It was lovely to have something jolly lined up at home, because as far as work was concerned, since the arrival of Mrs. Porter, things had taken a turn for the completely upside down. If I had had any concern that I was overreacting, when I told Bunty and Thelma about the meeting with the Tiny Ideas, their response said I certainly was not.
“But Woman’s Friend is a raging success,” said Bunty. “Why change things that people like?”
“More to the point,” said Thelma, “if she does, there won’t be much of Emmy’s job left.”
Put like that, things felt even worse.
Our new owner had not returned to the office. For the next twenty-four hours, there was complete radio silence.
Then the telephone rang. And didn’t really stop.
Mrs. Porter had found the Woman’s Friend offices upsettingly dreary, with nowhere lovely for her to sit down and think. She felt, she said, better suited to pursue more Tiny Ideas at her London home, a “dear little terrace” on one of the capital’s most splendid squares in Mayfair. As a result, we did not see her for the rest of the week.
Unfortunately, whenever Mrs. Porter thought of something, she would immediately telephone Guy, or if he was unavailable, Mrs. Pye. If Mrs. Pye was not available, either, which was unlikely as she had quickly stopped answering the phone to anyone else, then Mrs. Porter would move on to Mrs. Mahoney or me.
Guy and I had not shared the full details of Mrs. Porter’s crushing review of the magazine with the rest of the team, as we were determined to turn her views round, and to her unusual credit, Pamela Pye had managed to keep quiet as well. Morale therefore remained high.
It wasn’t long, however, before Mrs. Porter’s constant phone calls began to make their mark.
“Mr. Collins,” said Mrs. Mahoney in the editorial meeting the following week, “would you mind explaining to Mrs. Porter that we can’t change what goes in the magazine right up to the minute it appears in the shops?”
“I’ll add it to the list,” said Guy.
“And that our readers can probably wait another week to hear about the Duchess of Somewhere’s nice shoes.”
“Russell & Bromley,” breathed Mrs. Pye, as if someone had mentioned the Pope. “In blue and wine calf.”
“I don’t care what they are,” said Mrs. Mahoney, unmoved. “I’m not calling the printers and saying, ‘Stop the press, there’s an emergency update about feet.’ ”
There was a knock on the door and Hester appeared. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “Mr. Collins, it’s Mrs. Porter calling.”
“Of course,” said Guy, getting up. “Excuse me, everyone. I will return.”
“Mrs. Porter has so many inspiring ideas,” said Mrs. Pye, “which she so graciously shared with me during our tête-à-tête yesterday. We share so much common ground.”
Mrs. Mahoney rolled her eyes. Mrs. Shaw groaned out loud. Pamela Pye had not stopped talking about the previous day’s shopping trip since she had come into the office especially early to show off.
“Of course,” I said, and settled back for a short lecture on how none of the rest of us could possibly understand.
Thankfully, Mrs. Pye was cut off when Guy shortly returned. “Sorry, all,” he said. “Emmy, Mrs. Porter would like to see us for lunch.”
“That’s better than going to the shops,” said Mrs. Shaw pointedly.
Mrs. Pye sniffed.
“We’ll see,” said Guy. “Emmy, have you ever been to The Savoy?”
I had not.
The Savoy was one of London’s finest hotels, and unsurprisingly, Mrs. Porter thought it an altogether more desirable location in which to have a meeting. Half an hour later, as Guy and I walked under the grand steel canopy which announced the name of the hotel in huge magnificent letters, I had to admit I agreed.
There may have been stacks of sandbags up against the outside of the building, but once we were through the revolving doors, it was another matter. The Front Hall offered a splendid welcome with sky-high ceilings and black and white marbled floors, its huge pillars making everything seem even more grand.
I had never imagined myself lunching here, and if I had, I wouldn’t have been wearing a darned cotton skirt, sensible cardigan, and crepe-soled brown lace-up shoes. My hair wasn’t up to much, either, as two night shifts and my National Fire Service cap had done their worst. For the first time ever, I was glad there was a war on, as at least I had an excuse for looking somewhat below par.
