A Woman of Our Times

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in the United Kingdom in 1990 by Michael Joseph

Copyright © Rosie Thomas 1990

Rosie Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © APR 2014 ISBN: 9780007560646

Version: 2017-07-10

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Rosie Thomas

About the Publisher

One

London, 1985

Harriet looked at her watch.

In less than an hour, the car would come to take her to Heathrow. In a little more than twelve hours she would be in Los Angeles, with Caspar.

For a moment, she let herself think about him. She didn’t expect that he would be waiting for her in the crowd at the barrier. Of course he would not. But there would be another car, and then a suite or an apartment somewhere with a view of the ocean, or the blue on blue geometry of a pool. Caspar would be there, wearing a white shirt, with the beginnings of a tan. He would say something, nothing significant, ‘Baby, are you dead from the flight? Come here to me,’ and the resonance of his voice would make it important. He would put his arms around her.

The television reporter, sitting across the desk with her list of questions ready, saw how Harriet’s face softened and brightened. The electrician noticed it too, and glanced at his lights.

Then Harriet checked her watch again. She was used to apportioning her time and care, and the technicians’ business with lighting and sound levels was taking too much of it.

‘Are you going to need very much longer?’ she asked. ‘The car is coming for me at three.’ The producer’s assistant gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Nearly ready for you now.’

While she waited, Harriet looked at the wide expanse of her office. The producer of documentaries and his PA murmured together on one of the pair of low sofas, while the sound man and the electrician hovered over their metal boxes. The cameraman waited too, behind the cold eye of his lens. It was a bright day outside, but the brighter television lights dimmed the glow of it. They created, within their circle, an artificial atmosphere of intimacy.

The PA stretched her long legs in dark stockings, stood up and came across to the desk. She produced a hand-mirror and gave it to Harriet.

‘Do you want to make a quick check before we begin?’ At the same moment the reporter cleared her throat, sat upright in her chair. Harriet looked dispassionately at her own reflection. Her face, unremarkable, looked the same as always, except that it wore more make-up than usual. She handed back the mirror.

‘That’s fine, if it’s all right for you,’ she said politely.

‘Ready to go,’ the sound man announced with one finger pressed to his headphones. The producer sat forward and his PA held her clipboard like a breastplate.

In the moment before the producer murmured ‘Two, three, and go’ Harriet looked down at her hands, loosely clasped in her lap. The big square diamond in its Thirties platinum setting glittered on her right hand. Harriet wondered fleetingly if she ought to have taken it off for the interview. But then she thought, Rewards. I bought it, I earned it. Why not? She had not taken down the Emma Sergeant portrait of herself from the end wall, nor had she removed the Chinese silk rug from the floor.

Harriet lifted her hands and rested them on the desk. A few inches from her fingertips, on the pale polished wood, lay a cracked and splintered fragment of packing case. It looked like a piece of driftwood that had been battered by the sea before being cast up on a silver beach.

The reporter had been looking at it too. Now the two women lifted their heads and their eyes met. Harriet’s ring shone in the full glare of the lights.

‘… three, two, one …’ counted down the production assistant.

There would be a preamble, of course. Alison Shaw, the reporter, would write it, and record it as a voice-over. To go with her commentary there would be establishing shots of the game, in its resplendent boxes, piled to suitable heights in some suitable store. Perhaps this same crew would film a cash-till in the same store, with a close-up shot of hands passing over money in exchange for Harriet’s box. Then there would be one more establishing shot of the huge peacock’s fantail that was the company logo, on the wall of the reception area outside her office, before the cut to Harriet herself. Harriet, sitting behind her big desk in her Jasper Conran suit, her anxiety about missing her flight to Los Angeles and Caspar entirely masked.

Now the viewer would know that she was a one-woman success story, a girl who had seen an idea and had run with it, taking her own company from a table-top in a borrowed flat to a stock market launch, and winning business and export awards on the way. The programme was one in a series called Success Story. Harriet Peacock, newly declared Entrepreneur of the Year, had been an obvious choice for it.

‘Looking in from the outside, the Peacocks’ success story seems to have an almost fairy-tale quality,’ Alison Shaw began. ‘A game, quite a simple if ingenious game, is launched on an already overcrowded market in the face of cautionary advice and financial problems. It catches the imagination of the public overnight, and becomes a bestseller. Within a year it has sold in hundreds of thousands, within two years its parent company is beginning to diversify into other games, with apparent success, and within three it is thriving, publicly quoted, and one of the darlings of the investors and the financial press. Harriet Peacock, how has all this been achieved?’

