Freya (49 page)

‘Chrissie, anyway …,' Freya said, getting back on track.

‘Yes, indeed. Why don't you come to the studio and watch the recording? I can introduce you.'

Nat got up and poured out more tea. He padded over to a console table where a tall pile of new books stood. He had just popped out to Hatchard's this morning, he explained, and bought in bulk. After a quick glance over his shoulder at her he plucked one from the stack and wandered back to the sofa.

‘Seen this?' He was holding up a copy of Nancy's new novel.

She nodded coolly. She had finished it a week ago and was still puzzling over it to herself. Nat had paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came he lay back against the cushions and began leafing through it provocatively. After some moments he made a little show of noticing something and looked up.

‘
For F.W.
I wonder who that could be?' He even scratched his chin.

Freya gave him a level stare. ‘Mysterious.'

Dropping the pretence, he gave a little chuckle. ‘Come, my dear. I'm only curious. Have you seen her at all?'

Freya shook her head. ‘Not once. But I've read all her books – including that one.'

‘I thought you would have,' he said. ‘
The Hours and Times
. Interesting title. Does the story explain it?'

‘Not that I recall. Why?'

Nat looked rather pleased she didn't know. ‘From the Sonnets.
Being your slave, what should I do but tend / Upon the hours and times of your desire
. Would that have a bearing upon its … themes?'

‘You'll have to read it yourself.'

‘I intend to. Perhaps they'll ask me to adapt it into another award-winning film.'

‘Congratulations on that, by the way. I forgot to say.'

‘Oh – you mean the small matter of my being the youngest writer in the Academy's history to win Best Screenplay? Don't mention it.'

He seized this moment to take her on a proud tour of his set and a peek at the award, glimmering on the chimneypiece in his study. Freya showed willing, but it was their previous conversation about
The Hours and Times
that occupied her thoughts – notably its protagonist, Stella, whose resistance to the stifling dreariness of life in a Thames Valley commuter town leads her first into indiscretion and thence into calamity. A thirtyish single woman, Stella presented a notably unappealing character for most of the narrative: wilful, abrasive, spoilt, demanding, extravagant, she nearly becomes the unwitting engine in a family's doom. No reader could have liked her and yet, by the same token, none would ever forget her, so thrumming with life was the portrayal. Freya, bewitched and repelled by Stella's awfulness, had pegged her as one of Nancy's greatest creations when, towards the end of the book, she came across a line of dialogue: ‘Stella has at least one attraction, you know – that bold way of saying exactly what she's thinking. Sometimes before she has even properly thought.' The words hit Freya with the force of a slap. She knew that line; she had read it years before, almost word for word, in Nancy's diary. Only then it was a comment about
her
, Freya, her best friend. She was stricken. That Stella, this odd, vexing, emotionally incontinent creature, could have sprung from somewhere other than Nancy's imagination hadn't occurred to her. But now the appalling suspicion took root that the woman was actually a version of herself. And the dedication, ‘For F.W.', seemed to bear it out.

‘Am I boring you?' said Nat with cool bemusement.

He had been lecturing about a portrait of someone or other. Freya looked up.

‘Miles away, sorry. You were saying –?'

‘No matter. Perhaps you were still thinking of your erstwhile friend – or her latest book?'

Nat was shrewd, as ever, but she didn't quite fancy taking him into her confidence on this. It would make her look vulnerable – and potentially a bit of a fool if it proved she was mistaken. Instead she said, deflectingly, ‘Have you ever had a book dedicated to you?'

His expression turned martyred. ‘It grieves me to say I haven't. I've dropped hints, which thus far my writer friends have chosen to ignore. But it's a delicate business. Wilde, when he was in prison, learned that Alfred Douglas had dedicated a volume of poems to him, and was
furious
– said that Douglas ought first to have asked his permission. There's gratitude. Mind you, knowing Bosie's poems, Oscar was well within his rights to complain.'

‘For once I feel on Bosie's side. A dedication is a kind of gift, isn't it? You don't seek permission, you just … bestow it.'

