‘Hello, Janey. How was your aunt? Young Bob get you there all right?’
Very nice manners and all that but he didn’t stop for any answers.
‘Suzy may have told you, Janey, that we’re having a bit of a celebration.’ He thumbed open the bottle, poured them each a glass and then proposed the toast.
‘To Suzy Swan.’
So it was true. But Suzy’s fingers were crossed as she drained her saucer just the same.
Jane had hardly finished her first glass (Suzy had had two in the time) when Johnny arrived. Jane answered the door (Annie was spending the night in the Fitzroy). She closed the door behind him, put her arms around his neck for a long, hot kiss, all the while checking their reflection in the hall mirror. He pulled away to look at her. They were blue but more Lovat than Dior really.
They hadn’t been out together for over a week. He’d rung several times but she’d kept finding excuses.
‘What happened to the Alice-blue gown? And who was the callow youth?’
‘A girl’s got to eat, darling.’
It was the kind of thing Suzy said but it just sounded cheap when Jane said it.
They joined the other two in the sitting room but after a quick hello Henry had gone back into the bedroom to make a phone call. He’d been trying to get hold of Penelope all day and he didn’t like leaving a message. You couldn’t always trust Samantha to pass them on.
Jane sat down next to Suzy, their skirts filling the whole width of the sofa, the blue fabrics glowing in the creamy silk light of the table lamps. Johnny downed another glass of champagne and knelt on the carpet in front of them; his blue eyes looked from one to the other but it was Jane he spoke to.
‘I know I keep asking this, my love, but what are you doing here?’
He held her hand in his but he had suddenly stuck the other hand up Suzy’s velvet skirt without even looking at her. She wriggled a bit and puffed nervously on her cigarette holder but she didn’t push his hand away. Johnny carried right on talking to Jane.
‘When I very first met you, you were a pretty girl of eighteen. Now look at you: nineteen going on thirty-nine.’
Suzy was still squirming and there was a frightened look in her eyes. ‘You could marry me and live happily ever after or you could end up like this lovely little slag with her Mayfair flat and her middle-aged minder.’
The Dior-blue eyes flicked across to Suzy’s panic-stricken face. ‘Or does old Harry turn you on? Who knows? Maybe she actually likes it. Maybe she actually likes fat, droopy old men. Do you, Suzy?’
This was a lot more than two glasses of champagne talking. Johnny had been back to Gloucester Road to dress but he’d obviously been killing time in some Curzon Street drinking club for the last hour.
‘Suzy here’s a beautiful girl, aren’t you, Suzy? Clever, kind, sexy – very sexy – but she’s not really a model, Janey my love. She’s a tart. A Very Smart Tart. She sleeps with old men to have a nice Mayfair roof over her head. You have to get away from all this.’
Jane half expected Suzy to rat on her about Sergio and the Mutation Mink man and the others (Jane would have) but she sat tight saying nothing, wriggling uneasily at the pressure of his fingers. For a moment she looked as if she were going to cry again. Her eyes had been glumly cast down but as the bedroom door clicked shut she flashed Johnny a look. Reproach? Hatred? Desire? A little of each, Jane suspected.
Johnny pulled his arm out from beneath Suzy’s petticoats, carefully wiping his fingers on her stocking as Henry came back in.
As they all somehow crammed into the lift Johnny suggested they go for a spin in the car he’d borrowed. Sports model.
Suzy appeared to have made a complete recovery. ‘Oh you lucky thing! Henry says I can’t have a little runabout until I’ve passed my test but I can’t very well practise in the Bentley, can I? I’ll never get a licence at this rate. What breed is it, darling? Is it small enough for me and Janey to have a go in?’
‘If you don’t mind left-hand drive.’
It was a brand-new red Volvo that belonged to a chap in the overseas department who had gone back to Stockholm for a fortnight’s holiday. The girls managed to bundle into the back but it was a bit on the small side and poor old Henry looked suddenly very big and old and stiff, cooped up in the passenger seat, rather than stretched out at the wheel of his Bentley. He’d got his arm caught in one of the straps at the side of the seat.
‘What’s this supposed to be?’ You could tell he was getting fed up.
‘Safety belts. It’s a new thing. All the new Volvos have got them.’
‘Bloody Swedes. I don’t see why we can’t just take a cab. Or walk. It’s only a few hundred yards, for God’s sake.’
Suzy pulled a face. She hated arriving anywhere on foot. It looked cheap. And Henry was starting to sound like someone’s dad. He’d be talking about petrol coupons next.
The restaurant was crowded with out-of-towners but they were shown to a decent table anyway (waiters clearly had a sixth sense about good tippers). The girls got their usual admiring stares only now there was the odd whisper to go with them – Suzy might be right about Frockways. There was even some poor deluded cow wearing one of the bloody things – even the black with gold lamé wasn’t nearly dressy enough for the Coq d’Or.
They’d all ordered oysters except Johnny but when his soup came he called the waiter over and complained that it was cold.
‘It’s vichyssoise, sir,’ he hissed, happily. He always enjoyed this one.
‘I don’t care what it’s supposed to be. It’s stone cold.’
The waiter stayed dead pan and whisked the soup away, planning the usual kitchen revenge. Henry and Suzy had hardly noticed but Jane felt sick with embarrassment. Johnny’s soup came back hot but he had more sense than to drink it. Instead he began cutting up his bread roll with his butter knife. An old bitch in beige lace at the next table eyed him with utter contempt. Models. What could you expect?
When Johnny’s steak arrived he took a sip of Chablis, tucked his napkin into his collar and began sawing away at it, holding his knife like a pen.
It was more like two tables for two than a foursome. Suzy had angled her body away from Johnny and seemed determined to keep talking – or get Henry talking – anything to keep Johnny quiet. Henry was telling Suzy about a property he’d just acquired in South Kensington somewhere – a friendly little bargain he’d struck with Jane’s Mr Mutation so maybe the girl wasn’t such a bad idea after all. The house was a complete wreck at the moment, all carved up into poky little bedsits, but it would be ideal, apparently. Ideal for what?
‘I wouldn’t care where it was.’ Which was sort of true. Eaton Square would have been fine too.
Johnny had dropped his napkin and was asking the waiter for another serviette.
‘Why are you doing this?’ hissed Jane.
He looked at her hard and drained another glass.
‘Doing what, Janey? What am I doing exactly?’
‘You know perfectly well what you’re doing.’
Oh God. Don’t whatever you do complain. You sound your shrillest and look your worst when you do. She’d better keep that note out of her voice. Only married women could afford to take that tone. ‘You can’t see the look on the waiter’s face.’
‘I don’t want to see the look on the waiter’s bloody face, Janey darling. He could be stood there dolled up like Marlene bloody Dietrich for all I care, Janey darling. He’s there to bring my food. When I want his opinion of my manners, I’ll jolly well ask for it.’
Christ. The beige woman was staring now and the bad language meant that her husband would have to gear himself up to complain. Last thing he wanted. It was their wedding anniversary. Twenty-eight years and she’d still never actually touched it.
Johnny called the waiter over before the man could start.