powder, a slash of dark red lipstick and invariably a cigarette), meant that few people were surprised when she came straight out and told them the kinds of thing that she mostly did for a living. She laughed often, and well – and not to impress. It was one of her trademark gestures, the ones her friends knew her by; shaking out her charm bracelet, rooting in that big red bag to see where her fags had got to this time and laughing, throwing back her head and tossing her unkempt hair out of her eyes.
That was exactly what she’d done when Mr Brookes had offered to buy her that second drink in the Golden Lion. Of course, she’d realised that he wasn’t being entirely straightforward with her, and had already guessed that this act he was trying to sell her a job in would involve more than just parading a couple of frocks. However, as she now told herself as she got dressed for work, How hard can being made to disappear be? She’d needed a break, and that was that. Keeping things going with bits and pieces at the London Camera Club and whatever else the modelling agency could get her was all very well, but six regular guineas a week would make a very welcome change. Almost a holiday, in fact. She was going to take the money, get some air, enjoy the fact that nobody down here knew who she was and see what happened.
There’d been a lovely new shot of Princess Margaret out on the town in yesterday’s paper, and as soon as she’d seen it she’d known it was just the right thing for sticking up on her dressing-room mirror – ‘Margaret Rose Windsor’, it said underneath, and the fact that they shared a name always made her feel better. Men were always looking up at Margaret in her pictures, never she up at them, and she liked that – it looked as though she had all the time and choice in the world. All the time in the world …
She clasped on her pearls and laughed at herself. Who was she trying to bloody kid? She was lucky if she got a bunch of lilacs from Berwick Street Market these days. She checked in her bag for change, and decided that she’d probably better pop back to that kiosk in the station for her fags before work – she’d find a more convenient place later, but at least she knew where that was.
She was lovely all over, was Pamela, but I’d say that the best thing about her was that smile of hers – the one she wore as casually and as well as that ever-present eau de parfum . It had a lovely gentle way of suggesting that it was probably the people around her who were the problem in life, not her, and it went with her everywhere. Even in the infamous contact sheets of her that were being passed around at the time – the one that showed her sprawled across a sunny bed in Berwick Street with just a cigarette for company, for instance, the one that the photographer who shot it swore he’d pass on to the soon-to-be-famous painter he knew from the French Pub, but somehow never quite did – her smile accompanied her in every single frame. It got wiped off occasionally, of course, but it always came back.
3
Mr Brookes had started very slowly. Reggie had come in early as instructed, and had got everything set up and ready to go on the half-lit stage – the costumes set out neatly on some chairs, the apparatus ready under its ghostly silver drape, the hand props all to hand as required. Then, working very methodically, and only going into as much detail as he thought wouldn’t frighten her off, her new employer had talked Pam through the whole act, showing her the frocks, the shoes and the new brunette wig he’d borrowed for her first, and then the ropes, which he briefly uncoiled and asked her to test so she could feel how soft and manageable they were. Then he’d uncovered the apparatus and opened it up so that she could climb up through it and get acquainted with all its doors and handles. He showed her the bolt and switch inside the trap which Reggie had to operate, and the battery for the smoke
That was exactly what she’d done when Mr Brookes had offered to buy her that second drink in the Golden Lion. Of course, she’d realised that he wasn’t being entirely straightforward with her, and had already guessed that this act he was trying to sell her a job in would involve more than just parading a couple of frocks. However, as she now told herself as she got dressed for work, How hard can being made to disappear be? She’d needed a break, and that was that. Keeping things going with bits and pieces at the London Camera Club and whatever else the modelling agency could get her was all very well, but six regular guineas a week would make a very welcome change. Almost a holiday, in fact. She was going to take the money, get some air, enjoy the fact that nobody down here knew who she was and see what happened.
There’d been a lovely new shot of Princess Margaret out on the town in yesterday’s paper, and as soon as she’d seen it she’d known it was just the right thing for sticking up on her dressing-room mirror – ‘Margaret Rose Windsor’, it said underneath, and the fact that they shared a name always made her feel better. Men were always looking up at Margaret in her pictures, never she up at them, and she liked that – it looked as though she had all the time and choice in the world. All the time in the world …
She clasped on her pearls and laughed at herself. Who was she trying to bloody kid? She was lucky if she got a bunch of lilacs from Berwick Street Market these days. She checked in her bag for change, and decided that she’d probably better pop back to that kiosk in the station for her fags before work – she’d find a more convenient place later, but at least she knew where that was.
She was lovely all over, was Pamela, but I’d say that the best thing about her was that smile of hers – the one she wore as casually and as well as that ever-present eau de parfum . It had a lovely gentle way of suggesting that it was probably the people around her who were the problem in life, not her, and it went with her everywhere. Even in the infamous contact sheets of her that were being passed around at the time – the one that showed her sprawled across a sunny bed in Berwick Street with just a cigarette for company, for instance, the one that the photographer who shot it swore he’d pass on to the soon-to-be-famous painter he knew from the French Pub, but somehow never quite did – her smile accompanied her in every single frame. It got wiped off occasionally, of course, but it always came back.
3
Mr Brookes had started very slowly. Reggie had come in early as instructed, and had got everything set up and ready to go on the half-lit stage – the costumes set out neatly on some chairs, the apparatus ready under its ghostly silver drape, the hand props all to hand as required. Then, working very methodically, and only going into as much detail as he thought wouldn’t frighten her off, her new employer had talked Pam through the whole act, showing her the frocks, the shoes and the new brunette wig he’d borrowed for her first, and then the ropes, which he briefly uncoiled and asked her to test so she could feel how soft and manageable they were. Then he’d uncovered the apparatus and opened it up so that she could climb up through it and get acquainted with all its doors and handles. He showed her the bolt and switch inside the trap which Reggie had to operate, and the battery for the smoke
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