A Vision of Loveliness

Chapter 17


Always live as centrally as you possibly can.





Suzy had been getting happier and prettier and lovelier from the moment they climbed back into the taxi. She told Jane a funny joke – good and loud so that the driver would laugh too. Then she gushed delightedly about Janey’s nice red-velvet present and what a great model she’d make. Then she tipped the driver two bob and waved gaily at Henry who was already installed at a window table.

Her good mood hit Fortnum’s like a stink bomb. Even the crabby old stick of a waitress cracked her face into a smile at sir and his two pretty daughters. The house model, pacing the restaurant every lunchtime like the Flying Dutchman in daywear, made a point of stopping at their table. They ordered lobster burgers (more bloody Chablis) but were careful not to have more than a bite of the bun. Jane tried to imagine what Doreen would have ordered. At those prices? Not likely.

The Fountain Restaurant was full of ladies dabbing with napkins, tongues checking dentures for bits of trapped Elegant Rarebit or traces of lipstick while anaemic unpainted eyes scanned the room awarding black marks: Milk-In-First; knife held like a spoon; taking a knife to a bread roll; sips of tea taken while food remained in the mouth. No food crimes were being committed at Jane and Suzy’s table but they watched them anyway. Huntsman suit, handmade shoes, cashmere socks. Was he Daddy or Sugar Daddy? Very hard to tell. Suzy’s manner always suggested a bit of both.

‘Can we go and see the flat after lunch?’ Can we, Daddy? Can we?

Suzy hardly ever asked Henry about his life away from her. ‘Did you have a nice weekend?’ would have been stupid. He probably didn’t – why else keep Suzy? – and if by any chance he did have a nice bloody weekend, if, by some incredible chance, his dearly beloved wife opened her skinny grey legs for the first time in twenty years, it would have been the last thing Suzy wanted to hear. Besides, she wasn’t that interested in what he got up to when she wasn’t there.

As a tiny child Suzy had believed that other people only existed while she was in the room – which explained why they were always so bucked up when she arrived. She’d never quite shaken this feeling and anyway it was true. Rubbish evenings came to life when Suzy told a joke or suggested champagne or, later, more softly, said that no one had ever cared about her this way since Daddy died. No wonder people were pleased to see her.

Henry handed them nicely into a taxi which whizzed along Piccadilly then up into Mayfair. They stopped outside a big once-white stone block of flats round the back of the Dorchester Hotel somewhere. Henry introduced the girls to the porter as his nieces who had just moved up to London from the country and said he hoped Jim – it was Jim, wasn’t it? – would look after them. Yes sir he would sir thank you very much sir. Nieces his arse but enough five-quid tips and sir could have all the nieces he liked. Five quid down the drain, of course, if Suzy didn’t like the nice little flat.

She liked it.

The front door of number fifty-two opened into quite a big square hall with a crystal chandelier in the middle and shelves all round it with books and fancy china – not the kind with ‘Foreign’ stamped on the bottom. There was a door in the near corner leading to a guest cloakroom which had a toilet (lavatory, lavatory) and washbasin and a big linen cupboard full of fluffy matching towels and starchy sheets and room enough at the bottom for a huge Mayfair Laundry box.

The double doors on the left led into a twenty-foot sitting room, two more doors to the bedrooms and a swing door to the kitchen. The kitchen (which didn’t have a bath in it) had walls of white cupboards and a door leading on to the fire escape (which might come in handy in a bedroom farce-y sort of way) but who cared about the kitchen? People who lived in Massingham House only went there on the maid’s day off.

There was no washing machine. Even Doreen thought washing machines were common. Mrs Grant next door had one. Dirty great mangle on top of it and a garden full of drying sheets and shirts. The woman on the other side wheeled hers down to the laundrette in her wicker trolley then pegged it out when she got back. But Doreen had a magic cardboard suitcase from the electric laundry company that turned dirty clothes into clean. It wasn’t cheap but Doreen had Better Things to do with her time than wash bloody sheets. What Things?