Harriet laughed, warmly and quite naturally. She answered, ‘Less easily than you make it sound.’

At the beginning, when she was just starting out and the sharp-nosed reporters had come with their questions, she had been a less confident interviewee. She had been hungry for any crumb of publicity – anything that would help Peacocks, her company, her baby. But she had also been defensive, and defensiveness made her awkward. Now she was on familiar ground. She had fielded all the questions before, in different interviews, and she was ready for them.

‘The first, the only really important thing, was that I knew the game was good. I felt it, I felt the hairs rise at the nape of my neck whenever I looked at it. Because I believed so strongly in it I was ready to risk everything for it. Any entrepreneur will tell you that is the spark that lights the fuse. Belief, and more than belief. Certainty.’

Out of shot, Alison Shaw was nodding, making little rolling gestures with her hand. More, tell us some more. Fully practised, Harriet swept on.

‘I also believe that you can regard life as a game of chance. You can play it like that, letting the currents carry you, or you can wait for the right current and then paddle furiously with it, as I did when I recognised the potential of the game. Someone said you can reach the same conclusion in life by more or less circuitous paths, by going straight for what you want or by hoping to be swept there. There’s a direct route and an indirect route, and the game itself is a metaphor for that.’

It was Simon who had said it, a long time ago. Harriet’s direct gaze wavered.

The hand-waving had continued, now it stopped. If they were good programme-makers, Harriet thought to distract herself, they would cut away from her to the game board, and the coloured balls rolling.

Taking the straight path, or going the long way round.

Alison Shaw said, ‘Could you define “paddling furiously”? What exactly did you do, after the prickle at the nape of the neck?’

Harriet was on firm ground again. She had described the steps she had taken in setting up her business often enough in other interviews. She went through them fluently, counting them off like beads on a string.

Alison nodded, letting her talk, occasionally prompting her, working through the questions on her list. Harriet had discussed some of them with the programme’s researcher, others were unexpected. Alison was a good interviewer, it went smoothly.

The producer began to make tentative wind-up signals. Harriet was pleased. A useful job had been done for Peacocks, she would easily make her flight.

The last question came.

‘There’s a poignant story behind this particular success story. Harriet, you didn’t devise the game yourself, that’s fairly widely known. As a postscript, could you tell us something of its history?’

Harriet caught her breath. She became suddenly acutely aware of the radio mike clipped to her lapel, of the faces of the technicians watching her, of spools of tape that would be imprinted with the sound of her own voice. Out of shot, Alison looked at her watch. Harriet knew they could only want another two or three minutes from her. It would not be the first time she had talked about Simon. She thought, if only it could have been.

‘The game was devised by a British army officer who was a prisoner of the Japanese, in Hong Kong, during the Second World War. He built it from scraps of rubbish. He kept it with him for four years, and when he was liberated it was the only thing he owned.’

Harriet’s right hand, with the big ring, reached out to touch the broken wood that lay on her smooth desktop. The cameraman moved to bring it into shot. Harriet remembered the story, much longer and much more painful to recall, that Simon Archer had told her in his cold, comfortless house in the gloomiest quarter of a featureless Midlands town. She could clearly hear his words. She could remember the exact phrases he had used.

She listened to them now, within her head.

When she looked up again, she found it hard to believe that only a second or two had ticked by while the camera’s greedy eye lingered on Simon’s packing case. Evidently Alison had either no wish or no time to probe deeper. The success story had been told, and she was ready to wrap up one more programme.

‘A remarkable testament to one man’s will to survive. As, in a different way, the success of Peacocks is a testament to Harriet Peacock’s skill and determination.’

‘And to that of my staff and suppliers,’ Harriet insisted. She was briefly amused, thinking of the acceptance speech full of the same sentiments that Caspar must make if he won his Oscar. Alison smiled back at her.

‘And now, in true executive style, you’re going direct from here to Heathrow to take a flight to Los Angeles. Is this a business trip, or will you have time to go to the Academy Awards?’

Harriet’s expression changed. Her response was chilly. ‘My trip to Los Angeles is a holiday. It was agreed at the outset, wasn’t it, that there would be no questions about my private life?’

Alison made an acquiescent gesture that said, worth a try. They would edit the exchange out, of course.

There were a few more concluding remarks, mutual thanks, and the interview was over. The technicians stuck their thumbs up. ‘Super,’ the producer said.

