Blanche’s voice down the phone was odd. A touch of bravado, a bit of faltering, an unmistakable choke as she finished bringing the shocking news.
She had been fired. Along with the editor. The editor! When did they get fired? And the art director, the whole creative team, in fact.
‘But – who’s fired you?’
‘Mr Big –’ her name for the American proprietor, a sweet, benevolent man, who had inherited the whole Style stable from his own father – ‘Mr Big has died.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘Yes, and the dreaded Master Big has taken over.’ Master Big was the son and heir, obnoxiously brash, entirely lacking in his father’s courtesy and charm. ‘With ideas about relaunching, new editors – including, guess what, his girlfriend – new titles. He’s decided he doesn’t like English Style, he wants a whole new look and relaunch.’ Her voice broke.
‘Oh, Blanche, I’m so shocked.’ Diana had a lump in her throat herself. Style had made her, and Blanche was truly talented, a visionary when it came to fashion. She had had countless offers from other magazines and even a couple of newspapers, but she always turned them down, loyal to Style which she said was her natural habitat.
‘Anyway,’ she said now, her voice and emotions clearly under control. ‘I’m afraid it’s from today –’
‘Well, yes, they’re paying me for my notice period. Some Yank broad is on the plane even as we speak, taking up residence from Monday morning, and I’ve been told to cancel any features from June onwards. Which, since we put your shoot back two weeks, more’s the terrible pity, means goodbye to your American dream.’
‘Shit,’ said Diana. ‘Have you told Freddie?’
‘I was rather hoping you would. I can’t take many more of these phone calls, and there are a few sessions booked even sooner than yours. So, if you wouldn’t mind terribly, I’d be so grateful …’
‘Of course,’ said Diana. ‘And Blanche, let’s meet next week for a drink.’
‘Lovely. Call me in a few days when I’m a bit less frantic. Lot to do, not least clearing my desk.’
Blanche’s desk was famous for its clutter, every inch of surface taken up with sheets of photographers’ contacts, pages ripped from other magazines, scribbled reminder notes to herself, invitations and letters waiting to be answered. Diana could never believe the order Blanche could pull from this chaos. ‘Well,’ she said feebly now, ‘if there’s anything I can do –’
‘Sweet of you, darling, but I don’t think so; see you next week.’
Freddie was outraged: ‘Poor darling Blanche. Look, I’ll be over next week, I’m shooting something for Flair, and I’ve been summoned to Vogue as well. I’ll see what I can do. You’ll be around, I presume?’
‘Yes, where else might I be?’ said Diana. She suddenly felt very depressed.
She had been looking forward to this trip so much; it was the only really exciting thing on her horizon at the moment. The only thing altogether, she realised. Her social diary was not as full as she would have liked, she had no other bookings for any other magazines; her birthday was coming up and she supposed she could give a party, but it was her thirty-fifth, and would rather remind people, especially in the fashion business, that she was no longer young. OK. So Barbara Goalen was apparently immortal, and so was Fiona Campell-Walter, but they were goddesses, and she belonged to a more mortal band. Once forty she’d be done for, apart from the odd booking if she was lucky for ‘Mrs Exeter’, the elegant, sophisticated Vogue creation, Exeter being a synonym for ‘older’.
She suddenly thought about Jamie; maybe she could see him for half-term week. He was increasingly good company, and they had had a very good time in London seeing shows and films and were working their way through the sights. He was getting very tall and at the age of eight could easily be taken for ten. He was still a charming child, but there was no denying he was very spoilt; he only had to mention that he wanted something to his father than it arrived: he had a bigger horse, one of the new transistor radios, an electric gramophone, and Johnathan had set up a complete train layout for him all round one of the attic rooms.
‘You want to be a little bit careful, darling,’ Caroline said to Diana when she told her mother she thought they might look out for a new pony for Jamie for the autumn hunting season. ‘He’s well aware that you and Johnathan will do anything for him, just to keep him on your side, and he’s beginning to use that. It won’t really do any harm to say no to him once in a while.’
‘Maybe not, but I’m not going to risk it,’ said Diana coolly. ‘I think I know my own child well enough to make judgements about how I bring him up.’
Caroline wasn’t quite brave enough to say that having Jamie a maximum of twelve weeks a year was hardly bringing him up.
Diana telephoned Johnathan.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Oh, hello.’ His voice was very cold.
‘How are you?’
‘Pretty well, thanks.’
‘And your parents?’
‘Mother’s fine. Father needs round-the-clock care now.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He was silent.
‘Well, I’ll be brief. I wondered if I could have Jamie to stay for half term, rather than him coming up to you. There’s a new production of Over the Rainbow, which I wanted him to see, and some lovely children’s concerts at the Festival Hall.’
‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question.’
‘Why?’
‘Catherine and I are getting married that week.’
‘Goodness. Well – congratulations.’
‘Thank you. I’m surprised you haven’t seen the announcement or Jamie didn’t mention it.’
‘No, he said nothing. Obviously he didn’t think it was very important,’ she added, her voice edged with malice.
‘I doubt it. He’s very excited about it and playing a big part in the ceremony.’
‘How nice. Well, it’s been a long time coming, we’ve been divorced for quite some time.’
‘Yes, indeed. But Catherine’s mother’s been very ill, and we wanted to wait until that was resolved. Fortunately she’s much better. And now we want to be married as soon as possible, as Catherine desperately wants to have children.’
‘How delightful. Well, congratulations, Johnathan. I hope it all goes very well.’
‘Thank you. And I’m sorry I can’t oblige over Jamie.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’
But it did.
She went for a walk, made for the Bayswater Road, and down to Selfridges. She didn’t quite have the heart for buying clothes, but she needed some cosmetics, and she could have lunch there. That should cheer her up. She bought a copy of the Daily Mail to read over lunch and then, having purchased rather more Coty powder, Elizabeth Arden lipsticks and Revlon eyeliner than she would get through in a year, settled down to a chicken salad, and opened the paper.
It was predictably full of election news; Mr Eden was putting into his busy schedule three live television broadcasts, where members of the press would question him. It was, the Daily Mail informed her, the first election to be fought on television. She studied the picture of Eden; he was an extraordinarily good-looking man. He left poor Attlee looking like an elderly hobgoblin. She wondered idly if Josh would be one of the press; then decided he was clearly too junior. But his boss, Clive Bedford, might. She would watch the programme, see what he was like. It was a good paper, the Daily News; she liked it. It treated you as if you were intelligent. The leader they had run about homosexuals had been very good; Josh said they were considering turning it into a campaign now. That reminded her of Ned; he was a good dinner companion, she would phone him and see if he was free tonight. That would be fun. Better than an election broadcast.
There was a paper boy outside Selfridges; on an impulse, to see if Josh had any stories in it, she bought a copy of the Daily News and caught a taxi home to Knightsbridge.
Ned’s secretary at his private rooms said she wasn’t expecting him back that day as he was operating. She would leave a message for him to ring Diana back. ‘But he’s got a very long list, Miss Southcott, I doubt if he’ll be able to ring you before eight.’
Diana sighed. This wasn’t her day. She made herself a cup of coffee, and leafed through the Daily News; more of the election. She was about to close it when an item intruded on her consciousness.
LABOUR CANDIDATE RESISTS PRESSURE TO SWITCH CONSTITUENCIES, page 5.
Very slowly, very carefully, as if it was some priceless silk blouse she was dealing with, Diana opened the paper at page 5. There, occupying almost a quarter of the page, was the story, byline Josh Curtis.
Labour Party hopeful, Tom Knelston, considered by many insiders to have a bright future in politics, has shown that all too rare quality in the business, loyalty. Offered what is known as a safe seat to contest in the imminent election, he has refused, in order to remain with Purbridge, a Tory-held seat, where he was selected as Labour candidate some time ago.
‘I feel I belong in Purbridge,’ he said. ‘I have made many good friends there with whom I share values and enjoy working. And we will continue to work together for the better, fairer future that only Labour can bring this country.’
Mr Knelston is well known for his admiration of Aneurin Bevan and is passionate about the National Health Service and its ideals. He is very much a family man, and his wife Alice recently gave birth to their third child.
There was a photograph of the family man and his wife and children sitting on a sofa. Diana, feeling oddly calm, studied it closely. Alice was pretty, she noticed, with blonde – albeit extremely badly cut – curly hair, and a wide smile; she was cradling the baby, while the two older children sat between their parents, their father’s arm around them. It was a charming photograph.
Slowly, the calm left Diana, to be replaced by a twisting fury of rage and jealousy. Loyal, was he? A family man? She had a very clear vision suddenly of Tom, standing naked in front of her in her bedroom, grinning joyfully post-sex, holding the bottle of champagne she had just sent him to fetch from the kitchen. Very loyal. She wondered what the paper would make of that side of his story – his many friends in his constituency might well feel differently about his values – and, as she sat there, a conviction began to grow in her that they really did deserve to know.
Ned had indeed had a long list; had it not been so long, had he not been so tired, things might all have been very different. He would have simply walked home, had a large whisky and fallen asleep in his chair to the strains of La Bohème, the eight-record version of which Persephone had just given him.
