by Carol Smith
It was a beautiful room, lavishly proportioned, with a high ceiling and wide sash windows; in all, a criminal waste of space. Vivienne stood there for a long while, watching the patterns cast by the streetlamps shining through the swaying branches of the trees outside, and all of a sudden it came to her; she knew what she wanted to do. She switched off the light and closed the door softly, moving like a ghost across the thick carpet and into one of the guest suites. A pretty room, quite without character, its single bed was already made up in readiness for the unexpected guest, with clean towels in the pristine bathroom, the latest Muriel Spark and a book of flower prints on the bedside table, alongside a bottle of Malvern water and a box of digestive biscuits.
Grateful at last to be on her own, Vivienne slipped between cool, starched sheets and prepared to sleep. But before she did all that, she locked the door.
• • •
Dorabella was surprised when she entered Vivienne’s bedroom next morning with her breakfast tray and found her up and already on the telephone. Oliver was long since gone to the office and the fact that they had not actually shared a bed was not apparent. Even alone, he managed to turn the room into a tip. Dorabella was well used to clearing up after both of them.
“Put it there,” mimed Vivienne, one hand over the mouthpiece, then smiled an unexpectedly brilliant smile for one who normally found it so hard to come to terms with the world at this hour in the morning. She was talking to Phoebe; it was still not quite nine.
“The way I see it is this,” she was saying. “You’ve got the clout, I’ve got the money and connections, and she’s got the talent—and boy, do I mean talent. Wait till you see what she can do. You ain’t seen nothing yet, I’m telling you!”
She laughed. Life had suddenly broken out from behind the clouds and this morning Vivienne was seeing things quite differently. Out of adversity came revival; either it wrecked you or you lived to fight again. Phoebe was as surprised as Dorabella but delighted that her husband’s small favor seemed to be paying such dividends. Vivienne Nugent was a good sort really, she had always suspected it, and if the result of Addison’s having sorted out her small medical worry was to turn her into a mover and shaker, Phoebe was all in favor. And would do her darnedest to give her whatever support she needed.
Downstairs the door knocker clanged and Dorabella put her head round the door.
“Miss Georgy,” she announced.
“There she is now,” said Vivienne into the phone. “Have to go, sweetheart. Try and get here soon, while I tell Georgy my plan.”
Georgy, too, looked radiant when Vivienne burst into the drawing room where she was waiting. This morning she wore her hair on top, which really suited her, and a pillar-box-red jacket with black flares and high-heeled boots. Vivienne approved. When she bothered, her little American friend had quite a distinct style; it all boded well for what Vivienne had in mind.
They kissed.
“See what I’ve brought you,” said Georgy, smiling broadly. “Fresh from the darkroom.”
She spread glossy prints all over the glass table, then stepped back so that Vivienne could examine her handiwork. They were superb. The grace, the balletic subtlety, the sense of airborne agility that had given Georgy’s Bolshoi photographs such distinction, she had brought to these portraits of the cats. Vivienne took each print by its corners and shrieked her approval.
“Georgy, dear heart, these are sensational! How on earth do you do it?”
Even though she had been present while the pictures were being taken, she had not anticipated results as outstanding as this. Burmese cats are natural beauties, with the feel of the jungle still evident in their grace of movement, but Georgy had taken them that extra distance and transformed them from Vivienne’s furry familiars into abstract expressions of fluidity, a subtle mix of light and shade. She was enchanted.
“You really are incredible,” she said, giving Georgy a hug. “Amazingly talented. You must think about taking this sort of thing seriously instead of just doing magazine spreads. People will pay good money to have their animals immortalized—their children too. Loads of my friends would leap at the chance to have family portraits as good as these.”
Georgy pulled a face. “I’m allergic to kids,” she said.
“Then stick with animals. Here, I’ll get my address book and let’s work through it to see where we can begin. Once you’ve started making your mark with the smaller stuff, there are whole worlds we can conquer.”
“We?”
