I DIDN’T GO to Pimlico the next day, being too frightened to face the interview with Crudge, and I got up late and messed around in Oxford Street looking in the shops and having lunch with a friend who worked at Vogue, who went green with envy when I said I had nothing to do all day.

‘You don’t know how lucky you are,’ she said, knowingly. I’m always frightened by people knowing things that I don’t, or worse still, ‘knowing me better than I know myself’. I said feebly, ‘You don’t know how lucky you are, a nice job, earning …’ but she just looked mysterious and said: ‘You’ll know well enough when you get a job, how lucky you were as you are now.’

In fact Saturday came, and I still hadn’t been to Pimlico … a row’s a row, whether it’s over two weeks absence or three and all that, and I wasn’t looking forward to it whatever it was going to be.

I got up at twelve that morning, woken by a telephone call from Tom. My father roared into my room, whizzing up the blinds, saying, ‘Your ha ha favourite man’s on the telephone.’ I turned over and squeaked faintly. The light hurt so much and I’d been woken in the middle of a nice dream where everything was getting cosier and cosier. I hunched myself up and got out of bed and pottered to the telephone.

‘Hullo?’ I said grouchily.

‘Hullo, luv,’ said Tom.

‘Who is that speaking?’ I had a fit of early morning anger, and my voice sounded odd. I always wonder why my voice sounds so different in the morning. It has a squeaky, croaky sound … in fact so does everyone else’s. Has one’s voice got to get going before it starts to work?

‘It’s your favourite TV man,’ he said. He sounded better on the telephone. One couldn’t see him make his arch faces.

‘Watcha doin’, luv? Just got up?’

‘Yes, actually.’ Actually … yes that made it a bit nastier.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. Just wanted to have a gossip. What’ve you been up to? I’ve just been for a walk in the park … SUPER.’

‘Oh yes? All those nannies and things.’

‘Well, cutting out the nannies.’

Fool, fool. The nannies made the park.

‘How about coming for a walk in the park this afternoon? Nick’s got his camera and we want to take some pics.’ I suspect he said ‘pix’ actually.

I suddenly remembered Ann.

‘Yes, I’d love to … can I bring an absolutely sweet friend of mine, too, though? Do you know her? Ann Hopkins. She’s a friend of mine at Pimlico.’

‘Ann Hopkins? But isn’t she that gir … birdie you keep saying is so beastly?’

‘NONSENSE! She’s simply terrific … pretty, stupid, jolly … just your type.’

He thought it was smart to like stupid girls.

‘Sounds just me type … bring her along. Bet she’s not as super as you though.’

You’re right there, brother. I only think in these awful American gangster phrases. I’d hate to think that people thought I actually said them.

We said goodbye and I mooched back to bed. Super indeed! He should see me now, ho ho. I looked like Mrs. Rochester in a dirty nightdress.

Tom came to pick me up at three. He stood on the doorstep in his Sunday, weekend clothes. He wore a dark blue fisherman’s jersey, and his fair hair fell over his face in a consciously casual way.

‘’lo, luv.’ He didn’t move.

‘HULLO, TOM!’ I said loudly and marched down the steps of the house to his car. He didn’t move, he just stood and looked at me, smiling. I could see him thinking, ‘You funny little skittish eighteen year old, what it is to be young!’

‘Won’t you kiss me?’

This was an awful routine that had grown up since I had once embraced him lavishly in a fit of ‘Good Old Tom’ ism when I had been away for three weeks, and ever since then he considered it was his due that I should give him a social peck whenever I saw him. I used to dread it when he came to pick me up because I knew that he would put on his pathetic little boy face if I didn’t kiss him and say, ‘Won’t you give me a peck, luv?’, and yet if I did he would say, ‘That’s more like it, young lady’ as if he were training me.

‘Uhuh.’ I gave what I hoped was a cynical smile.

He opened the door of the car for me … it had a horrible smell. I don’t know what it was. It wasn’t that nice smell of fresh plastic that new cars have, nor was it a smell of petrol and fumes that old cars have. Tom’s car just smelt stale.

We roared off to pick up Ann. I hoped she wouldn’t be looking too terrible.

When I had rung her up she had seemed singularly ungrateful for my trouble, and had groaned, saying, ‘But I’ve got nothing to wear, and it’s so cold for a walk in the park.’ Too true. It was freezing, but Tom, like all men, never felt the cold. Or maybe he thought it was unmanly to be cold. He often looked cold, with red hands and pink cheeks, but when I started chattering my teeth, he would say, ‘You cold? There must be something the matter with you.’ There was always something the matter with me … I mean it wouldn’t have sounded right had I said to him, ‘Aren’t you cold? There must be something the matter with you.’

Ann came to the door absolutely ready the minute we arrived, as badly dressed as ever. She had a pair of yellow ski-pants with loops at the bottom to go under her feet, and flimsy flat gold shoes. Tom said at once, ‘You won’t be able to walk in the park in those, you know,’ as if we were going on a hiking expedition rather than a potter round Kensington Gardens taking, ah, pics.

‘Oh, shut up, Tom. You are a disapproves,’ I said, lest Ann should either be rude to him or weakly blush and rush in and change them.

She clambered into the back, her back-brushed hair pressing on the roof of the car, and her plastic bag held tightly in her knees.

‘This is Tom … this is Ann,’ I said (to get the whole thing going), whereupon Tom said: ‘Harriet’s been telling me lots of nice things about you …’ and Ann said, ‘Oh, I ah hu hu well how sweet um.’

Then she turned to me and said in a stage whisper, ‘I must tell you all about Saturday … it’s a terribly long story, but I think, fingers crossed, etc., that it’s all OK.’

‘What?’ said Tom. ‘Good party?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Ann, and gave me a very knowing look.

We were going up Queen’s Gate and it looked horribly cold outside.

‘That’s where I went to school,’ I pointed out, a matter of great interest to me, but not, apparently, to anyone else. Nobody turned their heads, and I was rather hurt.

‘We had to walk up to play rounders here every day,’ I went on. They weren’t interested. It was rather odd to look at the empty street and think that it was where I had walked every day when I was seven and eight – extraordinary to think of a tiny figure in bumptoed shoes and a sailor hat which had been me, walking up Queen’s Gate, holding some other little girl’s hand and getting worked up about the prep. And here I am now, driving up it with a young man of twenty-two and a dolled-up girlfriend. It just shows, yes. It does indeed, yes mam.

‘Where’s Nick?’ I asked.

‘He should be there now. He went on ahead when I picked you up.’

‘Nick’s a photographer friend of Tom’s,’ I explained to Ann, but obviously my schools talk had reached Ann, because she suddenly leant forward to Tom, and said with great urgency, ‘Where did you go to school?’

Tom gave me a ‘What a question!’ look, with raised eyebrows.

As I knew them both very well, I felt I had to be the intermediator, and if Tom wanted to be rude to Ann, I would have to be rude to her for him, and if Ann wanted to sneer at Tom, I would have to sneer at him for her.

So … ‘What a question!’ I said. ‘Good heavens … Tom’s old enough to be someone’s father. You must have forgotten where you even went to school.’

Aha … not too rude.

Ann didn’t take the hint.

‘No, but where?’

Tom groaned. ‘Windlesham, if you really want to know.’

They both gave me raised-eyebrow looks then. Tom because he didn’t like questions about where he went to school (especially as it was only Windlesham), and Ann because some boyfriend of hers had been there.

After this sparkling repartee, Tom stopped the car and we got out. It was cold, and Tom took hours with his camera, fitting in lenses and losing bits of coloured cellulose. Nick wandered up from behind a car.

He was quite smashing in a way, but very offhand. I still wasn’t sure whether he was silent because he was so intelligent that he despised everything one said, or whether he was so stupid that he couldn’t open his mouth.

‘Have you got a filter for this?’ he asked Tom, holding up a bit of black shiny plastic.

‘Let’s see … Rolloflex 800, Kodachrome 620 … using that, mate? Wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’ll get an awful reflection if you want to get intense close-ups. And with the light like this you should use a faster film.’

