Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (27 page)

Word had got round that Geordie MacColl was worth courting. Endless bottles of champagne were drunk, some extremely expensive and elegant canapés were toyed with, Geordie made a charmingly modest speech, Barty made what was, for her, a rather fulsome one, and the social editor of the
New York Times
interviewed Izzie and Sebastian on the difference between the literary scene in London and in New York.

It was towards the end of the party that it happened; such a small thing, so apparently unimportant, but actually of immense significance, a small, still moment that gave no warning of the tumultuous events which followed in its wake. Looking back on it afterwards, Barty always thought of the old nursery rhyme about the lost horseshoe nail, which had led to the loss of a rider, a battle and then with dreadful inevitability to the loss of a kingdom.

Izzie was standing with her father, chatting to a small group of journalists and fiddling with the string of pearls she was wearing, a habit of hers when she was nervous or over-excited. A passing waiter knocked her arm with a tray of canapés, and caused her to pull on them so sharply that they broke; she clutched at them with both hands, caught some of them, but a cascade fell on to the floor.

Flushed, more embarrassed than distressed, she stood watching helplessly as half a dozen people bent to retrieve them; in no time at all they had all been gathered up and given to Sebastian, who put them in his pocket.

Thanking everyone effusively, charmingly confused, she had thought the incident was over, and was taking a sip of champagne when Geordie appeared, having observed the slight fracas from across the room. Izzie was just explaining what had happened, reassuring him that everything was absolutely fine, when he suddenly said, ‘Excuse me, Izzie, I have a little fishing to do,’ and very gently put his fingers into the cleavage of her dress to pull out a last recalcitrant pearl.

‘My goodness,’ she said, smiling up at him, against a background of laughter and applause, ‘how extremely observant of you, Geordie, to spot it.’

‘Not really,’ he said, smiling back. ‘I’ve been transfixed by its location all evening.’

It was, of course, the sort of thing he was always saying; but he was exhilarated by his evening, an outstanding success even by his own standards. He had had several glasses of champagne and his eyes, meeting Izzie’s, were very serious suddenly, boring into her, disturbing her. And Izzie was looking, she knew, quite sexy. She had known it as she studied herself in the mirror before leaving the apartment, had scarcely recognised the chic woman in the black satin, full-skirted, tight-waisted cocktail dress, one of the new half-hats with a tiny veil perched sexily on her piled-up hair; the woman with darkly dramatic eye make-up and full, brilliant mouth, the woman who seemed to have become, at last, the creature she so wanted to be.

It was odd, she thought, as she accepted fulsome compliments from Barty and her father, how a changed appearance could change everything; for as she had sat in one of the long fleet of cars driving up Park Avenue, as she had emerged gracefully from it towards a small crowd of press cameras, as she had walked into the ballroom and taken her first glass of champagne, she felt like that woman in the mirror, self-confident, glamorous – and very sexy.

As she stood laughing up at Geordie, holding the pearl he had retrieved from her bosom, still feeling, vividly, his fingers between her breasts, her thoughts and her pleasure took her no further than that moment, in all its extravagant, happy sexiness; and she reached up and kissed him, very gently, on the lips.

It was only Barty, watching her from across the room, who felt a sudden catch at her heart, and remembered hearing Izzie’s own voice saying, ‘I’ve come to recognise I like older men.’

CHAPTER 14

‘There’s a cable for you, from New York.’

‘Oh – goodness. Let me see. Yes. Thank you, darling. I’ll – maybe I’ll look at it later.’

‘Maman, you can’t look at cables later. That’s the whole point. You look at them straight away. Shall I read it to you?’

‘No. Yes. Oh I don’t know. Maybe he’s coming home sooner, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it? Yes, you open it, darling. Thank you.’

Noni tore open the envelope, pulled out the cable. Her hands were shaking. She hoped her mother hadn’t noticed.

‘It’s – well, yes. It’s from Geordie.’

