A Vision of Loveliness

Chapter 11


Every girl, whatever her face, figure

or finances, must put in the hours if she

wants to keep and improve her looks.





Suzy was already up and busy when Jane finally woke. Every heater in the place was switched on while she got to work on her weekly beauty routine: face masked in clay; legs and armpits plastered with smelly white cream; toes clamped apart with a little sponge thingy while the cherry-red nail varnish dried.

‘Good morning, my darling. I can offer you black coffee, black tea or lobster bisque. Shall I run you a bath? The hair removing stuff’s on the shelf in the kitchen.’ (Bristly calves are a cardinal sin.)

Suzy was reading the Sunday Times.

‘Blimey. Do you have a paper delivered?’

‘Lord no. Annie fetches it for me along with the week’s smalls. A girl’s got to keep abreast otherwise you just sit there saying what a good band it is. Here. You can have half if you like.’

No scoutmasters here. It was all politics and foreign affairs. Algeria. Nigeria?

‘It’s what makes the difference between a squirrel jacket and a nice flat in Maida Vale’ – or Curzon Street for that matter – ‘the old “Your work must be fascinating” line can only get you so far. The wife talks about the children. The floosies tell him where they like to go dancing. You’re the one who knows all about the book he’s reading or what he should do on his business trip to Madrid. They love it. Two hours a week and they think you’re Marghanita Lasky. Henry takes the Observer so I get the other one.’

They had a busy morning making legs smooth, skin clear, nails shiny. And then another long, strange bath in the kitchen. Suzy had dashed down the freezing stairway to the lavatory when the phone began to ring. Jane wrapped herself in a grubby Japanese kimono that Glenda had left hanging on the back of the door and grabbed the receiver, remembering this time to put on a funny voice. She decided on Doreen’s.

‘Wot?’

The voice at the other end seemed taken aback.

‘Oh. Hi. I’m sorry. I wanted to speak with Suzy. Suzy St John?’

‘What you want and what you get are two different things, sunshine. I’m only the cleaner here. What floor’s she on? She that big blonde number? Leopard coat? Bit boss-eyed?’

‘No, no. Suzy St John. Nice-looking. Brunette. She’s a model.’

‘Well, they all say that, dear. You’re not from round here, are you? You a Yank?’

‘Nope. Canadian.’

The penny dropped. This must be the Dreaded Arnold.

‘Walter Pidgeon was Canadian.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Walter Pidgeon. Canadian. Married to Greer Garson.’

‘I want to speak to Suzy Saint John.’

‘Brunette? Skinny little thing? I know the one. No, the boss-eyed blonde’s got her room now. She’s gorn. Ong Kong. Went before Christmas.’

‘Did she leave a forwarding add-ress?’

‘I told you dear: Ong Kong.’

By now both of them were speaking slowly and loudly as if the other were very deaf and daft.

Suzy – still wearing just the bath towel – slipped back into the flat and gave Jane the thumbs-up sign.

‘I can’t be messed about writing down your messages all bleeding day. I’ve got my brass to do. Yes, on a Sunday. None of your business what days I work. Bloody cheek. You a vicar or summink?’

She replaced the receiver and joined Suzy in the kitchen where she was sitting up on the draining board rinsing the hair cream off her legs and armpits in the sink with an old pink face flannel. Jane thought for a minute that she’d actually done the washing up but Lorna wasn’t going to get off that easily: the heap of cups and glasses and milk pans was now piled up on the floor in a big plastic bowl. Once Suzy had sponged off the last of the stuff she jumped down from the sink, sank into the bubble bath and began rubbing herself with a pumice stone – Polish those elbows every week.

‘Mmmm. This could well be my last bath in the kitchen, Janey darling. Henry says he’s found a Nice. Little. Flat.’ She sponged her feet in time to this Happy. Little. Thought.

Jane kept her face in shape this time. She’d been thinking it over and had decided that a freezing cold fleapit behind Bourne and Hollingsworth shared with an Egyptologist’s fancy woman was still better than life with Doreen. But Suzy was quick to remember last night’s promise.

