Folly's Child (15 page)

Not bad! Paula thought. Not bad at all. You have quite a catch there, little sister.

She did not dare look at them for too long for fear of missing her footing or forgetting a move but the look on Edward's face added another notch to her enjoyment. She twirled slowly, feeling his eyes on her so that it was as though she was receiving an injection of adrenalin, Oh how she was enjoying herself! She wanted it to go on for ever and ever! She was back at the curtains again. Time to turn, hold one last pose, then move out. But there were still eight outfits to go. Paula intended to make the most of every one of them.

‘Well, did you enjoy it?'

‘Oh yes! Paula, you were wonderful!'

The show was over, the audience had drifted away to a reception room where they would be further wooed with a glass of champagne and a selection of canapes and nibbles and Paula, dressed now in one of her own suits, smart black barathea, had emerged from the dressing rooms to meet the waiting Sally and Edward. She was still on a ‘high', the potent adrenalin pumping through her veins, eyes sparkling, cheeks glowing with a becoming flush that owed nothing to the skilfully applied make-up.

‘Did you see anything you'd like to buy?'

‘Oh yes – everything! But you know very well I can't. And anyway, it was you we came to see.'

‘You weren't supposed to be looking at me. You were supposed to be looking at the clothes,' Paula said artlessly. She was watching Edward out of the corner of her eye. Yes, he was every bit as good looking as she had thought he was when she had glimpsed him from the catwalk. And he owned a car! Not bad at all. He was only an office worker, of course, a clerk of sorts, Sally had said, not quite in the class that Paula intended to aim at, but very presentable for all that. And to think he was going out with Sally! The fact was somehow offensive to Paula's ego. In that moment she made up her mind. She didn't really want him, of course but she simply had to prove to herself that he would prefer her to Sally, given the choice.

She smiled at him and felt his quickening interest. It was so easy, so incredibly easy. What was the expression? ‘Taking candy from a baby.' It summed up the situation perfectly.

‘Did Sally say you might be able to squeeze me into your car?'she asked, fluttering her eyelashes.

‘Hardly
squeeze,'
Sally began, embarrassed, then broke off. Edward was not listening. Neither of them were. Edward was staring at Paula and Sally did not like the expression on his face. She felt the pit of her stomach fall away. ‘It's a big car,' she finished lamely.

‘Are you sure I'm not making a nuisance of myself?' Paula gushed.

‘Of course not. I have to drive Sally home anyway.' The way he said it made Sally feel like a parcel for delivery.

‘I won't be long. I'll just get my things …' Paula disappeared through the swing doors. Edward gazed after her. There was a glow about him that all men had when they were around Paula. Sally felt sick.

‘What are we going to do on Saturday?' she asked, catching at his arm, desperate for reassurance.

‘Hmm? Oh … I don't know. Where does your sister go? Perhaps we could make up a party. That would be fun.'

For you, maybe, not for me! Sally thought.

Paula reappeared, carrying the little modelling case she had had to buy and equip with cosmetics, shoes and spare tights.

‘I was just saying to Sally, why don't you come out with us on Saturday?' Edward suggested. ‘We could go as a crowd.'

‘Oh what a shame! I've already made arrangements for this week.' But her eyes were flashing – nice try, Edward. Ask again sometime. Who knows?

‘Are you ready?' Sally asked. All the shine had gone out of the evening. Suddenly all she wanted to do was get home and bury her head under her pillow.

On Saturday Edward was late. Sally was frantic. He had never let her down before. Suppose something had happened to him?

She waited and waited, the feeling of living a nightmare that had been with her ever since Thursday intensifying. At last just as she was contemplating getting the next bus home he arrived. She ran to meet him, weak with relief, but he was very vague as to why he was late and there was a remoteness about him that she could not penetrate. Something was wrong she knew though she could not have said what it was and she was not in the least surprised when he made some excuse about being a bit busy next week and unable to see her. When he stopped the car on the way home Sally threw herself at him. Tonight she would have been quite willing to let him do anything he wanted just as long as things would go back to being the way they had been. But Edward just didn't seem interested.

