The Girl From Barefoot House by Maureen Lee

Author:Maureen Lee [Lee, Maureen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781409138808
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Published: 2011-11-10T00:00:00+00:00

2

‘I used to write that sort of thing,’ Jack said boastfully. ‘I went into television instead.’ He was standing only a few feet away, and Josie could barely hear him above the clamour of other voices and the too-loud music from Maya’s gramophone. ‘Do not forsake me, oh my darling’, Tex Ritter pleaded.

There must have been at least sixty guests. As well as the residents of Bingham Mews, Maya had invited people from the world of fashion to her New Year’s Eve party – magazine editors, photographers, models, male and female.

‘You can hardly compare DiMarco of the Met with Look Back in Anger,’ a bearded man Josie had never seen before replied scathingly. ‘John Osborne’s play was a real breakthrough. There’d never been anything like it before. It started a whole new trend.’

‘I wasn’t comparing them, was I?’ Jack sounded truculent, a sign he’d drunk too much. Josie thought tiredly that these days Jack spent more time drunk than sober. He never got completely plastered, though tonight seemed to be an exception – he must have downed at least five large whiskies. The man had apparently irked him. He gestured angrily with his glass, and the liquid spilled on the sleeve of his maroon corduroy jacket. Jack was envious of John Osborne and Arnold Wesker and the other new young playwrights whose work had blown a blast of fresh air through the staid world of British theatre. They were the sort of plays he wrote himself, he groaned.

‘I always said you were before your time.’ Josie had tried to comfort him, though she could see little similarity between kitchen-sink drama and Jack’s high-minded, rather tedious work.

‘Did you see my play, The Disciples, on TV?’ He glared belligerently at the man.

‘Never heard of it.’ The man walked away. Jack, staggering slightly, went over to the bar and poured himself another whisky. Maya, in a bright red curly wig, a gold lamé top and tight matching slacks, linked her arm in his and led him to a group in the corner, where Neville Ward-Pierce’s penetrating voice drowned all those around him. He was bemoaning the fact that America seemed likely to elect the left-wing Senator Jack Kennedy as its next President.

‘I think your husband and mine could well come to blows,’ Josie said to Charlotte. They had taken refuge on the uncomfortable white plastic and chrome settee under the window. ‘Jack thinks the sun shines out of Senator Kennedy’s arse.’

‘I quite like him myself.’

‘So do I.’ Josie’s eyes followed the slightly Oriental figure of Maya. ‘I’d love to try on wigs, see what I looked like with different colour hair.’

‘I quite fancy her outfit, not gold lamé. Crêpe would look nice, black. But Maya’s a model. I’d probably look awful.’

‘You’d suit that sort of thing,’ Josie said truthfully. It would hide her sharp knees and protruding elbows. ‘Do I look like a tart in this?’ She was wearing a purple Mary Quant mini-dress and showing an awful lot of leg.

‘No, you look lovely,’ Charlotte said admiringly.

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