Jane looked up suspiciously. She could only think of those dodgy little cards in the window of the post office on the high road: ‘French lessons offered by strict disciplinarian’; ‘Lost: a ring inscribed “I love Dick” ’. What kind of a date was this?
‘I’ve got an O level.’
‘No no, darling, not that plume-de-ma-tante nonsense. Proper French. Restaurant French. Can you order a meal?’
Jane knew the sample menu in Lady Be Good off by heart.
‘I think so.’
Suzy seemed unconvinced.
‘So. What will mademoiselle have to start?’
‘Saumon fumé.’
‘Get you! Very ritzy. OK, salmon’s off.’
‘Er. Pâté maison.’
‘And to follow?’
‘Entrecôte.’
‘How would madam like it cooked?’
‘Er. Grillée?’
‘No, darling. Oh dear. You are funny. You’ve got the outfit, you’ve got the walk but the rest is all theory, isn’t it?’
Jane wanted to cry. Cow. Laughing at her. How was she supposed to know? She wasn’t being wined and dined in the West End every night in her Persian bloody lamb. You try learning about menus when you lived on tinned pie.
‘Oh my God. Don’t start crying whatever you do. I’ll have to start the whole face from scratch. No, honestly, it’s really rather sweet.’
Sweet. Patronising bitch.
‘“How would you like it cooked?” means “How long do you want it cooked for?” Just say “medium”. Oh, and don’t for God’s sake hold your knife like a pen. OK, here’s your bag: lipstick; comb; tissues; rubber Johnnies – only kidding.’
A car hooted in the street but Suzy just pulled a face and carried on getting ready. She put in a pair of pearl earrings and found Jane some clip-ons.
‘Why don’t you get them pierced?’
‘Don’t fancy it.’
Doreen had pierced ears. A cousin had pierced them with a pin and a potato in about 1922. The holes had gone through crooked and Doreen used to make Jane put her studs in. You had to wiggle the flabby white flap of flesh around between finger and thumb to find the hole in the other side. Doreen had taken Jane and June into Croydon to have their ears done hygienically as a treat one Christmas just after the war – ‘Ears pierced while you wait’. June was thrilled but Jane (‘ungrateful cow’) had screamed the place down every time the woman came near her with the hole-making machine.
Uncle George, who never said a word about such things normally, had said, when it was being talked about over tea the night before, that he did rather think that piercing little girls’ ears was just a bit, well, common. All hell broke loose.
‘Common?’ Doreen had screamed. ‘Common! You! Telling me what’s common? Your mother,’ she shrieked, ‘your mother – (Old Flannel Feet) – had four-teen kids. What the bloody hell do you know about common? Common! Fucking cheek!’ (a word Doreen never used – it was common). Her rage carried on bubbling up for weeks afterwards. He’d say something – ‘that’s nice, dear’; ‘good morning’; anything – and she’d look at him, face like a bag of spanners, and start all over again: ‘Common!’
The doorbell rang this time.
‘That’s better,’ said Suzy, tickling a drop more scent behind each ear. ‘OK, darling. Party time.’
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.