October 1962–May 1963
I woke from a bad dream shaking, feeling the sweat cold and damp on my face. It was about Bella, horrible, ghastly. She was a tiny swaddled bundle, tight-wrapped in a white cotton blanket – airy with holes, the sort the maternity wards used – and being hurled in the air by two men who had glittering eyes and stubbly chins. They were laughing, seeing how high and how far they could throw her, as though playing some heartless ballgame. I was running towards them along a path, screaming hysterically, ‘Stop, stop!’ when one of them hurled her so high that she spiralled off over a beautiful silver sea – higher, higher. The pitiful screams of a very small baby were piercing, slicing my heart until they faded to silence and she became the faintest tiny pinprick in the sky.
My pulse calmed. It was only a dream, but I still had an irrational urge to call home, a need to set my mind at rest. With the five-hour time difference it would be lunchtime and Miss Hadley should be home, not gossiping with other nannies in the park.
She sounded guarded, which didn’t help my nerves. ‘I was in need of a little update,’ I said cheerily, ‘missing Bella madly. Is she sleeping okay? Are you having better nights?’
‘Not so bad, and she’s a little angel by day, but I don’t like all this they’re saying on the wireless, Mrs Bryant, about Cuba and nuclear missiles. My Daily Express says the Russians are sending warships, too, with more missiles. And it says – I’m just finding the place . . . President Kennedy is setting up a blockade with forty warships and twenty thousand marines. It’s a terrible thing. I don’t want them starting World War Three.’
Nor did anyone else, I thought. ‘We just have to hope and pray, Miss Hadley, that it’s all peacefully resolved.’
‘The Express talks as well about Whitehall being taken by surprise. That’s very rude of Mr Kennedy, isn’t it, not telling the Prime Minister? I don’t approve of that.’
‘I’m sure they’ll have been in touch.’ I smiled at the idea of Miss Hadley as cheerleader for the Prime Minister. ‘And the UN is meeting, the wheels are turning. Tell me more about Bella,’ I pressed. ‘And how you’re coping with Frankie. Is he keeping quiet when you need to get her to sleep?’
‘I put him in the hall, under his blackout blanket. He’s very perverse, throwing birdseed husks out onto the carpet and saying a naughty word. Mr Bryant says that’s just letting off steam! Mr Bryant takes him out of the cage a lot; I keep finding little messes . . .’
‘I’m sorry about that. But Bella . . . Is she smiling much?’
‘Oh yes, lovely smiles – and the way she wraps those tiny fingers of hers round mine!’
‘I’m longing to see her. I’m so grateful for everything, Miss Hadley. Must rush or I’ll be late at work. Give her lots of kisses and I’ll call again soon.’
I had some toast, packed my tote bag and set off for work feeling doubly tense; my first booking of the day was with Gil, a moody advertisement for a pearl jewellery company.
It went well. He made the work easy and we did good pictures, but in the studio as with everywhere else, a sense of crisis ruled. Gil played Beethoven not pop, and there was little joking around. He still managed to ask on the quiet, ‘Any news on the man front?’
‘Give us a break! I’m being chased by one, though; I’m on the case.’
In the streets the city went about its working day, drivers leaned on their horns as usual, but there was a palpable feeling of hiatus. Life as we knew it was on hold.
Joe telephoned from Washington. The dance had been cancelled in the circumstances, but a small dinner party was being given for the Jaipurs in its place, so he was still going to the White House. He was staying on till the weekend, he said, seeing a friend, and might try to write an article. Was the friend Jackie? He hadn’t asked after me or said anything friendly like wishing I were there. I worried about him in Washington at such a time, while feeling fearful, neglected and jealous.
I’d only just put the phone down when Matt Seeley called. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
‘I’m fine, but how about you and Pierre with the world’s press on your back?’
‘There is that! The decisions on how much to say are so tricky. We can quote Adlai Stevenson at the UN today; he’s challenged Zorin, the Soviet Ambassador, about the missiles in Cuba and said he’ll “wait till hell freezes over” for an answer on the Soviet’s real intentions. And John Steinbeck’s just won the Nobel Prize in Literature; an American winner helps! I can, um, get to the city tomorrow. I’ll only have a snatched hour, if that, but can we have dinner? Please say yes.’
‘Possibly,’ I said, feeling friendly. Did he know Joe was in Washington? ‘I should check with the Ferrones first, though. They may have plans.’
‘I’ll call again, but you must. It could be my only chance to see you. I mean, it’s hard to know what’s going to happen . . .’ And he knew more than most. My pulse raced.
I decided to involve Joan in whether or not to see Matt. She was no fool, probably sensed things were dodgy with Joe and I didn’t want any more secrets. Gil was enough.
‘That young man certainly took a shine to you,’ she laughed. ‘Doggy eyes from the start! I’d go – be nice for you to get out. If Matt actually makes it here, that is; they’re in the thick of it, he and Pierre, in Washington. It’s dreadful to think of the immense strain they must all be under.’
