Folly's Child Page 12

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sally said miserably.

  ‘Well the rat!’ Paula said, but she looked pleased.

  ‘You … you wouldn’t go out with him, would you, Paula?’ Sally asked, hating herself for still wanting him.

  ‘Oh Sally, what do you think I am?’

  Sally did not answer. She did not think Paula would have liked what she had to say.

  Edward never did get in touch with Sally again. She was sick with wretchedness, convinced she had only herself to blame – and of course the devastating effect Paula had on men – but still puzzled that it could have ended so suddenly without a word of explanation on his part. Besides being heart-broken she felt foolish and a failure. But she never did find out if he was successful in persuading Paula to go out with him now that he was free. She did not want to know.

  Once, months later, when she went to the Regency on a Saturday night with some girlfriends she practically bumped into him on the stairs. But he merely looked embarrassed and said: ‘ Oh – hi!’ as he passed as if she was just a casual acquaintance. During the evening she caught sight of him a few times, always dancing, holding his partners very close, and managing to avoid her eyes.

  After that night Sally never saw him again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘I have a very important assignment for you, Paula,’ Arlene Frampton-Cox said. She inserted a Du Maurier cigarette into her long tortoiseshell holder and sat back, looking at Paula, who was seated in the visitor’s chair on the other side of the desk, long legs crossed elegantly.

  Paula looked every inch a model these days, Arlene thought with a touch of proprietorial pride. Her long hair, shining gold, was swept back and caught at the nape of her neck with a bow, make-up, expertly applied, accentuated the classically beautiful lines of her face, and she wore her well-cut suit with all the panache that was expected of her. A good suit was a working model’s uniform – Paula now bought two each season and wore them with perfectly matching accessories, hat, bag and shoes. This one was in soft light green with a boxy shaped jacket and narrow skirt and the same green-and-white check material of the little sleeveless blouse had been used to line the jacket and face the wide reveres. Paula’s bag and shoes were patent black leather, her gloves white, and she carried a long walking umbrella neatly furled in its fur-trimmed case. Perfectly groomed from head to toe and with all that assurance, she was ready to take on the world, Arlene thought with satisfaction, for she looked on Paula as her very own creation. The raw materials might have been there before – indeed, hadn’t it been she, Arlene, who had spotted them? But the transformation of a leggy young filly into a sleekly beautiful racehorse had been her doing.

  ‘What assignment is that?’ Paula’s voice was well-modulated now – eighteen months on the model circuit had eliminated all trace of her former Somerset accent. She had listened to Arlene’s own voice and set about imitating it for she held her mentor in the highest esteem whilst still being a little afraid of her.

  ‘The House of Mattli is expanding from couture into ready-to-wear and one of the big Bristol stores, Taylors, are putting on a show to publicise the fact that they will be stocking the new prêt-á-porter’, Arlene explained. ‘I have been asked to supply the models and I would like you to be one of them.’

  ‘Mattli!’ Paula repeated, impressed. The House of Mattli was a husband and wife team who were numbered amongst the top ten names in the Incorporated Society of London Fashion Designers. Furthermore Madame Mattli was a Frenchwoman, an accident of birth which added to her glamour, for was not Paris the fashion capital of the world?

  ‘Madame Mattli will be coming to Bristol herself,’ Arlene continued. ‘ Taylors have a certain amount of stock but she will be bringing extra samples from London especially for the show. I only want the best of my girls on this job. Madame Mattli, remember, is used to the best. We can’t afford any sloppiness. I can count on you, Paula, I feel sure.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Paula said, brimming with suppressed excitement. ‘You can count on me!’

  Madame Mattli was almost exactly as Paula had imagined she would be, a petite perfectly turned out woman with an air of chic that was unmistakably French. Her dark, grey-streaked hair, which she wore in a long bob, had been cut by Vidal Sassoon and she wore a beautifully tailored black suit relieved only by a little white flounce at the neckline.

