‘I haven’t had the pleasure, no.’
‘Clucky sat on my knee. Clucky laddered my tights. So after a tearful farewell to Clucky we head off to the restaurant which she has chosen because she says she’s known and they will make sure she’s not mobbed. Huh. It was practically pitch dark. Only light came from the candles stuck in Chianti bottles. And even then, she insisted on sitting in the gloom, wearing dark glasses. Oh, Evie, I have to go. Have to pay the window cleaner. Listen, what are you doing for lunch?’
Eugenie usually had a sandwich at her desk, to cover for Revel in case Rhoda Floge rang.
‘They always keep me a table at Manzi’s on Tuesdays. Do come and keep me company.’ Babs rang off.
‘Revel, Lady Barbara’s asked me to lunch. But I’m worried about leaving the office unattended.’
‘No sweat, Eugenie. I’ll get Angular down here.’
Angela pronounced her name with a hard g, so was always known as Angular. She was rarely seen, as she worked in some mysterious garret handling telephone sales advertising for Stet and a clutch of other magazines.
Advertising, Revel was fond of emphasising, was the lifeblood of any publication.
‘Pulling in ads is a fucking hard job. It’s cold call, piss off, cold call, piss off.’
Because Angular was always on the phone, contacting her had to involve handwritten notes which Mr Herbert ferried upstairs on his tea trolley.
‘That reminds me,’ Revel said. ‘Use my phone, get me an interview with Cairn Tavish. He’s got a new play coming on at the Royal Court. I’m taking Tony and Babs and Rhoda.’
‘What sort of plays does he write, Revel?’
‘Oh, gritty stuff, lots of moody silences, lots of nothing happening. Come to think of it, might be right up Rhoda’s street.’
Eugenie got through to the Royal Court press office, and then put the red phone down. ‘He’s too busy to talk to anyone.’
‘For fuck’s sake! Of course he’s busy. He’s rehearsing. He hasn’t just written the fucking thing, he’s directing. Ring back. Make a nuisance of yourself. Make it clear you’re not taking no for an answer.’
Why can’t you do it, Eugenie thought mutinously. Why can’t you be the one making a fucking nuisance of yourself?
Eugenie made the call. And rang back again. And again. Revel sat glowering.
Then a rasping voice declared, ‘Tavish.’
With relief, Eugenie almost flung the phone at Revel.
‘Goodmorning Mr Tavish, Revel Rooke here, editor of Stet magazine.’
And newly adopted Scot, Eugenie thought, listening to Revel’s imitation of a Scottish accent.
‘I do appreciate how busy you are with rehearsals but I just wanted to ask what was the genesis –oh. I imagine, since you quite often write for the same group of actors it – oh, I see. And of course, you’re famous for banning all props. How – ah, a mop! How very ingenious. A masterstroke, if I may say so. I shall so look forward – I shall be at the opening night. I’m bringing a party, including Sir Anthony and –‘
Revel banged down the phone. ‘Surly Scots git.’
‘What are you going to do?’ How could Revel write a piece when Cairn Tavish hadn’t actually said anything?
‘Take this down, Eugenie.
‘In an exclusive interview at London’s Royal Court theatre, Cairn Tavish bared his soul to me about his new work, MOIST!
‘Breaking off from rehearsals specifically to talk to Stet, Cairn Tavish spoke movingly about the creative tension in being both writer and director. ‘Sometimes, you feel torn apart,’ he told me, ‘Pulled apart – no – make that torn asunder – by conflicting artistic demands. Fortunately I have the support, the truly loving support of my wonderful cast. We have all worked together before and I can honestly say –’
‘Actually, he called them a bunch of cunts,’ Revel told Eugenie. ‘Okay, I’m going to blah on about it already being a sell-out, remind people of his previous stuff, and then I suppose I should say something electrifying about this fucking mop. I’ll link it to Look Back in Anger. That was the first time the London stage wasn’t set in some high faulutin library, but actually featured an ironing board. Now Cairn Tavish is breaking new ground –’
His phone rang. ‘Yes, Rhoda. Of course I’m going to meet you at the station. And you haven’t forgotten Lady Barbara has invited us for pre-theatre drinks at her home…Belgravia. Yes, it’s a very nice house. Very spacious, yes…I should think, a cocktail dress, the black one – oh, you were thinking of the blue, well that – Rhoda I did not say I hated your blue dress. I did not say that –’
Eugenie left the office and asked the porter where and what Manzi’s was.