Matt made it. He stared at me in a flattering way, squeezed my arm and suggested we walked. ‘I’ve booked at Le Veau d’Or, on Sixty-first Street,’ he said. ‘It’s just a few blocks.’ He kissed me in the elevator, awkwardly and too desperately. I wasn’t responsive. ‘Don’t be cross,’ he pleaded. ‘It was impossible not to kiss you, seeing you again when I’ve thought of nothing else.’
‘That’s a bit hard to believe at a time like this,’ I smiled and we set off at a pace.
The restaurant was very French, small and intimate; square tables with white tablecloths as well as red-plush banquette booths. Good cooking smells pervaded with a sort of typical Gallic confidence. ‘It’s very swish,’ I said, as we were shown to one of the booths.
‘It’s far from that. I worried you’d prefer somewhere more in. And it’s a bit empty tonight,’ he said, looking round. ‘People are glued to their televisions, I expect.’
We ordered celery remoulade and veal escalopes. Matt chose a bottle of red wine that came quickly, as did some crusty French bread. He was beside me on the banquette and seemed to take shortage of time as an excuse for bodily contact, edging near enough to have touching thighs and pressing his calf against mine.
He gave me a look that was half-soulful, half-swaggerish. ‘You can’t only have ten days left in the city. It’s a disaster. How soon can you come back?’
‘Not soon. I’m booked up at home and want time with my baby. I’ll possibly come in the autumn of next year, even bring her too and stay longer.’
‘Next fall? You’re not serious! Look,’ he touched my cheek, ‘I have a plan. I want you to come to the South of France and meet there – just a little break, a long weekend?’
‘I’m married, Matt! It’s good of you to take me out while Joe’s in Washington . . .’
‘Why is he? What’s he doing there? Doesn’t he want to be with you at this time?’
That got to me. ‘He’s writing an article,’ I muttered.
‘I want to be with you very much,’ Matt said. ‘Is that such a terrible thing?’ He hesitated, then couldn’t resist adding, ‘In the circumstances.’
He held out those three words, the circumstances of Joe, like dangling keys on a ring, offering them as a way in, a pardon, a weaselly excuse to jump into bed with him.
‘It is fairly terrible,’ I said, softening it, probably too much with my hand on his arm.
We got on with our food, Matt with his body pressed to my side; he murmured lavish compliments. His physical need of me was glaring, quite oppressively so. I was attracted, but with nowhere near the urgent intensity and sense of connection I’d felt with Gil. Casual sex? Would I get too close to Matt if I slept with him? Or would he with me? I thought he was more into making conquests than love matches, but he could prove me wrong.
‘I stay at a friend’s apartment when I’m here,’ he said, as if reading my next thought before it was fully formed. ‘He’s a fun guy, you must meet him.’ Matt picked up my hand, stroking each finger, squeezing them and holding on tight. ‘God, it’s hell being so up against it tonight. I’ve got local radio, a press conference . . .’ He called to an elderly waiter for the check then tilted and turned my face to him. ‘You will let me see you again? I’d do anything for the chance.’
‘Not many of those, I’m afraid. I’d love to see Washington again, and the Ormsby-Gores have said any time, but that’s a long way down the line. Joe will be here next week, why not come and have a drink with us if you are, too – come and say hello.’
The waiter was hovering and Matt dealt with the check. ‘And the South of France?’ he said, lifting his eyes. ‘I have a place to stay, you see. A rich old lady in Boston who’s my fan has a villa there – well, more of a roadside cottage. It’s up in the hills near Saint Paul de Vence. She only goes there for six weeks in the summer and I can use it at other times. I did once, covering the Cannes Film Festival. It’s heaven.’
I’d never been to the South of France, but didn’t volunteer that. Matt was waiting for a reaction. ‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘Maybe our paths will cross – here, London, even Cannes! We’re about to move house, back home, but you could reach us through the Ferrones.’
The waiter brought our coats. Matt helped me into mine, my white Mongolian-lamb-lined leather coat, and we left the restaurant.
It was cold out and he hugged me close. Crossing Lexington Avenue, the wind lashed and whipped itself into a whirlpool round us and I was glad of his protective arm and the snug coat, though it reminded me of Gil. We walked a block and turned down a dark, more sheltered side street, where Matt slowed to a stop in the shadows. He was more cautious about kissing me this time, but I let him and there was no caution about his searching tongue. My coat had easy fastenings, he found his way in, and I could feel every craving contour of his body against mine. I let the sensation flow into me, his hungry passion; it was gratifying and brought desires of my own. He’d have got me into bed probably, but for the constraints of time. I was well aware, though, that they weren’t self-imposed. Gil was a bad influence.
I broke away and kept charge of Matt’s hands. ‘You have to go. I do, too.’
‘That’s cruel, very heartless, but true,’ he conceded, and we hurried on. He held onto my shoulders at the apartment door, staring into my eyes. ‘I will come by next week. I’ll make it somehow. I have to see you, even if it means a last resort of being civil to Joe.’
