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Apart from doing a stock-check on her charms, he didn’t really say much himself. She tried asking him about business – Many men like to talk about their business affairs and you must be sure to find it all very interesting – but he just smiled and pointed out another place of interest: her hands; her knees; her ears. His English vocabulary was fairly extensive (on parts of the body, anyway). Jane had learned how to stretch a yawn into a smile (she’d watched Suzy doing it). Sergio even taught her a bit of Italian, mostly just things he wanted her to say to him – ‘Piu forte! E cosi grosso! ’ – things like that. He didn’t tell her what any of it meant but she had a bloody good idea. She did manage to get a few useful phrases out of it: colours; fabrics; what is your wife’s size (a large sixteen by the sound of it). Bracelet length was ‘I manici lunghi fino al braccialetto’. She actually got mixed up one night after a long evening of oysters and champagne and began moaning ‘fino al braccialetto’ at the height of passion. She thought he’d never stop laughing. That was how she got the sapphires.

None of Henry’s other friends had Sergio’s technique, but at least Jane knew what was expected of her now and could make all the right noises. Enough to earn a nice little suede jacket, a quadruple string of Japanese cultured pearls, a smart dress watch and her very own Hermes alligator bag (they definitely did take the price ticket out). There hadn’t been any nasty accidents – so far. A doctor friend of Henry’s (Henry had a lot of friends) had a sideline in rubber goods and had been happy to supply ‘Mrs James’ with a disgusting little brown thing that seemed to do the trick. Failing that, there would always be the Evening News.

Poor Lorna was still living on her own in St Anthony’s Chambers. Suzy’s Henry, like Glenda’s spiv, had paid three months’ rent up front so Lorna hadn’t yet bothered finding a flatmate. Jane had bumped into her in Great Portland Street on her way to a modelling job (Finefit slacks). Lorna said she’d strong-armed the landlord into repapering the hall, sitting room and kitchen (by promising not to breathe a word about the two scrubbers in the basement). He’d even offered to do the bedrooms but the only bedroom paper he had gave Lorna a headache just to look at it. She’d borrowed a Hoover from the old poof downstairs who’d said he might be able to dig her out a few odd rolls from the stockroom at work if she didn’t mind slight seconds so all in all things were looking up, she reckoned. She didn’t say anything about the baby but she had a new skirt – natty plaid number with a waspie waist – so presumably all that had sorted itself out. She’d given the professor the scrub and got herself transferred to Books and Manuscripts where one of the librarians had been very understanding. Boring. Balding. But very understanding.

Lorna said that the bloke from the BBC still rang now and then, looking for Suzy or Jane (he didn’t seem to mind which). Lorna had tried telling him to fuck off – having had such lasting success with the Dreaded Arnold – but Michael Woodrose seemed to quite like being sworn at by women with posh voices (his mother back in Sevenoaks had a lot to answer for). He had been ringing about once a fortnight for a fresh slice of tongue pie.

Suzy had got a new job demonstrating some stupid brooch-clip thingy that let you wear a silk scarf in all sorts of peculiar ways, ringing the bloody changes on a tired old coat and skirt. She had a stand in DH Evans draped with silk squares (only they weren’t silk, obviously) and as soon as anyone came within charming distance she’d begin the spiel. Men bought them for their wives but they bought Suzy presents too. Chocolates mostly.

She hadn’t been working lately, though. There had been another small ad in the Evening News a fortnight ago and Suzy had been resting in bed ever since, kept going by regular deliveries of hot-house grapes from Fortnum’s and cups of Bovril from Annie who had moved into the attics of Massingham House where the maids and valets lived.

‘Them gentlemen’s gentlemen is all gentlemen’s gentlemen, if you know what I mean, dear.’

Annie’s gummy old face folded up with happy disgust. She was quite taken with the maid’s quarters otherwise. There was barely room to get out of the bed divan but it was all centrally heated and she spent most of her time down in the flat anyway, either washing their lovely little bits or polishing the mirrors or playing with the Hoover – ‘it’s got attachments. Does curtains and everything’ – otherwise once her two dolly birds were off out she could just put her feet up in the easy chair in her cosy kitchen, eating handmade chocolates and listening to Mrs Dale’s Diary on the wireless. Mrs Dale wasn’t Annie’s cup of tea at all.

‘Stuck-up bitch. Doctors’ wives are the worst. Like her shit don’t stink. She’s probably having it with that Caradoc bloke. They don’t let you hear what really goes on in them places.’

The only man Annie had ever really had any time for was killed in France somewhere the war before last. Died instantly they said. Never knew what hit him – unless he did know . . .

Henry had been visiting Suzy every day with silk dresses, lizard shoes, straw hats, suede gloves, a gold wristwatch (It wasn’t feminine to know the time – until she had a Rolex) and finally, jammy jammy tart, he’d promised her the deeds to the Nice Little Flat. Henry had never had it so good. He had just persuaded the London County Council to let him pull down what the Germans had left of New Oxford Street and he could afford to say sorry any way he liked.

Suzy had spent most of Thursday at a beauty parlour in Bond Street being massaged with placenta oil (which was a bit peculiar in the circumstances) before taking a cab the three hundred yards up the road to visit Big Terry at the shiny new black and white salon and turn his fully-booked afternoon into a nightmare of be-with-you-in-a-moment-madams. Then she got another taxi over to Carpenter’s and swanned into the bar looking like a million dollars (so Pete always insisted on saying).

‘Mmm. Monopoly money, darling,’ oozed Suzy.

Suzy kissed a few cheeks and popped herself up on a stool, crossing her legs with a soft whizz as nine bob’s worth of five-strand 15-denier s-t-r-e-t-c-h nylon rubbed itself together. Her crocodile bag was tucked over the sleeve of her suit jacket and under her arm was the very latest Vogue.

‘Big Terry let me have his. He’s got a hairdo in it.’ She flicked through the pages quite casually before holding out the open magazine to Alpaca Pete.

‘See anyone you recognise?’

And there they were, Jane and Suzy in a full-colour, half-page ad for Frockways’ Double Dates.

Three months ago Lawrence Green had recommended them to a man called Feldman who ran a huge budget-fashions business in Eastcastle Street. He had a whole new line and the sample run had been such a hit that he’d decided to advertise. There was a big craze for anything reversible and Solly Feldman’s Double Dates were a stroke of genius.

‘What is it?’ Poor Reggie was going cross-eyed looking at the same girl in two frocks.

‘Basically, darling, it’s a frock with great big lacy holes in the skirt, double-sided petticoat underneath. One side matches skirt: invisible. Other side red or gold lamé or sky-blue pink: bingo. Ready to party the instant you clock off work.’

Reggie glanced obligingly at the picture. ‘Cunning. Very cunning.’

Double Dates. The perfect day-to-evening ensemble for the budget-conscious career girl who’s really going places! Just switch the petticoats and reverse the matching coatee and your Frockways Double Date is all ready for a night on the town. Twice the appeal from only £9 15s the set. Extra contrasting petties available from 59s 11d. Coatees from £4 10s. Sizes 8–16.