Una Musgrave answered Brian Moss’s advertisement. Like an answer to a prayer, like the wild gust of wind which arrives with the God, she appeared in Brian Moss’s front office. Jelly happened to be doing reception work: a replacement for Lois, who had handed in her notice. She was going at the end of the week.
‘Lois is in love with me,’ Brian Moss confided in Jelly. ‘I think she’s jealous of you. Remember when she pushed the door open – and I’d thought it was locked –’
‘I think she’s underpaid and overworked,’ said Jelly tartly. ‘Nothing whatsoever to do with me.’
Brian Moss liked her to be tart: the sharper her tongue, the more pleasure he had in silencing it, the more intimate its flavour.
Be that as it may, there Jelly was, pale and demure with a triple set of pearls from Fenwicks and a nice pale pink cashmere sweater, half-price because of a single pulled thread which Lady Rice came out of retirement to attend to, a red pleated skirt, shoes a trifle battered but well polished (The Claremont’s overnight service) and sturdy tights; hair neat, an exceptionally clear complexion (Brian Moss swore that was his doing) and a buttery little mouth.
‘When suddenly the door opens,’ as Jelly described it to Angelica that evening, ‘and a wind blows in and papers fly everywhere, and my hair’s all over the place. Such a disturbance! I knew at once it was Una. She must be over sixty, but she’s one of those women who might be any age. Wide eyes, lots of bone and no wrinkles.’
‘Sounds like a facelift to me,’ murmured Angel, whom the others did sometimes still let out to make the servicing of Brian Moss more tolerable. But remained quite shaken and subdued, after what the three referred to as ‘The Italian Job’.
‘Don’t be so catty,’ said Jelly.
‘Hoo hoo hoo,’ said Angel. ‘If I didn’t think I’d get into trouble, I’d say you’d fallen in love with this Una.’
Lady Rice, looking in the mirror, found herself going quite pink.
‘How dare you say such a thing about poor Jelly,’ said Angelica. ‘We’ve none of us ever shown the slightest lesbian tendency. Heterosexual through and through, that’s us. Apologise at once, Angel.’
For once, Lady Rice initiated a statement:
‘Actually, I think I was far fonder of Susan than I ought to have been,’ she said. ‘That’s why I got so upset about all that business with Lambert and Edwin.’
‘Ought schmought,’ said Angel. ‘Where’s the ought in proclivity? Personally I don’t care what gender anyone is. Some people turn me on, some situations turn me on, and that’s it.’
‘You’re so crude,’ said Angelica. ‘Go away.’
The others agreed that was what they wanted. Angel went.
When her little sister had gone, Lady Rice said, ‘And actually I rather liked Anthea. She always had a kind of swagger. I admired her. I wanted her to accept me as her equal, but the best I ever got from her was her being sorry for me. I think the one I was jealous over was Anthea, not Edwin. I’d gone off Edwin ages back, if the truth is to be told. I’d have had a baby by him if I’d really loved him, I expect. The fact of the matter was, when I first met up with him, Edwin was a catch. Pop star marries into aristocracy; though a mean and shoddy sort of aristocracy it turned out to be, only after the main chance itself.’
‘Careful,’ said Jelly, ‘or you’ll lose your anger and if you lose anger, you might lose alimony. Practise saying it: “Every day in every way I’m more and more Edwin’s victim.”’
‘She’s not going to say that,’ said Angelica. ‘Mother hen just didn’t like hubby preferring Anthea to her; she was humiliated. Her feathers got all ruffled. Hell hath no fury, et cetera.’
‘Stop talking about me behind my back,’ said Lady Rice, and burst into tears. ‘Mother hen! That’s so cruel!’
So Jelly went on chattering to Angelica about the sudden appearance of the magical Una.
‘You’d trust this woman with your life,’ said Jelly. ‘She oozes self-confidence. She was wearing leather boots up to her thighs; you could see a stretch of black stocking before a pleated miniskirt began and, waist up, it was Fifties’ style: twinset and pearls and a turban. The pearls were real, tiny little uneven things. I thought for a moment she was a man in drag, but how could she be; she’s Sara’s mother. But it was a really stylish outfit, I can tell you.’
‘You’re beginning to think like a typist,’ complained Angelica, ‘as well as talk like one.’
‘Bitch, bitch, bitch,’ said Jelly. ‘What makes you so special? You’re just a trumped-up pop star. Fame for a day and never got over it! At least I know how to do a good day’s work.’
‘Can’t you talk in anything but clichés?’ demanded Angelica. ‘You’re driving me mad.’
‘Please stop this,’ begged Lady Rice, who was banging her head with her fists. ‘I’m getting such a headache. I feel so anxious. I’m going mad. I’m too ashamed to go back to work. How can I look Brian Moss in the eye? I’ll slash my wrists if you’re not careful. If I order a steak from Room Service, they’ll bring a steak knife and I can use that. This fruit knife’s much too blunt. Can’t we have Angel back? At least she makes a joke from time to time. With her we’ll get a social disease, but without her I’m suicidal and you two get murderous. I’m splitting. The perforations are ripping. I can’t control things any more. I thought the trauma was from outside, but it’s coming from inside. Somebody help me!’
‘Get Angel,’ said Angelica, urgently.
‘Get Angel,’ said Jelly, panicky. ‘Get her back now.’
Angel steadied and slowed the hand that was vainly trying to make the blunt knife, provided daily with a complimentary basket of fruit, slice through the skin of her wrists to draw blood.
‘Satan finds work for idle mouths to do,’ said Angel.
Angelica laughed, Jelly sniggered, Lady Rice stopped sawing away. It was magic.
Angel hitched up her skirt to see how her legs were doing. They were fuzzy with unshaven hair.
‘My God,’ said Angel. ‘You girls need me. I’m the most important part of us; why do you keep denying me?’
She made them go round the corner to the all-night beautician in Bond Street, and had her legs waxed in the old-fashioned way, with hot beeswax, smeared over the skin with a spatula, allowed to cool, and then ripped off. The process produced a smoother and more enduring finish than the lighter, less painful, quicker drying synthetic waxes now available.