‘Yes, I see. And—’

‘And he’s not – that is, he is – oh, I’ll just read it to you. “Delayed in States a further two weeks. Tour extended to West Coast. Will wire exact return date. Love to girls. Geordie.” Oh Maman, don’t cry. I mean it’s wonderful his book is doing so well, isn’t it, and he’s so – oh, dear, here, come on, let me hold you – ’

Noni sat there, holding her mother’s thin body, stroking her hair, their roles reversed, she the comforter, the strong one, her mother, clinging to her, weeping and frail.

‘Maman, please! Don’t be so sad. It’s all right. He will be back. It’s only two weeks. And then maybe he’ll come home. Really home, I mean. Maybe being over there, with Barty and Izzie and everyone, will bring him to his senses. You know how fond he is of both of them, and he’s bound to talk to them about it—’

‘I don’t know that I want him talking to them about it,’ said Adele fretfully. ‘It’s nothing to do with them.’

‘Well – maybe not. But Barty is so wise. And Izzie is one of our very best friends. There’s nothing like a change of scene for seeing things differently. Now, aren’t you supposed to be at
Style
by now?’

Noni looked at her mother anxiously; it was one of the manifestations of her depression that she had become vague and inefficient. Once so dynamic, so absolutely in control, she had become worryingly ineffectual, often late, occasionally forgetting appointments altogether. This job today was important; she had let
Style
down once already and it was only her long association with them that had persuaded them to give her another chance.

‘Oh my God, so I am. The models are arriving at eleven and I have to work out the lighting and the props as far as I can before then. Oh, dear, I’ll be late, I’ve got to get all my stuff into the car, then unload it the other end—’

‘Shall I come with you? I’m not specially busy. I’ve got all the vacation to do my work. I can help carrying stuff in and so on. And I’d love to see the studio. Where is it?’

‘Soho Square. Bit of a trek. But as long as the traffic’s not bad – yes, darling, if you really wouldn’t mind. Thank you.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Noni, giving her a kiss. Anything was better than standing by helplessly while her mother cried.

Style House, in Soho Square, was a tall and elegant early Victorian building, hopelessly inconvenient in many ways, but suited visually nonetheless to its role as home to one of the principal fashion advisers to the nation. Vogue House in Golden Square, half a mile away, occupied a very similar building; it was not unknown for photographers and models going for briefing or casting sessions to become more than slightly confused as to which building they were actually in.

As well as housing editorial, advertising and publishing staff, both had studios on the top floor; beautiful and beautifully dressed women stalked the corridors, many of them as giraffe-tall and elegant as the models they worked with. It was virtually impossible to work for either without a private income; salaries on both publications were extremely modest and it was essential to dress the part.

‘I wish darling Cedric was still here,’ Adele said with a sigh, as she led Noni into the studio. ‘He was so beautiful and such heaven to work with, just looking at him made one feel inspired. I do miss him.’ Cedric Russell had been a wonderfully exotic photographer in the Thirties and had given Adele her first job as his stylist; he had continued to take credit for most of her subsequent success.

‘I brought her to life,’ he would say complacently, smoothing down his golden curls, picking a speck of dust off his immaculately tailored jacket, ‘I am her muse.’

They had been best friends for years, long after her marriage to Geordie; when he had died of septicaemia following a burst appendix, she had felt a truly dreadful grief, and had never quite recovered from the loss of one of the greatest sources of pleasure and fun in her life. It was a long time before she could even enter the
Style
building without her eyes filling with tears.

‘He was heaven, I know,’ said Noni, aware, as her mother seemed not to be, of how late they were running, ‘but we must hurry, Maman. Take this bag and I’ll carry your cameras. Come on!’

She followed Adele into the studio, set down the bag of cameras and film, and looked round interestedly. She was used to the one in the house, of course; but this was busier and more colourful, filled with racks of clothes, the walls covered with photographs by all the greats: Norman Parkinson, Irving Penn, the brilliant English photographer John French, famous for never actually pressing the camera shutter himself but directing his assistant to do so by a series of lightning-fast taps on the floor with his elegant feet and autocratic cries of ‘Now!’.

And the great models of the day were there too on the walls: Barbara Goalen, Fiona Campbell-Walter, Bronwen Pugh, haughtily perfect, ballerina-graceful, fêted like film stars, never seen anywhere without immaculate hair and make-up, or perfectly elegant clothes.

