A Vision of Loveliness

Chapter 9


A diner in the smart London eating

places is in the kingdom of snobbery.



Getting down the stairs was a nightmare. Only one of the lightbulbs worked and Jane had to cling to the handrail all the way down to be sure of not turning on her new heels: dyed-to-match satin stilettos borrowed from Glenda’s little shoe department.

A door opened on the first floor and a little old lady in a wraparound paisley overall and a curly yellow wig stuck her head out.

‘That you, Suzy darlin’?’

‘You shouldn’t open your door at this time of night, Annie. There are some very strange men about.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ she cackled. Annie didn’t trust dentists. ‘Need any washing doing?’

‘Ooh, yes please, Annie. I’ll bring it all down tomorrow. This is my friend Janey. She’ll probably have a few bits and pieces as well. Will that be all right? I’ll give you another two bob.’

‘Whatever you like, Suzy-Sue. What Ever You Like. Pleasure to do it, lovey.’ She turned to Jane in the half darkness as if sharing a wonderful secret: ‘Lovely little bits she’s got. I’ll hold the door open till you get all the way down. I got that caretaker geezer to put a new bulb in but those two tarts in the basement nicked it.’

‘Goodnight, Annie darling. See you tomorrow.’

Suzy and Jane carried on down the stairs.

‘Annie’s marvellous. She does all my stockings and smalls for half a crown a week. It beats scrubbing away at the sink – especially our sink. You’d have to do a week’s worth of washing up before you could even get near it.’

The street was almost completely dead. Even the pub on the corner closed at weekends. Suzy’s date was vrooming his engine to show how busy he was but he leaped from the driving seat as soon as he saw Suzy and opened the nearside passenger door. Big man. Cashmere overcoat.

‘Janey James, this is Henry Swan.’

‘How do you do, Miss James? Suzy’s told me a great deal about you’ – no she bloody hadn’t – ‘I’ve brought an old friend of mine along for the evening. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll manage the introductions properly when we get to the restaurant. Mirador all right, darling?’

‘Mmm. Super.’

Mr Swan’s friend stayed put in the front while Henry Swan got Jane into the back of the car before ushering Suzy round to the other side. Nice manners. The car was nice too. There was a nice, pricey, leathery smell, like being inside a great big crocodile bag. An armrest had been folded down between Jane and Suzy like a big fat square of fudge and each seat was as wide and comfy as an armchair – comfier. Comfier than Doreen’s cut moquette anyway.

Henry was speaking. ‘Hard to be sure in this light of course but you are both looking exceptionally pretty. Aren’t they, Ollie?’

‘ ’ceptionally pretty,’ drawled Ollie in a cashmere slipover-y, Tattersall check-y sort of voice.

Ollie was old too. Early forties. Balding slightly. ‘British Warm’ overcoat, brown trilby. He didn’t smile much but there was a funny clicking sound whenever he did. Not a raspberry jam man, Jane suspected.

As the huge car pulled up outside the restaurant Jane could feel her stomach beginning to tighten. Suzy seemed up for a good time but it was just one big obstacle course as far as Jane was concerned from the moment they got inside. Even the blowsy old blonde who looked after the coats seemed to be pricing every armful. The Persian lamb went down all right but there was the trace of a sneer for Jane’s borrowed Furleen which was a bit rich coming from someone who lived on the shillings left in a saucer. God only knows how she’d have reacted to grey bouclé. Spat on it, probably.

The head waiter was terrifying too. Waiters, like salesladies, knew exactly how to make you feel small and out of place which was mad really. They trekked in and out of steaming hot kitchens carrying plates all day and they lived on tips. Waiters at the Savoy didn’t get paid any proper wages at all, Uncle George said. What kind of job was that for a grown man? Skivvies, Doreen called them. Remembering that made Jane feel better. There was nothing to worry about anyway. The dear-me-no look on the maître d’s face dried up when he saw Henry Swan. They’d known each other since before the war. Long enough to be friends. Only he wasn’t a friend, he was a waiter.

‘Captain Swan! Such a surprise to see you here on a Saturday! I have in my book “Mr Henry” and I say to myself, “Mr Henry? I don’t know any Mr Henries.” ’

He buttonholed a passing plate-carrier and hissed at him, ‘See to Captain Swan’s table at once,’ and turned back with a professional smile, well-oiled by decades of prudent over-tipping.

‘Is Philippe in the kitchen tonight?’

The head waiter’s world came to an end right there and then. ‘I’m afraid not, Captain Swan. We don’t usually expect to see our regular customers on a Saturday but the grills are all excellent this evening.’ It was more of a warning than a recommendation. ‘Your table is not quite ready, I’m afraid, but perhaps you will have a drink at the bar with my compliments?’

