by Isabel Wolff
A girl in a French maid’s uniform mixed me a ‘Greta Garbo’, which seemed to contain a lot of Blue Curaçao. Then she made a ‘Marlene Dietrich’ for Amber, which contained Cointreau and cranberry juice. Above the mirrored bar a glitterball rotated slowly, sending refracted beams spinning and spangling across the walls. We sat on high stools and surveyed the feminine throng. Feathered fans fluttered in the warmth. Gloved hands reached for powder compacts. Pretty girls in miniskirts and fishnets circulated with trays of exotic cigarettes and shining foil-wrapped sweets. In one corner was the DJ, a big, bespectacled twenty-something woman in a blue silk flapper’s dress.
‘You’ve got to ac-cen-tuate the positive …’ crooned Peggy Lee, ‘e-lim-in-ate the negative …’ Amber bought a Russian cigarette and lit it. I watched the thin spiral of pale blue smoke pirouette in the spotlight over the bar. I glanced at the two women standing next to us. One was in a vintage forties dress, and her friend was in a black trouser suit. She smiled at me, so I smiled back.
‘I like your bow tie,’ I said, by way of conversation.
‘Well, I wanted to wear my tuxedo,’ she replied, ‘but unfortunately it’s at the cleaner’s.’
‘I wish I could carry off a trouser suit like that, but I’m not quite tall enough,’ I said regretfully, as I sipped my drink.
‘Well, I think the main thing about wearing trousers,’ she said, ‘is that one should look like a gentleman.’ We all roared with laughter at that.
‘Minty and I are cousins,’ Amber explained, as she drew on her cigarette. ‘We live together in Primrose Hill.’
‘Isn’t that a bit …awkward,’ said one of the women, whose name was Viv. ‘I mean, being cousins and everything.’
‘Oh no!’ said Amber, with a laugh. ‘Minty and I are very happy together, aren’t we, Mint?’ I nodded. ‘I moved in a few weeks ago, and we get on like a house on fire, don’t we!’ I nodded again. ‘Never a cross word, eh, Minty?’ She gave me a hug, and I nodded again, blankly, and laughed. Amber really seemed to be enjoying herself. She’d already told them about her books, and made them write all the titles down, and now they were having a jolly good bitch about men.
‘I’ve just been dumped,’ Amber confided, tipsily. ‘By Charlie.’
‘Not Charlie Smithers?’ said Viv.
‘No, no – Charlie Edworthy. Do you know him?’ she enquired, as she knocked back her drink. The two women shook their heads. ‘He’s ruined my life,’ said Amber. ‘Completely ruined it. But I’m not bitter. I’m getting over him now. I mean, you’ve got to move on, haven’t you? You can’t let it hold you back. And so I’m really making strides. I’m not one of these idiotic women who just go on and on and on about their exes. I mean, it’s a bit stupid, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ I said quickly.
‘You have to be realistic,’ she went on. ‘You have to be positive. You have to look ahead, not back; in front, not behind, because, let’s face it, what’s done is done.’
We all nodded in agreement. And then Viv said, ‘I was going out with a dreamboat called Alex for a while. I thought it was going really well, but then, out of the blue, I got the Big E. It took me eight months to get over it.’
‘And Sam – God, Sam was a disaster,’ said Viv’s friend, Sarah, rolling her eyes. ‘I really thought that relationship was going somewhere,’ she said with a drunken sigh. ‘We had so much in common. Then one day I got this “Dear Jane” letter, totally out of the blue. It hit me so hard I had to check into a health farm.’
‘How awful,’ said Amber sympathetically, as she bought us all another drink. ‘Well, Minty’s got an even worse story.’
‘No, I haven’t!’ I hissed. I refused to tell complete strangers about my disastrous wedding day. Just the memory of it made me feel sick. Amber’s so damn insensitive at times.
‘Go on, Mint,’ she persisted, ‘tell them.’
‘No.’
‘Well, I will, then.’
‘Please don’t,’ I whispered hoarsely. ‘It’s very personal.’ But by now the other women were agog.
‘Well, you see,’ Amber began, but she was interrupted by Melissa, who had stepped on-stage and was clapping her hands.
‘Ladies!’ she began, above the murmur of female voices. ‘Ladies! The cabaret is about to begin. Would you please put your hands together for Lola and Dolores from Argentina, who are going to dance a tango for us!’