Ann and I hopped from foot to foot on the gravel, while they fiddled around with cameras. It was almost worse than old cars. Ann beckoned to me from where she had wandered and seized my arm.

‘I NEVER expected him to be like THAT!’ she said. Like what? I wondered.

‘But I must tell you about Saturday, because it was so wonderful and John’s brother was so sweet … that’s Peter Blake, he says he met you by the way but you wouldn’t remember him. I think he thought you were a bit weird. Anyway, we all went off … no to start with he rang up, it was awful because I thought it was Tim because he said he’d ring … he never did actually, I can’t think why. Anyway, I was so surprised I almost had hysterics, I couldn’t think of anything to say … you know … and he said would I like to go out with him on Saturday, and of course I was meant to be seeing Graham then but I said OK and he was simply furious when I put him off. I didn’t know what to say really. I said we had people in and my mother wanted me to stay and meet them on Saturday, of course it wasn’t true and so I went out with Peter. He’s got this fantastic car, did I tell you?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s an E-Type Jaguar with a fabulous wireless that comes out of the back sort of and he had a super suit on. Oh, I forgot, you see Mummy heard me putting Graham off and she was simply furious and said I was terribly rude, you see she likes Graham. He’s so polite and sort of polite and she said that I really ought to keep in with him. I think she’s right really because he’s got an awful lot of friends and is very rich and also he’s in advertising and a good connection to all that sort of thing. Anyway Peter was absolutely sweet and took me to this fabulous place where you get a flower with your meal and the waiters rush up with lights whenever you have a cigarette in your hand, you know he actually bought me a packet of twenty Rothman’s … honestly he’s so rich it’s so unfair. I mean to go around buying one cigarettes just like that and ROTHMAN’S too … what are they? Sort of five shillings for twenty or something … THINK of it …’

At this point Nick eased up and gave Ann a brief glance. He signalled vaguely for us to come along.

‘This is Ann … I don’t think you know Nick,’ I said, trying to get variety into the Ann–Nick introduction.

He nodded at her boredly and we started walking up towards the statue of Physical Energy.

Ann nudged me and burst into fits of giggles when we reached it, as if it was a dirty postcard.

Tom raised his eyebrows at me at this outburst and Ann, seeing this, although not meant to, then raised hers more surreptitiously at me. I gave them both absentminded smiles. It was rather tricky.

‘Very good silhouette,’ said Tom, gazing up at it. ‘And those clouds … they’re very exciting. Look, Harriet, do you see … that wonderful floating shape contrasted by those fluffy ones, like down out of a pillow … and look how the sky changes to green to the left …’

I stared dully at the sky. It looked much the same as usual to me and the clouds weren’t particularly good. Tom was obviously in his observing mood, and would rave over anything he saw.

‘Hmm,’ I said, non-committally.

‘What do you mean – ‘Hmm’? How can you just stand there saying ‘Hmm’ when you’re looking at a most beautiful piece of natural phenomena? Doesn’t it excite you?’

Like hell. And I was getting cold too.

Tom walked away, his lips pursed, and eventually crouched down in an extraordinary position in the grass and squinted through the lens of his camera. Ann sat down on the base of the statue.

‘Get out of the way, can’t you?’ shouted Tom. ‘Can’t you see I’m taking a photograph?’

Ann hopped off. ‘I say, we are cross today, aren’t we?’ she said to me.

Nick was far away taking a great deal of photographs at great speed very casually. Tom disentangled himself from his position and we walked on.

Ann tripped along beside me. ‘I’m going to ask him if he knew Peter … he was at Windlesham,’ she whispered to me.

‘Did you know someone called Peter Blake at Windlesham?’ she asked.

Tom dragged on his cigarette.

‘Peter Blake. Can’t say I did.’

Thank God, I thought. But too soon, because suddenly a sneer passed over his face. He turned to Ann.

‘Wait a minute, now … was he a spotty little rich squirt about fourteen? Well, he must be about, what, nineteen, now. Yes I do remember him. Ghastly little boy. He had a crush on me for a year and somehow I got him for a fag. He’d always turn up last on purpose so that he could run my errand. That’s right. I remember beating him once, one of the happiest memories of my life. He used to dribble and leave a terrible smell in the lavatory … God he was unpleasant. Do you remember Peter Blake at school?’ He turned to Nick, who had caught us up.

Nick nodded and said with a dry laugh, ‘You couldn’t forget a face like that in a hurry.’

Tom turned to Ann. ‘Why do you ask? Hope he’s not a friend of yours!’

Ann was confused. I could see she didn’t know what to say and she blushed.

‘Oh well, yes actually in a sort of way. He’s quite nice now, in fact he’s really terribly nice, I think, at least.’

At this Nick burst out laughing and went off to take some photographs of trees.

Another eyebrow-raising session went on between Tom and me and Ann and me, and I said desperately, ‘People can change an awful lot … I’m sure I was an awful little girl.’

‘Oh, yes, yes. You’re so right.’ They both heartily agreed with me.

I got out a packet of cigarettes and offered them to Tom and Ann. They were tipped Woodbines. Tom started to take one and then, seeing what they were, refused.

‘Tipped Woodbines? Yer joking!’ he exclaimed. OK. Next time it would have to be something like Bachelors to please both Tom and Pimlico students.

We got to the Serpentine and Tom started to take more photos. Nick was sitting alone on a park bench. We sat down beside him.

‘What does your friend do?’ he asked me, eventually.

Ann started to reply.

‘I’m at Pimlico with Harriet … you know, painting.’

He nodded at her, and then turned back to me.

‘Harriet … of course. I completely forgot what your name was. I couldn’t think of it. I knew I’d seen you before somewhere.’

This was really beastly, as I had been out with Nick and Tom at least three times before, and here he was, being all snooty and one up.

‘What do you think about photography?’ he asked. ‘I mean I would imagine that you being art students would disapprove of its being too quick and easy.’

I started to disagree, but Ann butted in saying, as if it were a moral issue, and obviously remembering some of the conversations in the canteen at Pimlico, ‘Well, of course … it’s not Art, is it?’

I wished she wouldn’t try her hand at arguments about art. She couldn’t argue at all anyway, but to argue about art was dangerous ground even for the most intelligent person. Nick didn’t reply. He just smiled.

Fearing that my silence would be taken as agreement with Ann’s remark, and yet not wanting to make Ann feel an utter fool, I said: ‘I don’t think you can associate the two. I’m more in favour of photography than art, but they’re so different. What a subject, anyway!’

Nick smiled again, as if he were recording our remarks in his mind, to produce later on at a satirical cocktail party as typical examples of feeble minds. It made me feel uncomfortable, and I was relieved when Tom came up, clutching a piece of bark which he handed to Nick.

‘Look at these colours … better than any Leonardo … fabulous. I’ve just got some super shots of the water. You should see the reflections. The leaves of the chestnut look most eerie, like long black fingers groping for a hidden secret in the depths.’

‘Lovely,’ said Ann.

Nick crushed the bark to pulp and let it dribble out between his fingers. He got up and sauntered off.

We seemed to walk for miles that afternoon, Ann complaining about the high heels getting ruined, and shivering with cold.

‘You cold, luv?’ asked Tom, as we wandered round the Round Pond for the second time for him to get some shots of little boys playing with boats.

‘Frozen.’

I hoped he would take the hint that I wanted to go home, but he just took off his coat gallantly and handed it to me.

‘Wear this,’ he said. How could I refuse? The last thing I wanted to do was to roam the park in Tom’s jacket. I looked so silly. But politeness forced me to suppress the ‘But it’s not that sort of cold. It’s my toes and fingers and my nose.’

He disappeared among some trees muttering, ‘Look at those super black shapes … what wonderful forms those trees have! Like a great army of soldiers ready for battle.’ This was said in his poetic I-can-do-it-like Christopher Logue voice.

Ann and I were left once again by ourselves.

At once she started talking about Tom, before, I thought, he was out of hearing.

‘Harriet, how CAN you like him? He’s so pompous. Not my type at all.’

‘SSSH.’

‘Yes, I know, but honestly. The things he said about Peter. I can’t understand it. I like his friend though. He’s super.’

