Crimson (30 page)

Kenneth Bell, a cadaverous-faced man with a sallow complexion -and wearing a brown leather jacket, treated Miranda as a lark, an unexpectedly interesting happening in the dull routine of his life. He asked Miranda out to her first business luncheon: they sat on cane furniture in Birmingham’s first and only coffee bar, among a jungle of rubber plants, listening to the squawks of an indignant caged macaw.

“You can get all the cosmetics you want from us, except the lipsticks,” Ken said, spooning up runny chilli con came.

“For them, you want to visit Shama Cosmetics in Manchester, they are.”

“Can you help me with the skin-care products, Ken? I won’t feel confident unless they’ve been properly tested.”

“Can do, Miranda, can do.” Ken blew the froth from his cappuccino.

“A pal of mine’s a dispensing chemist in Wimpole Street he’ll work on the formulas with you. He works for them smart dermatologists in Harley Street; you’ll be safe with him.” From that day, Ken Bell acted as Miranda’s supplier, industrial spy, and adviser, and he oversaw her ambitious efforts with fatherly concern and pride.

WEDNESDAY, 7 FEBRUARY 1962

Another important factor in Miranda’s business had been choosing the right property, for she would at first rely on sales from passing trade. Looking for the best and busiest street location that she could afford, she searched for a property as near as possible to an underground railway station, a main bus stop, or a street crossing. Eventually she chose a small shop and overhead flat on the corner of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road.

Once Miranda had signed her expensive lease, she had to move fast, because from that point she was spending money: rent, local taxes, utilities, insurance, lighting, heat: and refurbishment all had to be paid, yet the shop generate no income until KITS opened its door. Before sunrise on her twenty-first birthday, Miranda was -,“Vvsconced in her own shop window, watching the half a working crowd shuffle past her store.

a kewoning party that evening, Miranda needed a For her ope Striking window display. She had sprayed a windowQ esser s model with silver paint and dressed her in a wild -‘zlver wig with a few wisps of pale grey net. The model “stood with her legs apart, toes turning in, and arms outspread, seemingly to catch a shower of crimson KITS boxes and containers, suspended from the ceiling by invisnylon cord. Miranda had chosen white and crimson as her house colours, when she hired a designer to project the KITS image: she had noticed that at Christmas, people Always opened the red packages first.

Miranda couldn’t afford a publicist, but not to worry, said her friend Annie Trehearne. Annie advised her to “promote herself. After all, Miranda had seen her grandmother entertain journalists, keeping them informed about her books, so why shouldn’t Miranda do the same thing to publicize her make-up? Just before the opening of the shop, leaflets and price lists were printed entitling customers to a ‘buy one, get one free” make-up sample. Miranda and her new assistant, Linda Grey, spent the morning distributing these leaflets to the many nearby university and college buildings. This saved further money on publicity.

On the afternoon of the KITS opening, Elinor appeared in the shop to find chaos: carpenters hammered, electricians swore, and painters dripped silver paint.

Miranda, in jeans, stood in the middle of the confusion.

“Put those boxes on the upper shelves, please … Careful, Jim, I don’t

want another spot of paint on the floor tiles … Did you get those blue spotlights?,… Gran, darling! What a surprise!”

“I can see that you’re busy, dear girl,” Elinor said.

“I just thought I’d call to wish you good luck and to say … to say that I’m sorry I doubted your business ability, but I’m right behind you now. Whatever happens, you can depend on me.”

“Whatever happen sT Miranda grinned.

“Until the right man comes along, of course,”

At six o’clock, Miranda opened her door to the public for the first time.

KITS looked vaguely like a smart photographer’s studio: it had black floor tiles and matt black walls; chrome theatrical spotlights shone on the merchandise. The sales staff wore crimson Jumpsuits. From the moment the door opened, K ITS was jammed with students, passers-by, journalists, and many friends of Elinor’s: she had sent a crimson invitation to every person in her address book and had also insisted that Miranda invite Angus. Miranda, who had already invited Angus, crossly told her grandmother to stop hoping.