In the corner was the dressing room, one wall all mirror, surrounded with lights, with a long bench of a make-up table set beneath it; a girl sat with her back to them, gazing into the mirror, studying her face with immense devotion.

‘Adele, there you are. I was expecting you earlier.’

It was Duncan Lloyd, the studio manager, bustling about in oddly incongruous clothes, a neatly tailored suit, a white silk loose shirt and a pair of ballet shoes.

‘I know, Duncan, I’m so sorry. Anyway, we’re here now, are the models here?’

‘Only one.’

‘Oh well, I expect the other will be along soon.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she wasn’t booked.’

‘What? Of course she was booked, I did it myself.’

‘You didn’t, Adele, I’m afraid. I’ve checked all the records. Only one girl was booked. Look, Hope Lumley Agency, Marella Cope-Brown. No one else.’

‘Oh God.’ Adele sat down abruptly. ‘This is terrible. It’s absolutely essential we have two girls, the whole feature is about mirror images, black dress, white hat, and vice versa; well, I don’t know why I’m telling you. We’ll just have to get someone else.’

‘Fine. Good. Well, Marella is doing her make-up now. Maybe she can make some suggestions.’

Marella said she couldn’t; she looked at Adele down her elegant nose and said she couldn’t think of anyone she’d want to work with, who was of sufficient calibre. Adele began to phone the agencies, her voice raw with panic, but she knew it was hopeless. Top-quality girls were simply not available at half an hour’s notice.

Laura Proctor-Reid, the fashion editor, appeared; she was tall and impossibly thin, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit and a hat resembling a very large mushroom, made of black ostrich feathers. She looked more as if she was going to a funeral than a fashion session; she was followed closely by her assistant, who was almost invisible, her arms piled high with shoe boxes and sweaters.

‘The rest are on the rail, Adele, I expect you’ve looked at them. I want to start with the suits, then the sweaters and skirts. There’s a lovely John Cavanagh suit, absolutely stunning, maybe we could do that first, pair it with the Stiebel – where’s the other girl, by the way?’

‘She – there – that is – ’

‘Your daughter has a lovely look,’ drawled Marella, painting in the outline of her lips with a lipbrush and brilliant red lipstick. ‘Very French. Maybe she could—’

The fashion editor ignored her. ‘Hasn’t she turned up? These girls are appallingly inefficient. I shall have a word with Peter myself. We shall dock her fee. We don’t pay them £3 an hour for not being here.’

‘Laura – that is – I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. The second girl was never booked. It was – well, it was my fault. I’m so sorry.’

‘Never booked! But the whole point of this session was the two girls—’

‘I know, I know. Laura, I’m absolutely – appalled at myself. Really.’

Laura Proctor-Reid’s expression made it clear she was equally appalled at Adele.

‘And there’s no one else?’

‘No. I’ve tried. I just don’t know what to do—’

‘There’s very little any of us can do. We’ll just have to postpone the session,’ said Laura Proctor-Reid icily. ‘A very expensive mistake, Adele. Very expensive. We’ll still have to pay the agency, the studio time will have to be charged, the studio assistant – I’m very surprised at the whole thing. I don’t quite understand—’

‘Laura, I was just saying, Adele’s daughter has a lovely look. Wonderful eyes. And the colouring is perfect.’

‘Marella, we are not using some raw amateur in the pages of
Style
. We’ll have to book a re-shoot. Possibly with another photographer, if Adele isn’t free.’

It was clear that whether Adele was free or not, she would not be shooting the session.

‘You could try,’ said Marella, picking a row of false eyelashes out of her make-up tray with a pair of tweezers and coating the edge with glue, ‘that’s all I’m suggesting. Look at her, she’s the right height, she’s very slim, she’s got marvellous hair—’

They all turned and stared at Noni; she stood feeling like a prize cow in a cattle market.

