Louise Levene: A Vision of Loveliness

A Vision of Loveliness

LOUISE LEVENE

For My Mother

You won’t regret a single moment that

you devote to becoming lovelier.

Contents

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Part Two

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Part Three

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Acknowledgements

A Note on the Author

Copyright Page

Part One

Chapter 1

Wear gloves whenever you can bear to;

go without a handbag as often as possible.

‘Bag bag bag bag bag bag BAG.’

It was the old woman in the greasy tweeds. As she leaned towards Jane with the handbag, the hairy fabric of her skirt gave off an unmistakably nasty, leaky smell.

‘You forgot your bag , duckie.’

It wasn’t Jane’s handbag. She wasn’t even carrying a bloody bag. But she was flustered by the old woman’s unexpectedly posh voice, by her sweaty yellow face as she loomed across the table of empties, holding the handle by one tobacco-stained hook.

‘Your baaag, deah.’

Jane took it, too embarrassed to start explaining. They were about to leave the pub but Tony had gone to the Gents’ and she didn’t want to be stood in the street on her own. Not round here. She glanced down at the bag on her lap. It was an impressive-looking mock-croc affair and it clunked open expensively, releasing a delicious whiff of suede and scent and a glimpse of an Hermes label. Not mock croc at all. Croc croc.

Jane fidgeted the mirror from its special pocket and pretended to be admiring herself while she scanned the inside: handkerchief; comb; compact and a face: a face that gazed gorgeously out at her from a shiny black and white card. Jane’s eyes batted between the mirror and the snapshot: pretty faces, late teens, dark hair, wide eyes; but the girl in the bag peered out with a look of such friendly, flirtatious glamour, such fabulous finish , that Jane wanted to run to the Ladies’ and borrow a lipstick. Just behind the photo was a torn manila envelope. She clicked the bag shut.

There must have been a hundred quid in that envelope. Jane looked about her as if expecting the rightful owner to pounce but there was no one in sight who could possibly lay claim to a beautiful crocodile bag full of fivers. Jane and Tony had got to the pub just after it opened and there had been no one there then either. It must have been sat under the bench since lunchtime – more than likely, given the state of the floor.

The old woman was eyeing her nastily over her pink gin. Tony still wasn’t back. Jane pretended to take an interest in the pub’s characters – that’s what Tony had called them. Loud-mouthed drunks more like.

The pub had filled up with Friday drinkers. By seven o’clock most of the ‘swift halves’ would have dried up, leaving the regulars to it, but for now the small bar was heaving. An optimistic little sales rep in a sheepskin jacket with dandruffed shoulders was telling a home-dyed blonde that he had a friend who took photographs. His showroom was always on the lookout for new models for the new models – if you took his meaning. Jane sized her up with a saleslady’s eye. A large fourteen. She wouldn’t stand a chance modelling anyway: too short; too top-heavy. The blonde, who would put up with a lot for a large gin and orange, stroked absently at her squirrel-fur jacket and patted her coarse platinum flick-ups. She didn’t bother to listen. If she had, she would have heard it before. She was perched on a bar stool and the man patted her knee as he spoke. It wouldn’t cost her a penny. She stared down at his paw resentfully but there was talk of dinner at the Regent Palace (paper napkins, but you couldn’t have everything) and she decided to let the hand slither across the nylon and under the hem of her tight skirt.

A pair of regulars were squirming round her to the bar, smoothly borrowing a ten-bob note from a familiar face in the crowd as they passed.

‘Who are all these people? Your pub’s not your own. Where are they all from , for God’s sake?’ said one of them, a tall, fat man in a big black hat and a poncey pink Indian silk scarf knotted at his neck. And suede shoes. Poof, probably. Only poofs wore suede shoes.

‘Streatham, darling. Streatham Common . I told you we should have gone to the Fitzroy,’ drawled his friend, a rat-faced toff in a covert coat the colour of dishwater and a striped tie so horrible it had to mean something. You got them like that in the shop: debs’ delights with frayed shirtcuffs and stiff collars: pricing cashmere but buying lambswool.

‘Don’t they have any fucking pubs in fucking Streatham?’

Aye-aye. Lang-guage . The smoky room was suddenly short of oxygen as drinkers on all sides sniffed disapprovingly. The landlord’s face flickered a warning and the double act closed down, concentrating on their scrounged gins. Too bloody cold to go looking for another pub.

There were actually some very nice pubs in fucking Streatham. Proper pubs with saloon bars and carpet.

The smelly old woman had started up again.

‘I sa-a-a-aid : You-wouldn’t-like-to-buy-me-a- Drink , would you, duckie?’

Tony had fought his way through the bar and was signalling for Jane to join him at the door. She grabbed her coat from under the bench and slid the handbag down the side of her carrier, taking care not to crush her new outfit. The owner’s name would be inside somewhere. She could sort it out tomorrow lunchtime.

‘A drink , duckie.’

The woman kept her money in an old Oxo tin which she was now banging up and down on the table. The pub had only been open since half five but there were already four sticky dead glasses crowded in front of her next to the half-finished Evening News crossword and the tin ashtray was full. The Edwardian drawl had become loud and shrill, rising above the chinking hum of the bar.

‘ Drink . Deah.’

Jane stood up to go, lifting her carrier clear of the glasses as she sidled out from behind the table, her knees hobbled by the heavy little stools and snagging her already laddered stockings. The old woman lurched out of her seat and grabbed Jane by the sleeve of her sweater.

‘The least you can do is buy me a Drink.’

She turned to address the room but the room kept its head down, afraid she might start on them. She rubbed Jane’s sleeve between her twisted yellow fingers.

‘Crocodile and cash-meah but she can’t find the price of a gin. Mean little Bitch.’

Tony had been waiting for Jane by the entrance but the tide of fresh drinkers washing into the bar had forced him outside. His puzzled face appeared round the door.

‘I’m sorry. My friend’s waiting.’

Jane inched towards the exit, carrier bag on one arm, coat on the other. Men made a show of making room – ‘Let the little lady through’, ‘Not going are you, girlie?’ – but actually edged even closer, brushing against her body as she passed. She felt helping hands at her waist, on the small of her back, the inevitable pat on the backside.