Miranda was vexed with Elinor because she didn’t like to admit to herself that she still missed Angus far more than she’d ever thought possible. But she couldn’t again risk making fools of both of them by suggesting a replay. And she certainly wasn’t going to be miserable in bed for the rest of her life. She had suspended her search for a suitably sized Prince Charming until she was less busy at the office; at any rate, that was her excuse. It was a pity that Angus had this one great drawback, because he was so perfect in every other way, which was why she missed him so much more than he missed her, Miranda suspected. Because Angus now made it clear that he thought of her only as a friend although, of course, they weren’t yet comfortably4: 10”Idly-maybe later, she wouldn’t feel so stiff and un.00rtable whenever she saw him.

In the excited atmosphere of the crowded shop, Elinor “Waved as she saw Angus trying to push through the crowd towards the corner she shared with Buzz.

-“Angus is the only man here who doesn’t look as if he’s waped from the zoo,” Elinor said approvingly to Buzz. Vm so glad he’s turned up. I know that Angus won’t take for an answer, not with that square jaw: the dear boy is t biding his time. Miranda is riding on the crest of a wave at the moment, but the time will come when there are difficulties, and then she’ll need a strong man. That’s when Angus will make his move.” Romantic codswallop, Nell,” Buzz growled, then added, “Funny sort of cigarettes they’re smoking. No wonder youlre coughing, Nell. We don’t want another bronchitis ttack. You’ve only been out of bed for a week!” She fimned her invitation.

“Cor! What a noise! And what a crowd! And what weird clothes!” I But the headiest substance to get high on was not the pot, it was the optimism and euphoria that hung above the chic crowd, which so clearly demonstrated that fashion was no longer reserved for the daughters, wives, and mistresses of the rich. Annie Treheame had persuaded all the big names to turn up. Models talked to photographers and trendy hairdressers; pretty girls talked to advertising men in dark glasses; debs chatted to Bow Group young Tories; truculent left-wing journalists argued with art directors in black turtleneck sweaters. Cockney and Liverpudlian accents mingled with upper class accents: “Isn’t it groovy?, - ..

“So switched on” .. . super birds” .. . Tabshop” .. .

“smashing” .. .

“totally with it’. The evening was clearly a right rave-up.

“Annabel’s late again!” Elinor worried to Buzz.

But Annabel wasn’t late; she was peering at the party through the two-way mirror that Miranda had installed behind the back wall to watch KITS customers and see which items they first picked up.

Miranda had insisted that Annabel who had flown over from New York especially for the opening should not appear until the party had been running for two hours; both sisters feared that Annabel’s now famous face would steal Miranda’s limelight. So Annabel would not enter until all the photographers had left. Until then, she contented herself with her surreptitious view, and wished that Miranda would fall for one of those very attractive men at the party instead of talking to Angus.

Finally Miranda flung open the door.

“Okay, Annabel, you’re allowed in now. Everyone please meet my beautiful sister!”

Ten minutes after Annabel joined the party, she felt a tug at her shoulder. It was Clare, who looked white and ill. She said, “Please get me out of here fast, darling. I think I’m going to faint. Don’t spoil Gran’s fun. Just get me home.”

Annabel drove Clare’s little scarlet car back to Poulton Square, where she helped her sister up the stairs, tucked her into bed, and brought her a glass of brandy.

“No, darling, I don’t want a drink.” Leaning back against her pillows, Clare still looked haggard.

“Don’t look so worried, Annabel, it’s not serious. I’ve had tests, and I’m not pregnant although my gyno took me off the Pill a couple of months ago, to make sure that wasn’t the cause of my problem: so I’m back with the messy Dutch cap whenever Sam gives me time to get it in.”

“But what’s wrong, darling?”

“Awful back pains. I feel as if I have a permanent, bad period.”

“Where’s Sam?” “He left for Paris at dawn this morning. He’ll be back tomorrow evening,” Clare said shortly.

tentatively, “Arc things okay between you Annabel asked and Sam?” “Yes, of course,” Clare said. She burst into tears.

Annabel hugged her sister, reached for the box of tissues, silently handed it to Clare, and waited until her snuffling stopped.

“Now tell me what’s happened,” Annabel said gently.

Clare started to speak, stopped, stuttered, stopped again, then burst out.

“My gyno thinks my backache is because I -get physically excited when we’re making love but I don’t climax so there’s no relief. He said a man feels the same way if he doesn’t climax after having an erection.” After renewed sobs, Clare wailed, “But Sam thinks I’m frigid.”

“Can you masturbate?” Annabel asked.

Speechless, Clare blushed and nodded. Annabel said briskly, “If you can masturbate to orgasm, then you aren’t frigid and you are orgasmic. There’s no great mystery about it.”