‘Why not?’ Henry Swan knew full well that the man was just buying time while the flunky hastily upgraded him from ‘Mr Henry’s’ poky table near the door to Mr Swan’s usual one in the upstairs window. This involved hustling a middle-aged couple through their pudding and palming them off with free coffee and liqueurs in the bar and a handful of petits fours. The man grumbled a bit and wangled a second liqueur.

‘Champagne cocktails all right for everybody? Splendid. Four champagne cocktails it is. Thank you, Adolphe. Now then, Miss James, may I present Oliver Weaver? Oliver Weaver, Jane James.’

Jane shook hands while Ollie eyed her up approvingly. He kept hold of her hand, stroking the skin with his thumb like young Mr Drayke fingering a quality tweed.

‘Well Ollie,’ boomed Henry, ‘I reckon we’re very fortunate to have the company of two such remarkably beautiful girls. Cheers, everybody!’

Jane sipped suspiciously at her drink. It was like champagne, only worse, but she didn’t let it show, gazing shyly up at Ollie over the rim of her glass.

The two girls were side by side on bar stools, legs crossed by the book. Henry was offering cigarettes from his solid gold case and Suzy took one and went into the usual act but this was obviously a command performance. The ‘O’ of her pretty red mouth round the cigarette; the fingertips steadying his hand; the sucked-in cheeks; the upward glance and suddenly drooping eyelashes. As she drew in the first delicious puff of smoke the fingers tightened their grip just a little on the hand that held the lighter. The first breath out was like a sigh of relief – or ecstasy. It was a work of art, really. Jane decided not to take a cigarette. It was too hard an act to follow.

Their progress through the restaurant caused a bit of a stir. Jane and Suzy weren’t the only young girls in the room but they were by far the prettiest and best-dressed – and a matched pair to boot. People actually turned to look.

Suzy seemed to see someone she knew in a far corner and gave a cheery little wave. They waved back – who wouldn’t? – but they didn’t come over to the table afterwards. Was it just part of the act? Jane saw someone she knew too. It was the skinny customer with the false hips now tricked out in last year’s French mustard brocade. The woman didn’t recognise Jane. Probably hadn’t even looked at her in the first place. She looked at her now though. Jane saw her mechanically registering the Savile Row suits, then checking Jane and Suzy over, looking for cheap shoes, laddered stockings, stray bra straps: some tiny crumb of comfort for not being pretty and glamorous and young. Not a hope. She went back to her duck à l’orange with a face like a squeezed lemon.

‘Jane – is it Jane or Janey? – what will you have to start?’

Here goes. She’d barely had time to glance at the huge tasselled menu but everything she’d learned appeared to be present and correct – all except the prices. Ladies’ menus didn’t have any, it seemed. She shook out her napkin. Do not be intimidated by a swan or water-lily concoction.

‘Do call me Janey.’ Do. Doooo. She nearly blushed at herself.

‘Have you chosen yet?’

‘Saumon fumé, please.’

‘Smoked salmon over here. And then?’

‘Sole grillée.’

‘Then the grilled sole.’

‘Would madam like it on or off the bone?’

‘Janey?’

‘Oh, off, I think.’ Sounded safest. She took care to address her wishes to Henry who then passed them on to the waiter (A lady never gives her order directly to the waiter). Funny rule that. As if she and Suzy only existed in Henry’s imagination.

Suzy went for pâté maison and entrecôte grillée which she wanted saignant. God knows what that meant (it wasn’t covered in the book) but it seemed to surprise and rather excite Henry.

‘You and I seem to be having fish, Janey. Chablis all right for you?’

Well no, actually. She’d much rather have lemonade or gin and orange.

‘Super,’ she heard herself saying but she barely drank any. When Ollie disappeared to the Gents’ (must have a weak bladder) and Henry was busy discussing vintages with the wine waiter, she topped up her Chablis from her water glass. No sense getting tight. She’d only be sick.

Smoked salmon was nice and easy to eat. Once you’d squeezed on the lemon you couldn’t really go wrong. A bit salty but much nicer than tinned. Pâté would have been trickier. Lot of knife and toast work with pâté. And besides, Uncle George had given her a healthy dread of meat paste, whatever fancy name you gave it. Ollie ordered pâté but looked rather surprised when it arrived – it looked like dog meat with a tiny tassel of gherkin on top. He made no attempt to eat it. Ollie had had two champagne cocktails but they were only to keep the whisky and sodas company. He thought Jane was very, very pretty and she seemed to grow prettier all evening. Ollie ordered sole too – on the bone – but after a few half-hearted stabs at the fish on one side he lost interest and concentrated on the Chablis instead.

