The Clothes Horse

A fashion house is the setting for this perceptive short story by Alison Carter.

THEY called her Beanpole Beatrice at school. She was all bone, plain and far too tall. It was unreal, she thought, to be heading to a West End fashion house to be a model.

“Although Wilma says, further down in her letter, that it’s not really modelling,” Beatrice’s mother said, holding the sheet of paper with the London postmark. “I’m to make that clear to you.”

“You’ll stand while patterns are created on you. I suppose they have to see what frocks will look like, using paper pieces.”

As the eldest of six children, Bea had to earn. Her father had lost his job, and jobs were scarce.

“The firm sounds very French!” she said. “Couture Simone Sauveterre.”

Mary Gregory smiled. “Wilma Norris Fashions wouldn’t attract rich women. You will sleep at Wilma’s flat.”

“I hardly know her.” “Imagine somebody as unlike me as possible; someone clever, and elegant, tall –”

“Not taller than me!” “That’s true. You’re beautifully tall.”

So Beatrice took a train from Essex to the “rag trade” area of London, quickly learning never to use that phrase.

“It’s vulgar,” Aunt Wilma said as they unpacked Bea’s case in a tiny bedroom in Wilma’s Kentish Town flat. “We’re a fashion house. Shift over, will you? Goodness, you get in the way!”

Bea knew she was clumsy. Presumably a pattern model had to learn how to be stationary.

“Now,” Wilma said, “I’m out for dinner tonight, so see what you can find in the kitchen.”

* * * *

On Bea’s first day she heard her aunt with one of the seamstresses.

“She’s cheap, but I’ll send her home if she can’t take the pace.”

Beatrice didn’t mind. Aunt Wilma had every right to make demands on family – she was a woman running a business in difficult times.

For some months the job consisted of exactly what Bea had anticipated – hours standing motionless while Kathy and Irene (in charge of patterns) stuck pins into her. Sometimes paper, but usually muslin.

“The cut is everything,” Kath and Irene said, “and the pattern makes the cut.” The three women ruled. “Get out!” Irene would snap when a lad who maintained the machines watched from a doorway as Bea turned slowly round so the fall of a satin skirt could be assessed.

“Don’t gawp!” Kathy would scold.

Beatrice would laugh. “They’re only hanging about here trying to avoid Mrs Porter.”

Mrs Porter ran the back-of-house operation.

Kathy and Irene would look at her wryly.

Wilma showed each collection, and offered private viewings, in the front of the premises. Proper models were hired. Then someone suggested Beatrice might model.

“Who suggested that?” Bea asked.

“A husband,” Wilma said grumpily. “He says his wife would like to see you in the second winter collection.

“But he’ll have decided – the men always do.”

Wilma was dismissive of the whole concept of marriage, and said she preferred freedom.

“My sister – your mother – was thrilled to catch her man. Then all those grubby

Bea could never have imagined herself as a model . . .

kiddies! Give me commerce any day.”

* * * *

One afternoon Mrs

Porter bustled in.

“The Bordens come tomorrow. Irene, how far off a full collection are we?”

Irene dropped her needle and threw up her hands. “Days, Mildred!”

“Who are the Bordens?” Bea asked.

“The richest commoners in London,” Mrs Porter said. “Married less than a year. We need to show them everything.”

Wilma told the staff that a link with the Bordens would mean a secure future for Sauveterre.

Bea wished she’d never been asked to model, but in the event, the Bordens weren’t frightening.

“I can’t imagine how you walk a straight line in those shoes,” Mrs Borden said from her seat below the catwalk. “Oh, Henry, I like that velvet jacket! Do look!”

There was a second man with them, very tall in Oxford bags.

“This is my pal, Will Mayer,” Mr Borden told Wilma. “Don’t mind him

– he doesn’t know a bodice from a bow.”

Will Mayer’s long legs didn’t fit into the narrow space between the chairs and the catwalk, and he fidgeted – bored, presumably. Bea found his presence distracting.

As she turned back to the curtain she heard Mr Borden comment.

“Golly, she’s a goddess, eh, Bill?”

Bea’s steps faltered and she was shocked to find she was longing for Mr Mayer to respond.

The dress did look Greek: it was golden, and it draped over her pathetic scrap of bust like a toga, falling heavily to the floor over her sharp hipbones.

