A Class Apart

by Susan Lewis

  “I remembered what you said,” Vicky called after her, as she sat down by the table. “No blues, no whites, no stripes, no checks.”

  Jenneen didn’t answer, so Vicky merely shrugged, and assumed she hadn’t heard her. She started to unpack the dresses. Jenneen had mentioned something about strobing on camera, and then some queer word, Ultimatte or something, that ruled out certain colours or patterns. She had brought along an assortment of what she thought would be the best. Personally she rather liked the cream shirt dress, or the lime Calvin Klein suit, but she wasn’t sure that Jenneen would be so keen. She laid them all out neatly on the table.

  She had just finished when Jenneen came back into the room. Vicky was pleased to see her looking marginally better now. Heavy make-up really didn’t suit Jenneen. Vicky assumed that that was what everyone who appeared in front of cameras wore. But Jenneen had not been into work at all today; maybe she had been experimenting.

  One by one Jenneen tried on everything Vicky had brought round, but she insisted that Vicky wait in the lounge while she went to look in the mirror. She was behaving very strangely, but when Vicky asked her if she was all right she only said that she still had a touch of the headache.

  Finally, after she had decided on the cream shirt dress, Jenneen asked Vicky to go. “I think I’ll go back to bed for a while,” she said. “It’s the only cure, I find, for a headache.”

  “You’re probably right. Mind if I use the bathroom before I go?”

  “Sure,” said Jenneen, but Vicky could tell that she didn’t really want her to. And when Vicky went into the bathroom, she found the reason why.

  Jenneen must have forgotten that she had left it lying on the shelf at the side of the bath, and Vicky noticed it straightaway. She sighed, sadly, and picked up the dark, curly wig. Jenneen had never mentioned Mrs Green again, since the night she had stayed at Vicky’s flat, and Vicky had thought that perhaps Jenneen no longer felt the need to satisfy her alter ego. But this wig, and the heavy make-up Jenneen had been wearing, confirmed that Vicky had been wrong. Jenneen obviously still needed help.

  She put the wig back where she had found it, and went into the lounge. Jenneen was wrapped in her robe again; she didn’t look up as Vicky came into the room.

  “Jenn,” said Vicky, very gently.

  “Mmm?”

  “Are you sure everything’s all right?”

  “Course I’m sure,” said Jenneen, forcing a smile onto her face. “Now, here you are, I’ve put everything back under the plastic. Is it all right if I write you a cheque for the one I’m taking?”

  Vicky nodded. She could see that there was no point in pressing the matter, so she decided to let it go. At least, for the time being. She waited while Jenneen filled out the cheque, then taking it from her, she dropped a light kiss on her cheek, and left.

  Jenneen leaned against the door for several minutes after Vicky had gone, quaking at her narrow escape. She had forgotten that Vicky was coming this afternoon. But Mrs Green had no interest in the everyday life of Jenneen Grey. When Mrs Green craved attention, Jenneen Grey no longer existed.

  Jenneen looked over at her bedroom door, and felt her temper beginning to rise. She walked across the hall, and threw open the door. Her lip curled in disgust to see him sitting there, in her bed. What the hell had got into her, bringing him here?

  The man in the bed looked over at her and grinned. “Got an ashtray, love?” he asked, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air.

  “Get out of that bed!”

  He looked surprised, but made no move.

  “Did you hear me? I said get out of that bed! Now!”

  “Aw, come on, love,” he said, “it’s still early.”

  “I don’t care what the bloody time is, just get out!” She stormed over to the bed and threw back the covers. She turned her back on his nudity and, grabbing his trousers from the chair, threw them at him.

  “What’s all this about?” he grumbled, getting to his feet. “I didn’t ask to come here, you know.”

  “Don’t say another word. Just get out as fast as you can,” and she left the room.

  Several minutes later the man appeared in the doorway of the lounge. Jenneen looked up at him, then closed her eyes in dismay. How could she have done it?

  “Off now then,” said the man. She didn’t answer. She didn’t even know his name.

  “Nice knowing you,” he said, quite pleasantly, and left.

  Jenneen began to pound her hands against the settee. Why? Why? Why did she do it? He was revolting. He had smelt of beer and tobacco, and he had burped almost continuously throughout their short encounter. And to have brought him here. She must be going out of her mind. What if Vicky had opened the bedroom door? What would she have said if she’d seen that caricature of Desperate Dan lying there in the bed, perfectly at home? Jenneen shuddered to think of it.

  Earlier, without even really thinking about it, she had put on her disguise and gone out. She hadn’t even planned to put on the wig or make-up, it had just happened. And then she had got into her car, drove down to Reading, parked, and hitched a lift back to London.

  The lorry driver had been very friendly and chatty, and was quite clearly glad of the company. He had looked at Jenneen in surprise when she had offered to pay him for the journey, and had shaken his head.

  “No,” he had said. “No. Was nice to have you along.”

  She felt sick now, as she remembered the expression on his face when she had explained a little more graphically what sort of payment she had in mind. But even then he had said, “Aw no, there’s no need for that.” But she had insisted. She had bloody well insisted.