Guy, meanwhile, was taking everything in his stride. He was one of those people who you felt could go anywhere and they would fit in. It came as little surprise when the gentleman on the reception desk greeted him by name and said how nice it was to see him again. Guy returned the compliment and we made our way through to the Grill.
“The hotel’s packed with foreign correspondents,” said Guy to me. “A couple of drinks here and you find out all sorts of things about what’s going on.”
“Do you know everyone?” I asked.
“Not at all,” smiled Guy as a very attractive if dishevelled man approached us.
“Good to see you, Collins,” said the man in an American accent.
He and Guy shook hands, and then the American said, “Guy, I gotta run. See you at the bar?” and touched his hat, saying, “Ma’am,” to me, which was both very transatlantic and also unexpectedly dashing. I didn’t know any Americans, and immediately looked forward to reliving the moment with Bunty and Thel, probably repeatedly.
The Grill was busy, full of men in uniform, and a great number of the women as well. Those who were not were far better dressed than me, and several reminded me of Mrs. Porter—immaculately tailored, wearing teeny tilted hats and not a hint of knitwear to be seen.
“By the way,” said Guy, after we had taken our seats at what even I could tell was one of the best tables in the house, “if you see Clark Gable, try not to stare. I understand he hates it.”
“Really?” I said, looking around. “Are you trying to make me nervous?”
“No, I was trying to help you impress Clark Gable,” grinned Guy. “Now, I wonder if they have the salted pork? It’s delicious, although if this is to become our regular meeting place I’m rather relieved there’s the five-bob cap.”
Last year the Government had passed a law so that even the very best restaurants had to stick to three courses and five shillings a head. It had been a good move in terms of trying to make things fairer: now even millionaires couldn’t pay their way to culinary excess, at least in theory.
“Look sharp,” said Guy. “Here we are.”
Mrs. Porter had arrived and was being led towards us, a sense of serene belonging etched on her face as she wafted past the other customers. Guy and I rose to our feet. Of course as a man, he would, but I did too, because that was the effect Mrs. Porter seemed to have. It was ridiculous, but you found yourself opening doors or fussing about with chairs because it felt expected.
Guy and I had agreed that this was our chance to try to get back into Mrs. Porter’s good books. It had been a friendly overture to ask us to lunch, and we were determined to be both delighted and delightful. As Guy said, the more she liked us, the more chance we had of gaining some kind of steadying hand over her colourful ideas and axe-wielding approach to our much-loved magazine.
I would have been a hypocrite not to admit that lunch in the dizzying surroundings of The Savoy was quite an experience. The combination of debonair foreign journalists, murmured conversations of the great and the glamorous, and the steadfast opulence of the hotel itself despite being bombed on numerous occasions was a heady one indeed.
“Mrs. Porter,” said Guy keenly, which was not like him at all. “How lovely.”
It was a strong start. Mrs. Porter smiled modestly, somehow managing to imply that the luxury of the venue was her own achievement, and at the same time, graciously accepting the fact that Guy may simply have been complimenting her on being divine.
Either way, I couldn’t compete, and managed only to say, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Porter—thank you for inviting us,” as if I had arrived at a birthday party expecting jelly and ice cream.
“Dearest Mr. Collins. Darling Miss Lake,” said Mrs. Porter, which was disarming. “Will this do?” She looked around the restaurant. “I’m sure Monsieur Payard will work his culinary magic, despite these difficult times.”
She had decided to be graciousness itself.
“Without doubt,” said Guy, who really was very good at saying things that were both charming and noncommittal. Mrs. Porter patted his arm and sat down as waiters and menus appeared.
I opened mine with unseemly haste. The Government’s Meals in Establishments Order was quoted in a serious manner at the top, but I only had eyes for the liver and sausages in white wine sauce.
Mrs. Porter, however, had gone straight to the wine list, declaring that we were celebrating. “Mr. Collins, would you decide for us? I’m quite useless at knowing anything.”
