times . . . Then Annabel told her about how frightful it had been being an au pair girl in Lyons, and they talked a
bit about careers, and that was when Annabel told her about this marvellous new agency. ‘You just go to them and say you want a job: it doesn’t matter a bit if you think you can’t
do anything: they think of that. They specialize in being a last resort for people who want someone; they say their clients are so broken down by the lack of butlers and people to arrange
flowers and do typing for them that they’re glad to have anyone . I’ve been exercising a cheetah for the last ten days. Fifteen bob an hour – you can get danger money for
exotics, so I never do dogs and any of that domestic jazz. Daddy doesn’t mind what I do as long as I don’t get overdrawn.’
By the time they joined the others Elizabeth felt that Annabel was almost certainly going to be her best friend.
The conversation had changed when they got back to what it would be like nowadays being a modern master-criminal. Pretty easy, most people seemed to think, but rather dull. That was one thing
where a class structure was invaluable. Oliver said: the aristocracy of the underworld ought to steal huge sums of money from people like mad, but never hurt anyone. It would only be the working
classes who hit old ladies over the head and took their handbags with pensions. He was instantly accused of being a ghastly snob by someone called Tom who was reading sociology. The conversation
got boring again. She went to sleep.
She woke hours later, to find Oliver carrying her upstairs. He took off her clothes, wrapped her in his dressing-gown and levered her into bed. ‘Your fringe is a wow.’ Sleep
again.
Next day Oliver was terribly gloomy. She knew that brilliant people were far more moody than the other kind, and made him a specially good brunch, but he wouldn’t eat it. He said that the
party had been kid’s stuff, old ropes, a nasty little canapé de vieux: he was getting nowhere; he was damned if he wanted to be reduced to writing a novel at his age . . .
‘Is that what you were thinking of doing?’
‘It’s bound to cross the mind. If you don’t know anything and can’t write poetry or a decent play, there’s not much left, is there?’
‘I suppose not,’ she said respectfully. She was sitting carefully on the end of his bed trying not to move her legs which people who were in bed always called kicking.
‘I’m too old, really, anyway. I don’t want to be a novelist, you see. Just to write one adolescent best-seller. You have to be under eighteen for that. Even you are too
old.’
‘Was the Evening Standard no good?’
‘There was nothing in it for you. I wasn’t looking for me. The Times is the one I look in for me. It’s different for girls: you just need a job; I need a
career.’
‘What’s the time?’
‘Twenty past two. I would like something like being Churchill’s private secretary: I seem to have missed everything. It’s this damned narrow social life I lead. It’s a
pity May didn’t have me taught to play the trumpet or to be a dentist or something obviously rewarding like that . . .’
‘Have a lovely hot bath.’ She was beginning to know some things about him.
‘Good idea. You run it. No cold – just hot: I’m practising for when I go to Japan.’
‘I know what,’ he said an hour and a half later. ‘I say, you have made this room nice . . .’
She was so pleased that she looked round it to notice what he had noticed; the Encounters all upright, which made them look distinguished instead of merely untidy, everything clean, or
clean er, and she had hung the curtains back from the cleaners since last December . . .
‘You haven’t listened to a word I was saying!’
‘Sorry!’
‘I think the best thing is for me to marry a very rich girl – very rich indeed. Then my natural talents will have time to develop naturally. Also, have you noticed how everybody
nowadays who
bit about careers, and that was when Annabel told her about this marvellous new agency. ‘You just go to them and say you want a job: it doesn’t matter a bit if you think you can’t
do anything: they think of that. They specialize in being a last resort for people who want someone; they say their clients are so broken down by the lack of butlers and people to arrange
flowers and do typing for them that they’re glad to have anyone . I’ve been exercising a cheetah for the last ten days. Fifteen bob an hour – you can get danger money for
exotics, so I never do dogs and any of that domestic jazz. Daddy doesn’t mind what I do as long as I don’t get overdrawn.’
By the time they joined the others Elizabeth felt that Annabel was almost certainly going to be her best friend.
The conversation had changed when they got back to what it would be like nowadays being a modern master-criminal. Pretty easy, most people seemed to think, but rather dull. That was one thing
where a class structure was invaluable. Oliver said: the aristocracy of the underworld ought to steal huge sums of money from people like mad, but never hurt anyone. It would only be the working
classes who hit old ladies over the head and took their handbags with pensions. He was instantly accused of being a ghastly snob by someone called Tom who was reading sociology. The conversation
got boring again. She went to sleep.
She woke hours later, to find Oliver carrying her upstairs. He took off her clothes, wrapped her in his dressing-gown and levered her into bed. ‘Your fringe is a wow.’ Sleep
again.
Next day Oliver was terribly gloomy. She knew that brilliant people were far more moody than the other kind, and made him a specially good brunch, but he wouldn’t eat it. He said that the
party had been kid’s stuff, old ropes, a nasty little canapé de vieux: he was getting nowhere; he was damned if he wanted to be reduced to writing a novel at his age . . .
‘Is that what you were thinking of doing?’
‘It’s bound to cross the mind. If you don’t know anything and can’t write poetry or a decent play, there’s not much left, is there?’
‘I suppose not,’ she said respectfully. She was sitting carefully on the end of his bed trying not to move her legs which people who were in bed always called kicking.
‘I’m too old, really, anyway. I don’t want to be a novelist, you see. Just to write one adolescent best-seller. You have to be under eighteen for that. Even you are too
old.’
‘Was the Evening Standard no good?’
‘There was nothing in it for you. I wasn’t looking for me. The Times is the one I look in for me. It’s different for girls: you just need a job; I need a
career.’
‘What’s the time?’
‘Twenty past two. I would like something like being Churchill’s private secretary: I seem to have missed everything. It’s this damned narrow social life I lead. It’s a
pity May didn’t have me taught to play the trumpet or to be a dentist or something obviously rewarding like that . . .’
‘Have a lovely hot bath.’ She was beginning to know some things about him.
‘Good idea. You run it. No cold – just hot: I’m practising for when I go to Japan.’
‘I know what,’ he said an hour and a half later. ‘I say, you have made this room nice . . .’
She was so pleased that she looked round it to notice what he had noticed; the Encounters all upright, which made them look distinguished instead of merely untidy, everything clean, or
clean er, and she had hung the curtains back from the cleaners since last December . . .
‘You haven’t listened to a word I was saying!’
‘Sorry!’
‘I think the best thing is for me to marry a very rich girl – very rich indeed. Then my natural talents will have time to develop naturally. Also, have you noticed how everybody
nowadays who
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