Folly's Child (16 page)

As for the House of Mattli, it might have been in a different world to the hostel, with its air of being a cross between a workhouse and a boarding school. The first time she rang the bell and went in through the front doors of the elegant old house where the showrooms were situated (Mattli had no rear entrance) Paula felt she was stepping into the place of her dreams.

Deep carpet covered the floors and the stairs swept up to the showrooms and the warren of workrooms beyond, and though the window drapes and furnishings were ever-so-slightly faded, as if they had seen better days, they were of the finest silks and velvets and every corner was swept, polished and cleaned daily so that no single speck of dust, let alone a cobweb, dared show itself. The showroom was neither large nor small, decorated in muted shades of aubergine which would not detract from the clothes. There was a low table and three or four dainty chairs with aubergine velvet seats and gilded spindle legs. The crystal chandelier was for effect only – lighting that would show off the clothes to their best advantage was brilliant yet discreet, and along one wall were racks holding some of the ready-to-wear garments.

In contrast to this elegant frontage the workrooms beyond were a hive of frenzied activity. Pattern cutters, fitters, sewing hands and their assistants all worked at an incredible speed.

This, Paula soon discovered, was the way of the fashion world – a constant frantic rush against the clock, to have collections ready on time or to complete individual couture garments for customers who always considered their order more urgent, more important, than that of anyone else.

Paula was amazed by the security arrangements that were necessary to ensure that the new season's collections remained exclusive – the windows at the rear of the premises were heavily barred and practically the first thing she had to do on commencing her employment was to sign a contract promising that she would not breathe a word about the designs she saw.

On her second day Madame Mattli took her to Vidal Sassoon's salon in Grosvenor House so that her hair could be cut in an up-to-the-minute style. Unlike some couturiers Madame did not mind if her model girls did not have the same colour hair but she did insist on identical styles. By the time Vidal Sassoon had finished with her Paula's long fair locks had been shorn to a sharp geometric shape and she scarcely recognised the reflection that looked back at her from the mirror. Among the rich and famous who had come to the salon to have their hair cut, tinted and set, Paula recognised Dusty Springfield, the pop singer, her eyes big and sooty, her lips pearly pink, and was unable to suppress the thrill of excitement which ran through her. This was her very first taste of only the best being good enough – and she liked it!

It was Paula's job to show samples, parading slowly up and down in front of the clients as they sat on the elegant spindle-leg chairs taking in every detail of the garments with a critical and practised eye. Sometimes they came alone, sometimes with a man in tow – to foot the bill! Paula guessed. The appearance of a famous face in the show rooms always caused a stir amongst the girls, who all longed to hook a wealthy husband – and if he had a title, like the Aly Khan, or was a film star like Omar Shariff, then so much the better!

Not everything that Paula had to do was quite so glamorous, however. In the long hours when there were no customers to show she was expected to lend a hand with some of the unskilled tasks – running errands and making tea, unpicking a seam or a hem, even sewing on a button or a hook and eye when she had been taught the proper way to do it. Paula was not very clever with her needle but she soon learned to be careful so as not to incur the wrath of the seamstress.

There were new tricks of modelling to be learned too – how to remove a coat, sliding it carefully off her shoulders with the sleeves hanging in perfect balance, never for one moment allowing the inside to be on view, for samples were often unlined. This trick took hours of practice, up and down the landing at the hostel while the other girls looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.

Although she enjoyed her job Paula was lonely. Even the most popular of girls soon discovered that in this highly competitive world where models vied with one another for the most glamorous jobs and the wealthiest and best-looking men there was far more bitchiness than in the provinces – and Paula was far from popular. The other girls disliked her for her outstanding looks and her haughty ways and made no attempt to be friendly on anything but the most superficial level and the pattern cutters and sewing hands hurried home to their families and boyfriends the moment they finished their long day's work. Paula spent most of her free time alone, window shopping, visiting News Theatres, where she sometimes watched the programme of cartoons twice round, and drinking endless cups of Espresso coffee in cafes and coffee houses. Her favourite was the coffee shop in Fenwicks in Bond Street for this was the haunt and the meeting place of all those from the world of fashion.