There were whistles and cheers as Lola and Dolores entered in figure-hugging dresses, clasped each other at shoulder and waist, and snaked seductively around the floor. We all clapped and cheered as Lola threw Dolores on to her back, then flicked her up again. It was brilliant. They strode off-stage on their vertiginously stilettoed heels to a chorus of wild approval. Someone got us another drink, then the DJ put on ‘In the Mood’, and everyone took to the floor. Everyone, that is, except Amber and I. We watched, mesmerised, as the women paired up, clasped each other in a ballroom pose, and spun and shimmied round the floor. And even though most of them danced very well, this looked a little odd, to be frank. Then the music changed again to ‘The Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B’ and they all jitterbugged wildly to that, flinging one another across the crowded floor. And then the tempo changed again. We heard the opening bars of ‘Blue Moon’ and Viv and Sarah had wrapped their arms round each other, and Viv’s hands were roaming over Sarah’s curvaceous behind. And everyone else was slow-dancing too. And long, lingering kisses were being exchanged. And now I realised that that sharp tang in the air was aftershave.
‘Oh Christ,’ said Amber, drunkenly. And then she laughed. ‘I should have guessed,’ she added. ‘I should have guessed when I saw …that!’ She waved her hand at the large black-and-white poster for the Emma Peel Fan Club.
‘Aren’t you two darlings going to dance?’ said Melissa, as a black woman in a white tie and tails cradled her in her arms.
‘Well, we might do – in a minute,’ I said, cautiously.
‘I’m sure everyone will want to dance with you,’ Melissa added, seductively, to Amber. ‘But first, there’s a little surprise!’
The music faded, Melissa clapped her hands again, and announced: ‘Ladies! Your attention please. For your further entertainment I am delighted to introduce Miss Suzie Saucisson!!!’ Her right hand swept to the end of the room where a young woman was standing, bathed in the spotlight. She was draped in a floor-length feathery white coat, her face concealed behind a fan. The trombones struck up with familiar, brassy bravura. Dee dee deee! She wiggled forwards, dropped the fan, then the coat, and – good God! Dee da dee da! Underneath she was wearing nothing but a white basque, stockings and suspender belt, and long white, sequinned gloves. Dee dee deee! She put the index finger of her left hand in her mouth, and teased it off with her teeth. Dee da dee da! Then she pulled the glove off, and twirled it round her head to appreciative roars before flinging it into the crowd. Dee dee – boom boom! Dee da – boom boom! Then she did the same with the right. Dee dee – boom boom! Dee da – boom boom!
‘Get ‘em off!’ all the women shouted. Dee di dee! Da di da! Dee dee, da da!
‘Phwooargh! I’d like to give her one,’ I heard Viv shout. Dee dee deee! Next Suzie kicked off her swansdown-trimmed mules and slowly unclipped her suspenders. Dee da dee daa! She rolled a white stocking down her left leg. Dee dee deee! She played with this for a few moments then hooked it round the neck of a woman in a tuxedo, laughing and throwing back her head. Dee da dee da! Her pale blonde hair shone in the spotlight as she wriggled out of her corset, held it up, then dropped it to the floor. Dee da – boom boom! Dee da – boom boom! Dee da – boom boom! Dee da – boom boom! All that was left was a white feather boa, the two ends of which were covering her breasts. Dee di di, da di da, di dee dee DA DA! She was doing the splits! And now – oh God – she was coming towards us. Writhing and wriggling. And she was looking at Amber. Dee dee dee! Dee da dee da! I turned my face away. I was almost catatonic with. embarrassment. Dee dee dee. Dee d
a dee da! I mean, really, hadn’t she noticed me? Dee dee – boom boom! Dee dee – boom boom! Amazing figure, though, I thought. Dee dee – boom boom! Dee da – boom boom! Amber remained as rigid as a plank as the girl removed her feather boa with a theatrical flourish then draped it round her neck. Dee di dee, dee di dee, di dubity DO! A tumult of applause arose as she threw her arms round Amber, and kissed her smack on the mouth. Then she drew back, squinted at me, and a look of shocked recognition crossed her face.
‘Oh, gosh! Hello, Minty.’
‘Hello, Sophie,’ I said.
‘Feel confident with the Re-Usable Incontinence Pad!’
