The Pleasure Quartet by Vina Jackson

about to hang up the receiver when he cleared his throat, and added: ‘The new Art Director has requested you specifically.’ His tone indicated that he had
some misgivings about this fact. I didn’t pay much attention to the goings-on among the other staff, particularly those in the higher echelons, since I had no ambitions towards promotion, but
I was aware that the Princess Empire had called in a freelance Art Director to assist with their latest productions, since the last permanent person in the post had retired some weeks ago and a
long-term replacement had not yet been found.
    Such an event would not usually have roused any feathers, were it not for the fact that the freelancer was a woman, and a relatively young one to boot. Her appointment had been announced at a
rare staff meeting, and I had heard the whispers afterwards – that she had studied fine art, and not theatre, that her father must have connections, that her recent success elsewhere was a
fluke, that she would inevitably fail. Adam, another usher with pockmarked skin and hands that shook when he worked, had hissed ‘
lezzie
’ under his breath, and I had walked away
from him, feeling as though someone had punched me in the chest. I sought out the Art Director’s photograph in the next batch of programmes, but it was hard to assume much from the small
black-and-white thumbnail. Her face was thin and her chin pointed. Her dark hair was either cropped short, or pulled fiercely back from her face. She had thick brows and a sharp look about her. Her
name was Clarissa. Clarissa Beauchamp.
    Weeks passed, the new show was well reviewed. Nothing had apparently changed, besides Gerry being in a slight huff since he had apparently had his sights on the job and been passed over.
    And now this. I wasn’t even sure how Clarissa Beauchamp knew who I was, but I supposed she might have picked my name from a list of available ushers, based on the fact that I was by now
one of the longest serving. That must be it.
    Still, as I hurriedly dressed and ran for the bus, I couldn’t help but invent scenarios that might have attracted her to me, and picture the parts of her that the photo had not revealed.
From her sharp features, I guessed she must be slim. Would she be tall, or short? Large breasted or small? An image popped into my mind, Clarissa naked, her thick pubic hair a dense, gleaming
triangle practically glowing between her thighs, her breasts small, pointed triangles, her nipples large and pink and hard. By the time I arrived at work, I was nervous and flustered and assaulted
by pinpricks of guilt that I was thinking of someone besides Iris in that way.
    But all of my worry was in vain, as Clarissa didn’t even come out to meet me when I arrived, sending instead another assistant to instruct me in her place. I felt simultaneously relieved
and deflated.
    The first job I was given was to travel to the Petticoat Lane area to pick up some costumes and fabric from the workshop of a designer who was working on the company’s next production. It
was urgent enough – the lead actress they were for was only available for fittings that afternoon – that I was given the money to take a cab there and back, a luxury that I was still
unfamiliar with in a place like London.
    The building was an old East End warehouse which had once been a shoe factory and had recently been converted.
    There was a strong smell of curry in the air, as the building was flanked by two almost identical Indian restaurants. It made my mouth water in a trice as I alighted from the black cab and
studiously asked for a receipt.
    The designer I had been expedited to visit had her studio on the top floor and a rickety goods lift was the only way of reaching it. I called up and she explained how I should operate it. Her
voice had a friendly, musical tone.
    ‘Welcome, welcome.’ She pulled the sliding latticed fence-like door open as the industrial and unsteady lift clicked to a halt