One lunchtime when she had been at the House of Mattli for a few months Paula went there for her usual coffee and the cottage cheese salad that was her staple diet now that it was so important that she did not add a single half-inch to her wand-slim figure. She took her tray to the pay desk, opened her bag and felt for her purse. It was not there. Frantically she rooted round, then checked her pockets without success.

‘I'm sorry. I seem to have lost my purse …' she explained.

The girl behind the till stared at her stonily. Paula was going hot and cold by now. Had it been stolen? No, she remembered her bag tipping over in the cloakroom at Mattli – it must have fallen out then. But without it she could not pay for her coffee and salad.

‘Having trouble?' a voice beside her asked. ‘ Don't worry. Let me.'

Paula turned gratefully, then gasped with surprise as she recognised the slight figure in black roll-neck sweater and skin tight pants.

‘I don't believe it! Gary Oliver! What are you doing here?'

‘The same as you I expect, Paula – getting my strength up to face the rest of the day. Let me pay and then we'll have lunch together and do some catching up – unless you're meeting someone, of course.'

‘No – no, I'm not.' Paula picked up her tray and moved aside, waiting for him, flushed with pleasure at seeing a familiar face. Gary Oliver was a designer, young and very talented. She had met him back home in the west country when he had come to supervise a show put on by one of the big ready-to-wear labels, Carnega, for whom he worked as a junior member of the design team. For a whole week they had worked closely together, sharing flasks of coffee and packets of cigarettes and Paula had grown to like the pixieish little man who by his very nature offered her no challenge – and no threat. Gary should have been a girl, she had thought, for he was half a head smaller than she was with fair curling hair, baby-blue eyes and long thick lashes that were the envy of every woman who met him.

‘Shall we sit over there in the corner?' Gary suggested. He led the way, his slim hips in the tight fitting pants snaking gracefully between the tables.

They unloaded their trays on to a table.

‘What are you doing in London then, Paula? Apart from mislaying your purse, I mean.' He grinned at her impishly. She told him.

‘And what about you? Aren't you with Carnega any more?'

He shook his head. Dimples played in his cheeks.

‘No – now I'm with the House of Oliver.'

‘The House of Oliver …? Oh!' she squealed as light dawned. ‘Your
own
house? You've set up as a designer in your own right, Gary?'

‘Yep. In a small way at the moment, of course, but things are happening. I came into a bit of money when my grandmother died and I decided to put it to good use.'

‘Isn't it a bit of a risk?' Paula asked.

He shrugged his narrow shoulders.

‘Perhaps. But I wanted to work for myself. Designing clothes for Carnega was all very well and I made a good living at it I won't deny but I wanted to be free to do my own thing – and to have my own name on the labels. I have quite a few contacts – people who knew me when I was designing for Carnega – and they have been very encouraging. So I have decided to move to London and open a showroom. In fact I have just been looking at a place in South Audley Street, not far from Mattli. If it works out we shall practically be neighbours, Paula.'

‘What a small world! I had no idea,' Paula said, surprised she had not already heard the news. Usually the slightest whisper travelled like jungle drums through the world of fashion. Until now Gary had been an out-of-town designer, of course. But if he was moving to London his new fashion house would soon be a talking point.

‘We must keep in touch,' Gary said as he finished his cheese roll. ‘Promise you'll look in and say hello when you have time.'

‘I will. Apart from anything else I owe you a coffee.'

‘True. I don't suppose I could persuade you to work for me in return? I'm looking for a couple of good models. Though I don't suppose I could afford to pay you as well as Mattli does – yet. Maybe one day …'

Paula laughed. ‘ I don't earn that much! By the time I've paid for my room at the YWCA and bought all the make-up and clothes I need there never seems to be anything left over. I'm looking for a rich husband to take me away from it all.'