‘I hope you weren’t too embarrassed,’ Sophie giggled, as we stood in front of the mirror the following morning. She’d followed me out to the ladies loo.
‘Provides Practical Protection, Day and Night!!!’
‘No, of course not,’ I lied.
‘Can be re-used hundreds of times …’
‘You see, I wasn’t wearing my glasses. That’s why I didn’t recognise you.’
‘I see.’
‘The absorbent 2-ply material keeps moisture away from the skin.’
‘I never wear them because it doesn’t look sexy. And I like the fact that I can’t see anyone properly – it makes me feel less inhibited.’
‘Of course. You’re terribly good at it.’
‘The outer layer is waterproof nylon for added protection!’
‘Thanks. I must say, your cousin’s gorgeous.’
‘Just £14.95. Please allow twenty-eight days for delivery.’
‘Yes, but she’s straight. We both are.’
‘Then why were you there?’
‘We didn’t know what it was. I saw the press release on the fax and decided to go.’
‘Oh, Melissa was just sending that to me to check,’ Sophie explained. ‘I’d been busy and hadn’t picked it up.’
‘But we had a great time.’
‘Oh, good. Will you come again?’
‘Er, don’t know.’
‘And now the travel news, brought to you by Skoda. There are delays at Putney Bridge while serious jams in central London have reduced speeds to three miles per hour …’
‘And you won’t tell anyone?’ said Sophie, anxiously, as I dried my hands.
‘Of course not. No.’
‘Because I don’t know what Jack would think.’
‘Well, Jack’s pretty distracted these days, so I doubt he’d think anything,’ I said.
‘I’ve GOT one!’ shouted Melinda triumphantly as we went back into the office. She was holding up a letter, and grinning broadly.
‘He’s called Wobert. He’s witten to me – look!’ She waved the letter about, then began to read it aloud: ‘Dear Melinda, I only listen to London FM because of you!’ she read. ‘Isn’t that fantastic?’ She was beside herself with joy. ‘I love listening to you on Capitalise. And in particular I love the way you can’t say your ‘R’s.’
Melinda’s face suddenly expressed puzzlement. Then she burst into loud laughter. ‘How widiculous!’ she said. ‘Of course I can say my R’s. The man’s obviously wight off his twolley!’
‘Stalkers usually are,’ I said. ‘I’d throw it away, if I were you.’
‘Oh no!’ she said. ‘I’m going to keep it. I’ll show it to Uncle Percy,’ she added. ‘He’ll hoot!’
‘How is Uncle Percy?’ Wesley enquired. We never get to see him. He hardly ever comes into the office.
‘Oh, he’s fine,’ she said. ‘Now, he thinks I ought to take the full maternity leave allowance,’ she went on, as she clasped her expanding middle.
‘Oh yes. Yes. Yes. You definitely should!’ we all cried.
‘I’m not sure,’ Melinda went on, obtusely. ‘I think our watings might go down if I do. I don’t think Uncle Percy’s thought of that!’
‘I really would take the full amount,’ said Sophie diplomatically. ‘Those early months are absolutely crucial for a baby’s healthy development. It’s now been established that being parted from the mother in early infancy can have devastating psychological consequences, leading to a variety of behavioural problems in adult life.’
‘It could even be the trigger for stalking,’ I suggested. ‘Breaking the maternal link in those critical first six months could lead to a later obsession with people in public life.’
‘Oh, I’ll think about it,’ Melinda said. ‘I’m not due to go until mid December.’
‘I don’t know how we’ll cope, Melinda,’ said Jack, who’d just walked in. ‘But I’m sure we’ll manage somehow. I’d like to see your script in half an hour, by the way.’
‘Minteeee,’ Melinda whined as Jack left the room.
‘What?’
‘Minteeee, will you help me?’
‘Well, what is it? I’ve got to make some calls.’
‘OK, just a quickie. Now: the Northern Ireland peace pwocess …tell me again – it’s the Pwotestants who live in the south, isn’t it? Or is that the Pwestbytewians? Could you just explain it all again?’
‘We are not going to teach you to be nasty,’ said David Chadwick, one of my tutors on the Nice Factor course the following Sunday morning. ‘We are going to teach you how not to be so “nice”. Because being nice gets in the way of doing what you want, doesn’t it?’