Suzy’s bedroom was pink and white and gold. The whole of one wall was fitted wardrobes with enormous great mirror doors showing a second king-size bed, a second fancy white and gold dressing table, another chandelier, another mile of fat, furry white carpet, another Suzy.

Suzy watched herself do a basic turn into Henry’s waiting arms – no joke in high heels on shag pile – while Jane went off to explore her own room which was the same only blue: hyacinth blue. Jane’s king-size bed covered in silky satin; Jane’s dressing table; Jane’s hand-blocked blue and gold wallpaper. You opened the curtains by pulling a brass pineapple on a string. The view wasn’t up to much – just the windows and fire escapes of the other half of the block – but the raw-silk floor-length drapes shimmered so beautifully in the light that you didn’t want to see out anyway.

Through the white door and into Jane’s very own private bathroom which was blue to match the bedroom, even the bath was blue and it had gold-coloured taps – hot and cold, but no sign of a water heater – and a boiling hot chromium-plated rail covered in half a dozen soft, fat bath towels in exactly the right shade. The whole of the right-hand wall above the bath was one big mirror and the mirror over the washbasin had tiny lightbulbs all round it. Jane checked her reflection for damage, only there wasn’t any. Only a pretty young face rising from the neatly tailored shoulders of a cashmere suit. Very pretty. Pretty enough for a flat of its own.

Jane sat down at the dressing table and began opening each of the little drawers. They smelled of Quelques Fleurs and hair removing cream. The imaginary Mrs Collins had left quite a lot of stuff behind in the top drawer: a powder compact: a lot of hairpins and some nice twist-up lipsticks: Pango Peach; Cuban Rose. The drawer underneath was full to the brim with about two hundred bookmatches, shiny blue ones with Mayfair 3515 embossed on them in gold lettering. Jane had read about these in the News of the World. Call girls had them. They’d have been handy for lighting the gas – only there wasn’t any gas.



Suzy was still thanking Henry so Jane had a nose round the sitting room: no plastic fruit; no atomic magazine rack; no cheap prints (Reproductions of ‘Sunflowers’ or the Annigoni royal portraits or Rédoute roses have no place in the Good Taste Home); no sideboard and not a pouffe in sight.

Henry and Suzy had slipped out of the bedroom. He’d had as much gratitude as he was getting for a weekday afternoon.

‘Now then, you two. Have you got everything packed? If you give me the keys I can send my man round right away if you like. No need for you to go back to that place ever again.’

He squeezed Suzy’s sticky little hand. Suzy had been having another think about schlapping back to St Anthony’s Chambers and smuggling the gear down to street level so that Henry’s driver wouldn’t see the state of the flat and she had decided it was more trouble than it was worth. Who cared what some driver thought? She’d already told Henry it was a slum but that it was all she could afford (after Daddy died) and how she felt sorry for her poor pregnant flatmate and Henry had been very, very understanding. The bigger the contrast, the more generous and magnificent the Mayfair flat seemed, the bigger and better Henry would feel.

‘Bill will bring all your bits and pieces over in an hour or two. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty. I thought you and I could have a bite to eat somewhere and then go on to the River Club. What are you up to this evening, Janey?’ He had a very polite voice, he was a very polite man but it wasn’t an invitation.

‘Janey’s got a date.’ Definitely not an invitation.

‘I’m sure she has.’ Henry ran his eyes over Jane in her expensive suit. Any floozie could wear a smart evening dress but dollies in daywear were in another league. ‘So, Janey. Do you like the flat?’

‘I don’t like the flat at all, Mr Swan. I love it.’ Service with a lick. Did he believe her? He didn’t look as if he believed her somehow. His smile seemed to dry on his face, shrinking slightly at the edges, but he kissed her hand anyway.

Once Henry was in the lift, Suzy kicked off her shoes and threw herself on the big white sofa. This was definitely the life. She reached across to the side table for the phone – white with gold trim – and dialled Big Terry. Then she rang Lorna at work to give her the new number and see how the professor was shaping up.