‘Turn round,’ said Laura Proctor-Reid. ‘No, not like that, slowly, for heaven’s sake. This isn’t a ballroom-dancing class. Pull your hair back. Yes, now stand over there. Just stand still, relax. She is – quite attractive, I suppose.’ She removed the black ostrich mushroom, laid it carefully down on a chair.

‘Adele, let me have your camera. No, no, the Hasselblad. I want to see how she looks through the lens. Look this way, dear, would you? No, not at my face, at the camera lens. God, why am I even considering this? Pull your skirt up, would you, let’s have a look at your legs. Mmm. Smile. Now turn sideways. And then the eyes to me. No, no, the lens, that’s better.’

She stood for a while, staring down into the camera viewfinder, tapping her foot; then she said, ‘I don’t know why I’m agreeing to it, but we’ll do one shot. We can get an idea of how bad it is. After that we can make a decision. Get the lighting set up, Adele, I thought you were going to have it ready. Go into the dressing room, dear – what’s your name?’

‘Noni,’ said Noni, wondering if it might occur to anyone at any point, even her mother, to ask her if she would agree to being camera fodder, and deciding it wouldn’t.

‘Noni, yes. Do you actually have French blood?’

‘Yes, my father was French, he—’

‘I thought so. Now go into the dressing room. I’ll do your make-up, you won’t be able to manage yourself. And you – ’ she said to the assistant, who appeared to have no name ‘ – go and get a model release form, we’ll have to get the girl signed up. Quickly, we haven’t got all day.’

Duncan Lloyd said he would go; he had been standing like a petrified rabbit throughout the entire exchange, his small feet in their ballet shoes turned rather incongruously out in first position.

‘Well, go and do it, then,’ said Laura, ‘and while you’re about it, Duncan, re-book Marella at the first possible opportunity, will you? I have no faith in this exercise whatsoever, I don’t know quite why I’ve allowed myself to be talked into it.’

She dragged Noni’s hair back from her face with a band and peered into it.

‘Your skin’s not bad,’ she said, ‘but your eyebrows are frightful. They’ll have to be plucked. Tweezers!’ She snapped her fingers like a surgeon in an operating theatre. ‘Quickly please.’

The assistant, pale with terror at the morning’s drama, hurried over with a pair of tweezers. Noni submitted herself to them as resignedly as she could. Anything for her mother . . .

‘And then she said we might as well do another shot. And then another. And in the end we did all five. She kept shouting at me and getting terribly cross because I put the wrong foot in front and I thought it would be over and then she’d say, “That’s not bad”, or “It could be worse”, and we’d be off again. The model, Marella, was fantastic, not nearly as terrifying as she seemed. She kept whispering that I was doing really well. La Proctor-Reid’s last words were that she was quite sure they’d all end up in the dustbin, but Mary Louise said she’d never have gone on if she hadn’t wanted to and thought it was worth it.’

‘It sounds madly glamorous,’ said Amy wistfully. ‘I wish I could do it. So much more fun than beastly typing.’

‘Oh Amy, don’t be silly, it would get awfully boring after a bit. And you’d never meet a husband, they’re all queer, photographers and so on. Anyway, you’re engaged, for heaven’s sake, to lovely Richard, you can’t start modelling now.’

‘Are you going to do it again? Leave Oxford and be a top model? I would. Can I be your agent?’

‘No you can’t,’ said Noni, ‘and no, I’m not. I don’t expect the pictures will ever be used.’

‘But if they were, would you want to do it again?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe. It’s terribly tedious. But exciting too, trying things on, making the clothes work, as Miss Proctor-Reid puts it. And Marella was telling me she sometimes even gets sent abroad on jobs. Only usually not, and she’s modelling sundresses on the beach in January here and fur coats in July. She does like it, though. I suppose it might be useful for making some pocket money . . . But as a full-time job, no thanks!’

Just the same, Noni had enjoyed it enormously. It had been such a relief to have some fun. She was beginning to find the situation at home so extremely depressing.

‘Hallo? Yes. Oh – oh Geordie, how are you? Me too. Pretty bad. What? No, I haven’t seen it. Just a minute – here it is, yes, I’ve – oh my goodness. I’ll ring you back. Yes, of course it’s funny. Very funny . . .’