As ever, she looked gloriously sure of herself and not remotely useless, but Guy went along with the charade, and after a quick glance at the list, ordered something in French and earned an exclamation of “Perfection!” in response.
Then Mrs. Porter caught the eye of someone she knew and started miming a telephone call. Guy leaned over to me and whispered, “Is there still a war on? I can’t tell.”
If she heard him, Mrs. Porter chose not to comment. “May I be honest with you both?” she said. “You see, I am worried about you, Miss Lake.”
“Me?” I sat up straighter in my gloriously comfortable velvet chair. “I’m fine, thank you. En pleine forme.”
I had turned into Pamela Pye.
Mrs. Porter smiled understandingly. “You know, I do so hope we’ll be friends. Mr. Collins has spoken so highly of you. Of course, he may be a little biased. Tell me…”—she dropped her voice conspiratorially—“are the brothers very much alike?”
To my horror, she broke into a giggle.
Guy looked appalled. I felt the same.
“Oh,” I said, squirming. “Er. No. Um… Charles—my husband, that is—he’s, er, he’s taller. A little. And quieter, I think. Would you say, Guy? I mean, Mr. Collins?”
As I stumbled over my words, Mrs. Porter looked prettily amused, and I wished like mad that I’d had a better answer off pat. It was hideous to be asked to compare my boss with my husband.
“Oh no, I’ve embarrassed you,” she cried. “I feel dreadful.”
“Not at all,” I managed, not believing her for a second. “I just don’t tend to talk about him at work.”
“Miss Lake is extremely professional about the situation,” said Guy, keeping to our plan and speaking to Mrs. Porter as if they were old friends. “Not easy to keep family and work separate. As I am sure you will understand, having inherited Woman’s Friend from your uncle.”
Mrs. Porter blinked at him. I had a feeling she had forgotten that the magazine wasn’t actually her own invention.
“A heavy burden…”—Guy smiled—“but one we can share.”
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Porter. Unimpressed with the idea of having to cope with a burden, she swiftly changed the conversation back to mine. “The thing is that I couldn’t help but notice when I ran through my little ideas, that, well… Miss Lake looked A Bit Mis.” Her eyes shone with sympathy. “So I have come up with things to make you happy. Ah, waiter, there you are. Who’s having what?”
“Happy?” I said. “I am happy.”
“I’ll have the fish,” said Mrs. Porter. “Are you really, Miss Lake? All those down-in-the-mouth letters you have to read. It must be awful. I know, let’s all have the fish. Waiter, it won’t still have its face on, will it? I can’t bear it if the poor thing looks sad.”
I couldn’t tell if she was talking about me or a sardine.
“Anyway,” said Mrs. Porter, brightening up. “Help Is Here, and to that end—and Mr. Collins, I haven’t told you this yet, but you’ll love it—I am bringing in a Mr. Elliot as my second-in-command. He’s going to look after the funny contributor people so that Madame Pye can spend more time on Fashion and Beauty. So that’s super, and now, here is the most exciting thing of all. Miss Lake, you are going to work in a new area you will ADORE.”
Guy and I waited. Mrs. Porter clasped her hands together and took a deep breath.
“Miss Lake,” she said, tremulously, “I am giving you Weddings.”
I stared at her with my mouth open. The sound of conversations, cutlery on bone china, the soft trickle of wine being poured—all continued.
“I know!” beamed Mrs. Porter. “Don’t thank me, it’s my gift to you.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Porter,” I managed. “Weddings?”
“Yes. Everyone’s getting married. It’s one of the nicest things about the war. I did think about giving it to Madame, but then I said, ‘No, Egg. No. Miss Lake needs joy in her cheerless life. Let. Her. Live.’ ”
“Which weddings are we talking about?” asked Guy.
“Society weddings, Mr. Collins,” said Mrs. Porter. “Beautiful brides from the highest echelons. The readers will love it. Miss Lake is going to interview the brides-to-be about how excited they are. We’ll have lots of space, as I’ve decided to stop those dreary war work articles with immediate effect.” Now she looked at me, or rather, at my cardigan. “Do you have anything nice to wear? I would lend you something, but I don’t want things stretched. Never mind. We’ll start right away.”