Walter and Joan heard the door and came out to the hall like anxious parents. Joan asked if I’d had a fun time, while Walter wanted to know if Matt had had any more news.
I grimaced. ‘It’s worse, if anything, as far as I can gather. No let-up yet. Matt said the White House is releasing an intelligence report tomorrow, about the missile bases nearing completion, close to full operational capability already.’
Walter looked grave; even his jowls were stilled. ‘Oh dear, I’d felt more hopeful today with U Thant at the UN doing his best. Dear, dear, what a world we live in.’
My mind was on Bella. Calling Miss Hadley, hearing her anxiety, realising how Britain and the rest of the world were holding their breath, made me even more acutely aware of the wretchedness of being so far from home. I’d phoned the Embassy Residence yesterday, needing to talk to Joe, not even bothering to think about his White House dinner the previous night when we could be radiated or blown up any minute. He hadn’t returned my call. People were sombrely getting on with life, their minds tight shut; mine had been too, working, seeing Matt, but Walter’s gloom had brought a rush of renewed panic. Should I try to book a flight home? Give it two more days? I felt numb, frozen with indecision.
Two days later, a U-2 reconnaissance plane was shot down over Cuba. It felt like a tipping point with the loss of life; the pilot, Major Rudy Anderson, who had a young family and a baby on the way. Walter learned that Khrushchev had toughened his stance, belligerent and defiant in the face of all demands. It was a very black Saturday. I resolved to call Eileen the next day and tell her I needed to get home.
We’d had a flurry of snow on Friday, then Saturday’s grimness, but Sunday brought cautious rays of hope. The Times headline was encouraging: CAPITAL IS READY TO LIFT BLOCKADE. KENNEDY ASKS FOR QUICK ACTION TO END TENSION AND PRESS FOR WORLD PEACE.
We pored over the papers. The Ferrones took me out to lunch; we walked in the park and, returning to the apartment, heard the phone. Joan ran in to answer it. She was listening with a spreading smile as we came in. ‘It’s Matt,’ she said, cupping the mouthpiece. ‘Khrushchev’s ordered the withdrawal of missiles. Matt’s saying we can exhale, at least, if not quite yet spray the walls with champagne. Have a quick word, Susannah. I’m sure he’d like one.’
‘More than a word,’ he muttered, overhearing. ‘God, it’s such a relief! I’d been worried enough to make a will, and guys in the office have been writing “in the event of” letters to their wives . . .’
That really brought home how close we’d been. I returned the phone, touched that he’d taken the trouble to call and feeling quite wobbly with emotion. Walter and Joan hugged each other – and me. Walter even had tears in his eyes.
It was too late to phone home. I slipped away to my room to write down a few thoughts and a letter to my brother, but sitting at the desk the sheet of blue airmail paper became a blur. The world might have teetered and righted itself, but things were no better with Joe.
He had phoned on Friday, finally, yet had done so when he must have known I’d be at work. He’d told Joan he was staying the weekend and would get the shuttle on Monday, be with us by noon. I imagined him being charming to Joan, apologising entertainingly. But he hadn’t called again when I’d be in, to explain or say sorry, not once, nor had he asked me to come to Washington.
Joe could hurt me cruelly, which must mean there was still a spark, and most important of all, he was Bella’s father. I wasn’t sin-free either, far from it now; it was a more level playing-field, although I felt, absurdly, ever so slightly more in the right and virtuous, having done my best to give up Gil. It felt a bit like giving up atheism in an attempt to keep the faith. I didn’t hold out much hope for my chances.
On Monday I phoned at lunchtime, between bookings, and spoke to Joan, but Joe hadn’t yet arrived. In the afternoon, I worked with Lillian Bassman who was a brilliant if exacting photographer. It was an ad for a fruit juice. A small child was in the picture, too. Inevitably, we overran and I was late away, which meant battling with the evening rush. I pushed through the crowds, laddering a stocking on a woman’s shopping basket and fending off a nice-looking man who tried to pick me up.
My good intentions were wearing thin, and arriving back to find Joe lounging in an armchair, legs outstretched, sipping one of Walter’s well-shaken martinis, didn’t help my mood.
He craned his neck round. ‘Hey, it’s the worker returned! Hello, the wifey.’ He stirred himself and came to give me a peck. On his best behaviour, I thought irritably. ‘I was just telling Joan and Walter all about Tuesday’s White House dinner,’ Joe said, resuming his seat, ‘and about to describe Jack’s little duty speech to the Jaipurs, which was in his own inimitable style. The Maharanee’s newly elected to the Indian Congress, it seems, and – you’ll like this, Walter – he called her “India’s answer to Barry Goldwater”! She looked as chuffed as anything, had no problems at all with being compared to a loony right-wing extremist like Goldwater. And I’m sure she knew who he was!
‘Bobby appeared after dinner, looking very ragged and hollow-eyed. He and Jack went into a huddle; they sat up at the far end of that long centre-room and they were still there after midnight when we left.’