Harriet looked at her watch once more. The car would arrive in a little under fifteen minutes.

‘If we could just keep you with us a couple of minutes longer, Harriet, while we check we’ve got everything? Noddys now, Alison, OK love?’

The camera would focus on Alison now, for the footage that would be used as cutaways. Harriet waited. Across the room she saw the door silently open and her assistant’s head appear. She mimed, telephone. Harriet shook her head. As far as the rest of the world need know, she was already on her way to Heathrow. But Karen refused to go away. Urgent, she signalled.

Harriet sighed. ‘Excuse me. I have to take a telephone call.’ She circled around her own desk, and went out to Karen’s office. Karen held the receiver out to her.

‘Hello? Harriet Peacock speaking.’

It was Charlie Thimbell. Harriet knew him well. His wife was one of her closest friends.

‘Charlie, is everything OK? Is Jenny all right?’

‘Yeah, nothing like that. Listen, Harriet, I heard a rumour. I thought you’d better know about it.’ Charlie Thimbell was a financial journalist, the City Editor of one of the national dailies.

‘What rumour?’

‘More than a rumour, then. A tip-off. Are you watching your back, Harriet?’

‘You’re talking about a raid, are you? We were at two twenty-five this morning. Steady.’

Charlie said nothing for a moment. Then, very quietly, ‘Are you overstretched?’

Harriet laughed. ‘If we are or if we aren’t, I wouldn’t tell you, Charlie. Which would you put first, me or a good story?’

‘Difficult one, that. Well, I just thought I’d let you know. You might want to think again about making your trip.’

‘I’m going. Caspar’s up for an Oscar, and he deserves to win it. I want to be there when he does.’

‘You’ll be a long way from home.’

Karen had taken another call. She told Harriet, ‘Car’s waiting downstairs.’

Harriet was impatient. The television crew had finished, they were carrying their gear out of her office. ‘Charlie, I’m not going up the Amazon, I’m going to LA. They have telephones there. I can be back here in twelve hours, if I’m needed.’

‘Sure thing. Well, enjoy yourself. Tell the old tosspot I’m rooting for him.’

Charlie had never met Caspar Jensen, but he made a joke of pretending familiarity with the man and his habits.

‘Thanks, Charlie. Thanks for ringing. Give my love to Jen.’

‘Come back soon.’

Charlie rang off. Karen was looking up at Harriet. ‘Problem?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Harriet said. She would not have admitted anxiety to Charlie. The anxiety, in any case, was well within bounds. She could live with it. She wanted to see Caspar more than she wanted anything else. Her luggage, two small neat suitcases, was waiting for her by the door. If she didn’t go now, she would miss her flight.

‘Shall I ask the driver to come up for your suitcases?’

Harriet picked them up. ‘No, I can manage. Travelling light.’ One Bruce Oldfield evening dress for the big night, not much else.

Alison Shaw came out of Harriet’s office. She was wearing a full skirt that bunched over her hips, and a loose jacket. An unnecessary Burberry was folded over her arm.

‘Thanks for the interview,’ she said.

‘I enjoyed it,’ Harriet lied. They looked at each other for a moment. ‘I must go.’

‘Have a good trip,’ Alison and Karen said together.

In the car, as it turned into the westbound traffic, Harriet was thinking again about Simon. Her thoughts embarked on a predictable circuit and, with a touch of weariness, she let them follow the familiar groove. She sat hunched forward in her seat, containing the discomfort that they gave her. Looking out of the car window, from the little height of the Westway, she saw the cold sparkle of the city. A moment later, her spirits lifted. The groove had led her, as it sometimes did, to her mother. Harriet imagined Kath at home, in her kitchen, at Sunderland Avenue. The big, modern house would be humming with Radio One, and with the sound of vacuum cleaning or the buzz of the electric blender. They were the sounds of Harriet’s adolescence, but not her childhood. Harriet loved her mother. She thought that they were alike, for all the differences in their two lives.

Unusually, Kath had not telephoned her to wish her bon voyage, and Harriet had not found the time to call today. If there was no time to do it from the airport, she would ring as soon as she reached Los Angeles.

On the left of the car, a 747 dipped towards its destination. Harriet watched it as it slid through the sky, and wondered if the sun was shining on the West Coast.

She wouldn’t think about what Charlie had said. When she came home, she would find out where the rumour had sprung from.

Two

London, 1981

It was half past five.

The street outside Harriet’s shop was crowded with office workers flooding towards the tube station.

