Joy and Carol were both having gin and orange because this was what their mums always had but Eileen was letting the side down with a Babycham. Only prats drank Babycham. They looked up nervously as Jane approached. They didn’t recognise her – if they had she’d have shot herself.
The waiter reached the table almost before she did.
‘Dry gin and tonic, please, with ice and lemon.’ Only there wasn’t any ice and the lemon slice came out of a jar. ‘Oh, and do you think we could have some nuts or olives or something? Thanks.’ Big, only-you-can-make-today-perfect smile. A cut-glass four-leaf clover arrived filled with Twiglets and bloody cheese footballs. Huntley and Palmers were taking over the bloody world.
‘These are nice.’ Carol’s hand was already loading Cheeselets into her mouth. She’d put on so much weight that her mother had had to exchange the French brocade wedding dress for a sixteen. You could see her fat round knees when she crossed her legs. Scorch marks from a winter spent hogging the coal-effect two-bar fire showed through her stockings like scar tissue.
Norma hadn’t been able to come. Her sister was getting married that afternoon to a quantity surveyor from Maidenhead and she was maid of honour – primrose Vilene complete with flower basket. She looked like a little fat haystack. Her sister (purest white Charmaine, gently lifted in front) hadn’t actually planned on a March wedding in Croydon Register Office on a Friday but her sister was in no condition to argue apparently.
No one said anything about Jane but saying nothing said it all really. They had to keep talking about themselves in case one of the unasked questions slipped out – Did it hurt? Did they respect you afterwards? Did you have to keep the lights on? How did she stop the eyelashes falling off?
Carol steered them safely on to kitchenware and there they stayed. Her new kitchen in Crawley was going to be pale-blue Formica and could she find canisters in the same blue? Could she fuck. When she’d stretched this topic twice as far as it would decently go, she revealed that there was a very economical recipe for ox-liver casserole and a lovely pattern for a hostess apron in this month’s Woman’s Moan. Carol had graduated from True Love now, putting away childish things like make-up and petticoats and Billy Fury. She was only eighteen, for God’s sake, but then Carol had been in training for a life of domestic service since the moment she got engaged. She hardly bought clothes any more but filled her bottom drawer instead: lacy pillow cases; fancy tablecloths; even baby clothes. When trying on winter coats she’d been spotted pulling out the front to see if they’d ‘be suitable’.
Jane slowly took a Cocktail Sobranie from her enamel case – a bit on top with tweeds but this lot weren’t to know that and besides, the lilac ones almost matched her dress. One of the men at the next table was at her side in a moment – ‘allow me’ – which meant she could give the girls the Suzy St John masterclass in flirting your cigarette alight.
‘Haven’t seen you in here before.’
He had dark hair and had done his level best to grow a moustache. He was wearing an Old Whitgiftian tie although only another Old Whitgiftian would have known this (and you wouldn’t put money on all of them knowing, quite honestly). It was like a film. You could practically hear the wiggle of the clarinet as his eyes ran appreciatively down her professionally-crossed legs.
‘I’m just down for the day.’ ‘Down’ was nice. Screamed ‘Flat in Town’. She smiled and turned back to the table. Carol was going to have a candlewick bedspread – Dream rooms begin with Candlewick – and brushed-nylon sheets apparently. Ten pounds seven shillings the pair was a Big Investment but they Saved Work. She could have bought herself a nice little outfit for that kind of money. Or put a down payment on a nice little Co-op funeral and have done with it. Jane could feel her face congealing into contempt and she had to watch herself from the chaps’ table to keep her eyes bright, her smile serene. As if Carol Norton’s kitchen curtains were holding her spellbound.
Finally Joy cracked.
‘So. Jane. Tell us what you’ve been doing with yourself. You’ve got a little flat up in town, so June says.’ ‘Little’. Bitch.
And out it all came. Very casually. And God had put this month’s Vogue on one of the hotel coffee tables and Jane sat back while they tried not to look impressed.
‘Is that you in the red?’
‘Yes.’ Well it could easily have been.
‘We’ve got that typewriter in the office,’ boasted Joy.
Jane let another cigarette be lit. The Old Whitgiftian and his pals had been lying in wait but the waiter beat them to it this time. And then Henry’s Bill’s Bob arrived in his chauffeur’s cap to ice the morning’s cake and she kissed their cheaply powdered cheeks goodbye, smiled vaguely at the men at the next table, paid the bill with a ten-bob note – ‘keep the change’ – then back into the Bentley, warmed by admiring eyes.
They oozed back through South London and home to Mayfair and the bloody double date.
*Norbury: The Story of a London Suburb, J. G. Hunter and B. A. Mullen, 1977)
Chapter 22
Your lift home may have its
own perils in store.
Jane had been planning to give Henry’s Bill’s Bob ten shillings but from the way he’d been eyeing her up in the rear-view mirror, she decided to economise.
‘Can you do me a huge favour, Bob? And see me up to the front door? The key sticks sometimes and my flatmate might be out.’
He still had that sexy little peaked cap on. She waited for the lift to start – it always got going with a lurch – and she pretended to stagger slightly on her pointy shoes. He put out his hands to steady her and suddenly she was in his arms being passionately kissed. He’d obviously had plenty of practice back in Ilford, pretty boy like that. He’d already copped a feel of her breasts and started hitching up her dress. He’d bathed specially and his soft almost girlish skin still smelled of his mother’s cheap yellow soap and medicated shampoo. The lift shuddered to a stop at the fifth floor and she pulled away sharply as if he had been forcing himself on her, checking their reflection in the lift mirror: the pretty uniformed boy, the glimpse of black lace suspenders. She straightened her skirt with trembling fingers. Tears squeezed easily to the rim of her eyelids (any further and she’d have to re-do her mascara) and she flashed him a reproachful look.
‘I’m sorry.’
He didn’t know what had come over him. Jane bloody did, though. You never knew when you might need a lift somewhere.
Henry and Suzy had spent the morning wandering around Mayfair arm in arm, mostly in Fortnum’s and Simpsons. Henry usually only bought Suzy evening things and shortie nighties – given that was all he was ever going to see – but he’d switched to suede and cashmere and tweed all of a sudden. They had lunched around the corner at the Connaught and by the time they got back all the deliveries had arrived and the pink bedroom was full of fancy cardboard boxes – one was from Drayke’s (more commission for Brigitta). Suzy had put ‘A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody’ on the gramophone and given Henry a one-woman dress show and a very big thank you. Henry was now fast asleep on the big pink bed and Suzy was lying all anyhow on the sitting-room sofa, wearing pedal pushers and a gingham blouse, munching hothouse grapes and watching the afternoon dog racing. She switched it off as Jane came in.