Lorna obviously couldn’t talk – in a roomful of graceless eggheads from Romano-British antiquities the typist could go whole days without speaking to a living soul – but she obviously had something to say. There was also the danger that the switchboard was earwigging.

‘About the newspaper cutting we discussed?’

‘Oh yes. Are you going to put the ad in?’

‘I think that would be best.’ Lorna’s voice was tight, resentful even.

‘Would you like me to do it?’

‘If that would be convenient?’

‘I’ll do it right now. Now can you do me a little favour, darling. We’re living at Fifty-two Massingham House and our new phone number is Mayfair 3515. I don’t want you to pass it on to any of the pests, obviously, but could you be an angel and pop in and see Annie on your way upstairs and get her to give me a ring? Oh yes and can you give the address to Janey’s Johnny when he rings?’

As soon as she’d hung up she found a bit of paper in the desk drawer, tore the letterhead off the top and wrote out half a dozen words in neat block capitals. She then buzzed down to the porter to send up the messenger boy – like she’d been doing it all her life. Would he be a darling – given half a chance he would. He was only sixteen and his eyes were on stalks at the sight of two pretty popsies and all that shag pile – and take this to the classified ad department of the Evening News in Fleet Street? Thirty bob should cover it. He could keep the change. And the following evening, in a pub round the back of Gower Street, young Dr Tom would check the personal columns, make the call and save another young life – that was how he liked to look at it, anyway.

Jane wandered back into her beautiful blue bedroom. The smart fitted wardrobes were filled with empty coat hangers covered in padded satin. Some of them had scented net sachets still dangling from them. She hung her suit on one of the hangers and laid her black cashmere crew neck on one of the empty shelves.

She decided to have a bath while they waited for Henry’s Bill to arrive with their things. The bathroom cupboards were full of goodies. The one under the washbasin was mostly medicinal: Andrews liver salts; aspirin; a funny rubber tube with a squashy bag on the end and three packs of French letters. There was another stash of things behind the bathroom mirror: soap, body lotion and bath essence and two pots of Helena Rubinstein Beauty Overnight cream. Jane decided on Stephanotis – Lily of the Valley was a bit mumsy. She was so used to the slow, pissy stream of Doreen’s dodgy Ascot heater that she nearly let the bath run over.

Suzy had found a pair of see-thru pink nylon baby dolls in one of her wardrobes and was skipping around the flat opening cupboards and drawers to see what else the imaginary Mrs Collins had left behind. She found a cupboard full of art silk kimonos, several pairs of poplin pyjamas, a dozen pairs of Irish linen sheets and a parcel containing two navy-blue maid’s uniforms.

‘Size ten. Oh wait till I show Annie.’

Her tour of the flat had finally reached the blue bathroom where Jane was up to her neck in scented bubbles. ‘Are you washing your hair? You might as well. I’ve got Big Terry coming round at six.’ Some girls find that a bi-monthly shampoo is ample. Others find that their hair becomes oily and unmanageable within ten days or even a week. Suzy looked herself over in Jane’s bathroom mirror – as if she were registering her face with every glass in the place – then checked the baby dolls in the big reflection behind the bath.

‘This big mirror’s a bit kinky. I haven’t got one of these in mine.’



At about half four the porter, still running very smoothly on his nice crisp fiver, called up to say that Mr Swan’s driver had arrived and the girls hurriedly slipped on kimonos and unpacked the tea chests as fast as they were brought up, filling the empty cupboard shelves. The dress rail wouldn’t fit in the goods lift so Henry’s Bill and his boy, a well-built lad of nineteen, had to bring the frocks up in silky, scented armfuls and hang them straight into Suzy’s wardrobe. Jane’s cupboard had far less in it but Larry Green’s cherry-velvet down payment and her two Hardy Amies numbers looked well and Glenda’s shoes filled the racks that ran along the floor. There was even a red satin pair to match the frock.