Unperceptive as ever. Nick had displayed his dislike of Ann quite obviously, I thought. And although I quite agreed with her about Tom, I was furious that she should actually say so when I had been to all the trouble of inviting her on this terrible expedition. I liked Nick too. There was something very attractive about his beastliness and cool.

I saw him out of the corner of my eye. I half turned and could see that he was taking photographs of Ann and me. I felt really embarrassed, especially as I was looking so silly in Tom’s coat. I took off my glasses casually to look a bit better. I was furious that he was taking them surreptitiously … it was like tape recording someone saying something silly. And if I turned round and accused him of taking photographs of us, I knew he would look at me astonished and say indignantly, ‘What? ME taking photographs of YOU?’

And why was he taking photographs of us? Were they to produce at the satirical cocktail party (‘Look, these are the girls who made those fatuous remarks about photography and art’) or was he going to cut our heads off the photographs, stick them on to nude bodies and sell them to his friends?

*

It had been, on the whole, an unsuccessful afternoon, and by the time I got home, I was cold and tired and in no mood for Damon’s party that night. Still, I staggered into my room and wondered what to wear.

Would it be better to look rich, pretty or scruffy? I ended up by putting on my only respectable dress, the Young Jaeger number in dirty red with a dropped waist and dirtier red stripes round the skirt. The only thing about it was that I hadn’t altered the arm-holes, and, being tight, they rubbed against me, making the most revolting wet dark red rings under my arms.

Oh well, pile on the Mum Rollette, I thought drearily.

Tom picked me up at 8.30 and we drove off to the Chelsea Weaver in the King’s Road.

‘Yer looking super, luv,’ he said.

‘Yer looking pretty super yerself,’ I said, glad that there was no one there to overhear it. He was, though, really looking very good indeed.

‘Got some super pics this afternoon. Lovely ones of the Round Pond. Might do for a feature,’ he said casually.

‘Oh yes … good.’ I paused. ‘What did you think of Ann?’

‘Not really my cup of tea. But quite bright.’

I couldn’t understand it. The last thing I would have said was that Ann was bright. Or maybe Tom was just being nice about her because she was one of my friends.

‘Want a Greek meal this evening?’ he said.

‘I thought it was Damon’s party tonight.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Tom, offhandedly. ‘So it is. Well, we might drop in and see what it’s like. You fancied him, didn’t you?’

‘No, no, no,’ I said hurriedly, and searched for reasons to back up the lie.

‘He was … I don’t know … too smooth, and I can’t bear people who go to prison the whole time just because they think it’s glamorous. I remember Thompson refusing to pay his parking fine just so he could get put into prison because he thought it was cool. But then if Damon was in prison for something big it makes it a bit different I suppose. But I didn’t fancy him a bit. Just another creep you know. Maybe a bit more charming than most, but not my type at all.’

‘That sounds to me like over-justification, young lady. Anyway, every bird I’ve ever met has fallen for Damon, so I can’t believe you’re any exception … all the same you birdies. But couldn’t do without you mind. Super things, birdies.’

Oh dear. To be seen through by Tom. I must be losing my, what I laughingly call, grip. Anyway, I could see through him equally well. He wouldn’t miss Damon’s party for all the world. And all this drop in stuff was sheer one-upmanship. I’d seen him writing down the address hurriedly under the table as Damon had left us. And, anyway, he was dressed exactly to go to a Damon party, in a grey denim shirt and a fly front and a button down collar, narrow grey trousers and his blond hair brushed carefully forward. Drop in my foot.

When we approached the Weaver, he stared at the cars parked outside and took a note of their numbers.

‘Good. Some nice people here tonight. Nick as well. D’you like Nick?’

I had to tread steadily this time. If I said that I did, Tom would say ‘I SEE, aha …’ and if I said I didn’t he would say something about over-justification again.

‘Oh, Nick … yes, I meant to ask you. What does he do?’ I mentally patted myself on the back, and started across the road. Although it was empty, Tom pulled me back gasping, ‘Hey, watch it. You might have been run over.’

Tom hated me doing anything on my own. About two minutes later a car crawled past and then Tom grabbed my arm and we scooted across, just avoiding a passing lorry. The lorry driver slowed down and yelled, ‘Watch it next time!’

I muttered ‘Sorry’ to myself and started to hurry away, but Tom stopped in his tracks and yelled back, ‘Watcha mean, mate? You watch it next time, you don’t want to go round at that speed in London, y’know.’

‘An’ you don’t want to go over roads wivout looking, cock,’ called the lorry driver.

‘You want trouble?’ shouted Tom. I got more and more embarrassed.

‘Oh, come on, Tom,’ I whispered, pulling at his sleeve in an idiotically feminine way. ‘It was our fault really.’

‘It was NOT, I tell you.’

I gave up and went into the Weaver alone. Nick was sitting sleepily in a chair. I could just see him through the smell of drink and cigarettes that rose up like mist from the bar. The bar was sticky, like a pole on the horses on the roundabout at the funfair, and there was a terrible bar-noise of semi-drunk people. I pushed over to Nick through people all laughing and talking. I couldn’t think what they were talking about really. They just seemed to be laughing at nothing, and saying, ‘What’ll you have? and, ‘Do you mind?’ as I pushed past. Some said: ‘I say … have you come to join us?’ to me … the sort of people who would have been most horrified had I said ‘Yes, I have’ and sat on a bar stool revealing my thighs.

I got to Nick at last, and he seemed pleased to see me for once.

‘Where’s Tom?’ he said.

‘Oh, outside, having a row with a lorry driver who he thinks tried to run us over … yes, I’d love some tomato juice.’

Nick wandered over to the bar, saying ‘Hi’ to people he knew and putting his arm on their shoulders. I am crazy about men who are demonstrative with other men in that sort of way. I was always falling for homosexuals, rather hopelessly. But Nick wasn’t homosexual, which was unfortunate in a way because it meant that he was not completely unattainable. He looked very nice that night. I couldn’t understand why he knew Tom. He had on a pair of flared Levis, and a grey polo-necked jersey under a dark blue jacket with a vent up the back and narrow lapels. The coat was just worn over his shoulders like Spaniards wear them. He sloped back with my tomato juice.

I caught myself staring at him, a bit too long.

‘I hate pubs, I must say,’ I said, really to see what his reply would be. If he agreed, he would be an OK person.

‘So do I,’ he said, and pinched a girl’s bottom as she passed. ‘But I like drink, so it seems the sensible place to meet people. Do you prefer coffee bars or something?’

‘Of course not. Terrible places.’ I felt this was the right thing to say, but in fact I rather liked coffee bars, with juke boxes and shop girls and teds, and lots of froth and brown sugar and plastic spoons.

Nick turned casually. ‘You don’t mean that. Why, do you think it’s smart not to like coffee bars or something? Don’t you like that froth and brown sugar and pop music atmosphere?’

Oh God. I didn’t realise that he thought right as well as dressed right.

‘Of course I like that sort of thing. I thought you meant those sort of South Ken places like Hades and Barino Barini or whatever it is.’

‘No.’ He gave a dry laugh, which implied ‘As if I would mean those sort of places’.

Tom came in rather flushed, and sat down angrily.

‘You needn’t have rushed off like that, Harriet. He was in the wrong. We might have been killed.’

Nick smiled. ‘What have you been doing? Harriet came rushing in all flushed and worried saying you were being beaten up by a lorry driver.’

‘I didn’t say anything of the sort, what are you talking about?’

‘BEING BEATEN UP BY A LORRY DRIVER? Really, Harriet, why did you say that?’

‘I don’t know what Nick’s talking …’

‘Anyway, who won?’ asked Nick.

‘Who do you think?’ Tom flexed his muscles facetiously.

I was about to say ‘the lorry driver’ but it sounded a bit obvious in front of Nick.

Tom got himself a glass of wine and we sat in silence. I can never think of anything to say in pubs. The noise of other people talking makes me feel it isn’t necessary, while had we been sitting in silence, I would have felt forced to say something out of nerves.

‘Damon’s party tonight.’

‘Oh, that’s why you’re all dressed up in your layabout gear,’ said Nick. Actually, I thought that Nick must be going as well, as he too looked far better dressed than usual.