Walter had chuckled away over Barry Goldwater, but Joan had seemed less amused. I wondered if her eyes were wider open now where Joe was concerned; she knew he hadn’t phoned. I was perched very stiffly on the arm of a chair and I thought she’d guess how jealous, sore and neglected I was feeling. ‘We gotta go now, Walter dear,’ she said, curling a beckoning finger, cosily and bossily his way. ‘Forgive us, you two, we’re out to dinner, but I guess you’ve plenty catching up to do. Mary-Lou’s left you a scratch meal. Don’t feel stuck on it, you go on out, do just as you want.’
Joan smiled at me. ‘You look so lovely, Susannah, and with all the strain, and long days in front of the cameras, too.’ That was all said for Joe’s benefit, she was a brick.
She hustled Walter, bustled about, and they were soon out of the door.
Joe went to refill his glass from the cocktail shaker. ‘Drink?’ he said, as an afterthought, glancing back.
‘Yes, thanks, Campari and soda. How was Washington?’ I queried, when he returned with it. I’d sat down opposite and reached out a foot to make contact. ‘Have you written anything? You couldn’t talk to David Ormsby-Gore much, I suppose; he can hardly have come up for air.’
‘No one was talking. I met Pierre Salinger, but he only gave me the press spiel.’
‘He and his junior called by the evening I arrived and stayed to supper,’ I said, eyeing Joe over my glass. ‘They seemed very on the ball, as you’d expect. I liked them.’
‘Pierre didn’t mention meeting you,’ Joe grumbled, with a peevish, disbelieving air.
I ploughed on doggedly. ‘What did you do? Who did you see and meet?’
‘People were in and out of the Residence. I hung out with Sylvia and her kids, saw a bit of Jackie.’ Joe yawned and went to pour himself another drink, switching to vodka.
‘Where, at the White House? Did you go again then, after the dinner?’
‘God, what an inquisition! Yes, I had lunch with her, helped her cut a face in a huge Halloween pumpkin.’ He glared. ‘I get on with her, okay? Is that it?’
‘Not really. It’s been a terrible week. I spoke to Miss Hadley, who was stressed out about Cuba. I worried about you in Washington, needed to hear from you – and I’d been looking forward to the weekend.’
The look on Joe’s face, his lightly raised eyebrows said he wasn’t so sure about that. It was a cold, supercilious look. ‘Were you really?’ it implied sardonically. ‘Pull the other one.’
I shrank inside. Had I been cooler since Gil? Was I as much to blame? ‘I could have come to Washington,’ I mumbled. ‘You could at least have phoned and suggested it.’
‘Could I? And drag you away from your modelling? That always comes first.’ God, he could be infuriating, always touching just the nerve to make me feel on the back foot.
‘For heaven’s sake, you know that’s not true – and we’re talking about a weekend. I’m hardly working then.’ But there was that germ of truth, that raw nerve. I felt small.
Joe rolled his eyes. ‘Here we go again, nag, nag! Look, you’re my wife; we live together. But you go off working in New York and I have a weekend in Washington – on my own. That’s how it is in the big wide world. You need to wise up a bit, old girl.’
‘Oh, I’ve done that, don’t you worry,’ I bit back, fuming. ‘I’m wised up just fine.’
It was no good being goaded, not going to solve a thing. ‘Let’s forget it,’ I muttered, calming down. ‘And we should eat – I’m starving. Probably the relief of not being radiated to a cinder last week. It had really seemed we were all done for.’
Joe fixed himself another vodka while I went to the kitchen. Mary-Lou had put ready some soup and a pie. I turned on the oven and warmed the soup, stirring it slowly, thinking about Joe and Jackie – even Joe and Sylvia. He was so wittily amusing and appealing when he wanted to be, certainly with First Ladies and Ambassadors’ wives; they’d enjoy having him around. Walter had said Jackie didn’t go in for female friends, that the only woman she truly trusted and liked was her sister, Lee. Perhaps Joe was a sort of girlfriend to Jackie and filled a gap for her. He could act any role, after all.
‘Supper’s up,’ I called. Joe wandered in with a full glass. How many was that? He hitched up at the kitchen counter and peered at the thick deep-red mush in his soup bowl. ‘Beetroot,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what’s in the pie.’ It turned out to be chicken and mushroom, very tasty; we had it with a heated-up baked potato. I made a pot of coffee and made an effort as well. ‘How about going to the Village to hear some jazz?’
Joe stared. It wasn’t what he’d expected. ‘Where? How do we know who’s playing?’
‘Eric Dolphy’s live at the Gaslight Café this month. Pity Thelonius Monk isn’t at the Five Spot as he’s recording, but you love alto-sax, Joe, and Dolphy’s one of the greats.’
It was a mini-breakthrough, thanks to Gil. Joe was up for going, curious, too. I’d managed to surprise him and pushed it a bit, saying Bob Dylan played at the Gaslight and had even done an album there recently. I wondered, knowing I was secretly longing to, whether we’d happen on Gil. No good thinking that way, I was trying to mend my marriage.
