A Vision of Loveliness

Chapter 13


The all-male gathering can be a hearty

occasion. The female equivalent – a poached

egg on toast listening to the wireless with

a friend – is simply an evening wasted.





Suzy, now smoothed, plucked, varnished and moisturised, was tricked out in a rather natty weekend get-up: dogtooth-checked slacks and a black cashmere polo neck. She looked very pretty but much younger without her face on. She was lying on the three-legged sofa after a long day of self-improvement, reading a copy of Queen and smoking her way through a packet of Woodbines – she saved the good fags for going out.

‘That was quick. Did she cut up rough?’

‘No. Not at all. She helped me get all my things together.’

Suzy arched her body into a long, pin-up stretch.

‘God, I’m starving! I’ve had nothing but black coffee and cheese footballs all day.’

‘I know how you feel. I decided against staying for lunch. Auntie was just having something on a tray.’ She pictured Doreen with a bit of smoked haddock and a glass of hock. ‘I wish I’d said yes to the dinner date now.’

‘Not on your life, darling. Kiss of death.’

Suzy had run out of coins for the meter and the flat was freezing again. Jane clunked her last two shillings into the slot and gingerly lit the gas before slipping reluctantly out of the red coat and hanging it up on the rail that Suzy had wheeled into the passage. The shoes had all been pegged into pairs and bundled into one of the three tea chests. The other two were full of cashmeres, underwear, handbags and hats. The whole arsenal of Suzy’s charm. They had made the place look a tip but without all those glamorous things lying about, the flat was as dirty and sordid as Doreen’s back kitchen.

‘Well it’s much too cold to stay indoors.’ Suzy went through to the bedroom and started work on her face, blotting it out with a grubby little bottle of make-up base, then drawing the whole lot back on again. She scrabbled in an old tobacco tin for a matching pair of false eyelashes, pulled off the snotty strings of old gum, squeezed a skinny worm of glue on to each one from a tiny tube, and patted the lashes into place, beefed up with two coats of automatic mascara.

‘Your turn.’

Jane slid into her place on the piano stool and Suzy repeated the whole process.

‘Where are we off to then?’

‘Well we can’t stay here eating Twiglets. I was thinking we could treat ourselves to a sherry and nuts at Claridge’s and see what develops.’

She helped Jane put the finishing touches to her face and gingerly ran the comb over last night’s hair-do – when Big Terry pleated your hair, it stayed pleated.

Jane had her eye on a gorgeous fuchsia-pink corded velvet cocktail dress but Suzy knew better.

‘Not on your own in Claridge’s, darling. They’ll take you for a tart and chuck you out. We’ll have to pretend to be meeting someone to be let in the bar at all.’

Apparently unaccompanied Sunday night drinking in a West End hotel – always supposing they let you in, unchaperoned – called for smart tweeds. Not too mumsy but nothing to frighten the horses.

Jane was about to slip into her Hardy Amies when the phone rang.

‘Oo? Oh you mean Mrs White’s niece. Oo wants her?’

The posh voice stammered feebly.

‘Er. It’s Michael. Michael Woodrose.’

Jane covered the receiver with her hand.

‘It’s the man I met at the bus stop. He was rather sweet. Works at the BBC. He’s about to finish his shift. Wants to know if I fancy some supper.’ Supper sounded cheaper than dinner.

‘Get him to take us both out for a Chinese,’ stage-whispered Suzy. Claridge’s was certainly smarter but might yield nothing on a Sunday night in January.

‘Well. I’m meant to be going out for supper with my friend Suzy. Would you mind if I brought her along?’

Snookered. He couldn’t very well say no but it was nice to hear the disappointment in his voice. They arranged to meet at Ley-On in Wardour Street at eight.

‘Can you work chopsticks?’ Jane shook her head. ‘Well there’s time for the crash course before we head off. I think there are a few cornflakes left.’

Jane dashed into the icy kitchen, tipped some cornflakes into a curved saucepan lid – the single remaining clean thing in the cupboard – and found a pair of chopsticks in the dresser drawer (one said Ley-On, the other Lotus Garden). The next half hour was spent tweezing the stale yellow flakes out of their bowl and into the ashtray.

‘It’ll be easier tonight. The sauce glues the stuff together. You can always attack it with a fork if you get desperate – loads of people do – but it’s much more impressive this way. They like it when you know all the tricks.’

They. The men who bought dinner.

‘Do you ever go Dutch?’

‘Go Dutch! Wash your mouth out! Look, darling. They’ve got a pretty girl on their arm and a kiss and a cuddle on the way home. Dinner’s the least you should expect. Dutch! You are funny. So. What’s he like, this conquest of yours?’

‘Young. Private school.’

‘Public school,’ corrected Suzy. Snobby cow.

‘Quite nice-looking. Tweedy.’

‘Sounds all right. Sounds virginal. But it might be fun. Where does he live?’

‘Not far. Round the back of the BBC somewhere, I think.’

The planned Claridge’s get-up was switched for tight, low-cut black sweaters (Glenda had three of these) and full felt skirts. They didn’t leave the flat till gone eight. The streets were deserted and apart from the odd thirty-watt twinkle from St Anthony’s Chambers, there was no light from any of the surrounding buildings. Down in Oxford Street the fancy window dressing sulked unseen in the lightless displays. The taxi was surprised to find a fare at all – particularly one that only wanted to go four hundred yards but Suzy didn’t really believe in walking. What was the point? You just arrived with sore feet and a red nose. The cab let them know you weren’t a cheap date and with any luck Janey’s tweedy little friend would pay for it anyway.

He hadn’t much choice.