‘And I'm sure one day you'll find him. In the meantime, don't forget your friends, eh Paula?'

‘I won't,' she promised, glancing at her watch. ‘Oh hell, I shall have to go.'

‘Me too. But it was great to see you again, Paula.'

They walked back to South Audley Street together, weaving their way through the lunchtime crowds on the pavements, the tall, striking girl and the young man whose pixieish looks belied his twenty-six years.

Outside the front entrance of the House of Mattli Paula turned to give him a quick impulsive hug.

‘Thanks for the lunch, Gary. And good luck with your new venture!' She held up her fingers, tightly crossed for him.

He grinned. ‘I'll need it. Don't forget to come and see me, will you? I shall be expecting you.'

‘I won't forget. 'Bye for now!' she called, and ran in through the imposing front door.

Madame Mattli was furious. In all the time she had been with her Paula had never seen her so angry.

‘I hear you have been seen going into the House of Oliver,' she said, her immaculately painted lips tight with fury.

Beside her Monsieur Mattli, a small Greek-looking man, some ten years her senior, was also quivering with indignation.

‘Not once but several times,' he added. It was so unusual for him to contribute anything to the conversation that Paula glanced at him in surprise. Though he was always in evidence it was invariably Madame who did all the talking, giving orders, fussing around clients, so that Paula was never quite certain what his role was.

‘Gary Oliver is a friend,' she said defensively.

Madame Mattli snorted angrily. ‘I do not pay you to have friends in rival fashion houses.'

‘He's not a rival …' Paula broke off. It seemed ridiculous that a newcomer like Gary could be any threat to a well-established house like Mattli. But in the cut-throat world of fashion up and coming designers were to be feared – and already Gary's reputation was growing.

‘You know that we insist on complete loyalty.' Madame Mattli continued. ‘The security of our designs is paramount. Oh Paula, how could you!'

‘But I would never mention anything I have seen here!' Paula protested.

Madame snorted again. ‘ How can I be sure of that? Even if you do not intend to be disloyal there is always the risk that you might be careless. Pillow talk is the most dangerous.'

‘Pillow talk!' Paula repeated, stunned. Close though her friendship with Gary had become she had never once breathed a word to him about the new collections she saw taking shape at Mattli – and as for ‘ pillow talk' the notion was absurd. There was nothing like that between them and never would be. Gary was not interested in girls. Surely that must be obvious to everyone who met him.

‘You must stop visiting him,' Madame said firmly. ‘Either I have your word on it or I am afraid you can no longer remain in my employ. I want you to promise me here and now that you will not see Gary Oliver again.'

Paula was trembling. Her job with the House of Mattli was her life. But to allow herself to be dictated to in this way when she knew she had done nothing wrong was tantamount to admitting guilt. And she couldn't bear the thought of being sucked back into the ebb tide of loneliness again either. With Gary she enjoyed a relationship she had never experienced with anyone else – the easy-going friendship of a male who made no demands whatever on her – and it meant more to her than she had realised.

‘I have never betrayed any confidence and I never will. But you can't expect me to cut myself off from my friends,' she said.

‘I am afraid I do expect it, Paula, in this case.'

‘I can't promise not to see Gary again.'

‘Very well,' There was a hint of sadness now in Madame's eyes but her mouth was set and determined. ‘ I shall be sorry to lose you, Paula. You are a good model and you suited me very well. But you leave me no choice. Please do not bother to come in again. I shall contact the agency for a replacement immediately. And I warn you, if any of my designs or anything like them turn up in the showroom at the House of Oliver I shall sue – and win the sort of damages that will put your little friend out of business for good. Do I make myself clear?'

Paula was still afraid of Madame Mattli – and she was also close to tears. But she was determined Madame should not be aware of either.

‘Yes, Madame. I'm sorry to leave you, but I assure you you need not worry on that score.'

The showrooms of the House of Oliver were smaller and less grand than those at the House of Mattli but the décor was newer and fresher, pale grey drapes, ultra modern black furniture and a great deal of gleaming stainless steel.