He was quite nice-looking, really, with greying blond hair and the dregs of some kind of boyish charm. He did something in the City and said, sadly, that his wife – who was super, don’t get him wrong, super girl – did not understand him. Jane thought she probably did but didn’t say so. She didn’t say much all told but she looked nice and listened politely so she seemed to get away with it. A measure of wide-eyed admiration can work miracles. Suzy was a different story. She listened, she flattered, she flirted – like mad – but she told funny stories too. She was telling Henry a joke about a man whose wife had died. His friend at the funeral is very sympathetic but reassures the man that he’ll get over it and eventually find happiness with someone else.

‘ “I know, George, I know,” sobs the widower, “but what about tonight?” ’

Henry’s laugh turned heads in the restaurant. Jealous eyes scanned their table: beautiful girls, rich men, funny stories. Only it wasn’t a funny story. Not Jane’s idea of funny. But she laughed prettily enough.

Even Suzy’s fibs could make them laugh.

‘So, Suzy,’ said Henry, after ordering another bottle of Chablis, ‘what were you up to this afternoon? I telephoned a couple of times but no joy at all. Not even the lovely Lorna.’

Suzy lied beautifully, taking a tiny bit of truth and embroidering it all over with eye-catching rubbish.

‘Oh my God! Don’t ask! Janey’s Uncle Dougie wanted us to go over to his flat and meet his fiancée and her little girl. He knew her back in Gibraltar – was it Gibraltar or Malta, Janey?’ She rhymed them both with a funny northern accent as if she was imitating the imaginary woman.

‘Gibraltar. The Mary woman was Malta.’ Life with Doreen taught a girl to lie nicely.

‘Anyway. I think he wanted her to meet people. Iris, her name is. She’s had a rather terrible life, you know. She was telling me while you and your uncle were fixing the drinks. She moved to Gibraltar after her first husband committed suicide. They found him laid out on her bed, wearing her favourite turquoise suit in full make-up and one of Iris’s wigs. The little girl, Virginia, found him. Poor mite.’

Jane needed to powder her nose. Fairly urgently. And it seemed that, even at the Mirador, girls didn’t powder their noses alone so Suzy tailed her into the Ladies’. As they sat giggling on the armchairs they heard distinct sounds of retching coming from one of the cubicles. Moments later the customer with the false hips emerged, looking slightly flustered to find them there.

‘Er. Don’t have the duck,’ she said before hastily rinsing her mouth under the tap, repairing her lipstick and heading back to her table.

‘You don’t expect to find food poisoning in a place like this.’

‘Not food poisoning, darling. They do it on purpose. How else do you think she keeps that sylph-like figure? Bridge lunches with the girls, tea at Fortnum’s, business dinners with hubby. She’d be two-ton Tessie if she kept all that down.’

‘Do you think Iris does that?’

‘Bound to. Oh my God! Poor Iris. And her poor dead husband! I’ve met her husband actually. At the races. God! He tells some stories. Do you know she wouldn’t let him smoke in the house? They had this poky little service flat on the Brompton Road and he used to have to go and stand out on the balcony in the rain whenever he wanted a fag. No wonder he never went home.’

‘Ollie’s wife doesn’t understand him.’

‘You won’t have any trouble with Ollie; he’s too drunk for one thing. But we might have to find you a dancing partner later. Shouldn’t be a problem.’

They stood up and checked the fall of their skirts in the big gilt mirror on the far wall.

‘Don’t we look gorgeous? I think Terry’s right: we should see about getting some snaps done. Maybe Monday.’

Back at the table Ollie had obviously been told to smarten up his act. They’d hardly all sat down again before he started showing a polite interest. Most women have no desire for serious debate on the topics of the day. They far prefer what is known as small talk: what they did that day, a hat they admired, what they had for tea.

‘So what do you do, Janey?’

Jane had expected someone would ask this question. ‘I’m a junior in a madam shop’ was probably not the right answer.

‘Well, I’ve been living with an aunt down in Surrey since my parents died but I’m hoping I might be able to get some modelling work.’

The ‘aunt down in Surrey’ was a masterstroke. Doreen was suddenly installed in a detached house on the outskirts of Dorking: fruit trees; odd-job man; pastel twinsets with mix-and-match tweeds. She’d have hated it. The trick was always going to be putting just the hint of tragedy queen in the ‘since my parents died’ part so that it sounded too recent and too painful to talk about. What you didn’t want was the bit that went:

‘Oh dear, I am sorry. When was that?’

‘1944.’

Jane managed to sound like a plucky young creature with her living to earn.