“But the war work—” I began.
“Hush—I’ve not finished. I want you to chop the Woman’s Friend to Friend page in half, as I’ve decided to write my own column. It just came to me. I intend to call it ‘Your Publisher’s Week,’ and it will be full of lovely things like art galleries, the theatre, and of course, charity events.” Mrs. Porter said charity events in a special lower voice reflecting the gravity of the subject. “It’s a lot of work on my part, but I will answer the call. The new Woman’s Friend will be about cheer, not gloom.”
Finally she stopped.
I on the other hand, didn’t know where to start. “Society weddings?” I said. “Galleries?”
“Yes. And far fewer letters because they’re awful. There was a ghastly one just this morning I had to tell Mrs. Mahoney to remove. I will say she was most cross. Mr. Collins, you must speak with her about that.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Just before luncheon,” said Mrs. Porter. “A horrid letter about a horrid man. Anyway, it’s gone now.”
“You cut a reader’s letter?” I said, now moving away from the plan to be a delight. “It wasn’t from someone called Mrs. Smith—Enid Smith—was it?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Mrs. Porter. “Don’t worry, Mr. Collins, there won’t be a blank space. I made up a cheerier problem on the spot and made Mrs. Mahoney pop it in. I had to be quite insistent. Miss Lake, whatever’s the matter?”
“I’m sorry, but you just can’t do that,” I said, feeling myself go hot. “That’s the first issue we could get it into. It can’t wait any longer. You must have seen that this reader is desperate for help. Please, Mrs. Porter, we have to print it.”
I turned to Guy.
“Mrs. Porter,” he said, “I agree entirely with Miss Lake. A decision was made to help a reader in some significant distress.”
Mrs. Porter looked at him for a long moment as a small pout appeared. “Now you’re cross,” she said, sounding about seven years old.
Damn bloody right, I thought to myself. She didn’t have a clue. Guy was keeping admirably calm, but I was beginning to struggle.
“Mrs. Porter,” I said before he could answer her, “this is what we do. Of course Woman’s Friend tries to entertain and bring cheer, but we also inform and support and offer help. And no, it’s not always very nice. Sometimes these letters are horrible, but the problem page is one of the reasons women read the magazine and write to us. They know we try to help. They trust us.”
Mrs. Porter looked at Guy, seeming to expect him to come to her rescue.
He held her gaze. “I’m afraid we do try to offer advice on some rather gritty situations,” he said quietly. “Miss Lake knows our readers better than anyone. If she says this letter is important, then I would ask in the strongest possible terms that it stays in.”
Mrs. Porter’s face hardened for a moment, and then she lifted her chin. “Well, it’s too late now,” she said airily. “It’s been removed, so there we are. Let’s change the subject or we’ll spoil our lovely lunch.” She looked around for the waiter but spotted a friend instead. “Ooh, I say, is that Dickie, the Earl of—?”
“Mrs. Porter,” I interrupted, “Woman’s Friend isn’t a society magazine. There’s nothing wrong with those, of course, but it’s not us. I’ve spent years learning everything I possibly can to be good at my job. We don’t ignore readers when their lives get difficult. People rely on us.”
Mrs. Porter gave a small, thoroughly affronted squeak.
“Emmy,” said Guy softly.
I stopped talking.
“I see,” said Mrs. Porter, in a tremulous voice. “Here I was trying to cheer you up, inviting you to lunch at one of my favourite places in the world, and offering you the most marvellous opportunity to meet all the right kind of people. I must look very silly.”
Now she put her hand to her cheek and looked away, as if terribly hurt. I thought people only did this sort of thing in films, and I couldn’t work out if she really was pained by my response or if it was part of an elaborate act.
Either way, Mrs. Porter had the most effective way of making you feel you had done her a dreadful injustice.