  In the fitting rooms at Taylors she fussed and fretted over her creations like a mother hen and though Paula was overawed by the great designer she also liked her on sight. Madame Mattli might be a stickler for detail, with a generous helping of the artistic temperament which kept her tight-coiled as a spring and which would explode into frenzy if the smallest detail was not as it should be, but she also had a kind face and deep perceptive eyes.

  Halfway through the day’s programme of shows, while the dressers went off to grab a sandwich and the model girls, who would not dare to eat while they were showing, revived themselves with cups of black coffee, Madame Mattli took Paula to one side.

  ‘Little one, I would like to speak with you.’

  Paula’s stomach turned a somersault. Had she done something wrong?

  ‘I have been watching you work,’ Madame Mattli said directly. Her accent reminded Paula of Louise – perhaps that was why she warmed to her in spite of the fact that she was so awe-inspiring. ‘You are exactly right for a couture model. You have all the physical attributes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Paula said faintly.

  Madame Mattli waved a dismissive hand. ‘ Do not thank me. I am not saying this to make your head swell. On the contrary. The fact is that I have a vacancy arising for a couture model. I believe you are exactly what I am looking for. I would like you to come to London to work for me.’

  Over Madame Mattli’s shoulder Paula could see Arlene watching her, a tiny smile lifting one corner of her scarlet mouth, and Paula knew her well enough by now to know exactly what she was thinking. She did not want to lose Paula, who was one of her best models, but already she was enjoying the reflected glory that came from having personally trained a house model for one of the great London couture houses. She had known about the vacancy at Mattli and hoped that the job might be offered to Paula. It was the seal of approval for her own judgement.

  ‘Well?’ Madame Mattli demanded.

  ‘Can I have a little time to think it over?’ Paula asked boldly.

  ‘A little. But please do not delay too long. My present house model leaves at the end of the month and there are plenty of girls who would jump at the chance.’

  ‘I’m sure. But all the same I couldn’t make such a move without giving it some thought,’ Paula said grandly.

  But inside she was bubbling with excitement. Time to think? She didn’t need a single second. The moment Madame Mattli had offered her the job she had made up her mind. She was going to take it – of course!

  A month later Paula, smartly dressed in a new tweed suit with the obligatory matching bag and shoes, and lugging both her modelling case and a brand new cream leather suitcase, took the train to London to begin her new career.

  She had booked herself a bed at a YWCA hostel for the time being. It was not quite what she envisaged for herself but it had the advantage of being cheap and it went some way towards satisfying Grace, who was convinced that London was a den of iniquity waiting to swallow up her unsuspecting daughter.

  From the hostel it was only a short tube ride to South Audley Street where Madame Mattli had her showrooms – yet another advantage, Paula thought, trying to weigh up the points in favour of the hostel, which she hated on sight. Sharing a small spartan room with two other girls – Northerners whose accent Paula found almost incomprehensible and with whom she had nothing in common, making breakfast in the communal kitchen, queuing for the bath, adhering to a strict curfew after which time the doors were locked and bolted – none of these were restrictions Paula had the slightest intention of enduring for long. But for now it would have to do. And at least she was in London,
centre of the British fashion industry.

  As for the House of Mattli, it might have been in a different world to the hostel, with its air of being a cross between a workhouse and a boarding school. The first time she rang the bell and went in through the front doors of the elegant old house where the showrooms were situated (Mattli had no rear entrance) Paula felt she was stepping into the place of her dreams.

  Deep carpet covered the floors and the stairs swept up to the showrooms and the warren of workrooms beyond, and though the window drapes and furnishings were ever-so-slightly faded, as if they had seen better days, they were of the finest silks and velvets and every corner was swept, polished and cleaned daily so that no single speck of dust, let alone a cobweb, dared show itself. The showroom was neither large nor small, decorated in muted shades of aubergine which would not detract from the clothes. There was a low table and three or four dainty chairs with aubergine velvet seats and gilded spindle legs. The crystal chandelier was for effect only – lighting that would show off the clothes to their best advantage was brilliant yet discreet, and along one wall were racks holding some of the ready-to-wear garments.