‘Leicester Street, so you need Leicester Square Tube. One of the oldest fish restaurants in London. Nothing fancy. Always busy. And may I suggest, Miss, that you avoid the black skate with capers.’
As the porter had indicated, Manzi’s was unpretentiously efficient. Eugenie was shown straight to Lady Barbara’s table by a window. Babs was just striking a Swan Vesta to light her Senior Service cigarette. She was perkily petite, her golden brown hair pulled up into a curly top-knot.
‘What’s your poison?’ she smiled. ‘I’m having a rum punch. Reminds me of the Caribbean. Tony and I try to get there most years.’
Eugenie asked the waiter for a gin and tonic.
‘I don’t know what to call you,’ Babs grinned. ‘Are you Evie, Eugenie or Mrs Planatagenet?’
‘All of them. And my husband calls me Marigold.’
‘Oh, of course. That lovely hair. What does your husband do?’
Eugenie hesitated, and then admitted, ‘He’s still at school. Leaving next month.’
‘Well!’ Babs exclaimed. ‘You’re a one, and no mistake.’
The waiter was waiting to take their order. ‘I always have jellied eels. Could go to Tubby Isaac’s of course, but it’s more civilised here. At Tubby’s I have to stand up. And we can have some Muscadet. How are you getting on with Revel? Has he managed to flog that crappy book yet?’
Eugenie told her about all the rejections. ‘It came back from Macmillan this morning. They said the writing was old fashioned.’
Babs laughed. ‘Poor old Revel. Has he told you how he tried to get off with Lindy Ferrari? No, I bet he hasn’t! He found out she was living in some posh gaff in Weybridge. Sort of area where each house has a pool, three garages and a tennis court. She wouldn’t return his calls so Revel did what Gunter Sachs did when he was chasing Brigitte Bardot. Revel hired a helicopter filled it with a hundred red roses, plus himself, and flew off to drop the roses romantically in her garden.’
Babs lit another cigarette. ‘So the ‘copter lands, Revel leaps out and rushes to Lindy’s door, expecting a hero’s welcome. No answer. Lindy’s gone off for the weekend. To make it worse, the bloody pilot had overshot and all Revel’s roses landed in the pool of the bloke next door. He was not, as they say, best pleased.’
By the time a second bottle of Muscadet had gone down, Babs and Eugenie were gossiping like old friends.
‘Oh, no, it’s not real,’ Babs said, tugging at her curly top-knot. ‘I get them in Selfridge’s and Jason – he’s my boy there – he tints them to match my hair. We must go and get you one.’
‘Well I really ought to be getting back to the office.’
‘Nonsense. Just tell Revel you went shopping with me.’
In the taxi, she chattered on: ‘I don’t know why Revel asked me to do the gardening column. Just because I was a florist, doesn’t mean I know the first thing about gardening. Can’t you do it?’
‘No. I live in a mansion block. We’re not allowed to have even a window box.’
Back at Stet, Revel had left her a note. She was to ask the Royal Court press office to send a pic of Cairn Tavish which would then be used as a free cover for Stet. And Revel’s novel was to be sent off to Giraffe, a new publishing house in Clerkenwell Green, EC1.
There were new bars, new rest
aurants to house the young publishing people who were flocking there because rents were cheap. Eugenie diligently did her research. As far as she could discover, there wasn’t a blade of grass on Clerkenwell Green.
David and Art left school at the beginning of July. Dawson was staying on, anticipating that his results would indicate the taking of resits.
In Stupples Road, David and Art celebrated by creating a bonfire of their school uniforms. Dawson said when his turn came, he was going to sell his uniform.
‘Turning into a right spiv,’ said Art.
Now David and Eugenie’s daily lives consisted of him manning the ice-cream stall, while she carried on with Stet. They fell back into their routine of trying out different restaurants, familiarising David with what he might expect. They went to Mignon for Hungarian, Ocho Rios for Jamaican, Tamarisk for Turkish and for Polynesian they dropped expensively into Trader Vic’s at the Hilton hotel.