Joe loved the whole scene, clicking his fingers, eating up the music for hours. No Gill, the smoke-filled Gaslight had been quiet that night, but after Eric Dolphy’s sultry, moody, beautiful playing, Joe was in the mood and squashed into one of the cots to make love to me. ‘How come you’re suddenly so up in jazz and the Village clubs?’ he’d asked, still huddled close, given the size of the bed, and showing a little jealous interest at last.
‘Music’s a big deal in the studios,’ I said. ‘I work a lot with a jazz freak as well.’
We went to other Village hangouts over the next few nights; Joe was wired up, sexed up. New York did that to people. I didn’t ask about his daytimes, feeling he needed that space; it was a fragile togetherness at best.
Matt came for drinks two days before I left. He’d called and invited himself, much to Joan’s amusement. I sensed her absorbing the body language when he arrived and shook hands with Joe. Walter came out into the hall looking intrigued as well, and pressed cocktails on us. ‘My best martinis coming up,’ he said, going ahead to fulfil the task.
Joan took Joe’s arm. ‘You know us Yanks and our martinis,’ she laughed. ‘You have just what you want, Joe!’ They carried on into the sitting room, while Matt held back; he stared hard then gripped my arm and kissed my mouth with fierce controlling passion.
I broke away panting, feeling surging adrenaline as I frantically wiped my mouth and smoothed my hair. ‘How have you been?’ I asked loudly, trying to avoid suspicion about what was holding us up. ‘We so appreciated that call last week – goodness, what a relief! Now you must come and have a drink.’ Walter looked over curiously as we appeared.
‘How’s Pierre, Matt?’ he asked, holding out a martini and a Campari and soda for me. ‘Don’t let on to him, but I haven’t got very far yet with Jackie’s little request.’
‘I won’t,’ Matt promised, taking the glass. ‘But I’d say that’s the least of Pierre’s worries. Keeping the lid on the press is pretty full-on right now. We’re still waiting on confirmation that the missile bases are being dismantled. The Soviets don’t exactly enlighten us. Not an easy time if you’re Defence Secretary – McNamara said it’s like trying to talk to people who’ve spent all their lives in a cellar.’
‘What a gloomy thought,’ Joe said. Matt smiled at him agreeably and came to sit beside me on the sofa, the nearest place.
‘The British press say Whitehall doesn’t entirely trust the photographic evidence,’ Joe continued, ‘and the PM’s in a bate. Is there any real proof – just between us?’
Matt shifted his position, managing to brush my thigh. ‘It’s sure genuine all right, grainy photographs taken from an Air Force U-2 plane. The CIA has been working on them for days, tucked away – this is certainly not for repeating – in a room over a downtown Ford car-dealer shop with the unknowing used-car salesmen wheeler-dealing below!’
Joe enjoyed that. Secrets and titbits made his world turn. He kept the questions coming and looked quite disappointed when Matt said he must run, much as he’d rather stay.
‘Any chance we’ll cross paths in Washington?’ asked Joe. ‘I’m there this weekend, flying home direct from DC.’
‘I’ll be hard at it in the office,’ Matt said, ‘but here’s my card. Give me a call when you know how you’re placed. Maybe we can meet up for a quick jar.’
Joe handed over a card as well. ‘Look us up if ever you’re in London, Matt. Susannah’s set on moving, but you have my agent’s details there – she’ll always put you in touch.’
It rained the first couple of days I was back home. Bella smiled through it. Miss Hadley needed time off and went to stay with her sister in Corby. She had misgivings written all over her face, relinquishing her charge to my sole care, and checked at least ten times that I had her sister’s number. Bella was a peach, however, and slept through till six. I kept quiet about that, though, in case Miss Hadley took it personally.
Joe arrived home direct from Washington, and set about systematically undoing all the good work of our few days together in Manhattan. His mood had plummeted. He had work, a part in a television series – a Lothario-type character, not a role to tax his ingenuity – and a radio play, but after that only voiceovers. His agent told me to keep him sweet, as film parts were in the offing and a new script – but how did you keep a man sweet who drank at least a bottle of vodka a day and was back in Alicia’s arms?
I’d cut through Belgravia to avoid a traffic jam, driven down her street and seen his black MGB parked almost outside her door. After that, the urge to keep looking became obsessive; it was like playing Russian roulette, anticipating, tensing-up for the stab of pain, yet if the car wasn’t there, feeling a sort of perverse, reverse anti-climax.
I got on with the move to Parson’s Green. Joe was no help, but I hadn’t expected him to be. He’d mutter glumly about it, through the bars of Frankie’s cage. ‘Alien territory, this new pad, you old wanker. No good squawking, shut your beak and don’t blame me!’
I understood Joe’s hurt pride over leaving a rented flat that he’d had some part in, for a house bought with my money. I just wished he didn’t have to be so morbidly moody about it.