Bea turned her head briefly, to see Mayer looking at her. His eyes glinted with intelligence. He was a man who was utterly self-assured, Bea thought.

The next change was slacks and a blouse. It was a yachting outfit, except that the top was made of a transparent voile.

It made Bea feel shy, but she kept going.

Mr Mayer spent the rest of the show looking at his hands.

Martin, a backstage lad, told her Mayer owned the ‘Evening Star’.”

“The newspaper?” “A millionaire before he was thirty.”

“Cocky?” Irene guessed. “Money gives you confidence,” Martin affirmed. “You don’t need to bother with small talk.”

* * * *

Wilma took Bea to one of the parties she attended.

She laid out a dress for her to wear. It was red, with a ruffle across the breast and one shoulder bare. Bea felt overdressed and exposed, while Wilma was elegantly attired in a grey cocktail gown.

“Talk to people,” her aunt said as they arrived. “We’re not here to have fun.”

As she entered, Bea saw Mr Mayer. He was standing with three women who competed for his attention, but he looked bored.

He towered over them: Bea reckoned he was six feet two.

She felt awkward in the dress, and alone. But she could not take her eyes off Will Mayer.

She watched him move to the bar, took a deep breath and followed, sliding into a space beside him.

He faced the barman, nursing what looked like a glass of water, and seemed to stiffen as she arrived. She raised a hand for the barman’s attention and got none.

“Here,” Mayer said quietly, and the barman was there in a trice. “This lady would like –?” he said without looking at Bea.

“Lemonade, if you have it,” Bea said.

As the barman moved away she smiled.

“Neither of us drinking? It doesn’t agree with me.” “I don’t drink much.”

They stood there for perhaps two minutes. Formal introductions were made. Later, Bea recalled that she’d chattered and that he’d said little.

At the end of the two minutes he was still looking straight ahead, and she knew she must go.

So she did, trying to look as if she had someone important to find.

A tubby man in a dinner jacket halted her progress. “You’re Wilma’s girl?” “I work at Couture Sauveterre.”

He nodded at the bar. “You don’t want to bother with Mayer. You’ll get nowhere there.”

She moved away from him. The man had identified her as a hired clothes horse, and had seen her trying to hobnob with the real guests.

* * * *

The weather was cooling and the spring collection needed endless attention. The Bordens had caused a run of bookings and orders, and Bea was enlisted to do basic cutting and tacking.

She could not get Will Mayer out of her mind.

Was this the sort of crush every girl had to endure – falling for a man who would never, ever notice her?

Bea began to take walks along Fleet Street. She told herself it was nothing to do with Will Mayer or the location of his newspaper; simply that she was new in London, and the sights were over in that direction.

On her fourth walk, she saw him come out of the “Evening Star” building as she passed by.

“Well, I never!” she said, in a voice that was far too bright. “We met at Couture Sauveterre. Well, not met. I was just . . .” She dried up.

He had taken a step back, apparently horrified to be caught unawares. “I work here.”

“I know.”

Now he’d think she was following him. And she was!

She managed to ask about the newspaper, and he relaxed. He said he was planning an expansion.

“We’re in the very early stages of a, well, a fashion magazine,” he said.

He spoke formally and it seemed to Bea that he was anxious to end their conversation. Of course he was – he had places to go.

Then Henry Borden came along the pavement in a banker’s three-piece suit. Mayer looked relieved.

Bea’s heart sank. He had run out of things to say to a woman he barely knew, and now his friend had come to save him.

“Goodness, you’re the girl from –”

“Her name is Beatrice Gregory,” Mayer said.

“Good afternoon, Miss Gregory,” Borden said.

And that was that. Bea travelled back to Kentish Town, telling herself not to be a fool.

Work continued.

A man from a magazine called at the flat one evening to discuss a feature on tailoring.

Wilma told Bea to make herself scarce, but she had nowhere to go, so she sat in her room.

Wilma had bought in catering for the man’s visit: there were things to nibble and something in an ice bucket. Bea could hear her aunt’s brittle laughter.

The man left earlier than expected, and Bea came out to help clear up.

“I could have these tomorrow for supper,” Bea said, covering a plate of tiny pastries with a cloth.