Henry’s driver didn’t know what to make of it all: the clothes, the slum, the smart flat: didn’t make sense. But Suzy was one step ahead of him, unravelling a whole string of chatty little lies just so that some van driver wouldn’t think badly of her.

‘Thank you so much. They seem to have taken care of everything. I was a bit worried. Where did you have to pick it all up from in the end?’

So that was it. Not her flat at all. Of course it wasn’t.

‘Some dirty little place north of Oxford Street, miss. Filthy it was. Stank of damp.’

Suzy pretended to inspect the hem of a lavender lace evening gown.

‘Oh well, no harm done. I expect they were only there over the weekend. My old lease in Bryanston Square ended at New Year so we’ve been staying down in the country while my maid found somewhere to store all our things.’

She romanced on for a bit then gave Bill a pound and Bill’s boy ten bob. Bill’s boy could hardly wait to get home and unpack the memory of Jane and her loosely wrapped kimono leaning over a tea chest.

The phone rang.

‘Mayfair 3515.’ You could hear the excitement in her voice. Like a little girl showing off. ‘Oh hello, Annie darling. That was quick. Lorna must have clocked off early. Yes we’re both very well. Now then. How do you fancy that little cleaning job we talked about? Good. Well why don’t you hop on a bus and get down to Massingham House. It’s right behind the Dorchester. I know, darling. Posh or what? Anyway hurry on over and then you can see how you feel about it. There’s a service entrance round the side. Number Fifty-two.’ Service entrance. Swank.

In the time it took her to pull on her bootees and her old tweed coat and hop on to a number 73 Annie had arrived at the flat.

‘Nice and warm in here. Fitted carpet. Silk, them curtains. Pure silk.’

She had wriggled into her smart navy-blue uniform before you could say three bob an hour, then she walked through the flat stroking everything.

‘You look the business, Annie my love. Like a maid in a play. You couldn’t be an angel and make sense of those shelves for me, could you?’

Annie amused herself by going through all the cupboards, folding Suzy’s sweaters into little private rainbows and stacking them neatly in the shiny blond wood pigeonholes. Then she got to work on Suzy’s frocks, grading them from the grandest ball gowns down to the mildest After Six. She’d already rinsed out their discarded stockings and hung them on the rail when the doorbell rang.

‘Mr Thomson, madam,’ said Annie, good as gold, then went back to building naughty little nests of bras and girdles in the white and gold chest of drawers.

Terry was not as impressed as Suzy hoped he would be.

‘I’ve been up this gaff before, you know. Two toilets: one pink; one blue – that right? Yeah. Definitely been here before. Two blonde birds used to live here. Soft perm. Roots done once a fortnight. Very groovy pad. Nice little business by the look of it. Much more your style. Better than that shit hole in Oxford Street.’

Annie, who had been rootling through the kitchen cupboards, suddenly appeared carrying a jug of dry martinis and three glasses. Turned out she’d been a cocktail waitress at the Embassy Club in about 1927.

‘I can’t afford for you to be here all the time, Annie darling. I was only thinking of a few hours’ cleaning – you know what a slut I am.’

‘You pay me what you was going to pay me and I’ll keep me own time, Suzy darling. I’d only be stuck in that freezing rotten flat listening to the wireless. I might just as well be here in the warm looking after all your little bits. I’ll bring a pint of silver top when I come in of a morning. Make you a nice cup of tea.’

Once Terry had done their hair Suzy insisted on moving one of the bedroom easy chairs into the kitchen so that Annie could sit and listen to the radio in comfort. Then she began to get ready for a grateful evening with Henry Swan.

She’d chosen a dress of strapless crimson lace that came with its own built-in waspie, another present from the gentlemanly Mr Green. You could tell by the cut (another straight steal from Givenchy).

The phone rang. It was Lorna to say that she had given the new address and phone number to Johnny Whatsisname and to confirm that he would be picking Jane up at eight. Lorna was already sounding cheesed off with the answering-service lark.