‘Or withhold it, in my case.' There was a plaintive note beneath the drollery.

‘Nat, if ever I write a book, it's yours.'

He stared at her. ‘Do you swear it?'

She laughed, which he seemed to regard as good as an oath. They continued with their inspection of his various memorabilia and
objets d'art
. The only moment of awkwardness arose when they came to his bedroom; she was aware of remembering what had happened the last time she had been in a bedroom of Nat's, and from his look of amused complicity so was he. But the spectacle of the room itself provided a helpful diversion; its swagged velvet curtains, gilt mirrors, cream carpet and four-poster bed with scrolled headboard reduced her once more to fits of laughter.

‘It looks like something out of Versailles …'

‘My decorator's bill suggested that may have been his previous job.'

The large mirror threw back their reflections. She saw again the faint violet crescents beneath her eyes: the barometer of fatigue. She needed to get some sleep.

They talked on for a little while. As she finally got up to leave she noticed a card on Nat's mantelpiece, and a name she hadn't encountered in years.
A dinner in honour of James Erskine
. She held it up for his attention.

‘Ah, yes. It's the old boy's eightieth birthday – or no, his eighty-fifth.'

‘Gosh. Remember that night he came to Oxford? I pestered him to help me place a piece about Jessica Vaux for the
Chronicle.'

Nat raised an eyebrow. ‘Ambitious little cuss, weren't you? I recall the evening principally for the taxi ride from the station. Jimmy, whom I'd known for all of ten minutes, put his hand on my knee and asked me if I was homosexual.'

Freya smiled. ‘I remember you telling me. Wasn't it – “Dear boy, are you a votary of Greek love?”'

Nat yelped with laughter. ‘Bravo, you're quite right! I must preserve that one. Jimmy … first lion of the theatre I ever interviewed.'

‘Not still writing, is he?'

‘Writing? – I think not. Last time I saw him at the Garrick he was hardly
walking
. A mangy old lion now, I'm afraid.'

He accompanied her out via the building's back entrance on Vigo Street, where they performed a little minuet of parting. They would meet again, he said, once the TV people had set up his interview with Chrissie Effingham. As they kissed one another goodbye he was still laughing about ‘Greek love'.

Progress at the
Journal
was making her impatient. When she accepted the job of feature writer she had laid down a marker about introducing a women's page. The editor had agreed to raise the idea among the management, but since her arrival there had been no mention of it. She also couldn't help noticing that the best stories were automatically handed to men; women staffers, outnumbered on the paper five to one, were confined to lighter features on society weddings, household questions and the latest beauty products – none of which she cared a rap for.

Having bided her time she arranged a meeting with Ivan Brock, an editor of the old school who had worked his way up from provincial newspapers. He had spent most of his life among men – public school, university, army – though in person he was less chauvinist than some of his contemporaries. On arriving at his office she found him ensconced with his deputy, Frank Mogg, and Simon Standish, whom she had so far managed to ignore. She assumed that these two would clear off so that she and Brock could talk in private, but as she took a seat neither of them showed any sign of budging. It occurred to her that Brock felt safer with them in the room.

‘Now I hope this isn't a meeting to negotiate money,' the editor quipped, ‘because you're already making a sight more than the others out there.'

Freya happened to know this wasn't true, but she had decided to choose her battles. She shook her head and smiled like a good sport.

‘I was wondering if you'd come to a decision about the women's page. You know a couple of our rivals have already got one.'

‘Yes, indeed, we have discussed this at management meetings, and the competition has been noted –' He halted, as though he had already made an important concession. He rested his chin on his fist, and looked around the room.

‘What sort of things do you propose to discuss on a “women's page”?' asked Frank Mogg, pronouncing the last two words as if they might be an exotic fruit.

