The Decision (10 page)

‘I have dreadfully high blood pressure, you see, I could need sedation if there were any difficulties.’

Scarlett assured her there were no difficulties as far as she knew, and that there was first-aid equipment on board.

‘My dear girl, that’s no use to me, I need a proper doctor.’

Scarlett smiled again and offered her an aspirin. It often soothed the most terrible nerves: placebo effect, she supposed.

‘Yes, that might be nice, thank you. Oh, dear God, what was that?’

The plane had dropped slightly; it shook a little and then steadied.

The captain’s voice came over the intercom.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we may be about to experience a little turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts.’

‘Oh, my God,’ moaned Mrs Berenson, ‘oh God, what shall I do?’

‘Nothing,’ said Scarlett gently, ‘just do up your seat belt and sit tight. You’re perfectly safe.’

She stayed with her for a moment, trying to calm her, and then worked her way round the cabin, reassuring, smiling, plumping pillows, fastening belts. She could feel the plane beginning to shudder.

The child was still running behind her, giggling. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Scarlett as politely as she could to her mother, ‘but I really must ask you to get your girl strapped into her seat.’

‘But she’s enjoying herself so much,’ said the woman.

‘She won’t enjoy herself getting thrown round the cabin,’ Scarlett said coolly. ‘Please do what I ask, it’s important.’

A wail went up from Mrs Berenson; Scarlett hurried to her.

‘There’s nothing to worry about, Mrs Berenson. Really. You’ll be fine. Please try to stay calm, you’re upsetting the other passengers. Here, have a sip of water. Did you take your aspirin?’

‘Yes. Maybe I should have a second one.’

The tail seemed to swing round slightly and Mrs Berenson wailed again. Various buzzers were being pressed; Scarlett patted her hand and hurried off.

When she passed the Frenchman’s seat he put his hand out, barring her way.

‘This wine is terrible. Open a new bottle, if you please.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t – not just at the moment.’

‘Miss, this is not what I have paid my first-class fare for. Please do what I ask.’

Scarlett walked to the service area, and started to open a fresh bottle of claret.

‘Scarlett! You can’t do that. Not while this is going on.’ Brian was frowning at her, sitting in his own seat, doing up his straps. ‘Sit down and belt yourself in.’

‘It’s either giving that frog his bloody wine, or pushing him out the window. Now just stop fussing, and think about something else, like that lovely boy you met last night.’

‘Bitch!’ said Brian and blew a kiss towards the window. She smiled at him tolerantly. He was a raging queen like most of the others.

Mrs Berenson was screaming now. Such panic was infectious; other passengers were turning to stare at her nervously, and the little girl started to cry.

‘I’ll go and sit with her,’ Scarlett said to Brian who was behind her, proffering a second napkin to the Frenchman, ‘otherwise they’ll all start screaming.’

‘All right, darling. Rather you than me. She’s the colour of a billiard table.’

Scarlett started to make her way towards Mrs Berenson, smiled at her and settled herself in the window seat.

‘Here,’ she said, ‘hold my hand. You’re going to be fine.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Mrs Berenson. Her voice was lower now, her teeth chattering. She had a very pretty, Southern-belle-type accent; she was very pretty altogether, Scarlett noticed, honey-blond, with fine, fair, slightly freckled skin and wonderful green eyes. She was far from young, probably about sixty, but slim and beautifully dressed, in a cream silk shirt and camel skirt. ‘We’re going to crash, aren’t we?’

‘No, we’re not. The captain says it’s fine, just a bit of bad weather. Honestly, in about ten minutes it’ll be over. Deep breaths, that’s right. Now why don’t you tell me where you’re from, why you’re coming to England, I do love to know more about passengers, and we never usually get the chance. Do you have family here?’

Clinging to Scarlett’s hand, Mrs Berenson began to talk, and became calmer, telling her where she lived (Charleston, South Carolina), where she was going (London to visit an elderly aunt), why she’d been in Vienna (to stay with a friend and visit the Opera House for ‘the most wonderful “Magic Flute”’), about her three sons, all of whom were extremely good-looking, she said (and what mother didn’t claim that for her sons, Scarlett wondered, smiling at her, they were probably as plain as pikestaffs. Although if they were anything like their mother …)

The turbulence ended as suddenly as it had begun and the plane became completely steady. Scarlett unbuckled her belt.

