‘It must have been fun on the Mirror,’ Eugenie said.
‘Look, it wasn’t all Wailing Wall and cheering on a sports sub shagging a secretary over the desk. Those guys were shrewd. What they understood was that some papers are meant to be read. The Times, the Telegraph, Financial Times. People sit quietly and read them. People absorb the news, the facts. But a paper like the Mirror, it’s more for reading aloud. Girls in their coffee break, calling across the office, Hey, listen to this!’
Quite true, Eugenie thought, remembering Glo.
Revel glanced at his watch. ‘Time for a livener. See you later.’
Eugenie knew he was off, as usual, to meet Tony at El Vino. Revel had already told her that El Vino, in Fleet Street, was popular with the male journalists because the establishment did not welcome women. ‘Ladies’ were not allowed to buy a drink from the bar but had to sit at a table and wait to be served. If there were no vacant tables, the ‘ladies’ were required to go and drink standing up, behind a screen, in the smoking room.
‘That’s ridiculous!’ Eugenie had protested. ‘What do the female journalists have to say about it?’
‘Them! Useless, the lot of them. Sit around writing petticoat pieces. All frill, no substance. Example. Valentine’s Day. How to write a love letter. Oh. That reminds me. Take a letter, would you?’
Taking dictation from Revel was easy because he spent so much time gazing at the ceiling, pacing up and down, staring, in an agonised way, into space. Eugenie assumed this was to demonstrate the tortured creative mind, creating.
‘Dear Rhoda. No, my darling Rhoda. No, my dearest Rhoda. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed our weekend together. Every moment will live with me forever. And I’m sorry about the punt. I do hope you’ll come to London soon, and then we’ll really paint the town red! And that’s a promise. Tender thoughts, and I’ll sign it of course.’
‘Revel don’t you think, I mean, a personal letter, wouldn’t you prefer to write it in longhand?’
‘Not at all. Take a copy and stick the copy in my Archive. Be valuable one day. Tell you what, I’ve just remembered. On the Mirror, one of the petticoat girls did a piece on how to act on your first date. What to wear, how to indicate that a first date meant a kiss and nothing more, all that. Right hackneyed idea. But one of the guys on Features did this brilliant switch, What a girl never wants to hear on a first date. And number one, number one was, Can you lend me some money?’
Having disappeared off to El Vino, having said he’d be back later, Revel, surprisingly, was. He staggered in just before four, hat in hand, his trenchcoat belt unknotted. With the practised precision of a longterm drinker, he placed his hat carefully on the coat-stand, then collapsed at his desk, rested his head on his layout pad, and fell asleep. He didn’t even stir when his red telephone rang.
‘Stet magazine, good afternoon,’ Eugenie said.
‘Is that Mrs Plantagenet?’ snapped a Rodean voice.
‘Yes, Miss Floge.’
‘It is Mrs Plantagenet?’
‘Yes, Miss Floge.’
‘Well put Revel on.’
‘I’m afraid he’s not here, Miss Floge. He’s out on an important story.’
‘Well tell him –‘
Revel had begun to snore. He sounded like a herd of buffalo.
‘What’s that noise?’
‘It – it’s Mr Herbert, Miss Floge. The cleaner. The Hoover.’
‘What’s he doing Hoovering at four in the afternoon?’
‘I don’t know, Miss Floge.’
The bellowing got worse.
‘Well it doesn’t sound like a Hoover to me!’
‘I know, Miss Floge. I think there’s something wrong with the machine. It doesn’t sound healthy, does it?’
Rhoda Floge gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘Well tell Revel that when I agreed to take on the book reviews, I was given to understand that I’d be writing for a class publication. A literary magazine. I expected to be sent books that reflected that. I certainly did not expect what arrived this morning. I couldn’t believe my eyes! Filth. Sheer, unadulterated filth!’
‘May I suggest, Miss Floge, that you send the book to the office, and then Revel can decide if he wants even to mention it.’ Eugenie was dying to see what had so offended Revel’s girlfriend.
‘Well I’m glad there’s someone there who can talk sense. Tell him to call me, would you.’
Quietly, Eugenie replaced the red receiver, and, as Revel slumbered loudly on, she took his copy of Time magazine back to her desk. She knew that Revel had revered Time, ever since, in 1967, the magazine had announced to the world that London was, officially Swinging.