“I’m in this too. I need something to fill up my time and I’ve always been good at organization. I’ll do the business side—make the appointments, keep the books, that sort of thing—leaving you to be creative full-time. What do you say?”
Georgy was totally silenced.
“What about my career?” she protested, weakly, after a pause. “All those assignments I already have lined up?”
“Work through them, then just don’t take on any more. There are much more challenging things ahead of you, believe me. You ain’t even started yet. I’ve been talking to some of my fund-raising chums and they’ve all got ideas of how we can harness such talent. If you stop and think about the vast amounts of money flowing through all the major charities, you’ll get an idea of what I’m talking about. Just one exclusive contract to one of the main fund-raising organizations should set you up nicely for quite a long time. And think of the good you’d be doing. I’m talking to the World Wide Fund for Nature next week, just for starters.”
“Mind if I sit down?” said Georgy, with mock faintness. But she was genuinely stirred by Vivienne’s generosity and kindness. It was years since she had been the focus of so much attention; it felt good. And the animal connection was really quite spooky, for that was how it had all begun, the year her father dragged her off to Australia when she was five years old and bought her her first camera, just to keep her occupied.
“Mum was having Risa,” she explained to Vivienne, “and I guess I was getting under her feet. Anyway, Dad had to fly to Sydney to give evidence in a murder case and, on an impulse, took me along. In those days, he was always doing that sort of thing.”
Her childhood had been fun. She looked back on it with a degree of regret.
“It was really exciting, the first time I’d ever been away from my mother for any length of time, and they bought me a whole lot of new clothes for the trip, practically a trousseau. I even had child-sized matching Vuitton luggage, can you imagine?”
In those days she had really been cute and the constant focus of both parents’ indulgent attention. There were pictures in the family album of how she’d looked then, a right little madam if the truth be told, dolled up in her miniature furs and pint-sized versions of her mother’s gowns, with huge bows in her hair and even a doll identically dressed.
“We flew to San Francisco, where Dad had some business, then on to Hawaii for a couple of days’ vacation, just me and him alone together. Really great. I don’t remember a lot about it apart from the hotel, which was grand and luxurious, and he let me come down for dinner, just like a grown-up. We had a table right next to the dance floor so’s I could watch the floor show, and he bought me a white rabbit evening cape, which I wore with white knee socks and black Mary-Janes. I felt like a film star.”
Georgy stopped. He’d always been big on the flamboyant present, her dad. She thought of her Christmas sable and sighed. Where had it all gone, the happy childhood days before the intrusion of Risa and Lois and all those other women? And now Ariel.
“In Sydney Dad was busy all day with some huge, lurid murder hearing that was all over the papers. I remember being mobbed when we stepped out of the cab outside the hotel, and all those flash bulbs crowding round us. Pretty scary when you’re just a kid. He left me in the charge of a nurse in the hotel during the court proceedings.”
Dorabella wheeled in coffee and Vivienne poured.
“Once she even took me home with her because her kids were having a bir
thday party. There were balloons and a cake with an engine on it, even a miniature pony to ride. It was really neat. We didn’t get things like that back home, least not in our apartment because my mother had allergies and thought animals were unhygienic.”
Isabella arrived on her knee and nuzzled her velvet nose against Georgy’s chin. Georgy stroked her abstractedly. Looking back so far into the past was unsettling; Vivienne could tell she was beginning to hurt.
“Finally the case was over and Dad took me off to the outback as a treat. That’s the bit I remember best. Those great wide-open spaces and the animals—kangaroos, wallabies, and those enormous birds, all hoofing around in the scrub. And that’s when Dad gave me my first camera, a push-button Brownie, entirely foolproof.” She stopped and thought awhile.
“Guess that’s where it really started,” she said. “I’ve always loved animals. I just never realized it till now.”
Vivienne rose to her feet and lifted Isabella out of Georgy’s arms and onto the sofa.
“Follow!” she commanded and led the way upstairs to a room in a part of the house Georgy had never before penetrated. With a flourish, Vivienne flung wide the door and ushered her inside.