‘I’ve love to hear more, Mrs Berenson. But I have lots to do now. Excuse me, won’t you?’

‘Of course, my dear. How kind you’ve been. Thank you.’

‘It was truly a pleasure.’

They reached London two hours later; the plane landed smoothly, everyone stood up, chattering, the trauma quite forgotten. Scarlett stood at the top of the steps, smiling sweetly at everyone, accepted Mrs Berenson’s thanks and a promise to look out for her in future, and a kiss from the tiresome child.

‘Told you,’ she said to Brian. ‘Piece of cake.’

Young Generation had been open for nearly a year now, and was acknowledged by everyone who mattered as a huge success. Bernard Woolfe said so, albeit cautiously, while noting its extremely healthy turnover; the press said so, rather less cautiously, giving it rave reviews from day one (the
Evening Standard
had described the opening party as ‘an explosion of colour and music and style’) and continuing to feature it and its merchandise on a most satisfyingly regular basis, and the customers said so by flocking to it, day after day. Young, stylish, moneyed, they fell on this treasure trove of clothes that suited them and their lifestyle so perfectly – and carried it away from Woolfe’s in the shiny, brilliantly coloured carrier bags that were its trademark. The carrier bags had actually been Eliza’s idea and she was very proud of them.

The party had been attended by everyone who mattered in fashion: Anne Trehearn of
Queen
, Ernestine Carter of the
Sunday Time
s, Felicity Green of the
Mirror
, and Shirley Conran, creator of the new ‘Femail’ section in the
Daily Mail
; the fashion photographers and rising star David Bailey, with his friends Terence Donovan and Norman Eales, as well as the more establishment crowd, John French, and Henry Clarke; and the models, Jean Shrimpton, Pagan Grigg, Grace Coddington, and every man’s dream of a girl, blue-eyed blonde Celia Hammond.

And then there had been the designers – who would have thought Mary Quant would attend, never mind John Bates, Jean Muir, and the new names such as Maddy Brown who (to quote the
Standard
again) ‘has done the impossible and made knitting sexy’.

Eliza had thought it would be hard, settling down after the excitement of the launch, but in fact she simply found herself caught up in an ever-increasing whirlwind timetable of shows, photographic shoots, press releases, and the more mundane but possibly most important task of all, seeing to the nitty-gritty: getting clothes over to the offices of the fashion editors, making sure that
Queen
and
Vogue
– for instance – weren’t featuring the same dress, checking prices, suggesting and then rounding up accessories to accompany the clothes that the journalists called in.

Her favourite days were when a fashion editor rang up and said something like, ‘We’re doing a story on fringed hems – have you got anything?’ And if there was nothing fringed to be found in the stockroom, she’d call up one of her favourite designers and ask, ‘Got anything with a fringed hem?’ Whereupon the more desperate would actually knock up a sample in twenty-four hours for her, on condition Woolfe’s would agree to be listed as stockist. It was quite common for none of the garments in question to be sold; but it didn’t really matter much, it suited everybody, the journalist who found a page of her feature filled, the designer who got the priceless publicity for his or her name, and Woolfe’s who increased their reputation for cutting-edge fashion.

It was hectic, exhausting, and absolutely wonderful. What romantic liaison could possibly compete with that?

‘You all right, young Matthew?’ said Mr Barlow.

‘Yes, fine, thanks.’

It wasn’t true; he had terrible toothache. It had been growing quietly but insistently for three days now. He kept hoping it would go away, settle down again.

‘Good. You don’t look it. Anyway, come in, I’ve got some news for you.’

Matt followed him into his office.

‘You’ve done well, lad. Very well. We’ve all done well, of course, got a load of new clients, in fact we’ll have to move soon. You’ll have to find us an office. Go and see some agents.’ He chuckled. He prided himself on being a joker.