‘That Canadian pest rang for Suzy again. I told him to f*ck off.’ Which seemed quite a good idea, really. Why faff about with the South African accents when you could just tell it to them straight? Probably because Suzy never really liked to let go of a nice little meal ticket for those hungry Sunday nights.

Henry had already arrived by the time Jane had finished creaming the hair from her legs and armpits, buffing her fingernails, shaping her lips, plucking and pencilling her brows, lining her eyes, curling her lashes, rouging her cheeks, scenting her neck, powdering her nose and polishing her bloody elbows – Are you armadillo-elbowed? She carefully clipped her stockings to her suspender belt then pulled on a tiny pair of black lace panties that she’d found in one of the drawers. Brand new. Still had the label on.

The phone rang again. Some man wanting Jeanette or, failing that, was Bettina available? That was Mayfair 3515, wasn’t it? He said the number as if he were reading it – off a book of matches maybe. Jane took a tip from Lorna’s book and then hung up the cream and gold receiver before he could think of a reply.

She was nearly ready but the densely boned bodice of the cherry velvet was definitely a two-man zipper. She held the back together and went to find Suzy who was sitting on Henry’s knee in one of the big white armchairs telling him a dirty joke about the three daughters of a bishop. Jane stuck her head round the door.

‘Sorry to bother you, Suzy, but do you think you could zip me up?’

Henry followed Suzy into the hall and watched the dress close over the soft white skin. Suzy stepped back and he stood behind her, watching Jane’s reflection in one of the big gold mirrors. His hand suddenly slid down the front of Suzy’s frock but his eyes were on Jane as he did it. Suzy giggled at the picture they made: the dark-suited man and his two scarlet women, like a Sexton Blake cover. Jane flushed and turned away. What was he after? The bell rang and the other two retreated back to their armchair as Jane opened the door to Johnny Hullavington.

‘Good evening.’ Clever, the way he managed to make it sound surprised and delighted. He didn’t have to tell her how nice she looked: just the tone of his voice was a compliment. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek hello but she turned her face towards him, put her arms around his neck and surprised him with a big fat kiss on the lips. She could hardly breathe in that tight, red dress. ‘Good evening.’

Jane slipped back into her room to get her bag and Glenda’s Furleen and to step out of the black lace panties. He’d never know – but she would.

Once downstairs he opened the car door for her and waited while she tucked the fat skirts of her frock out of harm’s way. It was a very smart car with its own radio and a wooden panel covered in knobs and buttons. She had to remind herself not to gawp at all the fittings, to look as if handsome thirtysomething gents took her dancing every night of the week. She ought to say something. The books said to make small talk – bore him and he will soon look elsewhere – but it was easier said than done. The good-listener bit would have been a breeze but he wasn’t actually saying anything. What would he like her to say? Funny stories? She didn’t think he’d go for the elephant’s foreskin story somehow. Suddenly it came to her.

‘Do try to make entertaining conversation. Men like a girl who can keep them amused and will dump a girl who doesn’t.’

He seemed startled, but intrigued.

‘There’s a whole book full of it: Best Behaviour, it’s called. There was a copy on one of the bookshelves in the flat. Never commit the cardinal sin of boring your man. Learn to charm him. Do you think a person can actually learn charm? Like French or basket-weaving?’

They had stopped at the traffic lights at the bottom of Curzon Street.

‘No. I think you’re absolutely right. There are some things that can’t be taught. What an astonishing girl you are.’

He reached across and squeezed her hand.

There was a group of girls waiting for a 137 on Park Lane and they looked up as the car passed and Jane could almost hear the envious little thoughts being broadcast from that chilly wet bus stop as a better-looking, better-dressed, better-spoken girl glided by. Acting the part, she turned to smile at Johnny and almost squirmed with pride at the sight of his handsome profile caught in a passing headlight. Like a drawing of a boyfriend.