“He ate plenty!” Wilma tipped the contents of the plate into the bin. “And it was business!”

Bea changed the subject. “I had a letter from home,” she said.

“Oh?” Wilma lit a cigarette.

“Mother’s fine, but Father’s not employed yet. The boys are growing –”

“A woman makes her own bed. Mary should count her blessings. Life is hard for all.”

She closed her

She couldn’t get him off her mind, but he would never look at her

cigarette case with a snap and left the room. Bea looked around her. The champagne still fizzed in the bucket. Her aunt’s life didn’t seem hard.

* * * *

A few days later a lady of about thirty visited Couture Sauveterre to have a day dress altered. Her name was Frances Beaton, and she was clearly a friend of Aunt Wilma.

“I hope Wilma’s going to help me in a few months’ time,” she said. “I’m engaged, and will have all those going-away clothes.”

Bea thought Miss Beaton didn’t look like a bride. She was pale and angular, beautiful in an icy way.

“Congratulations,” Irene gushed. “I bet Miss Norris is thrilled.”

Miss Beaton laughed. “I doubt she likes weddings.”

“Who’s the lucky man?” “Name of William

Mayer,” Miss Beaton said.

Bea took a gulping breath. Now, she knew, she must dismiss him from her thoughts.

* * * *

Some days later, Mrs Borden came in to Sauveterre to fetch a large number of outfits. It was late, and Bea was alone.

“I think we have everything ready on this rack,” Bea said.

Mrs Borden leaned on the counter.

“I’m sorry to have left this so long; we’ve been away. My husband tells me he saw you in Fleet Street a few weeks ago, when he was meeting Will Mayer.”

Bea held the cool metal of the rack tightly.

“Yes, I was walking that way,” she said.

“I think you must have given him a shock,” Mrs Borden said.

“Your husband?”

“Golly, no – Will. He’s not awfully good with new people, especially females.” Bea didn’t understand. “I told your Miss Norris when I came in for a fitting,” Mrs Borden explained. “Letting her loveliest girls out in public is liable to give chaps like poor Will a heart attack, he’s so shy.”

Bea stared at Mrs Borden.

“Mr Mayer, shy?”

“Oh, he’s been well brought up, so he gives a pretty good impression of not being crippled by shyness.

“For instance, when one sees Will looking elsewhere while talking to a person, that’s because he’s awkward.”

She frowned at the clothes.

“Golly, did I spend that much money? I’ve got a car outside and the driver knows to come in a minute.” She looked up. “Are you all right, Miss Gregory?”

Bea steadied herself. Finally, she nodded.

“Please congratulate Mr Mayer on his engagement.” Her voice sounded high in her ears.

“His . . .?” Mrs Borden blinked. “I’d no idea about an engagement.”

She thought for a moment.

“But we’ve been in the country, hunting – ghastly – and I’m never the first to hear gossip, anyway.

“I’m surprised Henry doesn’t know, though. Men are useless, don’t you find? Will, engaged!” She shook her head.

“Well, shy men fall in love as much as confident ones, I suppose.”

She was interrupted by her driver at the door.

“Ah, Jevons,” Mrs Borden said. “I’ll help carry.”

She turned to Bea.

“Could you tell Miss Norris that I am off to Nice tomorrow, and so she will not be plagued with me again practically until Christmas?”

And she was gone.

* * * *

Wilma kept Bea’s nose to the grindstone until December began. She felt tired and confined, going nowhere except work.

“You’re to come to the Dorchester this evening,” Wilma said one day.

“Oh?” Bea sprang up. It was already six o’clock.

“Don’t get excited. The Bordens asked for you, so I’m obliged to take you. Hannah Borden seems to like you.”

“I think I’ll stay at the flat,” Bea said. Will Mayer might be there. “I’m tired.”

“I don’t recall mentioning there was a choice,” Wilma snapped.

Once again there was a dress waiting for her at the flat, this time made of layers of chiffon in an indeterminate green.

Bea recognised it as a dress that had been widely rejected in the autumn collection.

Will Mayer was there, but Bea couldn’t yet see Miss Beaton. She kept out of sight, making polite

conversation with the men who hovered around her offering drinks she didn’t want.

At about nine she slipped out of French doors into a courtyard.

