She had a very pretty, Southern-belle-type accent; she was very pretty altogether, Scarlett noticed, honey-blond, with fine, fair, slightly freckled skin and wonderful green eyes. She was far from young, probably about sixty, but slim and beautifully dressed, in a cream silk shirt and camel skirt. ‘We’re going to crash, aren’t we?’
‘No, we’re not. The captain says it’s fine, just a bit of bad weather. Honestly, in about ten minutes it’ll be over. Deep breaths, that’s right. Now why don’t you tell me where you’re from, why you’re coming to England, I do love to know more about passengers, and we never usually get the chance. Do you have family here?’
Clinging to Scarlett’s hand, Mrs Berenson began to talk, and became calmer, telling her where she lived (Charleston, South Carolina), where she was going (London to visit an elderly aunt), why she’d been in Vienna (to stay with a friend and visit the Opera House for ‘the most wonderful “Magic Flute”’), about her three sons, all of whom were extremely good-looking, she said (and what mother didn’t claim that for her sons, Scarlett wondered, smiling at her, they were probably as plain as pikestaffs. Although if they were anything like their mother …)
The turbulence ended as suddenly as it had begun and the plane became completely steady. Scarlett unbuckled her belt.
‘I’ve love to hear more, Mrs Berenson. But I have lots to do now. Excuse me, won’t you?’
‘Of course, my dear. How kind you’ve been. Thank you.’
‘It was truly a pleasure.’
They reached London two hours later; the plane landed smoothly, everyone stood up, chattering, the trauma quite forgotten. Scarlett stood at the top of the steps, smiling sweetly at everyone, accepted Mrs Berenson’s thanks and a promise to look out for her in future, and a kiss from the tiresome child.
‘Told you,’ she said to Brian. ‘Piece of cake.’
Young Generation had been open for nearly a year now, and was acknowledged by everyone who mattered as a huge success. Bernard Woolfe said so, albeit cautiously, while noting its extremely healthy turnover; the press said so, rather less cautiously, giving it rave reviews from day one (the Evening Standard had described the opening party as ‘an explosion of colour and music and style’) and continuing to feature it and its merchandise on a most satisfyingly regular basis, and the customers said so by flocking to it, day after day. Young, stylish, moneyed, they fell on this treasure trove of clothes that suited them and their lifestyle so perfectly – and carried it away from Woolfe’s in the shiny, brilliantly coloured carrier bags that were its trademark. The carrier bags had actually been Eliza’s idea and she was very proud of them.
The party had been attended by everyone who mattered in fashion: Anne Trehearn of Queen, Ernestine Carter of the Sunday Times, Felicity Green of the Mirror, and Shirley Conran, creator of the new ‘Femail’ section in the Daily Mail; the fashion photographers and rising star David Bailey, with his friends Terence Donovan and Norman Eales, as well as the more establishment crowd, John French, and Henry Clarke; and the models, Jean Shrimpton, Pagan Grigg, Grace Coddington, and every man’s dream of a girl, blue-eyed blonde Celia Hammond.
And then there had been the designers – who would have thought Mary Quant would attend, never mind John Bates, Jean Muir, and the new names such as Maddy Brown who (to quote the Standard again) ‘has done the impossible and made knitting sexy’.
Eliza had thought it would be hard, settling down after the excitement of the launch, but in fact she simply found herself caught up in an ever-increasing whirlwind timetable of shows, photographic shoots, press releases, and the more mundane but possibly most important task of all, seeing to the nitty-gritty: getting clothes over to the offices of the fashion editors, making sure that Queen and Vogue – for instance – weren’t featuring the same dress, checking prices, suggesting and then rounding up accessories to accompany the clothes that the journalists called in.
Her favourite days were when a fashion editor rang up and said something like, ‘We’re doing a story on fringed hems – have you got anything?’ And if there was nothing fringed to be found in the stockroom, she’d call up one of her favourite designers and ask, ‘Got anything with a fringed hem?’ Whereupon the more desperate would actually knock up a sample in twenty-four hours for her, on condition Woolfe’s would agree to be listed as stockist. It was quite common for none of the garments in question to be sold; but it didn’t really matter much, it suited everybody, the journalist who found a page of her feature filled, the designer who got the priceless publicity for his or her name, and Woolfe’s who increased their reputation for cutting-edge fashion.
It was hectic, exhausting, and absolutely wonderful. What romantic liaison could possibly compete with that?
‘You all right, young Matthew?’ said Mr Barlow.
‘Yes, fine, thanks.’
It wasn’t true; he had terrib
le toothache. It had been growing quietly but insistently for three days now. He kept hoping it would go away, settle down again.
‘Good. You don’t look it. Anyway, come in, I’ve got some news for you.’
Matt followed him into his office.
‘You’ve done well, lad. Very well. We’ve all done well, of course, got a load of new clients, in fact we’ll have to move soon. You’ll have to find us an office. Go and see some agents.’ He chuckled. He prided himself on being a joker.
‘But credit where it’s due. A lot of it’s down to you. So, I’m promoting you, Matt. Making you up to negotiator.’
‘Crikey,’ said Matt.
‘I hope you don’t use words like that to the clients,’ said Mr Barlow disapprovingly.
‘Course not.’
‘Good. And there’ll be a rise too. How would twelve pounds a week sound to you?’
‘Pretty good,’ said Matt, ‘but not as good as thirteen.’
‘Maybe not. I didn’t say thirteen though.’
‘I know that, Mr Barlow. But I reckon it’s what I’m worth. From what I’ve heard.’
Mr Barlow looked at him almost severely. ‘You’ve got a cheek. But you could be right. How about twelve pounds, ten shillings?’
‘Done. Thank you very much, Mr Barlow.’
Matt went into the golden September evening feeling very happy. He was getting there. Next move would be getting his own agency. In a year or two. He had the energy, and he’d have some clients. He’d have no compunction about taking them away from Barlow and Stein. They’d have had fantastic value out of him; it would be time to get some out of them. Matt felt very bullish suddenly. Taking on the world.
And it was a good evening for his promotion to have happened. Charles had arranged some kind of reunion with Happy and Nobby Clark as well. He could tell them all about it, really hold up his head as a successful man of the world.
The Decision Page 7