‘Are you taking Harriet?’ he said.

‘Of course. I could never do without her.’

‘Good. Will it be good? The last one he gave was OK. All the old Chelsea faces.’

‘It should be. In spite of it being given by Damon. Come with us.’ Tom put down his wine.

‘What’ll the bird scene be like, though?’

‘How should I know?’ said Tom. ‘The old one-track mind at work again?’

‘How can I help it with such a pretty girl sitting next to me?’ said Nick, looking at me and putting his hand on my knee. I felt embarrassed. Better that he should be rude than phonily affectionate.

‘Uhuh,’ I said. ‘Ha. Ha.’ His hand got a little further up my leg. I wondered how far he would go and how long I could stick it without blushing. I sipped my tomato juice again and moved away nonchalantly. They were both looking at me interestedly. Nick’s hand was up to the elastic of my pants.

‘You’re nervous, aren’t you?’ said Nick.

‘No. You’re just tickling me.’

‘You’re nervous.’

‘I’m not.’ I got hot. I didn’t know how to carry it off. Should I shriek with girlish laughter and say ‘Oh you ARE a one!’ That didn’t sound very me. Nothing sounded very me in this situation. I was very bad at carrying these things off.

‘Then if you’re not nervous you’re enjoying it.’ Nick looked very slitty-eyed and creepy.

‘Sure, I’m crazy about hands up my skirt, do you mind.’ I looked as hard as I could and only hoped that I didn’t sound as neurotic as I felt.

Nick removed his hand and laughed. ‘You’ve got nice thighs anyway, and I bet that’s more than Tom’s ever found out.’

I dropped all my Woodbines onto the floor into a pool of old beer in my eagerness to have a smoke. Tom smiled and said: ‘You got sex on the brain, Nicholas.’

‘Which is more than you’ve got on yours.’

I’d never seen Nick in this mood before.

‘How was Ann when you rang her up?’ asked Tom. ‘Did she say she fancied us?’

‘Oh, Heavens, I never rang her. I think she was rather upset at your description of her boyfriend, but she said something about Nick being nice or something odd.’

‘Little digs will get you nowhere,’ said Nick, stretching out his long legs, and looking at his watch. ‘Do you want another drink, Tom?’

‘Another encre rouge, please.’

‘And another health drink for our Miss Bennett, I suppose.’

He wandered back with another tomato juice and a glass of wine for Tom. I hated the way Tom called it encre rouge. He was the first one to pounce on those who called it ‘redders’, but was in fact committing just the same crime himself.

‘So Ann fancied me, did she? I must say, she was quite a sexy little virgin.’

As Nick had scarcely spoken to her, I was amazed that he had even noticed her, let alone been right in thinking that she was a virgin.

We stayed at the Weaver until Nick left, saying he’d meet us at the party.

Tom frowned as he left.

‘Oh, dear. Nick’s in one of his randy moods. He’s always so boring when he gets like that. He’s nice, though … he adores you.’

‘What?’ My eyes popped. ‘He hasn’t got a civil thing to say to me.’

‘That’s just this evening, though. He was saying this afternoon when I’d left you how bright and super you were. Didn’t he have some talk with you about art or something?’

I perked up. Oh, not so bad.

Tom turned the key, pressed the starter and revved up the car.

‘Well, we’d better get something to eat if we want to be at this party before twelve. Where d’you want to go? Chinese, French, Italian, Greek … what sort of food do you want?’

*

After supper, Tom looked drearily at his watch.

‘’Spose you want to go to this party … you are a bore … you know what it’ll be like.’

Yes! Yes! I thought squeakily. I knew he wanted to go as much as me. But was it worth saying that I didn’t want to go just to see how he got out of not going?

I tried.

‘Yes. I’m not sure you’re not right after all. After all, Damon was rather typical of his sort. I mean it’ll just be another of those DRAG Chelsea parties, GOD, I’m bored with them.’

I felt this was safe as I’d heard so many people say that about them. The fact that they were comparatively new to me would not show through, I hoped.

Tom paused a moment. He was confused. He gave me a long low look as if he had something to say but was waiting to give it full impact. In fact it was quite obvious that he was trying to think of something.

‘Harriet,’ he said. It was like a lecture from a school mistress. He was playing for time.

‘Now listen to me.’ He paused again. Poor boy. I had thought up about three ways that he could have extricated himself from the situation, but each of them would have entailed him laughing at himself for pretending not to want to go.

I waited.

‘Harriet.’ It was coming at last. ‘I am sick and tired of you changing your mind. Either you want to go or you don’t. Now, we decided that you wanted to go at the beginning of this evening, and go we shall, whether you want to or not.’

‘You can’t say you’re a fool can you BOYO,’ I muttered.

‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing. I was just muttering.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Just this and that.’

This annoyed Tom intensely. He felt that he was being left out of something. If I said something to myself, he would be jealous of me for taking my attention away from him.

He paid the bill, and we left the restaurant. It was nice to get into the open air, away from the restaurant smells and the restaurant conversation. I had a crick in my neck from talking to Tom, who always insisted on sitting beside me at a table instead of opposite. More intimate, ha ha.

We buzzed off. Tom spent a good half hour staring at his A to Z, putting on his glasses and taking them off, and eventually got out of the car crossly, as if it was my fault that he was an idiot as far as maps were concerned. He went round to the back of the car to get the light of his rear lights.

I stayed in my seat muttering to myself, and drawing pictures of beautiful men on the misted window. Tom returned with pursed lips.

‘OK.’

*

The house was overflowing with beauties, and the noise could be heard all down the street. Tom parked the car and we wandered in.

Damon came out of one of the rooms. He winked at me very slowly.

‘Glad you could come, Harriet.’

Gosh, he’d remembered my name.

‘Didn’t know I asked you, Roberston. Rather too many people here already, actually.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ I said. Eager to please, that’s me. The apology for being me didn’t go down very well.

Damon laughed. ‘I didn’t mean you, fruitie.’

Fruitie, women … how much better than birdies.

I extricated myself from Tom and wandered into what is called the ‘coats’. It was strewn with couples and fringe hipsters going through girls handbags and laughing at what was inside. Being only of the fringe type they didn’t dare steal anything. A girl extricated herself from a heap of scruffy men on a bed, and pulled down her skirts.

‘If it isn’t Harriet Bennett!’ she squeaked.

Watch it, I thought. Anyone who says the surname after my name spells trouble.

Luckily I didn’t recognise her.

‘Huh?’ I said.

‘Don’t you remember me?’ She prodded her partner, who was zipping up his flies rather obviously. ‘Oh, Jim. You must get a new pair of pants.’

‘No. I’m afraid I don’t.’ I sauntered over to the mirror.

She screamed with laughter. ‘I was at school with you!’

Oh Christ almighty. Who was she? I powdered my face tentatively.

‘What are you doing at a party like this?’ she asked. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you were the type. But then you’ve changed,’ (significant wink) ‘haven’t you? You’re all arty now. Have you seen anyone from school recently?’

‘I saw Ann the other day.’

She screamed with delight, ‘ANN! Is she still a virgin? I must look her up one day.’

Suddenly she burst into tears.

A character emerged from the shadows of the curtains.

‘Your friend’s really high. Can you get rid of her? I mean she’s just making a fool of herself.’

He looked disgustedly at the figure on the bed, now well away with her boyfriend.

‘I mean, really. Christ. This was going to be a real cool scene, and look what happens. Damon knows too many people, that’s what the matter. And when they all arrive with their bottles of beer and he can’t afford to pay back the fivers he owes them, in they come, and ruin a really good scene. I suppose you’re a friend of one of those.’

This was so nasty that I retreated to the comparative security of Tom.

‘You’ve been away long enough. Found anyone you fancy yet?’

I put my hands to my face.

‘No it was awful. There was this girl, you see, who suddenly …’

No good. Tom had seen someone he knew again.