London was astounded. People in the capital had simply been getting on with their lives, enjoying themselves. And no-one, but no-one would be seen dead in Carnaby Street, unless they were hanging about waiting for a Time photographer to come along. Michael Caine, a promising young actor, said that Swinging London was just two hundred people who all lived around the King’s Road and were all screwing one another.
In Devon, people contentedly continued to serve cream teas with home-made scones. In Yorkshire, a soon-to-be-famous novelist busied herself with her babies, completely unaware that down south, a revolution had allegedly taken place.
Revel had woken up. From his raincoat pocket he took a crumpled press release. STARS IN THE CITY it said.
‘Picked it up at El Vino’s. We ought to be on the circulation list. Tells you what stars are in town, where they’re staying, whether they’re available for interview. Now,’ he jabbed the page, ‘Biggest name here is Dulcie Day.’
Eugenie gasped. Dulcie Day was the nation’s singing sweetheart. Everyone owned a Dulcie Day record. Everyone knew she was a recluse, didn’t come to London because she was frightened of the traffic.
‘Revel, you mean she’s in London?’
‘She’s in London. And tomorrow, I want you to interview her.’
Eugenie could hardly speak. Her first big interview. What if she made what Revel would call a pig’s ear of it?
‘Revel don’t you think it would be better if you did the interview?’
‘No, Eugenie. I cannot possibly go and see Dulcie Day.’ He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, and drew out a large manilla envelope.
‘This is why I can’t go. This photo is your story, Eugenie. This is your angle.’
Chapter Five
‘I am in Paradise.
I am looking at palm trees and exotic ferns. Listening to the sound of a splashing fountain. No, it’s not some glamorous Caribbean beach resort.
This is the Garden Room at Yellow! London’s new, must-visit hotel.
And sitting opposite me is none other than Dulcie Day. Yes, the Dulcie Day, the nation’s singing sweetheart.
Dulcie is barefoot, curled up in one of those conical wicker chairs that the rest of us find impossibly uncomfortable.
The delectable Dulcie is wearing pink satin Capri pants, and a white top with a sweetheart neckline. Her page-boy golden hair is shimmering. Her skin is pink and white. She looks as if all her life she has been fed on ambrosia and nectar. (Actually, I think they might be the same. I don’t know, I’ve never been offered either.)
Dulcie is speaking.
‘Pleathe call me Dulthie,’ she says.
Dulthie hath a lithp. I won’t bother doing this any more, because it will only annoy you. It sure as eggs was starting to annoy me.
The strange thing is, when Dulcie sings, she doesn’t lisp. Dulcie says she found this strange too, until someone told her that people who stammer don’t do it when they sing.
I mentioned eggs because Dulcie is now telling me how much she is missing Clucky, her pet chicken. No one has been allowed to meet Clucky because Dulcie is never interviewed at home.
All we know is that Dulcie lives in a sweet house made of Cotswold stone, that looks as if it’s been drenched in honey.
We talk about her recording career. I say that whenever I li
sten to her on record, I have a feeling that she’s singing not to me, but to herself. Does she, perhaps, perform to a full length mirror in the studio?
The tiniest of tiny frowns appears on the pink and white brow.
‘I have to work very hard in the studio. Other singers, they go on tour, they do live shows. But I can’t do that.’
‘Why not, Dulcie? Why can’t you do a live show?’
‘Oh!’ Her pretty little hands flutter to her face. ‘I couldn’t face all those people. I’m just too shy!’
‘Have you always been shy, Dulcie?’
‘Oh yes. Always and always.’
‘Were you shy when you were seventeen, Dulcie?’
‘Of course. When my parents had people round, I used to run and hide.’
‘Really? And did you make up a new name for yourself – a name you could hide behind?’
Dulcie giggles. ‘No of course not. I’m Dulcie. There’s no one else called Dulcie. What else would I call myself?’
‘How about Fifi Fan Fanshawe?’
I take from my bag a column-width advert from What’s On magazine, November 1966. There is a photo of Dulcie wearing – er, not much. Underneath, it says: FIFI FAN FANSHAWE welcomes you to watch her striptease whilst you lunch. (only 7s 6d.) at REVEL’S REVUE BAR, Berwick St., London W.1.
