Laguna, as they say.” Lily was the latest of the series of mistresses in occupation of his Earl’s Court flat.
Marion had become quite animated. “They don’t say anything of the sort.”
“Don’t they? I am an Austrian idiot.” He kissed her hand, then her cheek. “Goodbye, my charming hostess. Farewell, old Sol. See you in the morning.”
Grundy showed him out, then returned to the living room. He looked at Marion, seemed about to speak, then poured another drink. Then spent Sunday evening in finishing the papers, drinking, and watching television.
On Monday morning The Dell was transformed from its weekend leisure. From eight o’clock onwards affectionate fathers said goodbye to wives and children, and hallo to those other much-loved children, their cars. Slick, spry, jaunty, some wearing suits of uncommon elegance and carrying umbrellas, others a little more bohemianly dressed, they put on their business faces, got out their cars, revved them up, turned into Brambly Way, and were sucked into the metropolis. Dick Weldon went to his architect’s office, Felix Mayfield, smartest of the smart, to the elegant Georgian house recently acquired by his advertising firm, a local doctor to his surgery, and a dentist to face the array of bad teeth in his waiting-room. Jack Jellifer went to an appointment with an editor to whom he hoped to sell a series of articles on “Great Dishes of the East.” Mr Belando, one of those disturbing horses of a different colour, went to a job in his country’s consulate, and Mr Kabanga went – well, nobody yet knew exactly where he did go. Sir Edmund, watching the cars turning out of The Dell from the bow window of his house in Brambly Way, deplored the vehicular – as he deplored the architectural, the moral, and almost all the other – habits of the age. The Dell children went to school, the Dell wives did the necessary jobs around their wonderfully labour-saving houses, in which many of them were helped by dailies who obliged for a couple of hours. Then they went shopping in the High Street or arranged flowers or read the papers or went in for a chat over a cup of coffee. Their lunches were light, for the children stayed at school, and all except a few local husbands were up in London. Dinner was the meal of the day, dinner preceded by a cosy little drink, and it was towards dinner that the Dell wives bent their culinary thoughts.
AdArt Associates, the firm owned by Grundy and Werner, occupied three rooms on the second floor of a street in the dubious area between Long Acre and the Strand. Two girls, or women, or secretaries sat at typewriters in the outer office, and the partners had a small room apiece. Since AdArts’ business consisted essentially of selling the work produced by other people, nothing more was necessary. On this Monday morning Theo Werner, bow-tied, and wearing a dashing cardigan and what almost looked like winkle-picker shoes, was ebulliently cheerful, Grundy more uncommunicative than usual. They went together to see Clacton.
Clacton was a big rumpled man, an able editor who, like so many editors in these days, exercised little real power. When challenged about this in a television interview, Clacton had said that he made his own decisions, and no doubt in a sense this was true, but it was truer and more important that his individual decisions had to accord with the policy of managers who had a collective, not an individual, face. As soon as they entered his office, Grundy, whose sensibility in such matters was acute, realised that Clacton had something disagreeable to tell them. Theo, who was oblivious to such fine shades of feeling, was still smiling when the blow fell. Clacton delivered it with the briskness which is really kind. The paper didn’t like “Guffy’s Sooperdooper Bomb,” and wasn’t going to use it.
Theo’s look changed almost comically. “Not to use it? But it was agreed, you agreed yourself. It has been drawn, it is
Marion had become quite animated. “They don’t say anything of the sort.”
“Don’t they? I am an Austrian idiot.” He kissed her hand, then her cheek. “Goodbye, my charming hostess. Farewell, old Sol. See you in the morning.”
Grundy showed him out, then returned to the living room. He looked at Marion, seemed about to speak, then poured another drink. Then spent Sunday evening in finishing the papers, drinking, and watching television.
On Monday morning The Dell was transformed from its weekend leisure. From eight o’clock onwards affectionate fathers said goodbye to wives and children, and hallo to those other much-loved children, their cars. Slick, spry, jaunty, some wearing suits of uncommon elegance and carrying umbrellas, others a little more bohemianly dressed, they put on their business faces, got out their cars, revved them up, turned into Brambly Way, and were sucked into the metropolis. Dick Weldon went to his architect’s office, Felix Mayfield, smartest of the smart, to the elegant Georgian house recently acquired by his advertising firm, a local doctor to his surgery, and a dentist to face the array of bad teeth in his waiting-room. Jack Jellifer went to an appointment with an editor to whom he hoped to sell a series of articles on “Great Dishes of the East.” Mr Belando, one of those disturbing horses of a different colour, went to a job in his country’s consulate, and Mr Kabanga went – well, nobody yet knew exactly where he did go. Sir Edmund, watching the cars turning out of The Dell from the bow window of his house in Brambly Way, deplored the vehicular – as he deplored the architectural, the moral, and almost all the other – habits of the age. The Dell children went to school, the Dell wives did the necessary jobs around their wonderfully labour-saving houses, in which many of them were helped by dailies who obliged for a couple of hours. Then they went shopping in the High Street or arranged flowers or read the papers or went in for a chat over a cup of coffee. Their lunches were light, for the children stayed at school, and all except a few local husbands were up in London. Dinner was the meal of the day, dinner preceded by a cosy little drink, and it was towards dinner that the Dell wives bent their culinary thoughts.
AdArt Associates, the firm owned by Grundy and Werner, occupied three rooms on the second floor of a street in the dubious area between Long Acre and the Strand. Two girls, or women, or secretaries sat at typewriters in the outer office, and the partners had a small room apiece. Since AdArts’ business consisted essentially of selling the work produced by other people, nothing more was necessary. On this Monday morning Theo Werner, bow-tied, and wearing a dashing cardigan and what almost looked like winkle-picker shoes, was ebulliently cheerful, Grundy more uncommunicative than usual. They went together to see Clacton.
Clacton was a big rumpled man, an able editor who, like so many editors in these days, exercised little real power. When challenged about this in a television interview, Clacton had said that he made his own decisions, and no doubt in a sense this was true, but it was truer and more important that his individual decisions had to accord with the policy of managers who had a collective, not an individual, face. As soon as they entered his office, Grundy, whose sensibility in such matters was acute, realised that Clacton had something disagreeable to tell them. Theo, who was oblivious to such fine shades of feeling, was still smiling when the blow fell. Clacton delivered it with the briskness which is really kind. The paper didn’t like “Guffy’s Sooperdooper Bomb,” and wasn’t going to use it.
Theo’s look changed almost comically. “Not to use it? But it was agreed, you agreed yourself. It has been drawn, it is
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