  In contrast to this elegant frontage the workrooms beyond were a hive of frenzied activity. Pattern cutters, fitters, sewing hands and their assistants all worked at an incredible speed.

  This, Paula soon discovered, was the way of the fashion world – a constant frantic rush against the clock, to have collections ready on time or to complete individual couture garments for customers who always considered their order more urgent, more important, than that of anyone else.

  Paula was amazed by the security arrangements that were necessary to ensure that the new season’s collections remained exclusive – the windows at the rear of the premises were heavily barred and practically the first thing she had to do on commencing her employment was to sign a contract promising that she would not breathe a word about the designs she saw.

  On her second day Madame Mattli took her to Vidal Sassoon’s salon in Grosvenor House so that her hair could be cut in an up-to-the-minute style. Unlike some couturiers Madame did not mind if her model girls did not have the same colour hair but she did insist on identical styles. By the time Vidal Sassoon had finished with her Paula’s long fair locks had been shorn to a sharp geometric shape and she scarcely recognised the reflection that looked back at her from the mirror. Among the rich and famous who had come to the salon to have their hair cut, tinted and set, Paula recognised Dusty Springfield, the pop singer, her eyes big and sooty, her lips pearly pink, and was unable to suppress the thrill of excitement which ran through her. This was her very first taste of only the best being good enough – and she liked it!

  It was Paula’s job to show samples, parading slowly up and down in front of the clients as they sat on the elegant spindle-leg chairs taking in every detail of the garments with a critical and practised eye. Sometimes they came alone, sometimes with a man in tow – to foot the bill! Paula guessed. The appearance of a famous face in the show rooms always caused a stir amongst the girls, who all longed to hook a wealthy husband – and if he had a title, like the Aly Khan, or was a film star like Omar Shariff, then so much the better!

  Not everything that Paula had to do was quite so glamorous, however. In the long hours when there were no customers to show she was expected to lend a hand with some of the unskilled tasks – running errands and making tea, unpicking a seam or a hem, even sewing on a button or a hook and eye when she had been taught the proper way to do it. Paula was not very clever with her needle but she soon learned to be careful so as not to incur the wrath of the seamstress.

  There were new tricks of modelling to be learned too – how to remove a coat, sliding it carefully off her shoulders with the sleeves hanging in perfect balance, never for one moment allowing the inside to be on view, for samples were often unlined. This trick took hours of practice, up and down the landing at the hostel while the other girls looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.

  Although she enjoyed her job Paula was lonely. Even the most popular of girls soon discovered that in this highly competitive world where models vied with one another for the most glamorous jobs and the wealthiest and best-looking men there was far more bitchiness than in the provinces – and Paula was far from popular. The other girls disliked her for her outstanding looks and her haughty ways and made no attempt to be friendly on anything but the most superficial level and the pattern cutters and sewing hands hurried home to their families and boyfriends the moment they finished their long day’s work. Paula spent most of her free time alone, window shopping, visiting News Theatres, where she sometimes watched the programme of cartoons twice round, and drinking endless cups of Espresso coffee in cafes and coffee houses. Her favourite was the coffee shop in Fenwicks in Bond Street for this was the haunt and the meeting place of all those from the world of fashion.

  One lunchtime when she had been at the House of Mattli for a few months Paula went there for her usual coffee and the cottage cheese salad that was her staple diet now that it was so important that she did not add a single half-inch to her wand-slim figure. She took her tray to the pay desk, opened her bag and felt for her purse. It was not there. Frantically she rooted round, then checked her pockets without success.

  ‘I’m sorry. I seem to have lost my purse …’ she explained.

  The girl behind the till stared at her stonily. Paula was going hot and cold by now. Had it been stolen? No, she remembered her bag tipping over in the cloakroom at Mattli – it must have fallen out then. But without it she could not pay for her coffee and salad.