I was left at the side of the room, squashed to the wall by twisting couples. The music blared out ‘HEY HEYHEY BABY … I WANNA KNOW …’

I searched desperately for my friends, the Woodbines, in my bag. It would be so nice to have tiny friends in one’s bag for times like these. Or perhaps inflatable friends who would swell up and put their arms round you until some stunner asked you to dance, when you’d pull out the stopper and the friend would vanish into a little piece of shrivelled rubber to be popped back into the handbag.

But of course one does have these sort of friends. And this was the time that I longed for them to come up to me shouting ‘WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING?’, whatever they looked like.

As it was, I left the jumping couples and roved into the kitchen, feeling wallflowery, and helped myself to a glass of water, muttering ‘God I’m hot’ as if I had been dancing all night long. A few talking men, the sort who always end up in the kitchen, raised their eyebrows loudly as they saw the water. ‘Onto the heavy stuff now,’ they joked ponderously, as they slopped around in the pools of Guinness on the floor. ‘But as I was saying … I find that relationships with girls are impossible, at least any apart from entirely physical.’

I really did want a drink in fact, but there didn’t seem to be any.

Suddenly a hand gripped my shoulder and someone in a dark blue polo-necked jersey and Levis (I was getting sick of this gear, he was only distinguishable from the rest because he also wore a red tartan scarf round his neck) said, ‘Harriet … GREAT TO SEE YOU … WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN UP TO?’

‘This an …’

‘GREAT TO SEE YOU …’

It was Martin, from the boat. He dragged me away to dance. The relief of someone, even if only Martin, was so great that I was quite carried away with happiness.

‘Lose your inhibitions, wanna go a fishin’, lose your inhibitions, TWIST’ was on. Martin made up for his lack of brains by dancing superbly. It was only after two numbers that I realised it, as I was so intent on watching my own feet, and feeling proud of my expert footwork. When I raised my head I found him very coolly moving his elbows, doing a very good shoulders only twist.

‘GREAT,’ he said, putting his arm round me when the record ended. ‘Do you want some Scotch?’

‘Is it nice?’ I asked, playing the little girl act.

‘Try some.’ He produced a small bottle from his pocket, with difficulty. I took a lot and felt better.

And better. Nick appeared surrounded by two model girls and, on seeing me, clutched me crying, ‘Oooh, you are sexy!’ and rushed off, and eventually Martin got lost in a crowd of bejeaned people. I looked round for Nick again, shoving through rooms of hot, shouting, bouncing bodies, but I couldn’t find him. Tom had vanished too, though I thought I heard a familiar ‘Super’ shouted from the middle of one room. I retired to a corner and hoped I wouldn’t be noticed. Eventually I went to the bathroom just for something to do, but someone had been sick and there was no lavatory paper. Then I tried to make a phone call to a friend, but the telephone was dead. I felt quite neurotic. As I put down the receiver in despair a fat man with a Yul Brynner haircut who had been watching me with half-closed eyes and picking his nails with a diamond-studded flick knife approached me, produced a bottle of whisky, and we sat down on the stairs.

I remember very little about that evening, except that I found myself on the same bed as the school friend with the character who had sneered at her from the darkness, a few remarks like ‘God, what a body!’, ‘Yes, she’s a super birdie’ and ‘I want you’, and endless dancing and people looking at me. Success of the evening, I thought.

Then there was a period when I was walking down a wet mews with someone who was clutching a piece of paper with an address on it, coffee with some crumbs in a dirty flat, a ride in a car with my head bent against the roof, on everybody’s knees, and seeing the outside flashing past looking so strange and cold through the muzzy misted-up car windows.

At last, back at the party, I found myself staring at the sink in the kitchen, dabbing myself with water. Watching the water swirl round as it went down the plug and thinking that it was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. I must have stayed there for ages, contemplating its beauties, until a little voice inside me piped up, like a headmistress, ‘You’re drunk.’

I staggered to get my coat and couldn’t face looking for Tom. In the mirror I saw an odd face, covered with wine stains … it hadn’t been water after all, and feeling the back of my hair very slowly, I discovered a few faithful hairpins hanging on for dear life. Lovely little metallic hands, clutching on to my hair, I thought. I giggled.

Voices reverberated all round me, so, pushing the headmistress in me to the fore and trying unsuccessfully to focus … all I could see was the ceiling and the carpet, and they seemed to be one … I walked very slowly to the door.

After a goodish time I reached it, and Tom appeared.

‘Enjoying yerself?’ he shouted. ‘I’ve bin chattin’ up some super birdies!’

Enjoying myself! I lifted my heavy head, muttered something and made my way out into the cool street.

I walked home feeling like someone else. They weren’t my feet that were carrying me along, they were someone else’s. It was quite a comfortable feeling. My steps seemed large and fast, as if I had seven-league boots on. I felt every breath of wind on me, and tried walking with my eyes shut, but I got scared after a few yards, only to find that I had been walking perfectly straight all the time.

The last thing I remember before getting home was muttering, ‘I am a fool’, ‘Nick is a fool’, ‘Fool is a Nick’ and ‘I love Nick’ in time to my footsteps.

When I got back I spent an hour sitting in the darkness in the drawing-room, thinking deeply about life, and then drank as much milk as I could find because I’d heard it was good for hangovers.

*

The next day I was woken again by a telephone call. This time I was really angry, because I had a very bad hangover in spite of the milk and could just remember giving my telephone number to a very fat American who told me he was a journalist and could get me a job. Oh, God yes. And I’d even reminded him to ring me up before I’d left. I knew it wouldn’t be anyone exciting. No one exciting rings at 11.30 on a Sunday morning. It couldn’t be the American? I wondered.

‘Hey, who is it?’ I asked my father, who was eating breakfast dismally in an Indian dressing gown.

‘Uh?’ he said, his mouth full of toast.

‘It isn’t an American, is it?’

My father looked surprised. ‘American? No … Why? What American? Who?’

I picked up the receiver. And, blast it, it was Ann again. She couldn’t seem to leave me alone these days.

‘Hey, why didn’t you tell me there was a party on yesterday?’ she bawled, as I breathed ‘Hullo’ faintly into the receiver.

‘Huh?’

‘I SAID … WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME THERE WAS THIS PARTY ON YESTERDAY?’

‘What party?’ How did Ann know, anyway?

‘Oh, you know perfectly well. This Damon do. You might have told me.’ She sounded peevish. ‘What was it like, any way?’

‘Damon,’ I muttered. I started writing ‘Ann is a bore’ in the dust on the table.

‘Look, sorry. I can’t think properly. I’m half asleep anyway. What do you want to ring me up at this time anyway?’

‘THIS TIME! GOOD HEAVENS, HARRIET! IT’S HALF PAST ELEVEN!’

I yawned.

‘How did you know? And why are you so interested?’

‘I’ve just been to Gardners to get some chocolate, and who should I see but Tom, and he said it was terrific and I should have gone along. I wish I had. It sounds so exciting … all those police and things.’

‘You mean the fuzz arrived?’

‘What?’

I’d only recently caught on to what fuzz meant, so I felt compelled to make other people who didn’t understand it feel as embarrassed as I did when I didn’t understand it.

‘Police,’ I explained. ‘What happened? Did a half-baked swinger light up some grass seed?’

I was still living in the world of the night before.

‘Uh? Oh, well, anyway, no, whatever you said. I wouldn’t know. The neighbours complained and the police broke it up.’

And she rings me at this God-almighty time in the morning to tell me that some Chelsea crumbs were making too much noise last night, at a party that she didn’t even go to, I thought to myself in my pseudo American accent.

‘Oh, yes … and guess who I saw by Gardners today. You remember that super man opposite us in the Wimpy? Well, he was buying some cigarettes and he gave me a very “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” look.’

GREAT. My lip curled boredly. I put an arrow through ‘Ann is a bore’ and added ‘bloody fucking’.

‘Gosh, really, Ann, heavens. Look, thanks for ringing, someone’s yelling at me to get off the phone so I’ll ring you later or something.’

I slammed down the receiver.

Poor girl.

I dreaded seeing her again the next day, but sure enough, as I staggered into the art school, there she was, in her shop-bought artist’s smock, covered with green and red prints of brushes and pallettes, clutching my elbow and saying, ‘Why didn’t you ring me yesterday?’