Freya realised she'd save time by spelling it out. ‘Well, we'd address a range of matters that concern women today. For instance, working mothers – the difficulty of keeping a house and doing a job. Also, unmarried mothers, or women who have to deal with violent men, or mothers trapped at home with small children while their husbands are out at work –'

‘Aren't there weekly magazines for that sort of thing?' he asked. ‘I mean, we're the
Journal
, not
Woman's Journal
.'

Freya stared at him. ‘Those magazines take a very old-fashioned line on a woman's place in the world. They're just coffee-morning supplements with recipes and gossip about the royal family. But there really are women who want more out of life than tips on how to keep a husband happy or the best way to clean an oven.'

Standish cleared his throat. ‘Sounds like useful stuff to me. I wish my missus would read pieces about how to keep her husband happy.'

There was some knowing laughter. Freya gave no indication of having heard him; she didn't even look in his direction.

Brock shook his head, saying, ‘Problem is, Freya, we've only got so many pages at our disposal. News has to be the priority. Then there's the editorial, the letters page, advertising, sport, TV and radio – there's not much room left for housewives' choice –'

‘I heard they were about to increase the number of pages.'

‘Don't know where you got that from.'

‘Anyway, this isn't just about housewives. I want a page for women who have jobs, women who are out in the world, like men –'

‘Career girls,' Mogg supplied.

‘Whatever you want to call them. You must understand – there are women who'd like to be judged on something other than how to run a house. And would prefer not to be beholden to men.'

‘Have you got something against men?'

‘No. Only the bastards who've wronged me.'

Standish, stifling a laugh, said, ‘Freya's always been a bit of a spitfire. We've had our little differences, haven't we?'

She glanced at him now. His attempt at chumminess was detestable, but she kept her tone cool. ‘If you're referring to the last time we spoke, I'd say it was more than a “little difference”.'

He turned to address Mogg and Brock. ‘When I was editor at the
Envoy
Freya took me to task for a scoop we ran on that fellow McAndrew at the MoD –'

‘– who was subsequently proven innocent of the charge but went to prison anyway for being queer. It was a disgraceful story that destroyed a man's life. I resigned, because I was ashamed to work for such a paper.'

‘What she fails to mention is the fact she knew McAndrew personally and tried to withhold information about his activities. Robert Cosway got hold of it anyway and we broke it the next day. Eight years – long time to bear a grudge.'

‘Easier than you think where a fucking arsehole's concerned –'

‘Whoa, that's enough of that,' said Brock, rising from his chair. ‘Keep it for the public bar. Gents, would you mind stepping outside a moment?' He was staring at Freya with pained disapproval. Standish and Mogg slouched out of the room.

Brock composed himself for a moment. ‘I'm a fairly broad-minded sort, but I do draw the line at certain things – a woman swearing is one of them. It sounds common. There's no excuse for it.'

She could hardly believe her ears. ‘What about men swearing?'

‘I don't much care for that, either, but they can be excused their rough language – it's a product of the parade ground and the sports field. Many are of a generation that came through the war –'

‘I came through the war, too. I was in the Wrens.'

He blinked in surprise; it was apparent he had underestimated her.

‘I have to ask you something, Freya – are you unhappy here?'

‘No. Why d'you ask?'

‘Well, I sense that you're frustrated by the people, and by the work being offered to you. I'm sorry that we can't yet accommodate a ladies' – a women's page, but that shouldn't be a cause for despair.'

‘It's not just that,' said Freya. ‘I keep suggesting ideas that either get shelved or get nabbed. For instance, a few weeks ago I asked if I could write about high-rise buildings and their effect on people who've been moved there. Mogg said no, then I see that very piece in the paper – by a man. I told the literary editor about the new Doris Lessing novel; he hadn't heard of it but said he'd make enquiries. A bit later I find out that he'd just commissioned a review – by a man. There's a pattern here. Anything juicy or interesting gets assigned to the blokes. Why? I'm at least as good as they are, and in quite a few instances
better
.'

Brock looked half hypnotised by this show of self-belief, and Freya wondered if he might be thinking he'd made a mistake in hiring her: a woman who fought her corner was possibly a headache he didn't need.