The final part of the show was bridal wear. They did this as a pair. ‘Suzy and Jane wear “Rosy Whisper” and “Lemon Dream”, bridesmaids’ dresses of paper taffeta with tulip skirts.’ Suzy and Jane tore back into the changing room – by now strewn with warm silk – and hurriedly wriggled into their gowns for the double wedding finale. The showroom, which had been chilly at nine o’clock, was ringed by fat old radiators and the room’s only window was painted shut. By half eleven it was like an oven. There are, don’t forget, approximately three million sweat glands in the human body.
Jane had never tried on a wedding dress before. Carol had already got hers ready for the Big Bloody Day and a gang of them had gone round to drool over it. Norma was allowed to slip it on, but not Jane – afraid she’d look better in it probably. Eileen’s was going to be a cheap flocked Tricel number but it would still set her dad back fifteen quid: Man likes woman to look exciting, luxurious, adorable . . . So man made Tricel. Carol’s was much more swanky but it was an absolute swine. After trying on every wedding dress in Croydon, she’d finally plumped for a peculiar-looking crinoline affair in French brocade patterned with silver frosted roses cut into a huge shawl collar, the wide revers forming a sort of double-breasted effect on the front of the bodice. Carol, who was only five feet two when she took off the shoes (covered in matching French brocade), had read something about adding height with a coronet so she’d picked out a silver satin pill box with a full short veil of pure white softlon silk gossamer – she’d have done better with an old net curtain, quite honestly. Dress, veil and shoes cost fifty-five guineas – more than Jane earned in three months – let alone the going-away outfit – no final decision as yet, but there was talk of shell-pink Tricosa.
Today’s wedding dress was ‘purest white satin’. White-ish anyway. It was nearing the end of its showing life and the underarms were so stiff with stale sweat that they left scratches on Jane’s skin. Still looked gorgeous, though, even in the fluorescent half-light of the changing room. The shiny silk cast a soft white glow on her face and neck. Jane shifted her weight from one foot to the other, setting the big hooped petticoat in motion. She practised a demure smile, imagined stepping out of a mossy old church, bells ringing, a Savile Row morning suit by her side, then the girlish fantasy creaked to a halt at the cold, wet thought of Doreen. Doreen in her lemon two-piece carping about the expense of the Do or how they had to have one tier in plain Victoria sponge because the currants Got Under ’is Plate. No. Forget the white satin. It would have to be a dove-grey shantung at Caxton Hall after all. Or not bother.
Jane and Suzy sailed out from opposite ends of the screen.
‘Suzy wears “Creamy Secret”, a vision in hand-clipped witchcraft lace. The soufflé-soft full skirt is gently lifted at the waist in front’ – we all knew why that style was so popular – ‘sweeping back to trail softly.’ Lawrence Green threw an expert handful of multi-coloured paper confetti while Goldie pointed out that the pure silk dyed beautifully to make a lovely evening dress for the budget-conscious bride.
The buyer clapped awkwardly while the two models retreated to the changing room for a cup of instant coffee and a fag. Goldie darted in to check the running order on the sagging dress rail. It was time to be Dolly Teens which meant skipping round the showroom in cheap nylon party frocks and matching hair bows which they were somehow supposed to look cute in. Jane glared glumly at her reflection in ‘Bubblegum Baby’, a pink and black nylon organza arrangement. The cheap fabric stank of someone else’s sweat. The heavy gathers across the bosom were designed to flatter the teenage figure but they made Jane look like Gina Lollobrigida on heat. By now Suzy had finished her coffee and wriggled into a disgusting yellow-spotted outrage, ‘Polkadot Parade’. Goldie stuck her ginger head round the door.
‘Ready when you are, ladies.’
The Junior Miss buyer turned out to be a rather embarrassed-looking young man whose hopes of inheriting the family firm (which he had every intention of selling to Hugh Fraser first chance he got) depended on his learning the business from the bottom up. He’d done stints in the post room and stockroom, he’d spent every Saturday morning on the shop floor and made a thorough nuisance of himself in dress fabrics. He had shadowed the model gown buyer all last season and now he was being let loose on the newly-launched Young and Gay department (answering the phones was no joke).
This was his twenty-third autumn fashion show and he never wanted to see another frilly nylon party dress as long as he lived. Lawrence Green watched young Firbridge’s face light up as his Bond Street models tripped out in their high-street clothes. The dress-show ‘lead with the thighs’ lark didn’t go with Vilene can-can petticoats. Jane and Suzy forgot all about Bronwen Pugh for a minute, walking out arm in arm, giggling slightly as they took turns to do a jiver’s twirl. The cheap single underskirts flew up as they span round and Jane could feel eyes burning into her knickers.
‘Young Mr Firbridge’ had bought hardly anything at the twenty-two other shows and had come to the conclusion that one budget gown was very, very much like another and that the sensible thing was to go for a bulk discount with Lawrence Green and make a bid for a couple of phone numbers while he was at it. He didn’t know much but he did keep a very keen eye on the kind of thing that ended up gathering dust on the sale rails. None of Lawrence Green’s oily patter about what Paris had to say about butterscotch and marigold and lime green cut any ice whatsoever. While poor Lawrence thought anxiously of those big bolts of chartreuse Banlon languishing in his basement stockroom, young Mr Firbridge briskly did a nice little deal on a full range of blue, black, black and white, red, pink and violet party frocks. He finally agreed to take three of a size in butterscotch and lime but only on a strictly sale-or-return basis. It was only when the stock started to come in, weeks later, that he realised how skimpy and cheap the frocks looked when they didn’t have Jane and Suzy inside them.
Mr Green had half an hour before his final appointment – the speciality model gown buyer from Debenham and Freebody – and while Goldie was upstairs checking on the girls in the workroom he joined his models for a swift panatella. The air in the changing room was already thick with smoke and face powder.
‘It’s going very well, very well. You’re a natural, Miss James. You and Suzy together makes a lot of sense. Very nice effect. Keeps the show moving along nicely. Piques the client’s interest, if you know what I mean, having twins.’
‘We’re not twins, Larry.’ Suzy sounded cross as she teased carefully across her hair with a dirty steel styling comb.
‘I know you’re not but you should play it up just the same. Nice little gimmick.’ He allowed himself to forget about business for a moment and looked them both over. ‘Very, very hard to choose between you. I’d like to have both.’
He didn’t mean showroom modelling but Jane was sure it was just the cigar talking. Nice Jewish businessmen with their handsome wives and beautiful children – they were bound to be beautiful children – didn’t mess around. Jane flirted happily, sure that she was quite safe. Suzy slipped off to the loo – not the one the clients used but a smelly little cave behind the basement stockroom. Jane wriggled out of the tangerine nylon tulle she was wearing, took off her bra and slid into model gown number one, carefully settling herself into the chilly silk whaleboned bodice while Lawrence Green’s dirty brown eyes watched her reflection in the cracked cheval glass.