She was acting very jumpily.

‘What’s the matter?’ I said offhandedly. The more hysterical she got, the cooler I became.

‘Meet you at coffee,’ she whispered confidentially.

I sniffed the art school smell. I hadn’t been there for a week, and it was depressing to smell once again the oil paint and turps that clung round the studios. I bought some paper from Alf, the white-coated art school ‘help’. There was always one of these in every art school. Usually they had been there for longer than anyone could remember, and spent their time busying around finding lost pen-knives, carrying pictures and generally being relied upon to know all inside information about both staff and students.

He winked at me in a deadpan way.

‘And where you have you been this last three weeks?’ he asked. ‘Crudge is going to sack you.’

I grinned feebly. Cockney humour, at it again.

I signed in and removed the notice that was flapping on the board for me from Crudge. Pinned up originally with four drawing pins, there were now none left, and it hung from another rather pathetic little italic written note:

Would the person who borrowed eleven twist records from my party last Saturday please return them because they are not mine.

I stared at my note from Crudge. It looked ominous. What should I say to him? It wasn’t as if I had just been away for a week, I hadn’t been in early enough to sign in for the past three weeks. Play it as I find it, I thought.

I shoved my way into where the registrar’s secretary worked, feeling very rebellious and art-studentish.

‘Ah, Harriet,’ she said, wagging a typewriter-free finger at me. She always knew my name, which upset me. I could no longer retain that air of mystery around me.

‘The elusive Harriet … aha.’

She gave me a knowing look and smiled mischievously.

‘Yes. Mr. Crudge wants to see you.’

I know, I know. Did she think I was coming into her office for the conversation?

‘Yes, I saw the note, actually,’ I replied politely, standing, in a pretence of shyness, on one leg. ‘Do you think I could possibly see him now?’

‘Oh, no. He’s not in yet. I’ll let you know when he arrives. What room will you be in?’

Ah. Don’t you phone me, I’ll phone you. Crafty line. That meant that I had to stay in the same room all day.

‘You’re meant to be in 415,’ she said, getting up and trotting to the timetable in her long straight skirt. If only she’d shaved her legs.

‘Right.’ I swung out of the door, got some more paper and headed for 415.

It was ten o’clock now. A few enthusiastic students were already there, sitting on the long tables and kicking their legs, talking about the canteen food. It was quite a big room, but bare except for the long tables and high stools. Examples of good layout from arty magazines were pinned up on the walls. I picked the only stool in the room which wasn’t broken and lit a fag. Two more students rushed into the room, sketch books to the fore, and in a flurry of pencil sharpening, they muttered ‘Gotta draw’ hysterically and started screwing up their eyes, and holding out their thumbs.

There were two ways of drawing at Pimlico. These were Jotting and Scrawling. Jotting was done by the nervous mathematical ones, with long sensitive fingers and intellectual ideas. Scrawling was done by those who believed in Freedom, usually the real dead phonies who couldn’t draw at all. I peered over the shoulders of the two students who were so engrossed. One was jotting the ceiling, while the other had placed her rubber on the end of her drawing board and was scrawling it at top speed with an air of what she must have thought was casual professionalism.

Suddenly I realised what class I was in. It struck me as I looked at a pool of dirty water on the floor near the sink. Instant Design! I had to get out quick, but as my sweating hands seized my drawing board, our teacher jerked in.

He spotted me at once.

‘Oh, Harriet … how nice to see you back! What happened to you last week? I hope you’re better now, anyway.’

I was almost angry that they were all so bloody nice. If only he had said ‘Hey, WHAT WERE YOU DOING LAST WEEK? … WHY WEREN’T YOU HERE?’ I could have walked out saying ‘Oh, I’m doing sculpture now’ or something. But as all the classes at Pimlico were so badly attended, the teachers not only had to instruct, but be PROs for their subjects as well.

He fumbled to take off his dirty raincoat. He was a tubby dark man, with three-days growth of beard and a Scottish accent. He had on a long orange jersey, and paint-stained jeans. He really was rather sweet and seedy. The way his dirty hair was brushed forward and his tummy stuck out through his jersey like a great orange sun was rather touching. It was a pity that his classes were such a waste of time.

‘Right … are you all ready?’ he began, trying to sound confident. The enthusiasts gathered round while the few cynics made faces from the back.

‘Well, you remember last week that we all dropped pieces of string soaked in tar on to our paper. And that was in order to get the relationships of circles and spirals to a two-dimensional surface clear. Well, now I want to develop that idea, and try to relate HEIGHT to a flat surface. I’ve brought a lot of buttons with me, so we should all have enough. I want you to drop buttons on to the paper from different heights. Now this may sound ridiculous, but I want you to discover the rhythms that are set up, and see if you can discover anything, um, that you might might find helpful or interesting. Now there are plenty of ways of doing this, I shall tell you of just some of them, but I would rather you worked them out for yourselves.

‘For example, take a button like this.’ He picked out a button. ‘We drop it just six inches above a piece of paper and it lands here.’ He marked the place with a dot. ‘I’d advise you all to use a Venus HB, but if you haven’t got one don’t worry too much. I’d try to get hold of one though if I were you, because it is really the best, I’ve found, for this kind of work.’

I groaned. All day, dropping buttons on to cartridge paper. Great. Broken only by coffee with Ann and a talk with Crudge. The art school Romeo eased past, half closing his eyes and gripping my arm on his way.

‘Good to see you,’ he said, staring down the front of my jersey. ‘Got a cigarette?’

I pushed a Woodbine in his direction. He was so attractive he really deserved it.

‘Thanks, baby. I’d like to sleep with you one day.’

He wandered off, his thin hips vanishing behind a group of easels.

The Instant Design teacher was well away. Gesticulating desperately and almost hidden by a shower of falling buttons, he was saying, ‘Or you can just pick out these black ones and then try them again from three feet up and see what happens, or how about throwing them UP in the air three feet, and … well, anyway I’ve given you enough ideas to be getting on with. My, look at the time. It’s break already. Well, you can get started afterwards. Any of you have any problems or questions?’

I made my way to the canteen, where Ann was sitting with a cheese roll stuffed into her mouth while the art school Romeo knocked back her coffee. She giggled when I arrived.

‘Guess what Romeo just said to me!’ she whispered.

‘He said he’d like to sleep with you.’

‘Hey, oh God. I know. He just said it to you. Sorry.’

Ann had forgotten what she was going to tell me that morning, because she was too full of the fact that Nick had given her coffee that morning when he had bumped into her buying some paint at Winsor and Newton’s. I felt furiously jealous, and returned as quickly as possible to the button dropping. One thing about this class was that with a little speed and intelligence, one could get as much work done in an hour as most of the other students got done in a day. I applied myself to the problem.

When I had covered ten pieces of paper with dots, the secretary came in and told me that Crudge would like to see me.

I nipped into the Ladies before I went into his office, feeling rather scared and sick. Much as I despised Pimlico, I didn’t particularly want to be chucked out. In fact the lousier the institution one is thrown out of, the greater is one’s loss of face. Still, I looked very pretty in the mirror and just hoped I could string him along.

‘Come in,’ he said, when I knocked.

As he saw it was me, he hastily took off his coat, and sat down to look as if he had been there since nine-thirty and had just put on his coat to see what it looked like for fun. It annoyed me to see him rolling in at twelve o’clock just to tick off students who had come in at ten-thirty instead of ten for a couple of weeks.

‘Do sit down, Harriet,’ he said, collecting himself.

I sat down, picking a couple of plaster objects from an uncomfortable modern chair.

‘Ah yes. Now I understand that you haven’t been coming in very regularly recently,’ he said, stretching out and lighting an arty pipe.

‘No.’ I wasn’t sure of what to say.

‘Well, I mean, you know, we just can’t run a school where no one turns up on time.’

Practise what you preach, art crumb.

‘Were you ill, or what?’

‘Not ill, exactly. No I’ve just found that, I don’t know … but there’s something about the atmosphere here. I found that I couldn’t work properly.’

I was surprised at myself. Out it came, pat. Just the line for Crudge, too.