Will Mayer was there and saw her before she could slip back inside.

“Miss Gregory.”

“Is this not the way out?” she stammered.

His shoulders slumped. “Do you know,” he said, “I can talk at any meeting. I just dry up when it’s important.”

Bea saw his fists were clenched and white. She hadn’t believed Mrs

Borden about his being shy, but now she wondered.

Had he chosen Frances Beaton because she was bold and unafraid, and would be his “front” to society?

She shivered, and he stepped over, pulled off his jacket and put it round her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is presumptuous.”

Bea began to cry. It had become too much; this moment of intimacy and warmth.

“What is it? How can you be sad?”

“I’m going,” she said, sniffing like a schoolgirl.

“Don’t!” he said. “A little longer – just to keep me alive a little longer.”

Bea stared at him. Then the doors flew open, and Hannah Borden came outside.

“Will! I haven’t laid eyes on you since before Shropshire. What’s afoot?” She saw Bea.

“Miss Gregory! Oh Bill, you’re hopeless – look at her!”

She pulled a handkerchief from her evening bag and gave it to Bea.

“Hang on, it was you who told me he was engaged. Goodness, Will, have you got this angel? Well done!” Bea began to sob.

“Of course not. It’s Miss Beaton.”

“Who? You’re not talking about Franny Beaton, surely?” She began dabbing at Bea’s face with the handkerchief.

“Your dress is frightful, by the way.

“Frances Beaton . . . how can I put this? Frances has no interest in men – never has, never will.”

As Mrs Borden searched for another handkerchief, Bea’s attention was drawn to the open doors.

She saw Wilma weaving between guests.

Bea’s thoughts began to churn. The only person who had told her about the engagement to Frances Beaton had been Frances Beaton herself, and she was a close friend of Wilma’s. But why would they make that up?

Mrs Borden looked at Bea.

“He’s not engaged to anybody. Those friends who love him doubt he ever will be, unless some girl takes control.”

Then she was gone.

* * * *

Later, Bea could not be sure who took a step towards whom.

“I love you,” he said. “I’ve loved you since I first saw you. You were too beautiful for someone like me.”

“What do you mean, ‘someone like you’?”

“Someone who can’t say boo to a goose. It cripples me. I look like a rude, snobbish brute, and the money makes it worse.”

He took her face in his hands.

“You shine, Miss Gregory, like burnished gold. I didn’t dare.”

She laughed.

“Call me Bea. Look at me now – eyes red, lipstick smudged.” “Beautiful.” “Beanpole Beatrice. It was me who didn’t dare.”

He looked at her, baffled, then kissed her again.

“I thought you hadn’t noticed me.”

“I thought you’d never look at me twice. You’ve been in my head every minute of every day.

“It made me frightened to speak. I thought you were an impossibility.”

“Snap,” she said.

* * * *

Wilma had seen the electricity passing between William Mayer and her niece on the catwalk. She had already been disturbed to find that the skinny, gawky Beatrice she remembered was now a beauty.

Envy towards her sister Mary had been in Wilma even before Bea’s arrival.

She mocked Mary’s domestic tedium and brood of children, but felt a hole in her own life.

Then she had learned from the Bordens that Will and Bea had met again.

Wilma couldn’t bear that Bea might have what she didn’t, just like Mary. William Mayer was the most eligible man in London.

“Frances is an old, dear friend – I got her her very first job. She warned me that faking an engagement with Will was idiotic, and she was right,” she confessed to Bea years later.

“But I was so unhappy, Beatrice. I even had David van Slagen warn you off.”

“The fat man who was at the party?”

Wilma nodded.

“But, Aunt Wilma, you’re witty and clever and creative, and a woman, which makes your achievement more remarkable!”

“Well, in the end I realised that I should celebrate my achievements, not be angry about what I didn’t have. It was eating me up.”

* * * *

Mayer Newspapers, Ltd. did not expand into fashion publishing.

“I only had that wild idea,” Will told Bea, “because I thought it might get me close to you. I know nothing about clothes, except that whatever you wear looks divine.” He kissed her. “Goddess.”

“Beanpole.” She kissed him back. “Sophisticated man about town.”

“Terrified mouse.” “Whichever,” she said.

The End.