I hadn’t been invited to the meeting and I was sure Mrs. Porter would not welcome me, either, but I really didn’t care. I would listen to whatever rudeness this Morley fellow was likely to come up with, and then as soon as I possibly could, I would try to convince Mrs. Porter to change her mind about Mrs. Croft.
“Mrs. Porter, so sorry we’re late,” said Guy as he breezed into her office.
I gave a small flick of my hair, put my shoulders back, and adopting an air of detachment, followed him in.
Mrs. Porter was caught between annoyance at Guy’s tardiness and, from the look she gave me, the fact that I had joined in and a very clear excitement at the arrival of one of London’s premier advertising executives. After an icy glare, she recovered and adopted the version of herself to which Archie Morley was to be treated.
“Mr. Morley,” she cooed, her eyelashes going into their blinky routine, “may I introduce Mr. Collins, our Editor.”
Archie Morley nodded and gave Guy the sort of handshake that crunches knuckles and is popular among men who find it imperative to announce their virility on sight. “Collins,” he said, not impolitely.
“Mr. Morley,” said Guy, radiating quiet confidence, “very nice to meet you.”
Morley gave another small nod of acknowledgement as Guy continued: “I’d like you to meet Miss Lake, our Readers and Advice Editor.”
“Good morning, Mr. Morley,” I said, holding out my hand and hoping he didn’t break it. For a moment he smirked at my expectation, but then he shook my hand quite normally and looked me straight in the eye in a disconcerting manner.
Mr. Morley was, I estimated, at least fifty, but nevertheless, you could tell that he still cut quite a dash. He was all a bit Errol Flynn, only twenty years older, with the same moustache and a similar amount of self-confidence. My immediate impression was that if you worked for Archie Morley, while you would very much hope to avoid being in his bad books, more than anything you would hope not to have caught his eye.
I lifted my chin a little and nodded, much as Guy had done. If the men could do it, so could I.
Mrs. Porter, I presumed, did not share my reservations about her guest. Always attractive, Cressida now seemed to have become more luminous, as if she had her own volume button that could be turned up or down. I had no idea how she did it, but she and Mr. Morley were certainly a match for each other. Either one made in heaven, or somewhere far bleaker.
“Shall we sit?” she purred.
We all repaired to the apricot sofas, where a tray on the coffee table had been set with a desperately stylish demitasse coffee set, complete with butterfly handles, which looked lovely but made trying to hold the cup virtually impossible.
“Would you, Miss Lake?” Mrs. Porter smiled.
As I began to pour the coffees, Cressida launched into an effusive soliloquy that wandered from her delight at Mr. Morley’s visit through to an almost religious zealotry about her vision for Woman’s Friend. As she spoke, Archie Morley lounged on the sofa, his arms stretched across the back of it, one leg casually crossed over the other, for all the world as if he had just arrived at his club. She talked on as he hardly acknowledged her, choosing instead to watch me. I wasn’t sure what he was hoping to achieve, but it was bloody rude. For a second, I wanted to tell him to at least have the decency to listen to what Mrs. Porter had to say. Then I remembered Mrs. Croft.
I handed Morley his coffee, thinking how easy it would be to spill it. When he winked at me, it was all I could do not to tip the whole cup into his lap.
“And that,” finished Mrs. Porter, with a flourish and after some time, “is my vision. An élégante magazine for an élégante advertising clientele.” She perched prettily on the edge of her seat and gazed at him, her eyes the size of Betty Boop’s. “What do you think?”
Mr. Morley looked at her with something approaching but not quite reaching a smile. It was hard to work out if he was going to laugh at her or go full pelt Errol and kiss her. I’d never seen anything quite like it. I glanced at Guy, who was watching the drama, entirely unreadable. I made a note never to play him at poker.
Morley looked at his watch. Then he sighed as if bored with life itself. He really was as vile as Guy had said.
“Mrs. Porter,” he said, sanctifying her by even bothering to acknowledge her presence, “I am known to speak frankly. Are you sure you want my honest opinion?”
Cressida batted her eyelashes. Previously I would have been willing her on to come up with something better than that or even tried to create some sort of diversion to stop Archie Morley from doing his worst. But not now.
“Of course,” she breathed.
Ancient Errol sighed again, as if it was his sad, but dreadful duty to go on. “All right,” he said, uncrossing his legs and spreading them widely, which wasn’t half as appealing as I was sure he thought it was. “I’m afraid, Mrs. Porter, that you must be mad as a bat.”
Cressida blinked once.