‘Tell me what you mean. Is it your painting?’

At the time, I wasn’t doing painting as I was taking Intermediate, and painting wasn’t my stuff at all anyway, but as Crudge was a painter, I said: ‘Yes. My painting. I somehow found a certain staleness was growing on me. Perhaps I had been going on too long at a picture, or perhaps I hadn’t concentrated enough. I can’t discover what it is, it’s been worrying me, rather.’

‘My dear child, you should have come and seen me at once. Would you like to show me your work, and perhaps we could go over it and discuss some of your problems together?’

This horrified me. I hadn’t any paintings to show. I leant back in my metal tubes and yellow plastic-seated chair and racked my brains.

‘Actually, I feel that I would like to make a fresh start. It’s not so much that I don’t understand my problems. I do, only too well, and am gradually learning how to solve them. It is really, I think, a case of following the same line of thought for too long. In fact, today I have started by painting out a lot of what I had before, and starting on a fresh path of vision.’

‘Excellent. Excellent. Well, be sure to let me try to shed light on any difficulties you may have in the future. I know I went through a similar phase of uncertainty at your age. And I am not sure that you are not right in feeling that you are the only one who really knows what the solution should be. And don’t feel worried or inhibited by the rules here. We want you to feel free, within limits that is, but certainly free in your painting. So if you feel that a few days working at home would help, don’t worry about the art school. We are here to encourage and help you in your art.’

In your art! Poor man. Another blundering sweetie.

I got up, rubbing myself to relieve the discomfort of the modern chair.

‘That’s wonderful to know, Mr. Crudge,’ I said, warmly shaking him by the hand. ‘It’s nice to know people understand.’

‘Not at all, not at all, any time.’

Crudge got up and opened the door for me, and I left with a hypocritical smile on my face.

I felt really mean. So much so that, I suppose in order to justify my lies, I found myself wondering if in fact perhaps I hadn’t gone through rather a tricky phase art-wise recently. Anyway. Free. That was nice, in a way. What freedom meant at Pimlico was, unfortunately, that the teachers didn’t feel obliged to turn up or teach at all, they were so eager to let you get on with it yourself. Although stricter rules would have created, in the long run, a much better atmosphere of hard work and continued interest in the work, as this was obviously impossible at Pimlico, to be free was better than being half free. Which was having to turn up on time and then find there were no teachers there.

There was no point in feeling guilty about my chat. Go out and use the freedom, I thought. I marched into 415 trying to feel free as a bird, but as soon as I caught sight of poor Mr. Sugden, the Instant Design teacher, poring over a row of dots, I knew that my conscience wouldn’t let me leave till the very end of the day. How could one leave such a defenceless idiot to a class consisting of only three students? It was too sad. I wandered over resignedly to my stool … blast it, substituted by some sneaky first year for a broken one. I cursed as I wobbled neurotically over my dot-covered page.

Suddenly I became aware of someone breathing over my shoulder and there was the sound of a cough, coughed in a Scottish accent. It was Sugden, squinting at my work.

‘That’s nice. Very rhythmical, and full of impact.’

I smiled up at him, pushing a strand of hair from my face. He really was sad. ‘Do you think so? Good.’

He leafed through the piles of paper.

‘And this one.’ He held up a dreadful ink-splashed piece of paper. ‘This shows great promise but is it related to buttons?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I lied. ‘I stood three feet away from the paper, and threw them at the same height at it, then I marked where the buttons had fallen to the left with black ink, with a small brush, and where they had fallen to the right with a large brush dipped in poster paint.’

‘Fascinating.’ Sugden stared at it. ‘This really is good, you know. May I pin it on the wall?’

‘Sure,’ I said, liberally. I then saw a rather designy pattern of dots I had doodled when trying to think of ideas. ‘What about this?’

Sudgen looked at it nervously. He was confused. Was it good or bad? It would depend on the explanation.

He examined it carefully, and put it on a bench and walked away.

‘Ah. Indeed. How was this done?’

It was quite a pretty little doodle, and I said just that. I said I’d worked it out to look nice.

As soon as I’d finished, he shuddered.

‘No, no, you don’t see what I mean. This is far too contrived. We are trying to lay aside preconceived ideas of design, and trying to discover new forms and rhythms through spontaneity, or through ideas and rules that are completely different to anything we have ever thought about.’

‘But I’ve been looking at the way things fall ever since I was three,’ I argued. ‘Anyone with any visual sense which is worth cultivating surely has found out about the way buttons fall, and that pebbles have interesting textures and ink-blots are worth looking at before they come to art school. I mean, otherwise they shouldn’t be here.’

He chewed thoughtfully on my special Chinagraph pencil.

‘Yes. I see what you mean.’ Then he recovered himself. ‘Anyway, the point of these classes is to probe deeper into all these discoveries and to find out WHY and HOW … to try and dissociate oneself from anything that anyone has told one about design. Get down to the basic truths.’

Who could argue with basic truths? It was a pity they were so very basic though.

He saw my tight-lipped disapproval of what he had said.

‘I assure you, anyway, that you will find these classes a great deal of help in not only your life drawing classes, but sculpture, three dimensional construction and painting. What else do you do?’

‘Lithography and fabric design.’

‘There you are! It’ll help you in lithography and fabric design!’ he proclaimed, like a triumphant salesman. Instant Design classes are not only stimulating, but can help you in all ways too. Is your litho faded? Is your sculpture lacking vigour? What YOU need is Instant Design. Gets rid of that inhibited feeling in two easy lessons. Feel contemporary! Get with it! Go dotty with Instant Design TODAY!

He wandered away clutching the original favourite set of dots under his arm. It wasn’t that I was particularly good at this class. It just happened that my mistakes were, by chance, better, in his eyes, than anyone else’s. And that was just because I could explain them in incomprehensible Art News and Reviewish terms.

Was this school a waste of time! I looked around me, everyone else looking like morons, measuring distances with rulers, tossing buttons into the air, hysterically drawing dots or just staring at two for half an hour contemplating the exciting relationships.

Exciting relationship. That’s what I could do with, I thought gloomily. I leaned heavily on my drawing board and wondered who my next exciting relationship would be with, or whether indeed there would ever be another.

‘Relationships’ like ‘boyfriend’ is to me a dirty, unmentionable word, but one could not deny that they existed so, wincing even as I thought about them, I pondered who the next man would be. I had been around with Tom for too long, I decided. During my friendship with Tom, I had just, but barely, got over some long-haired blond intellectual who was at Oxford and had afforded me many miserable trips there, and many laddered stockings climbing out of Magdalen in the snow. I had to use a dictionary to translate his love letters. It frightened me to think of how I had thought he was the Only One, Mister Right, and all that, and yet when I saw him now, he just seemed another romantic undergraduate with a penchant for foreign films.

Since then I had had various crushes on people and various one-night stands, but I could do with someone to worry about whether he would be really ring up like he said, or did he say? I almost envied Ann. That was what was the matter with being so choosy. Ann could go out with anyone, but I was so ridiculously critical. Everyone had some fault.

Nick came back to me suddenly, NICK IS ALL RIGHT, I wrote in dots on my drawing board, and wondered what Sudgen would make of that. I could do with Nick for a bit.

I got up from my stool and a shower of pencil sharpenings fell to the floor. I decided that if I wanted to succeed with Nick or any of the Damon set, I would have to make one hell of an effort with my appearance.

It was nearly lunch time and I decided to sacrifice being nice to Sugden for shopping in the afternoon and go and buy some clothes with my birthday cheques. I might even have my hair set at Vidal Sassoon.

*

I stared at myself in the mirror. Hmm. I started up some casual gestures for some reason because it is what one does in front of mirrors. My hair was shining and high at the top, coming forward ‘looks even better on a man’ style at the sides, and the new polo-necked grey jersey looked good with the new black and white skirt, not to mention the dark stockings ending in tiny round-toed patent sling-backs. I couldn’t have looked more model-girlish. It was a pity I was too intelligent to keep up model-girl conversation, I though archly and then felt very stupid. They may say ‘Look at that tart from the Brazil’ when they see me in the street, I thought, but I would at least haul in the Nicks.