“Take a look,” she commanded, standing back.
What Georgy saw was the studio she had dreamed of—high ceiling, varnished floorboards polished to a satin smoothness, the lot—and light, great quantities of it, pouring through giant windows fringed by blue and cream. One wall was fitted with walk-in closets; otherwise the room was bare.
“Do with it what you like,” said Vivienne. “A complete refit if that’s what suits you.”
Georgy turned to her, eyes bright with emotion.
“Thank you,” she said simply, and Vivienne enfolded her in her arms.
“Welcome,” was all she said, “to your new studio and our new partnership. Nugent and Kirsch—or would you prefer it the other way around?”
And, right on cue, the door knocker banged again.
“And here’s our first customer,” said Vivienne, turning to greet a flushed Phoebe, rushing up the stairs as if she were late for class.
“Meet Phoebe Harvey, a fellow American,” said Vivienne, and Georgy was instantly drawn to the pretty, dark-haired woman with a smile like an angel.
Vivienne outlined again all she had just told Georgy, and Phoebe rummaged in her shoulder bag and triumphantly flourished her own card. Cancer Research, it said.
“We’ve been fighting this major battle to save the Royal Marsden Hospital,” she explained, “and that has given us the impetus to move on to bigger, more ambitious projects. When Vivienne first mentioned you, I instantly saw how we could use you. How would you feel about being our official photographer on, say, a year’s initial contract? I am positive that, between the three of us, we can really get things moving and achieve miracles for our cause.”
Georgy didn’t need convincing.
“Lead me to it,” was all she said, still dazzled by the dimensions of this wonderful, empty room.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Now that she had quit her job, Sally didn’t have a lot to occupy her time, so she took to dropping in on Eleanor, to cheer the old girl up and see how she was coping. A strange bond had developed between these two. They were nearly fifty years apart in age, yet shared the same indomitable spirit; full of guts and fire, adventurers both. Sally would have liked Eleanor as a gran and she knew Eleanor had a soft spot for her too, though she was usually careful not to let it show.
She found Eleanor seated at the piano, browsing through a pile of musty-smelling photo albums. A frumpy cleaning lady in a flowered pinafore let her in, then went off muttering, back to her hoovering.
“They’re not what they were,” said Eleanor, sighing, waving her hands theatrically in an attempt to disperse the smoke that trailed from the fag in the woman’s slatternly mouth. “In the old days we always kept two maids and at the Embassy we also had a butler and a chauffeur, of course.”
She graciously allowed Sally to peck her cheek, then went on turning the pages with a gnarled, blue-veined hand. Sally peeked over her shoulder.
“This is me as Lucia di Lammermoor,” said Eleanor, “nineteen fifty-three in Milan.”
She was thinner then but every bit as stately, and totally recognizable with her soaring raven’s-wing eyebrows and lavishly piled-up hair. Today she was formally dressed in dusky eau-de-Nil lace with ropes and ropes of yellowish seed pearls wound round her sagging throat. On the cloth covering the piano was a glass of sticky-looking yellowish liquid from which she took the occasional sip. Sally glanced at the clock. It was still only eleven twenty-five but if it kept the old girl going, who was to say she shouldn’t?
“Anything I can do to help?” she asked. “I’m not a lot of use on the cookery front but I’m a whizz with a duster.”
Eleanor looked abstracted and fiddled with her pearls.
“What, dear? Oh, no thank you. Mrs. Whatsit does what she can though it’s never quite enough and she does complain so. But there’s only me left to bother about now, so who cares how the place looks?”
“Now, now,” said Sally firmly, putting an arm round the slumped shoulders and giving her a squeeze. “That’s no way to talk. You should get into your glad rags and go out on the town. What say we shake a leg together like we did that time before? Streisand’s coming to town in a week or so, for the first time in ten years. I could try and get tickets if you like.”