  She jumped to her feet and paced up and down the room. Mrs Green and Matthew Bordsleigh. She would never be rid of either of them. They both had a suffocating grip on her now, and neither of them were ever going to let go. She wondered how much longer she could carry on without anyone finding out. But it didn’t matter really, did it? She was cheap, and no good, and she deserved no less. There was really little point in even going to have a bath to try and wash away the memory of the lorry driver. She would probably only go out again later, and find someone else.

  From time to time she considered the health risks, but even that didn’t seem to stop her.

  She stopped in front of the mirror and looked at her reflection. “Ugh!” she spat at it. “Vile! Ugly! Miserable!” and she turned away in disgust.

  She heard a car pull up outside, and went to look out of the window. All she needed now was Matthew to come along, and the day would be complete. But it wasn’t him, it was only her neighbour, back from shopping.

  She walked into her bedroom and began to pick up Mrs Green’s make-up that she had left lying around. She found the case under the bed, and dumped it all inside. Then she looked around for the wig. She couldn’t find the damn thing anywhere. She pulled back the bedcovers, wondering if it had slipped off, but it wasn’t there.

  And then she remembered. Her heart skipped a beat. When Vicky had knocked on the door and called out, Jenneen had rushed out of bed and into the bathroom, where she had torn off the wig and, casting it to one side, had run to open the door. And Vicky had gone into the bathroom when she had been here. She had probably seen it. And more than likely she had guessed what had been going on.

  Jenneen closed her eyes and sat on the edge of the bed. Of course Vicky had guessed. Hadn’t she been trying to say something before she left? Maybe she’d even seen that repulsive lump, lying in bed, smoking his roll-up.

  Despite the warm evening, Jenneen began to shiver. It was one thing for Vicky to know about Mrs Green, but quite another for her to have seen the victim. What must she think? She would change her mind about everything now. Who in their right mind would want to have someone like Jenneen Grey for a friend? And with the overwhelming hatred she had of herself, she threw herself onto the bed and screamed through tears of rage. She never wanted to see Vicky again. She hated her for knowing.

  �
�Nick!” Kate cried into the phone. “At last! I’ve been ringing you all day.”

  “I’ve been with Adrian. Just got back.”

  “Adrian?”

  “Adrian Cowley, the producer of the Queen of Cornwall.”

  “Oh God, yes, of course. How did it go?”

  “Pretty well. Looks like we might have to go to New York in a couple of weeks. They’ve got American backing for the film now, and for some reason Adrian wants me to go over there with him. I think it’s something to do with Bob not being able to fly out straightaway, or something.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Only a week, I think. Maybe two.”

  “Oh,” said Kate. “Quite a long time.”

  “Does that mean you’ll miss me?”

  “Stop fishing for compliments,” she answered. “Actually I’ve rung about tomorrow.”

  “Yes. What about tomorrow?”

  “Well, you know we were going to Cliveden House?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Well, I’m afraid we can’t now.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s Daddy,” she explained. “He’s got terribly upset because I haven’t been down there these past couple of weeks, so I feel I ought to go and see him tomorrow.”

  “I see. And tonight?”

  “I’m cooking your favourite. Sardines on toast.”

  “Sardines on toast! I hate sardines.”

  “Only a joke,” she said. “No, it’s a surprise. I’m not telling you till you get here.”

  “Shall I bring some wine?”

  “Lots.”

  “I don’t want you getting out of hand,” he remarked.

  “Don’t be a spoilsport. What time will you be round?”

  “Seven thirty?”

  “Great. See you then. And Nick . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not too disappointed about tomorrow, are you?”

  “Very.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I was looking forward to it.”

  “Well, I did wonder if you could keep the day free on Friday. I could ring them and ask if we can go along then instead. Yes, Mrs Adams, I’m coming,” she called in response to the knock on the door. “How does that sound?”

  “I’ll have to check my social calendar,” he quipped. “See you at seven thirty,” and they hung up.

  Nick tried to shake off his feelings of ambivalence about Kate’s dependence on her father. On more than one occasion he had attempted to talk to her about it, but she always refused to discuss it, treating it as if he were making a fuss over nothing.

  But maybe there was something he could do about it, and who knows, with the way things were going lately, he might even try. He walked into the bathroom of his bachelor flat in Holland Park, and turned on the light. Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall he threw himself a complacent grin, and winked. Yes, maybe the time was approaching, at long last. He wondered what she would say, and then he smiled again.

  “Will you hurry up,” said Bob, turning back and taking Ellamarie by the arm.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed,” said Ellamarie, raising her voice over the din of the traffic, “I’m trying to drop a hint.”

  Bob’s eyes were twinkling, but he said nothing and turned to walk on.

  “OK, I know, taking hints was never a strong point with you,” she remarked, walking after him.

  “Ellamarie, we have been up and down Bond Street at least three times, and now you’ve dragged me down to Knightsbridge. If you want an engagement ring, couldn’t you at least pick somewhere a little less expensive?”

  “So you had noticed!”

  “Well, as we’ve stopped at every jeweller’s we’ve passed so far, I’d be some kind of an idiot if I hadn’t noticed, wouldn’t I?”

  “So? Can I have one?”

  He looked at her.