Eugenie was surprised he hadn’t planned a route for his trip.
‘Marigold, ever since I was five I’ve lived to timetables and responding to a ringing bell. Now I want to cut loose, go where the mood takes me. All I’ve planned for definite about this trip, is that I’m starting off in Cape Town. Then I’ll just see what turns up.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather go to photographic college?’
‘No.’
They both suddenly remembered he was supposed to take Revel’s photo for his book jacket.
‘We must think what you should wear,’ Eugenie told David. ‘Pity it’s summer, otherwise we could have got you a leather jacket, like David Bailey.’
He was the moody, sexy photographer of the moment. Eugenie never dared tell David how much she fancied David Bailey. He looked, well, dangerous. And David, however great in bed, would never have that exciting edge of danger.
‘I’ll wear what Art wears,’ David said. ‘Jeans, white T-shirt and a denim jacket. Frayed.’
‘You can buy them frayed?’
‘Yeah. Camden market.’
Revel, for his photo-call, was sporting a grey waistcoat and a red and white spotted bow tie. He had thought about what he wanted. There was to be a series of Revel at his desk and then one of Revel in his trenchcoat and trilby. Pinned up behind his desk was a new missive, in green ink:
‘Never once think of becoming an editor. Beg, take a pedlar’s pack, keep lodgers, set up a mangle, take in washing. For humanity’s sake, and especially for your own, do anything rather than become a newspaper editor.’ (Glasgow National, 1840)
While David snapped away, Revel kept up a stream of Fleet Street quips, which Eugenie suspected he’d culled from his cronies in El Vino’s.
‘An editor is someone who sorts the wheat from the chaff and then prints the chaff.
‘Journalism is the stuff that goes between the ads.
‘Fleet Street is about booze and broken marriages.’
While he quipped and David snapped, Revel was simultaneously busy with his yellow pad. ‘I thought for the Competitions page, we’d have a quiz. Ten teasers. I’m kicking off with:
‘What is the only non reference book to have been successfully achieved by a committee? Answer – The King James Bible. Now I need nine more.’
‘Can I have a go?’ asked David.
‘Sure. Welcome aboard,’ Revel flung his yellow pad and his green pen onto the desk behind Eugenie, the desk on which she’d laid the anemonies for her interview.
As David scribbled away, Mr Herbert wheeled in the tea trolley. ‘Tea or coffee, sir?’ he asked David.
‘He’ll have coffee with just a flick of milk and one sugar, thankyou,’ Eugenie said.
Revel grinned. Eugenie came close to blushing. She just felt so odd, having David sitting behind her, in her office. And Revel smirking didn’t help at all.
She was reluctantly retyping Searching for Bobo. Giraffe had sent it whizzing back looking as if someone had dropped it in the bath. Bobo was now at nursery school, gobbling fairy cakes. They were his favourite. He particularly liked the ones with Hundreds and Thousands sprinkled on top.
Quiz question, she thought, bashing furiously away. ‘Which London editor has the most rejection slips in history?’
Revel was saying matily to Mr Herbert, ‘Would I be right that you’re a bit of a betting man, Mr Herbert?’
Mr Herbert placed a plate of chocolate digestives in front of the editor. ‘Just a flutter, now and then Mr Revel.’
‘Well isn’t there some betting term about a pony – or is it a monkey?’
‘It’s both. A pony is twenty-five quid and a monkey’s fifty.’
‘Great. That’s very helpful. Got that, David?’
‘Got it.’
‘So what else have you got?’
David adjusted his glasses. ‘Who said, Imagination is intelligence with an imagination? Answer – Victor Hugo.
‘We all know Monet painted waterlilies. What did he probably not know about Waterlilies? Answer – they are edible.’
Eugenie swung round. ‘How on earth do you know that?’
‘You were with me. That cookery programme. About flowers you can eat.’
‘Oh yes. I thought it was cruel, eating flowers.’
‘No more cruel than eating a juicy steak.’
‘Children, children!’ Revel rapped his desk with the wooden base of his brass spike. ‘What’s next, David?’
‘Who wrote – We live our lives behind closed doors, and against the clock.’
‘Bloody hell. Wish I’d written that. Who was it?’
