A Vision of Loveliness

Chapter 3


Want to be a success? Look posh.



Jane had the big room at the back. Kenneth had the box room. June had the small front room. Doreen and George had the large room at the front: bay window, twin beds (much good they’d been) and his-and-hers burr walnut veneer wardrobes. Georgette’s cot had been in her parents’ room at first but she made so much noise – even when fast asleep – that they had moved her out on to the landing. There had been talk of her sharing Jane’s room. There had also been talk of Jane not rotten well putting up with it and finding a nice bedsit somewhere. Nice bedsit? Fifty bob a week for some bug-ridden box in Earl’s Court? Don’t make Doreen laugh.

Jane shivered into her room and switched on the one-bar electric fire. Hardy Amies’s suit hung from the picture rail and there was a bulge under the pink candlewick bedspread where she had stuffed the bag. She used to try hiding things under the bed or under the mattress but, while Doreen had stopped making Jane’s bed when she started at primary school, she still liked to nose about in such places. That was how she found poor Kenneth’s dirty postcard (a black and white Rokeby Venus). That was how she found Jane’s secret library: Lady Be Good, a pronouncing dictionary and Anita Colby’s Beauty Book (Let’s make a star out of you!). Doreen had a field day. Some people didn’t half fancy theirselves. But she never actually looked inside the bed – she had enough to do without waiting on Jane – so everything was now tucked safely away under the eiderdown.

Jane wedged a chair under the door handle, sat down at the frilly dressing table and posted a penny into her flowery china pig: A daily penny put away becomes 30s 5d in a year; buy two savings certificates and in seven years they will be worth £2. She pulled the big mock-tortoiseshell slide from the back of her long brown hair. She brushed it hard then reached for her china pot of hairpins – A present from Whitstable – God knew who from: no one in the family had ever been there. She fumbled her hair on to the top of her head then dabbed on a bit of lipstick. Too much. Outline your smile with a brush then blot with care. Try to give the outer edges a merry, upward flick. Never forget that a man will judge a girl’s disposition by her lips. Better, but it was still a rotten cheap colour. Geranium. She’d be better with Rose Satin or Raspberry Ice. Finally she slipped into the skirt and jacket, shuddering as the cold silk of the lining slid over her skin.

She put on her only high heels, a really smart pair of black suede stilettos that a customer – elegant little South American woman – had left behind in the shop still in their box and bag. They had hung on to them for a few weeks but she never came back. The senior salesladies had wanted them very, very badly but they weren’t a three and a half double A and Jane was. She walked – always leading with the thighs – towards the mirror.

Next she practised sinking down on to the corner of the bed and pretending to tuck her legs into the passenger seat of an imaginary sports car, raising her knees slightly so that the skirt slid up, exposing her lovely young knees, all cobwebbed by her cheap, laddered stockings.

Jane tilted her head into her mirror face – three-quarter profile, sucked-in cheeks – and gave herself a snooty model-girl look. The hair wasn’t right but it was a wonderful suit. Smiling with satisfaction, she perched on the dressing-table stool, crossed her legs – high on the thigh so that they are absolutely parallel from the knees down. Her reflection was deliciously rich and expensive, very ‘Can I help you, madam?’ She answered herself softly in her best elocution voice. A five-year scholarship to a convent school had given Jane lots of voices: dressy, casual and several grades in between.

‘I’m looking for something to match this,’ she said in her posh, world-weary whisper.

She passed the pot of hairpins to her reflection, smiling flirtatiously. As you sit before the glass, pick up various small articles and pretend you are passing them to your reflection.

Jane placed the magic handbag on her smooth, dogtoothed lap and began emptying its contents on to the glass top of the dressing table: handkerchief, envelope, compact, photograph, a tiny pair of nail scissors, a wallet full of hairpins, a pair of really good-quality stockings in a little cellophane bag (spares: very organised), a pair of gloves (always carry extra gloves in your bag in case the ones you have on become impossibly soiled), three keys (one Yale, two Banham) and a red leather purse – a very Norbury purse for such a beautiful Bond Street bag – with a ten-bob note and some silver. There was a tiny jeweller’s brooch box and Jane was half expecting diamonds but there was only a pair of fluffy black false eyelashes and a tiny tube of glue inside. Two expensive twist-up lipsticks – one for day, one for evening – and a brown eye pencil. There was the mirror in its little pocket and – bit funny – the price ticket. One hundred and ninety guineas. Export Only. Blimey. A good saleslady usually took the price off in case it was a present.

There was nothing with the girl’s name on it. No letters. No cheque book – you’d expect someone with a crocodile bag to have a cheque book. There was an expensive-looking diary covered in ginger pigskin that told you when to stop and start shooting things. The personal details page was blank but there were twenty, maybe thirty birthdays in written in the same colour ink – as if whoever she was had sat down in January and copied them over. Some of the other dates were circled (for fairly obvious reasons) and the next few weeks were peppered with mysterious meetings: ‘Bergman’s (day for evening) 10.30 5gns’; ‘Earl’s Court. West Door. 9am. Short sleeves.’ There were some gin rummy scores on the inside cover – S, P and M – and a few phone numbers in the back – all men’s names, all West End exchanges. But Jane could hardly ring some strange Dick or Harry (Regent 4121) and ask about a mysterious brunette and a crocodile handbag.

There weren’t any cigarettes but there were two books of matches: one was from Carpenter’s oyster bar, the other was the photographic kind they made at dances and had ready by the time you went home. The girl was sat on the lap of a middle-aged man in a dinner jacket. They were both wearing party hats. The man just looked old and a bit drunk in his but the girl, in her strapless satin gown, made the funny little fez seem larky and exotic. She was having a very good time – or knew how to photograph that way. The more dress rehearsals you have with your make-believe audience, the better the real performance will be. Jane threw her head back and laughed lightly at the mirror, dislodging some of the pins in her hair so that the whole lot fell down.

She brushed it all out again and hung the suit back on its hanger ready for the morning. It was far too good for work really but where else was she going to wear it? Shopping in Croydon? The shop closed at one on Saturdays. If the worst came to the worst she could always go back to that dreadful pub but she’d try the oyster bar first – in her suit. See if anyone could remember seeing the girl. She looked at the photograph again, unconsciously tilting her head to the same angle, smiling the same smile. They were bound to remember.