“It’s a ridiculous folly. There is no élégante clientele for what you’re talking about. The market doesn’t need it and the audience doesn’t want it.”
Cressida made a funny little noise from the back of her throat. “But…” she said.
Morley closed his eyes. It was hard work having to deal with mere mortals. “Look, I’ll save you the time. Your lot already have The Tatler and Vogue, which are both excellent, and the country set whose houses are falling down unless Grandpa married an heiress have Country Life. None of them will have any interest in your so-called vision. It’s a terrible idea. It’s as simple as that. Sorry, old girl. You’re nuts.”
Mrs. Porter stared at him.
“I think that’s enough, Morley,” said Guy dispassionately.
“Oh, come on, Collins,” said Morley, “surely you’ve told her this already? For God’s sake, it’s bloody obvious.”
It would have been very easy for Guy to accept the invitation and twist the knife into Mrs. Porter. But even though I knew he loathed her and had no intention of throwing himself on his sword, I also knew that Guy wasn’t the sort of man who would take sides with a bully like Archie Morley.
“Mr. Morley, thank you for your candour,” he said. “Mrs. Porter, I know you have a very busy diary. Would you like to call this meeting a day?”
But Mrs. Porter ignored the lifeline he offered. “Actually,” she said, “Mr. Morley is entirely wrong. My vision is perfect.”
I had to hand it to her. She really was made of strong stuff.
Morley seemed amused. He looked her up and down, which was horrible, and did his awful Not Quite A Smile. “No skin off my nose,” he said. “But if you want to make money, I’d leave it as it was. Your Mr. Newton is a limp rag, but he is good at what he does. Beef cubes and deodorant. That’s your world, and I’ve got clients who are millionaires because of it with significant advertising budgets they’re happy to spend. But it’s up to you.”
“It certainly is,” said Cressida, whose cheeks were now very pink.
“Just don’t expect my more élégante clients to come in,” said Morley. “They just don’t want to know.”
Now he stood up. “I have to go. I’m seeing The Chronicle boys for lunch. Sorry, Mrs. Porter, but you did ask. Nice dress, by the way. I’ll see myself out. Collins. Miss Lake.”
And with another almost imperceptible nod of his head, the most obnoxious man known to magazine publishing exited the room.
The three of us sat in silence. Even Small Winston, who had watched the meeting from his cushion, was quiet.
For a moment, I thought Mrs. Porter was beaten. I was wrong. “Did you know?” she said. “I rather believe you did.”
“Know?” said Guy.
“That he is the most appalling man,” snapped Cressida. “Of course you did. You probably put him up to it.”
Seeing as Cressida had been the one to arrange the meeting, this was a bit rich. I began to put the coffee cups back on the tray.
“Leave them,” barked Mrs. Porter. “I don’t pay you to be a waitress.”
“I did warn you that he’s known to be blunt,” said Guy.
“The man’s an idiot,” replied a quite furious Egg.
Archie Morley was a pig, but he was far from being that.
“Mrs. Porter,” said Guy, “I entirely agree that he’s objectionable, and I’m sorry you had to put up with his rudeness. But Morley does know his stuff. I can’t tell you how much I hate to admit it, but it’s true. He’s made a fortune from it. I know it doesn’t match your vision, but he’s worth listening to.”
“Worth listening to?” cried Mrs. Porter. “You sit here and watch me being treated like a fool and now want me to take the advice of some dreadful man who’s probably from Trade anyway, just because it fits in with what you all want?”
“Mrs. Porter,” I said, “I thought he was vile. I was tempted to throw coffee at him at one point. But he said he has clients who want to spend money with us if we stick to what we do. I know you don’t like talking about money, but if you just let us get on with things, including Mrs. Croft, we can make loads of it for you. You wouldn’t have to put up with meetings like this or people like Morley. You wouldn’t have to do a thing.”
I thought it was a good argument. Not for the first time today, however, I appeared to be wrong.
“Money?” scoffed Mrs. Porter. “I don’t need to go begging to your sad little advertisers. In fact, I don’t need this magazine at all.”
Now she stood up, marched over to the door, and shouted down the corridor for Mr. Elliot, who arrived in two seconds flat.
“Yes, Mrs. Porter,” he oozed.
Mrs. Porter looked over at Guy and me, paused for a moment, and then turned back to her second-in-command.
“Mr. Elliot,” she said calmly. “Forget about calling Mrs. Croft. She’ll go with the rest of them. I want you to make an appointment with my solicitors. Tell them I have decided to sell Woman’s Friend.”