Guy and I exchanged looks. The mission to be delightful was not going to plan.
“Come now,” said Guy gently.
“Oh, Mrs. Porter,” I began, realising I had overstepped the mark, which was unlikely to help, “I really am awfully grateful.”
A stern-looking man in a black suit sitting at the table next to us raised a surreptitious finger to ask for his bill. He gave me an idea.
“It’s just,” I added hastily, “that we have a remit…”—I paused for what I hoped would be dramatic effect and then dropped my voice—“from the Ministry.”
Mrs. Porter turned her head back to me, although she did not remove her outraged hand.
Two could play at this game.
I glanced around the restaurant as if one of Hitler’s spies might be lurking behind a bread roll. “Mr. Collins,” I said, pretending to speak under my breath, “may we discuss this, even though we are not behind closed doors?”
“Keep it brief,” said Guy, going with me and sounding as if he worked for a secret organisation.
Our publisher’s interest was piqued.
“Mrs. Porter,” I said gravely, “the war work pieces are written for members of His Majesty’s Government. Indeed, they are habitually checked by the Censor.”
Guy cleared his throat. “It has been remiss of me not to mention it. Being part of the Ministry’s women war worker recruitment campaign is our honour.”
It was all true. Admittedly, it was hardly a secret, but nevertheless.
“Why has no one told me this?”
“I have been trying to meet with you, Mrs. Porter,” said Guy. “Telephone calls are not always secure.”
Touché.
“So how do the… that is, they communicate?” said Mrs. Porter, narrowing her eyes. She was many things, but no fool.
“Select briefings at the Ministry,” answered Guy.
Mrs. Porter gave a high-pitched “Ooh.” Then after a few moments’ thought, she put her shoulders back and assumed a noble expression. “You should have told me. We cannot let the Government down,” she said, as if the whole thing had been her idea. “Miss Lake, you may continue with the war work articles. Although do try to make them less tedious.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. “Thank you, Mrs. Porter. I shall do my best,” I said.
Mrs. Porter gave a small nod. “When is the next briefing?” she asked. “Obviously I will attend.”
Guy looked weary. “Of course,” he said, without giving a date.
With something exclusive now promised, Mrs. Porter forgot that seconds ago she had been traumatised. “I shall wear my blue suit,” she said. “And in the meantime, I have some more news. Come on, Miss Lake, cheer up.”
But I didn’t feel like cheering up. We may have managed to get her to backtrack on cancelling the war work articles, but it was pretty small beer.
Mrs. Porter’s response to Enid’s letter had done it for me. I was painfully aware that we received hundreds of letters every week with problems we couldn’t fix, letters from readers in trouble, sometimes even in danger, whom we couldn’t help. I hated it, but I accepted it as part of the job. But to pull a letter from someone in a dreadful situation even if there was only the faintest chance of its helping? It was reprehensible.
As Mrs. Porter now began to talk about herself, I could hardly be bothered to listen. When you cut through the smiles and the darlings and the sugar-sweet voice, it was quite clear that the Honourable Mrs. Cressida Porter didn’t care about anyone other than herself. She was made of stone, all the way through.
“I have realised,” she was saying while gazing over Guy’s head, “that Publishing Is My Calling. My ideas must have a life of their own.”
“Yes,” said Guy, his heart not sounding entirely in it.
“I knew you’d agree!” cried Cressida. “And to that end, I have now told Mrs. Mahoney to stop production on all future issues.” Now she gave us one of her most glittering smiles. “I know you will be very excited when I tell you that I will be relaunching Woman’s Friend with all my lovely ideas.”
Now I looked up.
“You’re… you’re… you’re closing the magazine?” stammered Guy.
“Temporarily. Until I’ve sorted it all out. In addition, I shall be moving into my office after some modest improvements are made over the weekend,” she finished, looking thrilled.
A waiter appeared with our meals.
“This looks perfect,” Mrs. Porter exclaimed as she was handed her plate. “I always think it’s so much better when one cuts off their heads.”