Plender Read Free Page B

well-kept-up appearances goes the wrongness of semi-detached enjoyment, the antidote of repression.
    But this girl might be the one. She’d got the right kind of potential.
    I’d met her over at the agency. She’d been the switchboard girl but, as the switchboard was in reception, that made her the receptionist as well.
    The minute I’d seen her I’d thought how right she was. I’d known what she was going to sound like before she opened her mouth, trying to disguise the Yorkshire in her voice by affecting the accent according to the new aristocracy; the classless aristocracy with not only the vowels but the emotions flattened, the way the telly told them. A face without a trace of make-up proved it. And there she’d been before me, no make-up, that was true, but her hair was dyed and the way it was dyed gave everything away. She had the right functional clothes, the right non-functional detached look but the dyed hair gleefully spoiled the lot—she didn’t come off. And the beauty of it was, she thought she did; and the whole set-up, the exciting I’m-a-receptionist-in-an-advertising-agency thing would help her to pretend. And so would I.
    But I’d played it very carefully at first. I hadn’t given her too much of a rush. I’d just phoned her a few days later.
    “Priestley and Squires. Good morning?” she’d said.
    “Hello,” I’d said in my best nervous voice. “Am I speaking to the receptionist?”
    “Priestley and Squires, Advertising Agents. Can I help you?”
    “Look, I’m sorry, but are you the receptionist? The one with the blonde hair?”
    Her manner had changed.
    “That’s right. Why?”
    “Oh, good. Well, it’s—”
    “Who’s that calling?”
    “ . . . it’s a bit difficult, actually . . .”
    “Is that you, Eric?”
    “ . . . but the thing is . . .”
    “If that’s you Eric I shan’t half be mad. I’ve told you about . . .”
    “ . . . I was wondering if I could use you.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “For my catalogue.”
    “Who is that?”
    I gave a laugh.
    “Look, I’m sorry,” I said, “I seem to have made a complete hash-up of this. Let me start again.”
    “Who are you?”
    “I’m Peter Knott. I was in the agency the other day. I’m a photographer. If you remember at all, I was the chap with Mr. Farlcrest. I’m taking the pictures for the Premier Boilers’ Account.”
    Her manner had changed again.
    “Oh, yes,” she said. “I think I do remember you.”
    Oh, good, I’d thought.
    “Oh, good,” I’d said. “At least that proves I’m not some kind of telephone nut.”
    “Well?” she’d said, in a voice that was meant to be charmingly coy.
    “Well, the thing is, when I saw you the other day, it struck me how right you were for shots I have to do.”
    “Shots? You mean photos?”
    “Yes, that’s right. Do you know Saxby and Hassell’s?”
    “Oh yes, you mean the mail order people.”
    “That’s right. Well, I do their catalogue; I mean, I take all the pictures, the whole lot. So, the point is, as you know, they do an enormous fashion range, all ages, and when I saw you I thought you’d be just right for their teenage range, the Junior Miss.”
    “Junior Miss?”
    “Of course, I realise you’d have to make yourself look a bit younger, but I’d make the main adjustment photographically.”
    I’d known she was only seventeen anyway but I’d had to use the flannel a little bit.
    “What made you think I’d be right?” she said.
    “Oh I don’t really know. You can’t really put your finger on it, it’s just something you sort of automatically know. I suppose it’s my job to know,” I’d said, wincing, “otherwise, I suppose, I wouldn’t be any good if I didn’t know just like that.”
    There’d been a silence at her end so I’d gone on, “Anyway, the point is, would you be interested? I mean, you’d be paid obviously, the proper rates. And it wouldn’t interfere with your job—you could work evenings. A lot of girls do, the