‘I shouldn’t think you’d have any trouble modelling,’ said Ollie, who had managed to get outside an entire bottle of Chablis on his own and was now trying to hold her hand. ‘You’re a very, very, very pretty girl.’

It was like having dinner with some great big, balding talking doll. He must have other conversation. He couldn’t very well sit about in the City all day saying that to people.

Suzy and Henry’s chat had reached the whispers and giggles stage and he was stroking her tiny white wrist as he spoke. She was leaning across the table with her pretty face propped on her other hand, smiling into his eyes and occasionally lowering those big, fat false eyelashes as if everything he said was utterly fascinating. Which it wasn’t, quite honestly, not what Jane could catch. Mind you, she did hear the words ‘Curzon Street’ and wondered if this was the promised flat. That would be fascinating.

She returned to her duties with Ollie. Talk about fashions, home life and people the man has not met are utterly boring to most men.

‘Do you live in London, Ollie?’

‘I’ve got a bolt hole in St James’s but the family live out in Wiltshire.’

Out of the corner of her eye Jane could see Henry Swan wincing then laughing at Ollie’s idea of a chat-up line. Poor Ollie wasn’t really cut out to be a ladykiller. Family in Wiltshire. It was pitiful, really.

‘Oh Wiltshire! How lovely!’ Which one was Wiltshire? She tried to dredge up a long-forgotten piece of geography homework. Wiltshire was mauve. Or was it yellow?

‘Do you have a big garden?’

‘About ten acres, I suppose.’

Jane tried to picture an acre. She thought hard about those little tables on the backs of red exercise books: rods, perches, furlongs, fathoms. Biggish garden obviously. Big gardens just made work, Doreen said.

‘What flowers do you grow?’

Doreen actually disliked flowers. Cut flowers especially. It was just a vase to wash as far as she was concerned. The front room was full of virgin vases with cobwebs inside. But she hated garden flowers too: ‘They only die off. Make the place look untidy.’ The back garden in Norbury was little more than a long straight lawn, a few evergreen bushes and a lot of completely bare earth – she had George out there with the hoe most weekends. There were wooden trellises here and there but nothing grew on them. She had a horror of climbing plants. God alone knew why.

They had all had crêpes Suzette for pudding which involved setting fire to pancakes on a trolley in a rather flashy way but they tasted quite nice. So did the liqueurs Henry had ordered. The only other time Jane had ever had liqueurs was one Christmas when she was about nine. She had bitten into a chocolate only to find some kind of nasty medicine inside. But this was nice. Orangey. Took away the taste of the coffee anyway.

Meanwhile Ollie was still trying to remember what he grew in his garden in Wiltshire.

‘Don’t know much about flowers. Angela looks after all that side of things. Wonderful woman in many ways.’

He had hold of Jane’s hand again and was sandwiching it between his. It wasn’t a romantic gesture at all. Just something to fiddle with while he talked.

‘Angela used to be a very, very pretty girl,’ and suddenly the idea that veh, veh pretty girls should end up like Angela seemed too unbearably sad. If a man wants to make a hit with the opposite sex and is not as happy as he might be, he should endeavour to keep this to himself.

Henry pulled him back from the brink.

‘You up for a spot of dancing, Ollie?’

But Ollie was like a dog with a bone.

‘Used to go to a lot of dances with Angela. Met her at a dance in fact.’

Henry tried again.

‘I’ll bet you’re a fabulous dancer, Janey.’

That rather depended. She’d spent some of her Saturday wages from Vanda on a course of dancing lessons at a funny old place in Thornton Heath a couple of years ago. Doreen thought dancing lessons were swank so she had to say she was listening to records over at Joy’s house. Uncle George had been a very good dancer but Jane only found this out when a rumba came on the Light Programme one Saturday breakfast time and the pair of them were suddenly gliding round the kitchen. Doreen went to her room with Her Headache for the rest of the day.

Jane could rumba, she could waltz, she could cha-cha and she could jive (she learned that at the Locarno) but she had to quit the course before they got to the slow foxtrot – let alone the valeta and the Boston two-step. She had tried to get the basics from a book she’d got out of the library but the black and white footsteps made no sense at all, let alone ‘hovering’ and ‘feathering’. She had enough trouble with the Paris turn. But it didn’t matter. Only old people did those dances anyway – apart from on telly. The only dances Doreen had ever managed were the conga and the Okey-Cokey but now that her whole self weighed over thirteen stone she was reduced to sitting on the sidelines making unpleasant remarks about other people who were having a better time than she was.

‘I rrr-rumba,’ said Jane. She managed to say it in a slightly teasing voice.

‘I’ll bet you do,’ said Ollie, loosening his tie.