I decided to potter down the King’s Road, feeling rather silly in my flared skirt, and having an all dressed up and nowhere to go feeling. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and the King’s Road was full of people pretending to shop but in fact keeping a good eye on all sides of the road in case they missed someone they ought to say hullo to. I hoped I didn’t look so like all the rest that the true light of ‘me’ didn’t show through. I pushed my way into the Brazil, looking among the gloomy leather-jacketed crowd for Nick, who I was sure must be there.

He was indeed. He was sitting next to Damon with a cigar in his mouth and surrounded by several empty coffee cups. I stumbled over pathetically, tripping over a mysterious black bag that fell open to reveal thousands of identical transistor radios, much to the annoyance of the owner who hastily stuffed them back and glared at me.

I had to tap Nick on the shoulder before he recognised me.

‘Seen Tom?’ I muttered, as casually as possible, trying to hitch back the slipped straps from my sling backs on to my ankles surreptitiously.

‘No, I haven’t. He should be here soon though. Stay and have some coffee,’ Nick replied, pulling a stool for me to sit on and whipping out a Rothman’s Tipped and giving it to me.

‘Do you know Da …’

‘Sure, we’ve met, baby.’ Damon switched on his smile. ‘Huh. I can understand Robertson trying to chase girls, but when they clamour into the Brazil chasing him … God, I thought I’d never live to see the day. What do you see in him?’

‘Oh, it’s all very ‘brother-sister’,’ I replied hastily, and tearing a napkin to shreds in my embarrassment. A waitress flashed up, rare thing for them to do in the Brazil, and cocked an eyebrow at me.

‘Coffee,’ I said.

‘And a ham sandwich and some tomato soup,’ added Damon, looking at me. He leant over and stroked my cheek. ‘I’ll help you eat it. “Brother-sister”!’ He nudged Nick in the ribs, and gave him a knowing wink. ‘There’s one brother I should think I could do without if I were a sister.’

Nick narrowed his eyes and smiled.

‘He’s all right. He’s quite intelligent. He’s got a car too, and he knows of parties and he lets me borrow his camera.’

‘Uh. Camera?’ Damon leant forward and looked interested. ‘I want to take some shots actually and I can’t get hold of a good one. Do you think he’d lend it to me? He’s a good guy really. Intelligent. And he’s got a great face.’

The waitress brought my coffee and Damon handed me a page of the Evening Standard to read. I started to do the crossword puzzle, trying to look absorbed in something and not just inanely silent.

‘Hey, man.’ Damon’s whisper resounded round the Brazil, and everyone’s conversation got lower as they tried desperately to hear what the king pin was saying. A man had come in, about twenty years old, who could have been attractive apart from the fact that he had no hair at all. He was followed by a huge blond and they both sat down near us.

‘Man!’ Damon whispered urgently.

‘Great!’ said the man. ‘And Harriet … good to see you, how are you keeping?’ I muttered something, and then remembered with horror that this was the character I had met at Damon’s party. Damon got up and went over to their table and a great whispering session started with a lot of giggles. Nick moved closer to me.

‘I didn’t know you knew Galahad.’

‘Nor did I actually. I suppose I do.’

‘He’s a very dodgy character. I really can’t stand these petty crooks and stupid pilferers that sit around here. All they do is nick things at parties – a couple of leather coats here and there – and generally make a thorough nuisance of themselves. They’re like Sunday painters. They don’t even do it professionally.’

He flicked a long bit of ash into the ash tray.

‘I mean I can admire the big-timers and I like Damon because he’s good to talk to, but some of his friends … Christ! Not like the old Chelsea days, when everyone had private means and we spent our days in the Markham. Now it’s coffee and petty pilfering. Take Galahad for example. Though actually he’s really big compared to some of them. I had a flat off the King’s Road once and do you know, every day for a fortnight, there was Galahad outside some house with a bucket of acid pretending to scrub the steps just waiting till some poor guy who’d once bugged him came out. Of course Galahad and his gang did it in shifts so eventually the guy was caught. His face is a terrible mess, I can tell you.’

I was secretly horrified. And this was the sweet little man I had rushed off with at a party not so long ago.

‘Yes, you’re shocked,’ said Nick, seeing my expression. ‘But, honestly, though I’d never call Galahad a friend of mine, he’s good to talk to in a funny way. They’re all so on the ball. It’s terrible. Either you go around with dull moral people, and I mean the emphasis on dull. I approve of morals. Or you have fun with the creeps.’

‘… in hospital for six months!’ chuckled Galahad enthusiastically, sipping some tomato soup.

‘You see what I mean?’ Nick raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Actually it’s so childish really. Take Galahad. Well, he’s very sensitive about his lack of hair – some dreadful disease or something – and he beats up anyone who crosses him. A sort of inferiority complex. I say beats up. In fact he has a gang of forty Greeks in Soho just waiting for him to say the word.’

My eyebrows were checked in their usual passage upwards as Tom came in, with an air of what he thought was casual nonchalance, nodding hullo to no one in particular, and eventually sat down with us.

‘Yer pinchin’ me birdies!’ he shouted playfully at Nick. ‘Randy bastard!’

He leant forward and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Good to see you, luv.’

The waitress appeared with the ham sandwich and tomato soup, and as if he had been waiting for it, Damon sprang over and grabbed them both. Sitting down beside Tom, he clapped him on the back and smiled.

‘Tom! Great to see you, man! You know, he really HAS got a great face, hasn’t he?’

Tom looked dazed but flattered. ‘Great face?’

‘Yes. I was saying only a minute ago, just before you came in what a great face you had … wasn’t I, fruitie? How’s the job?’

‘All right.’ Tom was obviously baffled and suspicious. Damon finished the soup in one gulp and pushed the empty plates in front of me.

‘Thanks a lot, baby.’ He pinched my cheek. ‘Look at the girls he gets too! Tom, you’re a lucky man.’

Damon’s personality had changed completely.

‘Have a cigarette.’ He offered one to Tom. For a moment I thought he was going to say ‘Take two’ in a fit of generosity, but instead, as Tom was lighting up, he said: ‘I say ! How marvellous you arrived just now. Look, Nick says you have a camera. I suppose I couldn’t borrow it just for a week? I’ve got to get these shots done. Fifteen mil.’

Tom perked up. ‘Fifteen mil? Ah … let me see now …’

He rambled on for about quarter of an hour and Damon listened keenly, appearing to be picking up tips and hints eagerly and gratefully, and ended up by getting a promise of a loan of it from Tom. I was amazed because Tom rarely lent anything to anyone. It seemed an obvious con. I raised my eyebrows to myself as I thought what suckers people could be.

Damon suddenly grasped my wrist and looked at the time.

‘I’ll split,’ he muttered, back to his old self. ‘And see you.’ He looked at Nick and me.

‘And thanks, Tom. You’re a good man.’ This was said really low and in a specially personal voice, similar to the man who used to end Radio Luxemburg with a kiss … ‘For you’.

After he had eased out, a mass of suede jacket, Nick leant back in his seat and smiled coolly at us.

‘What a pair!’ he said laughing. ‘You’ve promised to lend a camera you’ll never see again to Damon and Harriet here has landed up with a bill for tomato soup and a ham sandwich.’

I pursed my lips angrily. I had forgotten about that. Huh. Good-looking or not, Damon was a CREEP.

‘What are we doing this evening?’ asked Tom.

Nick took my hand and caressed it. I smiled idiotically at him. He took my other one and fondled them both.

‘Tell me something,’ he said.

‘What?’ I asked apprehensively. The next question would be something tricky like ‘Do you fancy me?’ but then he really was too all right to ask that sort of thing.

‘You know that little girl you brought along to the park?’

‘Yes?’ I felt danger approaching.

‘What’s her telephone number?’

Damn you, I thought. That’s all that comes of being unselfish and introducing one’s friends to others. They start pinching them. I pulled my hands away and cursed Ann. I frowned into my handbag. How could he like that dreadful girl?

‘SLO 68901.’

He wrote it down and wandered out saying, ‘What we’re doing is taking Ann and Harriet out to dinner.’