He was mumbling either to himself or Frankie one Saturday morning while I read a letter from Joan Ferrone. She wrote long rambling screeds, streams of consciousness, gossipy, tangential and fun. I passed on to Joe, who thrived on any Kennedy news, that Ted Kennedy had just been elected as Senator for Massachusetts – Jack’s old seat.
‘I took to Ted,’ Joe said, perking up, ‘I met him with Jackie and her sister Lee.’
‘Doubt I would,’ I said. ‘He cheated at Harvard for starters, and all that stuff about renting brothels and opening up bordellos on a Latin-American trip is a bit of a turn-off.’
‘That’s my little bourgeoise hausfrau talking, such a prude!’ Not any more, I thought, my mind slipping to Gil spread-eagling me, securing me to a hotel bed with four silk ties.
‘Lee said we must come to dinner sometime,’ Joe remarked. ‘Don’t know how often she’s in London, though.’ It sounded extremely vague and I wondered why Joe had even mentioned it. Lee must have made clear to him that I was invited, too – possibly out of curiosity? She’d been his host at the villa in Italy when I’d been left at home.
Joe would talk to Frankie, but it took news from the States for him to communicate with me. The BBC reported that Fidel Castro had accepted the removal of US weapons from Cuba. That prompted Joe to talk of envying Matt, living in Washington. They’d managed to fit in a drink back in November, it seemed. I thought privately that Joe would soon discover Washington wasn’t his bag. Jackie’s interest would wane and he’d feel claustrophobic in that enclosed diplomatic world; he was more cut out for the London scene, music, the theatre and the parties of his aristocratic friends.
December brought a rash of those. I saw Joe virtually having it off on the dance floor with a pissed wiry rat of a girl – not Alicia – and the telephone was put down on me at times. The girl, I discovered later, was a duke’s daughter. I tried not to imagine what Joe did by day while I was at work. He was in debt. I’d taken menacing calls: ‘He pays up or his face won’t be a pretty sight, lady. You tell ’im that.’ Was Joe into gambling?
The weather was abysmal, freezing smog that seemed to penetrate far deeper than the frosty cold of New York. The high spot of the month was an impresario inviting us to the première of David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia. I’d have given a lot for a blast of that dry unrelenting desert heat. It snowed just before Christmas, but steam trains seemed able to handle snowy tracks and we made it to Dorset to be with my parents.
Only just, for the weather forecast was extreme – heavy snows and gale-force blizzards. We had to head back on Boxing Day. I felt sick about leaving, wracked with worry. Dad wasn’t a cadaver, he loved chips too much and carried a bit of weight, yet his face had the grey, shadowy limpness of someone drained by a fever. He looked as haggard as if he’d been out all night in the freezing snows. It was overwork. Mum was exhausted, too. I could afford to give them a holiday now if they’d only let me.
January was the coldest month for almost two centuries. The sea froze four miles out to sea from Dunkirk and the BBC news talked of the Straits of Dover freezing. Upstream from London, the skaters took to the Thames and someone drove over it in their car. Milkmen got about on skis, children walked miles to school. Miss Hadley was stalwart, keeping Bella safe and snug with no hint of fluster. I had a new respect for her.
More snow in February, blizzards lasting days, and sport had never been so disrupted: some football replays in the FA Cup had to be rescheduled more than ten times. However, London airport kept going with few cancellations and I was able to get to Paris for the French collections, which always had its moments.
I was still a teenager the first time I’d gone, naïve, new to modelling and Paris, too. The Sunday Times had booked me, working with Terry Donovan on a spread for their new colour supplement. Yves St Laurent’s Trapeze line was the big story that season; I thought the clothes looked like children’s stick drawings of their mummies, but all those chic blasé fashion editors were in a spin, drooling over the look. I knew nothing.
Terry was pissed out of his mind. The couture houses only released the collection clothes for photography after ten o’clock at night; the buyers came first, and since newspapers and magazines fought over who had first go after that, it could be two in the morning before a photographer could take a shot. Terry must have been lining up the bottles. He’d laid in plenty more as well and it was a mad session. We only had one night, given the paper’s deadline, and how he took such a spread of zany brilliant pictures, God knows.
At five in the morning we rolled back to the cranky offbeat hotel where we all stayed; the rooms were poky, crammed to suffocating with enormous pieces of dark gloomy furniture, and the antiquated lift was minute. It wasn’t built for a gang like ours, hefty Terry, his assistant, two models and the paper’s fashion editor . . .
The lift gave a wheezing sigh and gave up the ghost; it sank several feet below ground.
We giggled drunkenly, leaned on the alarm and eventually two cursing, sweating garlic-reeking electricians turned up; they got the door open so we could be pulled up through the space, except for Terry who was just too big. But with its lesser weight the lift suddenly jerked itself up to ground level and he amiably sauntered out.
The hotel’s manager, a madame whose scorpion tongue could inflict a thousand lashes, added £50 to each of our bills. I’d just started modelling and was broke; I’d had to live on bread and mustard, always on the tables in cafés, and watch others eat steak.