‘It’s unmistakeably you,’ I say, ‘Though I don’t think those shoes suit you.’
Dulcie’s lower lip is trembling.
‘I understand you were quite versatile, Dulcie. Something quite remarkable you could do with a lighted cigarette?’
From my bag I hand her a manilla envelope. ‘Lovely photo of you, Dulcie. Be great on the cover of my magazine. I love those tassels you’re wearing. I’ve always wanted to be able to do that, get one to go round one way and the other to go round the other way.’
‘You’re going to put me on the cover?’
‘That’s right. You’re used to being a cover-girl.’
‘Yes but – I was told Stet was a serious magazine.’
‘Oh it is. The editor’s out today interviewing the Minister for Trade. And our Business Editor has some very interesting insights on Futures.’
Dulcie doesn’t appear to be listening. Annoying, because I wanted to show off that I do know that Futures isn’t about when Jupiter will collide with Mars. I want to ask Dulcie if she saw HAIR! But she seems absorbed.
Dulcie is staring at the picture of her wearing just three black tassels.
And now – oh dear. Oh no! I’ve made dear Dulcie cry. Big tears, glistening her baby blue eyes and plopping onto her pink satin pants. Plop, plop, plop.
I feel such a swine.
I pass her a hanky. It’s my best hanky. Irish linen, trimmed with lace.
And what is Dulcie doing next? She is reaching into her pink satin bag. She is bringing out a little silver bell. It seems an odd thing to walk around London with. Perhaps Dulcie harbours a secret ambition to be a Town Cryer.
Dulcie is tinkling the silver bell. Aha. Enter a very large man, wearing a morning coat, looking hugely out of place amidst Yellow!’s Garden Room palms.
He is also wearing what looks like a Sherrif’s badge. Except it doesn’t say Sherrif, it says YELLOW! SECURITY.
Clearly, it is time for me to take my leave. I gather up the What’s On cutting, the photo of Fifi and my manilla envelope.
I say goodbye to Dulcie. She doesn’t reply. She is sobbing.
Somehow, I know I am never going to get my best hanky back.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Revel leaned back in his chair. ‘What made you write it like that, Eugenie? First person.’
‘I don’t know. I just did it.’
It had been David’s idea. When she got home, she’d found him chipper after turning in a blistering essay for his English A-Level exam.
‘Animal imagery in Shakespeare. Explore and discuss. I kicked off with Lear and ended with that famous one, Exeunt pursued by a bear.’
David had made a Russian salad, so-called because it contained a chopped up green pepper. His final A-Level, Spanish, was the next day. He spent the evening revising, while Eugenie tapped out her piece.
‘Bloody hell,’ Revel said again, having re-read Dulcie Day. ‘I’ll tell you something, Eugenie. This piece is going to make your name. Make Stet’s name as well. When this little lot hits town, you just wait for that phone to start ringing.’
‘Do you think it matters that the tone isn’t, well, really serious?’
‘No. It’s great as it is. Remember, every magazine needs a bit of mischief. And tell you what, I’ll put a box with it, and my review of that book Rhoda said was filth.’
The book was on his desk. It was by a Cambridge Professor and it was called, Trance of the Seven Veils. How Striptease Has Seduced Man Down the Centuries.
‘I was a bit worried, going on about that lisp, Revel. I didn’t want to offend anyone.’
‘So what if you did. Get people gingered up. Writing in. Protesting. Save you a job, making up the letters.’
Highly relieved that he hadn’t spiked her offering, Eugenie went across to inspect a new arrival on the Wailing Wall. It was a cartoon with two guys standing in front of a wall. On the wall someone has chalked, DONNA IS A SLAG. And the first guy is saying to the second guy, ‘Oh, you’re too kind. Honestly, once I got started, it just wrote itself.’
‘You’re not a novelist, Eugenie, so you wouldn’t really get it. See, when people learn you’ve writtten a book, nine times out of ten they say, Oh, I suppose it just wrote itself? Bloody cheek. They don’t turding care. They don’t give a thought for the blood, sweat and tears.’
Eugenie had decided long ago not to admit she’d started a novel. The only person who knew for sure was David.
‘It’s me!’
‘Hello Sheila. How many towns have you planned today?’
