The Decision by Penny Vincenzi Page A

for my business.’
    ‘What type of business would that be?’
    ‘Well, fashion. I design clothes.’
    ‘Oh yes. And where are you working at the moment?’
    ‘In my parents’ house.’
    ‘I see.’
    That wasn’t going to pay Colin White’s rent. He’d heard about these girls, straight out of art school, looking to cash in on what the papers called the youth boom. Probably hadn’t got a single customer. As politely as he could, he suggested she took a flat with a spare room, ‘Or carry on working at your parents’ place. Just till you get going a bit.’
    ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that’s a very interesting idea. Thank you for absolutely nothing.’ She put the phone down.
    Spoilt brat, Matt thought. He returned to his Rolodex. The phone rang again.
    ‘Matt? It’s another young lady. What you been up to?’
    ‘Nothing. Unfortunately. Put her through.’
    ‘Is that Matt Shaw?’ said a voice. A voice he recognised at once; a voice that tipped his world on end, stopped it in its tracks, a voice he could have listened to for ever.
    ‘It’s Eliza Fullerton-Clark here. I’m ringing about Maddy Brown. Who I work with, incidentally.’
    Shit, Matt thought. SHIT! He felt rather sick.
    ‘I had thought, you know, that I could do two good turns here. Silly idea, it seems. Maddy said you were worse than useless, absolutely no help at all and offensive into the bargain.’
    ‘I was not offensive,’ said Matt, stung. He’d been perfectly polite he knew, had actually made a suggestion that would save the wretched woman money.
    ‘Well, I’m afraid you were. By making the assumption that she was some silly girl, with not an idea or a business contact in her head. Just because she was a woman.’
    This was so true Matt couldn’t even begin to deny it.
    ‘Suppose Miss Brown had been Mr Brown? You’d have assumed backing, clients, customers, wouldn’t you? You’d have taken all kinds of details from him, what kind of premises he wanted, where, how many thousand feet was he looking for, what kind of rent was he prepared to pay—’
    ‘Well—’
    ‘I don’t somehow think you’d have told Mr Brown to use a room in his flat for a while, until he got going.’ Matt felt extremely sick. So much for impressing Eliza. He’d really blown it.
    ‘I – that is—’
    ‘Well, just so you know, let me tell you about the client you could have had. Miss – not Mr – Brown has just got a very big contract from a chain of boutiques. Do you know what a boutique is? A shop, selling fashion to young people. They are absolutely the latest thing at the moment, big, big business. And the people who own them are desperate for young designers to supply them with what they need. And Miss Brown, who I might say left the Royal College of Art with a graduation show that made a lot of the papers, has just got a contract from Girlz – that’s the name of the chain of boutiques, Girlz spelt with a Z, remember that, you’ll hear a lot about them – and backing to the tune of over fifty thousand pounds. More money than you’d ever make in your entire life, I’d say. Pity, you really blew it. Bye then. We’ve got other agents to call, fortunately.’
    Matt put the phone down and felt so angry with himself that he punched his desk so hard the knuckles hurt for days.
    He couldn’t bear to be in the office, staring at the wall and his own stupidity. He told Mr Stein he was going to meet a prospective client and went for a walk: across Oxford Street, down Regent Street, and along Piccadilly, towards St James’s Park. It was a glorious day, and the city looked young; girls in brilliantly coloured shift dresses strode along, their long, loose hair swinging, men in sharp suits and sharper haircuts bumped into one another, grinning as they turned to stare at the girls. Everyone seemed happy.
    But even the long legs and the swinging hair failed to distract him. He dimly heard a newsboy shouting ‘Profumo case latest’ and bought an