‘Louis Macneice.’
‘Okay. I’ve got another one: What was the first London daily newspaper? Answer – The Courant. Early seventeen hundreds. Go on, David.’
‘On Shrove Tuesday, what should you do with the first pancake you cook? Answer – chuck it out. It’s just meant to grease the pan.’
‘No. Don’t like it.’
‘Okay. How about, If you were eating MOMO what would you be eating and where would you be? Answer – Momo is a Nepalese dumpling.’
David went on ‘What is French slang for a telephone? Answer – a Cornichon.’
‘Good, good. Classy, that.’
‘Next one, Which classical composer often wrote specifically for people who were stressed? Answer – Liszt.’
Eugenie swung round again. ‘How do you know that?’
‘We do – we did Music Appreciation at school.’
Revel cut in. ‘Come on, Eugenie. You haven’t contributed anything yet.’
Eugenie, stung, abandoned Bobo. ‘I’ve had an idea.’
The lift was out of action so she ran downstairs and spoke to the friendly porter. Five minutes later she was back at Stet.
‘Got it! Which is the only street in London where you don’t drive on the left, you drive on the right?’
Both Revel and David looked stumped.
‘Marigold, is this some sort of trick?’ David snapped, bringing another snigger from Revel.
Eugenie glared at her husband. Marigold! Revel was going to enjoy himself with that one. She’d told Babs, of course, but Eugenie was confident that anything she said to her new friend would indeed remain confidential.
‘Well spit it out, Eugenie’ Revel said. ‘We haven’t got all day.’
‘Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s the little road that leads off Piccadilly to the Savoy hotel. The Savoy is on the right. If Savoy guests had to drive up on the left, they’d have the frightful inconvenience of having to cross the little road to get to the hotel.’
‘Job done! Get that typed up, Eugenie. Or is your husband whisking you off for a slap-up lunch?’
David stood up. ‘No time, I’m afraid. I have another assignment.’
At Mr Carter’s ice-cream stall.
‘Well drop in any time, David. Always good to see you.’
‘Thanks.’
Eugenie saw him to the stairs and when she came back Revel was pinning up a new addition to the Wailing Wall. It was the pic of Fifi with the
tassells, and a bubble coming out of her mouth: THESE FUCKING THINGS GET RIGHT ON MY TITS.
His phone was ringing. She answered it and passed it to him. ‘Miss Floge.’
When Revel came off the phone he said,
‘Very bright, that husband of yours.’
‘Yes.’
And he was going away. ‘No, Marigold, I am not going to university. No, I am not going to photographic college. I am going on my trip.’
The letter came from the Oxford and Cambridge Joint Examination Board confirming that David Plantagenet had achieved four A-Level passes all at marks in excess of 90%. David just nodded, and put the letter away in an orange folder which he’d asked Eugenie to take care of for him.
August came and went. The summer was slipping away. They didn’t go on holiday. It seemed silly, going somewhere like Margate when in a short time David would see the sun come up over Table Mountain.
For David’s eighteenth birthday, early in September, Art gave him a Swiss Army knife. Eugenie took him out to dinner at the Latin Quarter in Wardour Street, where instead of taking in the floorshow, David sat and played with his knife.
Gradually, through the autumn, other signs of flight appeared in Medway Mansions. A large rucksack. Waterproof trousers and a long jacket. Two pairs of thick socks. Sturdy walking boots, which David broke in by wearing them to his job in Mr Carter’s ice-cream parlour. He’d decided not to take a tent, or a sleeping bag. ‘Too bulky. And if I can get work along the way, I should be able to afford a cheap hotel.’
In November, David went to the Hospital for Tropical Diseases and got vaccinated for everything imaginable, from typhoid to yellow fever.
And suddenly, it was December and time was galloping away. Eugenie insisted that he spend Christmas with his mother. David insisted that he didn’t want Marigold to see him off on MSS Pretoria Castle.
‘I’ve got to get used to being on my own. And Mr Carter says there’ll be one hell of a crush at Southampton.’
Friday January the first, 1971. They had spent all night making frantic love. In the morning, she felt too drained even to make him toast.‘You will write, won’t you?’
In Bed with Mr. Plantagenet Page 10