She was, as usual, broke but that had never been known to stop her. And the old lady must be loaded, whatever she might say. But today the vital spark appeared to be missing; Eleanor simply wasn’t up to it. She clearly hadn’t a clue who Streisand was so Sally reluctantly let it drop. Another time, maybe, when some of the old joie de vivre had returned. The tickets cost a bomb but there was still time. It was a shame to watch the old trouper crumbling slowly into self-pity.
“Tell me more about Catherine’s death,” said Sally cautiously. She was treading on thin ice but she needed to know. For a moment it appeared as if Eleanor had not heard her, then the old head came up slowly, chin in the air, defiant.
“She’s dead, that’s all,” she said simply. Then, more softly, “She always was a thoughtless girl.”
Whatever else the old woman might or might not know, she was clearly not telling, which was fine as far as Sally was concerned. What was done was done; nothing now could bring Catherine back. And she couldn’t throw off the memory of Beth’s accusing questions or Duncan’s searching eyes boring straight into her soul. Let the truth about what actually did happen that night remain buried. If Eleanor was prepared to leave it like that, so was Sally. Addison Harvey had been with her at the last; let him carry the load. It was, after all, his job and therefore his responsibility.
Sally had to go. She had a lunch date. Vivienne was treating them all to San Lorenzo for some sort of celebration, though she hadn’t said what, and Sally was already running late. She had always wanted to see inside that trendy, fashionable restaurant, haunt, they said, of many celebrities including the Princess of Wales.
“I gotta go,” she said, “but I’ll be back soon. Is there anything you want before I pop off?”
“No, dear. I’ve all I need. These photographs and my memories. When you get to my age, you know . . .”
Sally gave a cheeky grin and mimed playing the violin. She left Eleanor sighing to herself like the Mock Turtle and skipped into the sunny street. Outside the air seemed that much cleaner and fresher after the airless fug of Albert Hall Mansions, and she felt privileged to be alive. There was nothing like a spot of death to make a gal feel great. She walked the short distance to Beauchamp Place, zigzagging through the wide, tree-lined streets of Kensington, and reflecting, not for the first time, that summer was approaching and she still hadn’t made any firm plans for moving on. Maybe she would, after all, hang on here for a while to see how things panned out. With Catherine dead, Eleanor was going to need a friend more than ever. And s
he still couldn’t get the thought of Duncan out of her head.
They were all there ahead of her, sitting at Vivienne’s favorite corner table. The restaurant was three-quarters full but even to Sally, there for the first time, it was evident that Vivienne was a regular and valued customer. Vivienne waved and Sally threaded her way toward them, recognizing in passing Albert Finney and Lord Snowdon at different tables.
“G’day,” she said, sitting down. “Sorry I’m late.”
Vivienne was as sleek and immaculate as always, in a blazer and a white silk stock tied in a pussycat bow, while Georgy wore jodhpurs and a Ralph Lauren tailored jacket with her hair tied severely back to reveal enormous tortoiseshell earrings. She scrubbed up well, thought Sally, accustomed to the American girl’s working uniform of T-shirt and dungarees.
Beth wore something shapeless and woolly that made her look huge, but in a misty grayish blue that set off her wonderful skin and brought out her wide gray eyes. You had to hand it to her, the overall effect was pretty damned effective. Beth was always breaking the rules yet somehow got away with it.
“How’re ya doin’?” asked Sally, accepting a menu from the waiter. The morning sunlight had given her cheeks a slight flush and raised a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
Sally was a natural, thought Beth. Dressed like a rather fetching ragbag yet always looking effective in some indefinable way. After they had all ordered, and while the wine and mineral water were being poured, Vivienne tapped her glass for silence and called for a toast.
“Here’s to Georgy and me and our new venture,” she said, and they all squealed in amazement and clamored for details. Small wonder Vivienne looked so good, all lit up inside, which was unusual.
Georgy looked a touch embarrassed.
“It’s all her idea,” she explained awkwardly, “and it may not work. She’s being amazingly generous with her house. And her time.”
“Nonsense!” said Vivienne briskly, waving her glass. “You’ve no idea what you’re doing for me, giving my life a whole new sense of purpose.