  “Please!”

  They were blocking the pavement, and he moved to let some people go by, but she didn’t miss the look on his face before he turned away. The sparkle had seemed to disappear from his eyes. Her face fell. He was going to say no.

  “Don’t you think we’re just a little premature?” he said, turning back to her. He put his arm round her shoulders and tried steering her through the crowds. “I mean, I haven’t even told my wife yet.”

  “But you’ll be telling her at the weekend,” Ellamarie pointed out. “It’ll probably need adjusting, so if we order it now it should be ready without us being premature.”

  The crowd suddenly thickened again and Bob pushed her in front of him to go through. He almost laughed to see the way she was walking. She didn’t even show yet, not even when she was naked, yet she was wearing a smock, and was practically waddling instead of walking. He caught up with her again, and she turned to look at him. Her eyes were pleading, and she was pouting. “All right,” he relented, “if it makes you happy. Have you seen anything you like?”

  “Oh Bob!” she cried, and flung her arms round his neck. “We’re getting engaged,” she said to a man in a bowler hat as he pushed past them. The man nodded, and smiled, and Bob felt very embarrassed.

  “Not so loud,” he said.

  “But I want the whole world to know.”

  “Wait until next week. If anyone recognises me, it’ll be all over the press, and I don’t want my wife finding out like that.”

  Ellamarie sighed. “No, I suppose not. But what about the people in the jewellers? They might recognise you.”

  “Precisely,” said Bob, who hadn’t actually thought of that. “All the more reason to shop for one next week. What do you say?”

  She seemed reluctant.

  “It does make sense,” he said.

  “Do you promise? Next week?”

  “I promise. Now, didn’t you say you wanted to go to Harrods before we went home?”

  She nodded, and took hold of his hand. Sometimes she was like a child, he thought, only happy when she got her own way. But he loved her, for better or for worse, and in truth he loved the worse every bit as much as the better.

  He hadn’t allowed himself to consider what he was going to say to Linda. He was putting it off, and even now his heart contracted to think of the pain he was going to cause her.

  Matthew ambled across the room, and helped himself to a Scotch. Jenneen remained standing at the door, watching him.

  “So,” he said, taking his Scotch across to the settee and making himself at home, “how did the pilot go?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and he smiled.

  “What do you know about it?” she said.

  “Oh. you’d be surprised what I know. Today, wasn’t it?”

  Jenneen regarded him coldly. It didn’t take long to work it out. “I didn’t realise you knew Stephen Sommers,” she said. “But of course, it’s a dose-knit community in the world of drug addicts and alcoholics, isn’t it?”

  He grinned. “Aren’t you going to have a drink?” he waved his glass towards her bar.

  “How did you get him to tell you?”

  He shrugged and slurped at the whisky.

  “Don’t tell me you paid him for the information?”

  “I might have.”

  “With the money I gave you?” She smiled bitterly at the irony of the situation.

  “Well,” he said, “it was today, wasn’t it?”

  “Why bother to ask when you already know the answer?”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And, how did it go?”

  “All right.”

  “All right. Is that all?”

  “I don’t want to discuss it with you, Matthew. It’s none of your damned business, so just tell me what you want, and go.”

  “None of my business?” He leaned back and lifted his feet onto the coffee table.

  “No. So get on with it. How much do you want? Or should I say how much does Stephen want?”

  He took a large mouthful of Scotch. “N
othing,” and he grinned as he saw the look on her face turn from surprise to suspicion.

  “Then exactly why are you here?”

  “That’s just what I’m about to tell you,” he answered. “Why don’t you come and sit down?”

  “I’m perfectly all right where I am, thank you,” she said, leaning against the door. “And stop playing host in my flat.”

  “Jenneen,” he drawled, “just in case you had forgotten, I can do precisely what I like in your flat.”

  She folded her arms. “Get on with it. What do you want?”

  He got up, and she waited while he went to refill his glass. “I want a part in your programme,” he said simply, turning to face her.

  “You what!” she gasped.

  “I want a part in your programme.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  His face hardened.

  “It’s a magazine show, Matthew, not a drama. There’s nothing in it for you.”

  “You’re looking for a reporter, aren’t you?”

  “A reporter, yes. Not an actor.”

  “Around the sets of movies being shot in England?”

  She looked at his face, bloated and ugly, and realisation began to dawn.

  “Could find myself a couple of good parts that way,” he said, confirming her fears. And he went to sit down again.

  “But we’re looking for someone who knows the business,” she said.

  “I’m an actor, don’t you think I know the business?”

  “Yes, as an actor. But you’re not a journalist. How can you write scripts, or do pieces to camera? Oh, for God’s sake, I don’t even know why I’m having this conversation, it’s too ridiculous for words.”

  “I can do it.”

  “You can’t!”

  “Oh yes I can,” he said. “And what’s more, you’re going to see to it that I do.”

  “Forget it,” she snapped. “You’re not right for it, you can’t do it, and what’s more you’re not bloody well going to do it. So get it out of your head right now.”

  “Jenneen,” he said, crossing one leg over the other, “I want that job. If I don’t get it, starting the same day as you, then you won’t be starting either.”