“Then why does Sam think I’m frigid?” ““Frigid” is a man’s word for a woman who can’t have an orgasm in two minutes with the kind of stimulation that works for him.” Clare laughed bitterly. Annabel said, “Why don’t you … do it yourself if your back pains are so bad?” “What’s the point of being married unless we do it with each other?” Clare added resentfully, “If Sam really loves me, he should know what I need in bed.”

“How? By divine guidance? ESPT Annabel asked.

“Sam isn’t a mind reader: you have to fell him what you like or take him by the hand and show him. Of course Sam loves you, or he wouldn’t have married you, but when you’re making love, you mustn’t be shy about telling him what turns you on. Simply establish two things: what you like and what he likes.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“So it should be. But there’s only one person who can teach a woman to be a good lover, and that’s her man. And there’s only one person who can teach a man to be a good lover, and that’s his woman.”

“What did you tell Scott?” “That I like to be on top, then I can control the rhythm and pressure. We … sort of rub rather than bounce … as in rock and roll.” Clare said, “Sam doesn’t like to talk when he’s making love. Suppose he won’t lis tenT Annabel shrugged.

“You can tell some men something until you’re blue in the face, but if they don’t want to hear it you might as well save your breath. In that case,” maybe you should go with Sam to a marriage counsellor.”

“I keep hoping things will get better…”

“You’ve been married three years! How much longer arc you going to wait! “Don’t rush me,” Clare said crossly.

“And how come you’re such an expert, Anna belT “Scott taught me. And sex is practically the only thing that models talk about in the changing rooms. In New York, everyone talks openly about things that the British would blush to even think about: they’re accustomed to discussing these things with their psychiatrists.” Clare gave a wobbly laugh.

“If you told a man from Mars that the sex act was a human being’s ultimate pleasure and then described it, he’d laugh until he burst into green fragments.” In the end, Clare found that the best way to talk to Sam was simply, casually, to repeat her conversation with Annabel.

Sam said, “Why the fuck do you have to discuss our -private LIFE with your sister? Don’t worry. Lots of women can’t climax.” “But I can when I … when I … do it myself.

ook, Clare, nobody ever complained to me before. Everything is functioning perfectly, thank you.” He lay back, bare-chested against blue-striped pillows, and clasped his hands behind his head.

“Come here and I’ll prove it.” Before entering Clare, Sam thrust two fingers up her; he twisted his wrist and wriggled his fingers around, harder harder. Having entered her, he thrust longer and harder than usual, as if trying to reach some not-quite attainable spot, like a plumber desperately trying to reach whatever is blocking the sink.

From underneath, Clare tried to do the rock-and-roll wriggle, but Sam’s hands reached down and guided her ‘hips to his movement.

Afterwards, Clare, who had not climaxed, sensed Sams silent exasperation. Eventually he gingerly felt for her clitoris. Four minutes later, she climaxed.

A few weeks later, Clare reported progress to Annabel, now back in New York.

“So everything ‘s fine now?” Annabel asked.

Clare hesitated.

“Not altogether. I can sense … the res still something wrong … Sam7s trying very hard,” she said.

“In every possible position. But it … doesn’t feel loving or caring. Now I feel as if we’re a couple of acrobats, performing.”

“To be blunt,” Annabel said, “efficient fucking isn’t necessarily an act of love.”

“The most depressing thing is … Sam won’t acknowledge that the way my body works is normal, so that makes me resentful, when Sam clearly thinks I should be grateful.”

After a long silence, Annabel said, “Maybe you should lighten things up a little. You might try a little playful fantasy.”

“What do you meanT “Erotic fantasy. Next time you’re in bed with Sam, use your fantasies. Say.- “A picture just came into my mind of you unhooking my black satin corselette Clare looked doubtful.

FRIDAY, 6 APRIL 1962 Nevertheless, the next day, Clare told the an pair that she would be out all day, then took a taxi to the Matelot restaurant, where she was to meet Lizzie Bromley for lunch. There the headwaiter handed her a note saying that Lizzie couldn’t make it because she had a toothache. As Clare didn’t feel hungry, she took another taxi to Fenwick, S. An hour later, clutching two large green boxes of frivolous underwear, Clare returned home, planning to spend the afternoon trying out a few fantasies. She ran upstairs to her bedroom, opened the door … and froze.