‘You can come too if you like, Janey. You don’t want to live in Norbury all your life. Henry says he’ll run us over there on Monday lunchtime to have a look and see if I like it.’ She was now soaping each leg with a great big yellow sponge she’d somehow managed to half-inch from a fancy chemist’s in Piccadilly. The hairless leg was so smooth and shiny it looked like plastic. Like Barbie’s bathtime. ‘If I like it he’ll send one of his men round with a van in the afternoon to pick up our gear. We can leave all the hanging stuff on the rail. The rest is mostly shoes. You might as well have all Glenda’s clobber. It’ll all be out of date by the time she gets back from sunny Spain – if she ever does. There’s some tea chests in Lorna’s room. Now then. Do you fancy sharing my new flat with me?’

Be nice. Be very, very nice.

‘I’d love to but I don’t know if I could afford it . . .’

Suzy smiled a funny little smile.

‘Don’t worry, sweetie. That’s all taken care of.’

Apparently the flat belonged to a business associate of Henry’s who’d gone abroad for a year after his beautiful young wife was killed in a car crash. Only twenty-five. Two lovely little girls. Twins. Tragic. Hong Kong. And he didn’t want it left unoccupied while he was away in case his sister-in-law moved in. Ghastly grasping woman. Ran one of those data processing places. Divorced.

‘Why doesn’t he rent it out?’

Suzy barely missed a beat.

‘Oh, he reckons tenants are nothing but trouble. Cost you more in the long run. Dilapidations, all that. Rather lend it to friends. Anyway what do you say? I had such fun dressing you up yesterday and I’m sure the whole twin thing could work out. You’ll have your own room. And your own bathroom.’

That clinched it. Doreen’s bloodstained toothbrush. The death-wish boiler. The f*ck-off-I-hate-you bath cubes. Or her own bathroom.

Suzy stood up in the bath and soaped the rest of herself. Nice figure. It can’t be denied that a superlative figure is top of the list for a beautiful woman. Round tidy bosom, round tidy bum, nice neat waist in between. But it was no nicer than Jane’s.

‘What are your vital statistics?’ wondered Jane.

‘With or without?’

‘With or without what?’

‘Waspie, darling. You don’t think anybody really has a 22-inch waist, do you?’ The foundation of all stylish dressing is a tiny waistline.

‘With, then.’

‘34-22-35. And you?’

‘The same. Only I haven’t got a waspie.’ Suzy stuck out her tongue. All right for Suzy with her Henries. A decent girdle cost fifty bob.

‘Did Big Terry mean what he said about that photographer?’

‘What? The twin thing? Could be a good gimmick. Have you ever actually done any modelling?’

‘No. I did go to Trudi Morton once and they seemed quite interested but the woman just wanted to sell me a modelling course really and she kept asking me about my bust size.’

‘Oh her.’ Suzy pursed her lips and rubbed at her feet with the pumice stone.

‘Did you ever do a course?’

‘I did actually. Daddy won a fortune on a fifty-to-one outsider in the Two Thousand Guineas when I was sixteen and bought me six weeks with Mary Madison. I bunked off most of it but it knocked me into shape. And their agency isn’t bad. Teaches you which jobs to say no to at least. But I got sick of being rung up and pushed around. They always warn you against going freelance – nothing in it for them of course – but if you’ve got a few regulars and you know a couple of photographers you can just about make it pay. I’m doing wedding dresses at Green’s tomorrow. You can come along if you like. We’ll say you’re my dresser.’ Thank you, Suzy. Thank you so much.



The phone rang and Doreen answered it again.

‘Wot? Oo? Woshy look like?’

‘Well,’ he drawled, ‘the last time I spoke to her she was half undressed in a grey fur coat.’

‘Oh. It’s you.’

‘Yep. Did you sleep well?’

She returned to the new sexy voice she’d found the night before, letting Glenda’s kimono fall open and watching her pouting lips in the mirror.

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

He cleared his throat.

‘Do you like Italian food?’