Five heads nodded vigorously as we sat in the Business Design Centre in Islington. There was a middle-aged managing director whose secretary didn’t like photocopying, so he ended up doing it himself. There was a thirty-something blonde who always got stuck with party bores because she was too nice to hurt their feelings; there was a retired dentist on the verge of a nervous breakdown because his wife was so domineering; then there was Amber, and me. Plus a woman called Jo who was running late and who was still on her way.
‘Nice people tend to fall in with other peoples’ wishes,’ said David’s co-tutor, Elaine. ‘They want to keep everything smooth and “nice” in order to avoid offence. This means they are constantly sublimating their own desires.’
‘Is it OK if I put my coffee on the floor?’ I enquired, looking anxiously at the pale carpet.
‘Oh dear. You’ve just been nice,’ said Elaine, shaking her head sadly. ‘You asked permission.’
‘Sorry. I was only being polite.’
‘That’s the most common justification people use,’ said David wearily. ‘We don’t mind what you do with your coffee,’ he added. ‘You can spill it all over the floor if you like.’
‘Look, I’m awfully sorry but –’ began Ronnie, the managing director.
‘Please don’t preface everything with “I’m awfully sorry”,’ interrupted David. ‘That kind of “I really hate to bother you …” “I’m sorry to make a fuss …” is excruciating and immediately puts you at a disadvantage. Now, what do you want to ask?’
There was a pause while Ronnie struggled to ask a simple, direct question in a non-apologetic way. He ran his left hand through his thick grey hair, and fiddled nervously with his tweedy tie.
‘I’d like to ask …what sort of people you’ve helped?’ he said.
‘Very good, Ronnie. Well, we’ve had divorcees who’ve given away everything to former spouses because they were too nice to claim their rightful share,’ said David.
‘We had one man who travelled from York to London every day because his wife refused to move south,’ added Elaine. ‘He was too nice to insist, but he’d had a heart attack because of the stress of commuting so far. We’ve helped people like that,’ she went on. ‘And we can help you.’
‘The point is that we don’t have the power to change other people,’ said David, ‘but we can change ourselves. Of course, it won’t change you overnight,’ he went on, ‘but it will give you a vocabulary which you can use to help you become less compliant. Now, Amber,’ he said, ‘you haven’t told us all why you’re doing this course. Would you tell the group?’
‘Well, it’s professional and personal,’ she replied. ‘I was too nice to my b
oyfriend, so he dumped me.’ I kept quiet. If that’s what Amber wanted to believe, so be it. ‘And I’ve got real problems with my work,’ she added. ‘I’m a novelist. But my publishers just don’t look after me. They don’t market my books properly,’ she explained, ‘and the net result is that I’ve never won any literary prizes. It’s outrageous. So I thought this course might help me give them a bloody good kick up the arse.’
‘Ah,’ said Elaine, thoughtfully. ‘Well, it’s not really about that,’ she explained. ‘It’s about finding the middle ground, the ground which lies in between being nice and being nasty. Above all, it’s about learning how to say “No”. How about you, Minty? Why did you decide to do the course?’
‘Well …’ I said, feeling dreadfully exposed now and wishing I wasn’t there.
‘Yes?’ prompted David, gently.
‘Well, people push me around,’ I began.
‘Do they?’ said Amber, her eyes round.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They do. In a number of ways. For example, at work, at London FM, my colleagues are always asking me to do things for them, even though I’m very busy myself. But somehow, however firm I try to be, I find I can never refuse.’
‘Why not?’ said Elaine. ‘Are you worried that they might think you’re not nice?’
‘Yes,’ I said dismally. ‘They make me feel obliged to help them out, because they all think I’m nice. In fact, they’re always telling me I’m nice. So I feel I have to be nice, and then of course I resent it.’
‘And do you ever ask them to help you?’ said David.
‘Oh no,’ I said, shocked. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘That’s funny, isn’t it, Minty?’ said Elaine. ‘You would never inflict on them what they inflict on you. That’s typical. Because you’re “nice”. Oh, hello, Jo!’ she said as the door creaked open behind us. ‘We’ve only just started. Come in and pull up a chair. Carry on, Minty.’ And I found this rather difficult to do, because the person who had just walked in wasn’t ‘Jo’ at all. It was ‘Joe’. Joe from Paris. He was obviously taken aback too, because he’d gone red. He gave me a faint smile of recognition as he sat down.