However, he was very tired; his judgement was thus slightly impaired and his temper short. As he removed his scrubs and dressed, he realised that he could hear loud crying coming from the direction of the children’s ward, urgent, desperate, terrified crying. Disturbed, Ned hurried to the entrance of the ward, where he found a young child, the source of the screaming, clinging to his mother; a hapless nurse, clearly responsible for him, was trying to calm him, while Sister endeavoured to prise him away.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ he said, more sharply than he would normally have done. ‘You’ll have the whole ward awake at this rate.’ Indeed, several small people were already sitting up in bed, clearly fascinated by the ruckus.
Sister turned to Ned and said impatiently, ‘It’s nothing serious, Mr Welles. Billy’s in pain, and he keeps being sick, he’s been sent up from casualty, and he won’t let his mother go and she more or less refuses to go. He’ll settle in a while if we all leave him alone.’
‘Of course you can’t leave him alone,’ said Ned, the word ‘settle’ unsettling him almost to violence. ‘Poor little chap. He’s obviously frightened out of his wits. God Almighty, I would be. What’s he been brought in for?’
‘Acute appendicitis. Appendectomy first thing in the morning. Mr Sharp’s seen him and said to have him ready first on the list.’
Graham Sharp was perfectly competent, in Ned’s view, although at the age of forty had probably reached the peak of his career.
‘He doesn’t consider it necessary to do it tonight?’
‘No, Mr Welles, he does not,’ said Sister firmly. ‘Now, Billy, you’re much too big a boy for that silly crying. Say goodbye to your mother and come with me, and we’ll get you into bed.’
Billy peered into the darkened ward with its long row of beds, and screamed even louder. Sister recommenced her prising, yet more children sat up in bed, and Billy’s mother said, fresh tears flowing, ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Ned lost his temper. ‘Sister, can we stop this nonsense at once. Would you please allow Billy’s mother to get him into bed and stay with him until he’s asleep, or certainly calmer. And you,’ he said, turning to the nurse. ‘You get all those other children tucked up again. I’m sorry, Mrs – sorry, I don’t know your name –’
‘Johns,’ said the mother, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. ‘I’m ever so sorry, sir, he doesn’t usually behave like this, but –’
‘But he’s in a very frightening situation. Of course. Now, Billy –’ and he squatted down in front of the little boy and took one of his hands – ‘you do have to stay here, I’m afraid – we have to make your poor tummy better – but Mummy will be with you for as long as you want her to be. Which is his bed, Sister?’
Sister, beyond speech, pointed at an empty bed at the end of the ward; Ned led Billy and his mother to it, pulled the curtains round them and said in little more than a whisper, ‘Do you have any pyjamas with you?’
Billy shook his head.
‘We didn’t know he’d be staying,’ said Mrs Johns. ‘I’m very sorry.’
‘Of course you didn’t. We have some he can borrow, I’m sure. What about a teddy or something?’
‘Well, there’s his dumdum as he calls it,’ said Mrs Johns, producing a distinctly grubby muslin nappy from her bag, ‘but the nurse said he couldn’t bring it, said it’s dirty.’
‘Well, it won’t do him any harm tonight,’ said Ned, taking it. ‘Tomorrow we’ll have to get it washed, I’m afraid, but that’s no problem. Now I’m going to find you some pyjamas, young man. You wait here with your mummy.’
He walked out to the nurses’ desk, where three goggled-eyed nurses were clustered, whispering and giggling, and asked one of them to find Billy some pyjamas and take them to him. ‘And let him keep that grubby bit of cloth until he goes down for surgery in the morning. Mrs Johns is going to stay with him until he goes to sleep. Is that quite clear?’
‘Yes, Mr Welles,’ they said in chorus.
Ned nodded and went into Sister’s office. She was white with rage.
‘Mr Welles, I cannot have this sort of thing in my ward. The disruption is dreadful. What’s more, you have totally undermined my authority and I shall make a formal complaint in the morning.’
‘That is absolutely your prerogative,’ said Ned. ‘I’m sorry if you feel undermined, but I would like to point out that it is not your ward, it’s the children’s. The disruption has entirely ceased, if you notice, and Billy himself is quiet and as happy as can be expected for a child who has undergone such a significant trauma as he has today and who indeed is undoubtedly still in pain. Goodnight, Sister. I shall be in my room for another half-hour, should there be any further problems.’
Sister was silent; Ned, who had longed only to get home in the shortest possible time, walked to his room and sat down wearily at his desk. Where he found, finally, among other messages tucked under his blotter, the one from Diana; he decided to ignore it until the morning.