I set off this year, older and wiser, booked by French Vogue, but still staying in a hotel with other English photographers and models. Returning at 4 a.m. on the second night, the hotel reception was a bear-pit, people close to fisticuffs, insisting they’d booked rooms, being told there were none. The night porter shrugged, the hotel was full.
Pete, a photographer I’d worked with and quite liked, sidled up to me. ‘You’ve got a room and a kind heart, Susannah, can I sleep on your floor?’
‘No, sorry, that’s a bad idea,’ I said tiredly. ‘I couldn’t possibly trust you.’
‘On my honour – only the floor.’ I could have done without it, but it was too late to argue and he had very pleading eyes.
I was just drifting off when my lumpy bed complained loudly. ‘Shit,’ Pete muttered, ‘didn’t want to wake you, but it’s very hard . . .’ Somehow I didn’t think he meant the floor. ‘We’d both sleep better,’ he whispered, ‘if I just slipped in quietly, just a little bodily warmth . . .’
Was he in league with Gil?
On 6 March, excited weathermen told us it was the first day that year with no frost. The temperature soared to a heady 62 degrees and the snows melted in a flash – we’d had sixty consecutive days of the stuff. I felt like a hamster unballing from hibernation and trying to remember what sunshine and warmth were about.
People practically danced along the pavements, faces wreathed in smiles. Bella’s was too. She was six months old now, teething and greedy, but we forgave her anything for those smiles. Spring changed the shape and feel of life; everything burst forth. Photographers blossomed creatively. I worked with Cecil Beaton at his sublime Wiltshire home, reclining on a chaise longue in the conservatory, an elegant jungle of arching exotica, dangling parasols to match the dresses. The pictures were for Queen magazine. I did pictures with Brian Duffy, whom I adored, and Norman Eales, who always made his models say ‘Thursday’; it formed their lips into his trademark pout.
Being around creative people by day was a privilege, but by night I felt despairing and lonely. My relationship with Joe was going down the pan. He loved Bella and would exclaim proudly, ‘Clever girl!’ when she learned some new trick like rolling over. And if Frankie swore he’d wag a stern finger and say, ‘You close your ears to that, young lady!’
He loved all the hot gossip about John Profumo who’d denied having sex with Christine Keeler, which nobody believed. A new single by The Beatles was a turn-on, celebrities, parties and other women, too, but married life had none of that spice. Evenings in, nights with me, were boring, boring. Joe put on a passable act of Happy Families for Miss Hadley’s benefit, but my high hopes after New York were fallen leaves, withering on stony ground. I felt about as wanted and appreciated as a cigarette-butt, vulnerable, neglected and easy prey.
I came home late one fine April evening, after a day on location, to find Bella tucked up and asleep already, which I was sad about, and Miss Hadley having her supper on a tray in her room. She always did, since she had firm ideas about dividing lines.
Joe was in the sitting room, reading the evening paper, glass in hand. He looked up as I came in. ‘Pierre Salinger, his underling – what’s his name?’ he said.
‘Do you mean Matt Seeley?’
‘That’s it.’ Joe looked at me in triumph, as if he’d summoned it up himself. ‘Forgot for a moment. He’s coming over in a week or two and wants to meet up.’
‘You’ll enjoy that. You liked him, didn’t you? Now I’d better get on with supper.’
‘Not just me, he’s expecting you along, too – he said so. I told him it was best to fix it up with you. And Toby and Alicia want us for dinner at the White Elephant on Thursday. They’re taking the Farnley-Huntingtons and some business geezer or other. Swiss, probably manufactures cuckoo clocks.’ Joe retreated behind his newspaper, shaking it irritably.
‘That might be somewhere to suggest to meet Matt, if he calls,’ I said, speaking to Joe’s raised paper, ‘the bar at the White Elephant.’ It was a swank showbizzy sort of club and Joe was a member, unless he’d been turfed out for non-payment of fees.
‘Suggest where you bloody well like,’ Joe muttered.
‘I’d ask him here, but it’s so unfinished; I can’t wait for the new curtains.’
Joe lowered the newspaper with a look of point-scoring satisfaction. ‘That’s the wifey – curtains the summit of her horizons.’
An evening with Alicia and Toby felt less of an ordeal than previously; I cared increasingly little these days, which was immensely depressing. I cared about looking my competitive best, though, and wore a flouncy low-cut floral dress, deep pinks and yellows, and I loved the way the skirt swung. With high sling-backs and fun earrings, it was a good look.
Matt was next week’s problem. He was on my mind, though, as I walked into the White Elephant Club, since I’d just had a call from him – he’d lost none of his keenness and we’d arranged to meet there the following Tuesday. The Club had a long elegant bar made of gleaming mahogany, and the wall behind it was mirrored, so that people sitting at the counter could see into the room. And be seen, of course, which would help curb Matt’s advances.