‘When will I see you again?' she asked desperately.

‘I'll be in touch,' he said vaguely and though it was a long time before she would admit it to herself Sally knew it was all over.

That night she cried herself to sleep wondering where she had gone wrong and thinking she could not bear it if she never saw Edward again. It was probably because she was always so reluctant to let him make love to her, she decided. Everyone knew it was what boys wanted. If only she had been a bit more accommodating, a bit more enthusiastic. As it was he had obviously grown tired of the regular struggles and gone off to find someone who gave in more readily. But in spite of what had happened at the fashion show she did not think Paula had any hand in it until next day at breakfast. Paula, nibbling an Energen roll spread with reduced-calorie marmalade, said airily: ‘Oh, who do you think came into the store yesterday? Your friend Edward! And I think you should know he wanted me to go out with him.'

Sally began to tremble. ‘What did you say?' she asked.

‘That I couldn't possibly two-time you, of course,' Paula said, watching Sally slyly. ‘I told him that whilst he was dating my own sister it was quite out of the question. He argued, of course – said that there was nothing serious between the two of you and you knew that. But I was adamant all the same.' Her eyes narrowed. ‘You are still going out with him, aren't you?'

‘I don't know,' Sally said miserably.

‘Well the rat!' Paula said, but she looked pleased.

‘You … you wouldn't go out with him, would you, Paula?' Sally asked, hating herself for still wanting him.

‘Oh Sally, what do you think I am?'

Sally did not answer. She did not think Paula would have liked what she had to say.

Edward never did get in touch with Sally again. She was sick with wretchedness, convinced she had only herself to blame – and of course the devastating effect Paula had on men – but still puzzled that it could have ended so suddenly without a word of explanation on his part. Besides being heart-broken she felt foolish and a failure. But she never did find out if he was successful in persuading Paula to go out with him now that he was free. She did not want to know.

Once, months later, when she went to the Regency on a Saturday night with some girlfriends she practically bumped into him on the stairs. But he merely looked embarrassed and said: ‘ Oh – hi!' as he passed as if she was just a casual acquaintance. During the evening she caught sight of him a few times, always dancing, holding his partners very close, and managing to avoid her eyes.

After that night Sally never saw him again.

‘I have a very important assignment for you, Paula,' Arlene Frampton-Cox said. She inserted a Du Maurier cigarette into her long tortoiseshell holder and sat back, looking at Paula, who was seated in the visitor's chair on the other side of the desk, long legs crossed elegantly.

Paula looked every inch a model these days, Arlene thought with a touch of proprietorial pride. Her long hair, shining gold, was swept back and caught at the nape of her neck with a bow, make-up, expertly applied, accentuated the classically beautiful lines of her face, and she wore her well-cut suit with all the panache that was expected of her. A good suit was a working model's uniform – Paula now bought two each season and wore them with perfectly matching accessories, hat, bag and shoes. This one was in soft light green with a boxy shaped jacket and narrow skirt and the same green-and-white check material of the little sleeveless blouse had been used to line the jacket and face the wide reveres. Paula's bag and shoes were patent black leather, her gloves white, and she carried a long walking umbrella neatly furled in its fur-trimmed case. Perfectly groomed from head to toe and with all that assurance, she was ready to take on the world, Arlene thought with satisfaction, for she looked on Paula as her very own creation. The raw materials might have been there before – indeed, hadn't it been she, Arlene, who had spotted them? But the transformation of a leggy young filly into a sleekly beautiful racehorse had been her doing.

‘What assignment is that?' Paula's voice was well-modulated now – eighteen months on the model circuit had eliminated all trace of her former Somerset accent. She had listened to Arlene's own voice and set about imitating it for she held her mentor in the highest esteem whilst still being a little afraid of her.

‘The House of Mattli is expanding from couture into ready-to-wear and one of the big Bristol stores, Taylors, are putting on a show to publicise the fact that they will be stocking the new
prêt-á-porter'
, Arlene explained. ‘I have been asked to supply the models and I would like you to be one of them.'