  ‘Having trouble?’ a voice beside her asked. ‘ Don’t worry. Let me.’

  Paula turned gratefully, then gasped with surprise as she recognised the slight figure in black roll-neck sweater and skin tight pants.

  ‘I don’t believe it! Gary Oliver! What are you doing here?’

  ‘The same as you I expect, Paula – getting my strength up to face the rest of the day. Let me pay and then we’ll have lunch together and do some catching up – unless you’re meeting someone, of course.’

  ‘No – no, I’m not.’ Paula picked up her tray and moved aside, waiting for him, flushed with pleasure at seeing a familiar face. Gary Oliver was a designer, young and very talented. She had met him back home in the west country when he had come to supervise a show put on by one of the big ready-to-wear labels, Carnega, for whom he worked as a junior member of the design team. For a whole week they had worked closely together, sharing flasks of coffee and packets of cigarettes and Paula had grown to like the pixieish little man who by his very nature offered her no challenge – and no threat. Gary should have been a girl, she had thought, for he was half a head smaller than she was with fair curling hair, baby-blue eyes and long thick lashes that were the envy of every woman who met him.

  ‘Shall we sit over there in the corner?’ Gary suggested. He led the way, his slim hips in the tight fitting pants snaking gracefully between the tables.

  They unloaded their trays on to a table.

  ‘What are you doing in London then, Paula? Apart from mislaying your purse, I mean.’ He grinned at her impishly. She told him.

  ‘And what about you? Aren’t you with Carnega any more?’

  He shook his head. Dimples played in his cheeks.

  ‘No – now I’m with the House of Oliver.’

  ‘The House of Oliver …? Oh!’ she squealed as light dawned. ‘Your own house? You’ve set up as a designer in your own right, Gary?’

  ‘Yep. In a small way at the moment, of course, but things are happening. I came into a bit of money when my grandmother died and I decided to put it to good use.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit of a risk?’ Paula asked.

  He shrugged his narrow shoulders.

  ‘Perhaps. But I wanted to work for myself. Designing clothes for Carnega was all very well and I made a good living at it I won’t deny but I wanted to be free to do my own thing – and to have my own n
ame on the labels. I have quite a few contacts – people who knew me when I was designing for Carnega – and they have been very encouraging. So I have decided to move to London and open a showroom. In fact I have just been looking at a place in South Audley Street, not far from Mattli. If it works out we shall practically be neighbours, Paula.’

  ‘What a small world! I had no idea,’ Paula said, surprised she had not already heard the news. Usually the slightest whisper travelled like jungle drums through the world of fashion. Until now Gary had been an out-of-town designer, of course. But if he was moving to London his new fashion house would soon be a talking point.

  ‘We must keep in touch,’ Gary said as he finished his cheese roll. ‘Promise you’ll look in and say hello when you have time.’

  ‘I will. Apart from anything else I owe you a coffee.’

  ‘True. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to work for me in return? I’m looking for a couple of good models. Though I don’t suppose I could afford to pay you as well as Mattli does – yet. Maybe one day …’

  Paula laughed. ‘ I don’t earn that much! By the time I’ve paid for my room at the YWCA and bought all the make-up and clothes I need there never seems to be anything left over. I’m looking for a rich husband to take me away from it all.’

  ‘And I’m sure one day you’ll find him. In the meantime, don’t forget your friends, eh Paula?’

  ‘I won’t,’ she promised, glancing at her watch. ‘Oh hell, I shall have to go.’

  ‘Me too. But it was great to see you again, Paula.’

  They walked back to South Audley Street together, weaving their way through the lunchtime crowds on the pavements, the tall, striking girl and the young man whose pixieish looks belied his twenty-six years.

  Outside the front entrance of the House of Mattli Paula turned to give him a quick impulsive hug.

  ‘Thanks for the lunch, Gary. And good luck with your new venture!’ She held up her fingers, tightly crossed for him.