Alicia and Toby and their guests had arrived. Joe and I joined them, and a waiter drew up two more of the Club’s navy velvet armchairs. Alicia had pushed up the usual display of cleavage. Was she a touch larger? Pregnant again? Or was it the Empire line, peach chiffon she was wearing? Joe kissed her cheek. He chose the chair facing her and stretched out his legs. I knew he was making contact and playing footsie.
Vanessa Farnley-Huntington, who was an angular girl with frizzy blonde hair, had been talking as we came up; her nostrils flared a bit too frequently and her ruby silk suit did nothing for her skin. She and her husband Perry were just back from Paris, I gathered, as she carried on.
‘And darling P was buying me a totally divine evening bag in one of those snooty chic boutiques off the Champs Elysées when that ghastly Binky girl breezed in, Alicia – and you should see what she’s done to her hair! It was Jean Seberg meets sucked mango; it hugged the skull and her tint had gone all orange.’
Perry beamed at his wife while Joe told the Swiss gent, Fabio, the best plays to see and Toby ordered another bottle of champagne. Fabio, not a slight man, was wearing a suit with such embarrassingly tight trousers that I couldn’t help eyeing his straining crotch, worrying about the harm to his procreative powers.
Joe was suddenly distracted, turning towards the bar. ‘Don’t look now,’ he said, ‘but isn’t that Richard Burton sitting there all on his own?’
It was one way of stopping Vanessa in her flow; it drew my eyes from Fabio’s cluster and caused Alicia’s head to spin round. ‘How’s that for a bit of showbiz spectator sport?’ Joe demanded, leaning forward to keep his voice down.
‘Burton’s face is a bit pitted.’ Vanessa cast a superior glance. ‘He’s not my type.’
‘That sounds like meow, meow,’ Toby commented dryly, making clear – to me at least – that he could do without Vanessa whether she was Alicia’s best mate or not. Toby never revealed much of himself; he merely observed, Sphinx-like, and made money for his faithless wife to spend. But who was I to talk? I wondered if he’d ever chuck Alicia out one day.
‘He is Miss Elizabeth Taylor’s type!’ Fabio chortled, giving his trousers extra stress.
We all had to sneak stares, it was impossible not to. Richard Burton was sitting half-sideways on his barstool, his back only partly to the room. I saw him nod at the barman for a refill, glance down towards the restaurant part of the Club, but then I was caught out, still staring when he turned further round and looked directly at me. He beckoned me over – and with everyone in the Club looking on . . .
‘Just see what he wants,’ I muttered, blushing as pink as the flower petals on my dress, loving the moment all the same, the astounded looks – jealous resentment through amused curiosity to total astonishment – from everyone at our table and others beyond.
I climbed up onto the vacant barstool beside Richard Burton. No one, obviously, had liked to come and sit too close. He gave me an appraising eye and rested his hand on my arm. ‘If I had to guess,’ he said, ‘I’d say you’re not having much of a hell of a good time.’
‘Well,’ I tittered nervously, ‘they’re more friends of my husband’s . . .’
‘He’s the actor? Couldn’t be one of the others.’ The barman was waiting. ‘Champagne here, Luigi, for the lady, the beautiful lady,’ Richard raised an eyebrow, ‘who is called . . . ?’
‘Susannah. I read you’re doing a film called The V.I.P.s?’ I said, relieved to have seen a mention and have something to talk about. He nodded, watching me, and I sipped the champagne, feeling the telltale heat in my face. ‘Perhaps I should re-join—’
‘I think we should get out of here, Susannah, and go someplace else.’
‘Where? What do you mean?’ My heart was pounding, I felt like pressing a hand to it.
‘Just a trip round the block – give your husband a surprise. Don’t look back.’
‘You mean a little drive – somewhere not far? And you’d bring me back soon?’
He laughed, a throaty, sexy laugh, and downed another whisky in one. ‘Yes, not far – only up the road.’ A thousand thoughts flew in. Elizabeth? Wasn’t she around? I could say no. He was staying at the Dorchester, I’d read, which was just up the road . . .
I could see my table in the mirror. Joe was giggling, Alicia responding, Vanessa looking shocked and peeved, Toby enjoying the sport. It would stir them up all right.
‘Ready?’ Richard touched my arm, amusement in his eyes. I stared back at him, still torn. What the hell! As pick-ups went, it certainly had some class. Gil would approve.
‘Yes.’ I grinned. ‘Just a little spin round the block . . . mustn’t be long.’
He took my arm and we left without a backward glance. His car was waiting, engine running, and we spun up Curzon Street – to the Dorchester. ‘Elizabeth’s having a teeth op,’ he said, ‘and I hate being alone.’ He gave me a lovely time.
Joe was asleep when I crept into bed, or pretending to be.
‘Nice time last night?’ he queried sarcastically, in the morning. ‘Vanessa asked how I stood for it and I’m really not sure. I suppose you never considered my feelings when you chose to stand me up like that – or the gossip, the harm to your reputation with friends?’
‘Isn’t that rather bourgeois of you, darling? I thought it was me who’s supposed to be the prude.’
Joe almost, but not quite, had the grace to smile.