‘Mattli!' Paula repeated, impressed. The House of Mattli was a husband and wife team who were numbered amongst the top ten names in the Incorporated Society of London Fashion Designers. Furthermore Madame Mattli was a Frenchwoman, an accident of birth which added to her glamour, for was not Paris the fashion capital of the world?

‘Madame Mattli will be coming to Bristol herself,' Arlene continued. ‘ Taylors have a certain amount of stock but she will be bringing extra samples from London especially for the show. I only want the best of my girls on this job. Madame Mattli, remember, is used to the best. We can't afford any sloppiness. I can count on you, Paula, I feel sure.'

‘Oh yes,' Paula said, brimming with suppressed excitement. ‘You can count on me!'

Madame Mattli was almost exactly as Paula had imagined she would be, a petite perfectly turned out woman with an air of chic that was unmistakably French. Her dark, grey-streaked hair, which she wore in a long bob, had been cut by Vidal Sassoon and she wore a beautifully tailored black suit relieved only by a little white flounce at the neckline.

In the fitting rooms at Taylors she fussed and fretted over her creations like a mother hen and though Paula was overawed by the great designer she also liked her on sight. Madame Mattli might be a stickler for detail, with a generous helping of the artistic temperament which kept her tight-coiled as a spring and which would explode into frenzy if the smallest detail was not as it should be, but she also had a kind face and deep perceptive eyes.

Halfway through the day's programme of shows, while the dressers went off to grab a sandwich and the model girls, who would not dare to eat while they were showing, revived themselves with cups of black coffee, Madame Mattli took Paula to one side.

‘Little one, I would like to speak with you.'

Paula's stomach turned a somersault. Had she done something wrong?

‘I have been watching you work,' Madame Mattli said directly. Her accent reminded Paula of Louise – perhaps that was why she warmed to her in spite of the fact that she was so awe-inspiring. ‘You are exactly right for a couture model. You have all the physical attributes.'

‘Thank you,' Paula said faintly.

Madame Mattli waved a dismissive hand. ‘ Do not thank me. I am not saying this to make your head swell. On the contrary. The fact is that I have a vacancy arising for a couture model. I believe you are exactly what I am looking for. I would like you to come to London to work for me.'

Over Madame Mattli's shoulder Paula could see Arlene watching her, a tiny smile lifting one corner of her scarlet mouth, and Paula knew her well enough by now to know exactly what she was thinking. She did not want to lose Paula, who was one of her best models, but already she was enjoying the reflected glory that came from having personally trained a house model for one of the great London couture houses. She had known about the vacancy at Mattli and hoped that the job might be offered to Paula. It was the seal of approval for her own judgement.

‘Well?' Madame Mattli demanded.

‘Can I have a little time to think it over?' Paula asked boldly.

‘A little. But please do not delay too long. My present house model leaves at the end of the month and there are plenty of girls who would jump at the chance.'

‘I'm sure. But all the same I couldn't make such a move without giving it some thought,' Paula said grandly.

But inside she was bubbling with excitement. Time to think? She didn't need a single second. The moment Madame Mattli had offered her the job she had made up her mind. She was going to take it – of course!

A month later Paula, smartly dressed in a new tweed suit with the obligatory matching bag and shoes, and lugging both her modelling case and a brand new cream leather suitcase, took the train to London to begin her new career.

She had booked herself a bed at a YWCA hostel for the time being. It was not quite what she envisaged for herself but it had the advantage of being cheap and it went some way towards satisfying Grace, who was convinced that London was a den of iniquity waiting to swallow up her unsuspecting daughter.

From the hostel it was only a short tube ride to South Audley Street where Madame Mattli had her showrooms – yet another advantage, Paula thought, trying to weigh up the points in favour of the hostel, which she hated on sight. Sharing a small spartan room with two other girls – Northerners whose accent Paula found almost incomprehensible and with whom she had nothing in common, making breakfast in the communal kitchen, queuing for the bath, adhering to a strict curfew after which time the doors were locked and bolted – none of these were restrictions Paula had the slightest intention of enduring for long. But for now it would have to do. And at least she was in London, centre of the British fashion industry.