Doreen didn’t like Italian food. She’d not actually had any but there were some recipes in a True Romance magazine she’d seen down the doctor’s, all mucked about and covered in sauce. She didn’t like the idea of it although she did make an exception for tinned spaghetti because it made a nice change from baked beans. She didn’t like Indian food either. Not only did she hate the smell – there was a curry house in the high street and she would make a point of crossing the road rather than walking past it – she didn’t like rice. Not one bit. Uncle George and Jane had a little game in which the winner was the first person to get Doreen to say ‘I don’t like rice’. Jane would say something like:

‘Joy says they’re having risotto for lunch today.’

‘Wossat?’

‘Some Italian thing: bits of chicken cooked with mushrooms. And Rice.’ It was murder keeping a straight face.

And, right on cue, Doreen would wrinkle her nose and shake her head and say the magic words. You got double points if she followed it up with ‘never have liked rice’. Jane had been ahead for months until Uncle George invented a Chinese bloke at work who brought in his own lunch. Kenneth and June didn’t even know they were playing – they never listened to Doreen anyway.

‘Well. Do you?’ persisted Johnny.

‘Do I what?’

‘Like Italian food?’

She couldn’t very well say no.

‘Mmm.’

‘Well there’s a nice little place down in Soho that’s open for supper on Sundays. What do you say?’

Alarm bells rang loud in Jane’s head. When you meet someone nice it can be tempting to rush your fences. Resist. Besides which, ‘little place in Soho’ sounded like the kind of dive Tony had in mind.

‘This evening?’

‘Not on your life!’ A frantic whisper from the kitchen.

‘I’m afraid I can’t manage tonight.’

‘How did I guess?’ He sounded disappointed. Not just at not seeing her but as if he knew the rules too, and was sick of playing by them. ‘What about tomorrow, then?’

Strictly speaking Monday was off-limits as well but she didn’t want to risk waiting too long.

‘Can we go dancing?’ She tried to make her voice as velvety and seductive as his.

‘Sure we can go dancing. I’ll pick you up at eight. What’s your address?’

She looked in panic at the bare floorboards of the hall, the stained and peeling wallpaper, the chipped yellowed paint. ‘No, er, no. Don’t do that. This will sound silly but we’re moving tomorrow. It’s Curzon Street somewhere but I don’t know the exact address.’

‘Curzon Street? Very smart.’

They agreed that he’d ring the flat on Monday evening after work and get the new address from Lorna. She wanted to stay talking but there was nothing else to say and she was starting to feel rather cold, standing there in her open kimono.

She was still leaning against the wall, half-naked, when Suzy emerged from the kitchen.

‘Look at you! Was that lover-boy?’

‘He’s taking me out to dinner tomorrow night.’

Suzy always played by the rules. ‘You should make them wait a bit longer than that, girl. Oh my God, you aren’t going to let him pick you up here, are you?’

Suzy obviously didn’t mind about how squalid the flat was so long as no one else saw it. She had already hatched plans to get the dress rail and packing cases down to the street so that Henry’s man wouldn’t need to see inside.

‘Don’t worry. He’s going to call and get the new address. Failing that, I’m supposed to meet him at Isola Bella or somewhere.’

‘Very nice. Do you like Italian?’

‘I don’t know. I know how you’re supposed to eat spaghetti. Sort of. But I’ve never actually had any.’ Oh God. The look on her face. Smug little bitch.

‘Not to worry. We’ll make some for you to practise with later on.’ Suzy sat on the edge of the wonky sofa and began rubbing Nulon into her toes – Minutes invested in foot care are minutes well spent. ‘Now then. Are you definitely moving to Curzon Street with me or not?’

‘Definitely. Only goodness knows what my poor aunt will say.’

In fact she knew bloody well what Doreen would say. That Suzy was a jumped-up little tart setting herself up as mistress to some dirty old man cheating on his wife. Fortunately no one else could hear Doreen.

‘Why don’t you go and tell your aunt all about it over Sunday lunch and pick up whatever you need?’

Suzy probably imagined Sunday lunch as a roast. Bone china. Two kinds of potatoes. Gravy boat. Custard. Napkin rings. Not tinned red salmon and dried peas.

‘Have you got a lot of clobber?’

‘Not much worth bringing. A couple of quite nice skirts and twinsets and a few papers and things, I suppose.’ Quite a lot of papers actually.