‘That’s quite enough of that, Ollie old boy.’
‘Well. Is she? Are you on commission, Suzy old girl?’
Suzy smiled as wide and as pretty as if Ollie were paying her a string of compliments. Henry looked on approvingly as she turned to face Ollie and said in her smartest, doggiest voice: ‘Jerome used to work for Daddy.’ Deddy. ‘I’ve known him since I was a little girl.’ Gel. She turned her head abruptly as if about to cry. Nice work. Margaret Leighton couldn’t have done it better.
‘Dance with me, Henry.’
Ollie hadn’t realised. And kept on muttering about not having realised. Poor girl. Didn’t realise. While Henry propelled Suzy round the dance floor in a sort of syncopated smooch. He could have Boston two-stepped very happily but the cha-cha was slightly beyond him.
Ollie knew he had to pounce. ‘You’re a very, very pretty girl, you know,’ he cooed (just for a bloody change) and tried to grab Jane’s hand. Jane kept a smile in place and looked around the room as if she were having the time of her life but she wasn’t and there wasn’t even a mirror to cheer her up.
A pint-sized redhead at the next table was being given the treatment by a slightly foreign-looking man in a tonic suit.
‘You have beautiful hands, Monica.’
Which was a black lie. Monica was quite nice-looking in a Locarno sort of way but her hands were horrible little pink sausagey things. Nice curvy little figure, though – if it hadn’t been squished into a tight Vilene puffball the colour of hospital teacups. Monica had obviously read somewhere that matching accessories were very smart so her beehive had a green bow on it plus green button earrings, green satin evening slippers and chipped nail varnish all in the same snotty rotten colour. She had pencilled her eyebrows all crooked which gave her a slightly roguish look. The spiv obviously thought so. He was holding one of those big, pink paws.
‘They’re lovely hands. You don’t mind my saying that, do you, Monica?’
Of course she didn’t but then poor, dozy little Monica didn’t know what came next. He lowered his voice. Definitely foreign.
‘And you’ve got a lovely figure.’
She wriggled and looked a bit coy.
‘You shouldn’t be shy about it, Monica. Having a beautiful body is nothing to be ashamed of. You don’t mind me saying you’ve got a Lovely Figure, do you?’
Monica squirmed some more, loving it. All the hours in the mirror, all the busty gymslip years melting away in the heat of his compliments, but she was scared, too. Nobody had ever said things about her body before. ‘Pretty dress’ yes. ‘Nice eyes’ maybe, if she was lucky. But not her body.
‘Because you have got a Lovely Figure, Monica.’ He lowered his voice but Jane could still hear.
‘You’ve got the Most Beautiful Breasts I’ve ever seen.’
Worked like a bloody charm. Even Jane was a bit excited but Monica went a very funny, dark pink colour that clashed horribly with the orange of her hair. Not just her face but her neck, throat and what could be seen of that beautiful cushiony cleavage. Monica was obviously horrified but you could see it was turning her on. It was all going according to plan. She might not come across that night but she’d get home, take off her green Vilene frock and suddenly everything would have changed. She’d look in the mirror and her body wouldn’t be her own any more. She wouldn’t be able to look at that fat, white bosom without thinking of him. He had already taken possession: moving in was just a matter of time.
Ollie was now asleep so Jane had to make do with the admiring eyes at nearby tables that kept straying from their own dates to check out the brunettes in the next booth. Which was all very nice but their admiration – no, desire was probably a better word – was all but cancelled out by the glum glances of the wives, girlfriends or paid help sat with them. It was one thing to make the effort – everyone made the effort but you were never really supposed to look like the picture on the packet. Are you quite sure you want to be the best-dressed girl in the room? The men won’t dare approach you and the other women will hate you.
But there was one man staring more fixedly with a strange half smile on his face. He was stood at the bar and he was wearing a dark blue suit.
She could sit and be watched and hope he’d come over. Only he wouldn’t. Not with bloody Ollie sat there snoring.
She got up and walked – the best, most beautiful catwalk – through the tables and up to the bar. Heavy velvet skirts tick-tocking over her slim little ankles, pretty French-pleated head held high. The barman (who was only twenty-one) practically fell over the counter leaning forward to catch her order. What could he get her? She smiled her sweetest smile.
‘Do you know what I’d really like?’
It went all quiet. They knew what they’d like. And what they’d like her to like. Dirty buggers. Later that night in the bathroom mirror the barman – debonair, roguish, utterly confident – leaned further forward, raised one eyebrow (hours of practice) and replied, ‘I think I know exactly what you’d like.’
But not now. Now he was too shy.
‘Could. I. Have,’ and she looked her man right in the eye as she said it, ‘a Nice Cold Glass of Orange Squash?’
She climbed neatly on to one of the bar stools, crossed her legs (just so) and smiled shy and sidelong at the blue suit.
And he looked the same look. The same slow, sexy eyes mapping the length of her calves but everything was bigger, louder and better dressed, as if Streatham had just been a rehearsal for their big scene.
‘Very pretty shoes. But can you dance in them?’
‘You bet.’
It wasn’t a jive this time; it was a rumba. And he could rumba. They didn’t speak again until he had piloted her back to the bar, one hand on her waist.
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘What is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’
He looked around the room: the tarty girls and their ‘businessmen’ staggering off the dance floor in a cock-eyed conga; Ollie fast asleep; Henry warming his hand up Suzy’s skirt.
Was he with anybody? She scanned the tables vaguely and spotted a large group of rather drunk but rather smart-looking people over in the corner. An unnaturally tall, long-legged showgirl in a lot of feathers was with them.
‘I just came over to make a telephone call. I ought to introduce myself. My name’s John Hullavington.’
‘Great name. Your own?’ What a good line that was.
‘My very own. And you are?’
‘Jane James. Really.’ She nearly gave him the ‘Do call me Janey, everybody does’ routine but she stopped herself in time. He wasn’t everybody.
A blonde woman had broken away from the laughing group in the corner and was heading in their direction.
‘Time for another dance, Miss James.’
Not a rumba this time. Much slower. The lights were lowered but Jane could see the woman hastily changing tack and making for the Ladies’ instead, as if that was what she’d meant to do all the time. It is not best behaviour to dash away and dance with some fascinating stranger who has caught your fancy. Suzy was back on the dance floor with Henry and smiled approvingly, pointing to the table where Ollie was snoring in front of an empty champagne bottle. His fake teeth had slipped their moorings, making his face go a funny shape.
John’s voice was warm and soft in her ear.
‘I’m afraid your dancing partner isn’t much use.’
‘Oh. I wouldn’t say that.’
Wide surprised eyes ringed with shiny pale blue. Like a dolly. As if they’d click shut if you pushed her over. She breathed in, pressing herself a shade closer and felt his arm snake tighter around her waist, his lips brushing against her neck. He smelled nice: expensive shaving soap and tobacco.