‘What? Oh, that. No, I’ve ditched town planning. Too boring. I’ve taken up interior design instead.’
‘But that takes years. You have to go to art school.’
‘Can’t be bothered with all that. I read a book. Interior Design in Three Weeks. There’s lots of Three Weeks books. You can become a wine expert, increase your height or make your dick longer. I told Lou but she said Ajax was already very well endowed, thankyou.’
‘How are you going to get commissions?’
‘I changed my name to Shelagh. Sounds posher. Then I started going to a West End hairdresser, and asked him to spread the word. I put an ad in Vogue. Bloody expensive but worth it. I’m doing well.’
‘What sort of things do you do?’
‘It’s easy. If they’ve got contemporary, you chuck it all out and introduce them to antiques. If they’ve got antiques you chuck it all out and hike them down to Habitat. And you paint all the walls grey.’
‘Not white?’
‘White is grey.’ Shelagh said patiently. ‘White shadows in a room look grey. So you use grey. I’ve done that for Lou. They’ve got a house, and just need to get it furnished before they get married. Trouble is, Lou’s got appalling taste. She’s got a modern house, and a hatch leading into the kitchen and she actually asked me to find her a room divider for her lounge. The sort you can stuff books and LP’s into. I mean, puleeze!’
‘Shelagh, I’ve got to –‘
‘And I got Stet this morning. Haven’t read it yet, but if I’d known you were doing Dulcie Day – and at Yellow! – I’d have got you to put a word in for me.’
‘You wouldn’t like working for Dulcie. She’d just want mirrors all over the place so she could spend all day gazing at herself.’
‘Revel!’ Eugenie called across the office. ‘It’s the Mail on the line. They want to buy reprint rights on Fifi.’
The editor scooted across the office, making pound signs at Eugenie. He took the phone and barked, ‘Revel Rooke!’
‘…You want what? Exclusivity? You must be joking. I haven’t just got off the banana boat y’know. I’ve already had the Expres
s on, and The People.’ He winked at Eugenie. ‘…Well okay, now you’re talking. You’ve got a deal.’
Immediately he put down the phone, it rang again. Revel snatched it up.
‘If it’s reprint you’re after, Timmo, rights have already gone. You should have – oh, Evie. What about her? Fucking cheek! Why should she want to go and work at the scumbag Screws? And have toerags like you trying to get in her pants…all right, I’ll tell her…yeah, I’ll see you lunchtime. Press Club.’
He went back to his desk. ‘That was Tim O’Connor, Features Editor, News of the World. He wants you to work for him. Offering twice what you’re getting now, plus expenses. I should tell you that Tony’s agreed we should pay you an extra fiver a week.’
I’d better talk to David about it, Eugenie thought, a split second before Revel said, ‘You’ll want to ask Mr Plantagenet, I expect.’
‘I don’t need to ask anyone,’ Eugenie said. ‘I’m a very loyal person. I’d like to stay here.’
It hadn’t been difficult. She didn’t want to be the new girl, working with strangers who would probably resent her.
As if reading her mind, Revel said, ‘Tough lot that mob at the Screws. Bound to stick the knife in, with you arriving trailing clouds of glory.’
Eugenie’s phone rang. ‘Hello!’ said a chirpy voice. ‘This is Babs Charles.’
‘Oh, Lady Barbara. Um, how do you do?’
‘Call me Babs. Everyone does. I just had to congratulate you. The way you stitched up that Dulcie creature! I always knew she was a phoney and now you’ve proved it.’
‘Oh, you’ve met her?’
‘You betcha. She came to a charity do I was involved in. All she had to do was stand there in her pink sticky-out dress and make the blokes bid tons of dosh to win dinner with her. She was hopeless. Just stood there like a petrified rabbit. In the end my husband had to take over and bid three hundred quid and won. What the hell did you do that for, I said. Now we’ve got to spend a whole bloody evening with her.’
Eugenie heard the scrape of a match and a sucking sound as Lady Barbara lit a cigarette.
‘We drove down to pick her up and finally, finally she comes to the door and goes through this whole bloody performance undoing chains and bolts. Then we get in, and there’s this bloody chicken. Clucky. Have you met Clucky?’
In Bed with Mr. Plantagenet Page 9