‘But credit where it’s due. A lot of it’s down to you. So, I’m promoting you, Matt. Making you up to negotiator.’

‘Crikey,’ said Matt.

‘I hope you don’t use words like that to the clients,’ said Mr Barlow disapprovingly.

‘Course not.’

‘Good. And there’ll be a rise too. How would twelve pounds a week sound to you?’

‘Pretty good,’ said Matt, ‘but not as good as thirteen.’

‘Maybe not. I didn’t say thirteen though.’

‘I know that, Mr Barlow. But I reckon it’s what I’m worth. From what I’ve heard.’

Mr Barlow looked at him almost severely. ‘You’ve got a cheek. But you could be right. How about twelve pounds, ten shillings?’

‘Done. Thank you very much, Mr Barlow.’

Matt went into the golden September evening feeling very happy. He was getting there. Next move would be getting his own agency. In a year or two. He had the energy, and he’d have some clients. He’d have no compunction about taking them away from Barlow and Stein. They’d have had fantastic value out of him; it would be time to get some out of them. Matt felt very bullish suddenly. Taking on the world.

And it was a good evening for his promotion to have happened. Charles had arranged some kind of reunion with Happy and Nobby Clark as well. He could tell them all about it, really hold up his head as a successful man of the world.

Matt had suggested they met at the Salisbury in St Martin’s Lane at seven.

‘Great,’ said Charles, ‘and then we might go out for a Chinese after that if we’re hungry.’

The Chinese was a new phenomenon in London, everyone was tucking into spring rolls and sweet and sour pork.

The Salisbury was filling up fast; Matt was the last to arrive, the others were sitting at a table in the corner. Charles waved him over.

‘Got a beer for you.’

‘Thanks, Chas.’ He sat down, raised his glass. ‘Cheers!’

‘Cheers,’ said Happy, ‘bit of a funny place this, isn’t it, dead fancy, all this brass and mirrors and stuff. It’s a great meeting place for queers, someone told me.’

‘Really?’ said Charles. ‘Well – we can move if it’s not OK.’

Matt looked around him with interest. He supposed there were a lot of men on their own in there. They looked pretty normal to him.

‘Here’s to us then,’ he said, picking up his beer, ‘good memories and all that. Thanks for organising it, Chas.’

‘Yes, thanks Chas,’ said Happy.

He looked just as Matt remembered him, with his seemingly permanent smile, but Nobby was quiet, staring gloomily round the bar and then saying ‘sorry’ when he saw any of them looking at him.

‘What’s up then, mate?’ said Matt, wincing as a potato crisp touched his tender tooth.

‘He’s a condemned man,’ said Happy, ‘got to get married and all. Couple of weeks, isn’t it, Nobby?’

Nobby nodded and sighed heavily.

‘Go on. You never are. What on earth for?’ asked Matt.

‘He got a girl in the club, didn’t he?’ said Happy. ‘Silly bastard.’

‘Crikey,’ said Matt, ‘you poor bugger.’ He contemplated the dreadfulness of this: married and a father at twenty-two. Life ended before it had properly begun. ‘God, bad luck, mate.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Nobby tried to smile. ‘Happens sometimes, don’t it?’

‘Where you going to live, then?’

‘With me mother-in-law,’ said Nobby.

‘Jesus,’ said Charles, ‘that does sound bad. Or maybe she’s nice?’

‘She’s a filthy old cow,’ said Nobby, ‘and when Janice is with her mum, she turns just like her. Gets all mean and bad-tempered. And the fuss! You wouldn’t believe it. Oh, I feel sick. Oh, Mum, make me another cup of tea. Oh, Terence, rub my back—’

‘Who’s Terence?’ asked Matt.

‘Me, you stupid bugger. Only got called Nobby in the army. Honestly, wish I’d bought it out in Cyprus now. Be better’n this.’

‘Well, look on the bright side,’ said Charles slightly desperately, ‘it’ll be jolly nice to have a kid, won’t it? To play football with and – and that sort of thing.’