Harriet finished checking the till, and left a float for Karen who was on the staff rota to open the shop in the morning. She bagged the rest of the day’s takings, ready to be dropped into the night safe on her way past the bank. Then she went through the shop turning off the lights, so that the dazzling mirror-walls became blank, dark curtains. She locked the inner doors and set the alarm, then stepped out into the street. The shop was secure for the night. She paused to look up at the façade. It was pristine white, with the shop’s name, Stepping, in black, identical to the other shops in the chain.

All the Stepping shops sold dance- and exercise-wear, and ranges of associated products. Most of them, as Harriet’s was, were owned by franchises. Franchise-holders ordered from a central range of products, but they chose from the range to suit their own shops. Harriet knew her customers, and had the knack of offering them what they wanted to buy. The shop was in a good location, almost prime, and it was turning over well. Harriet was proud of it, and of her foresight in predicting the dance and exercise boom. She knew that she was doing all the business she could hope to do. If I was in Covent Garden, Harriet thought. But she wasn’t, and she wouldn’t be, not with Stepping.

She had been running her business for nearly five years. She had found the shop when she was twenty-five, and her stepfather had bought the lease for her. She was paying back the principal now. She was grateful to Ken for his generosity, but she was aware that it had been a sound investment for him.

She was less sure, now, whether she was satisfied with it herself. She knew that it would never make her rich, but more importantly it no longer gave her the charge of excitement that it once had.

Harriet turned away from the shop, and dropped the keys into her handbag. She checked to make sure that the envelope containing the cinema tickets was there too. It was Leo who wanted to see the film, and she had booked the tickets to surprise him. Afterwards she planned to treat them both to dinner at the new Thai restaurant.

Harriet forgot about the business. She began to walk briskly, looking forward to the evening with her husband. She reached the bank, with the bag of the day’s takings hugged to her chest. She opened the polished slit of the night safe and slid the bag into its mouth. She heard it bumping softly as it passed into the entrails of the bank, and the home-going crowds flowed reassuringly past her. Harriet went on with them, towards the tube station.

A few moments later she reached the street where Leo had his studio. Leo was a photographer, quite a successful one. His studio was on the first floor of a small warehouse building, with a garment manufacturer below him and a design company above. Harriet looked up at his windows. It was an automatic gesture, there was nothing to see, not even a light. It was a summer’s evening, there was no need for lights. She could see a drawing board angled at the window above.

Harriet would have pressed Leo’s entry-phone but the front door opened just as she reached it. Two smiling machinists in saris came out, and held it for her. Harriet slipped inside the building, and ran up the stone stairs to the first floor. She was cheerful with the idea of her surprise, picturing Leo at the light table, his back to her, examining transparencies. It was dark at the top of the stairs, there were no windows here.

Click. Harriet pressed the button of the timed switch beside the door and light washed over her.

She had the impression, in that fleeting second, that the click had sounded a warning. There was a scuffle on the other side of the door.

Harriet was holding the key to the door in her hand. She had hardly ever used her studio key; Leo must have forgotten that she had it. She fitted it deftly into the lock, and the door swung inwards.

Harriet looked straight ahead of her.

Across the studio and through another open door there was a black leather and chrome sofa. Harriet had helped Leo to choose it, from an Italian furniture catalogue. In front of the sofa was Leo, a lock of his dark hair falling boyishly over his eyes as he tried to pull up his 501s. They were too tight and he hopped, off balance and then – ludicrously – snatched up his shirt and held it in front of his collapsing erection. Clearly the girl was more used to exposing her body. She made no coy attempt to cover herself with her hands, and her composure made Leo look even more ridiculous. She simply stood, gracefully, her body composed of dark angles and smooth, colourless planes. She was taller and thinner than Harriet. Perhaps she was one of Leo’s models.

After the first current of shock, Harriet’s reaction was incredulous laughter. Leo saw it, and his embarrassment lit up into fury.

He dropped the shirt, took two strides and slammed the connecting door.

For a moment or two Harriet stood looking numbly at it. Leo would open the door again, of course, and he would be dressed and there would be no model and he would thank her for buying the cinema tickets, and they would go off for their evening together.

She waited, but there was only silence and the closed door. It was impossible to imagine what Leo and the tall, thin girl were doing on the other side of it.

Slowly, silently, Harriet closed the outer door too and stood in darkness again on the wrong side of it. She didn’t bother to press the switch for its premonitory click. She went quietly back down the stairs, with her hand pressed flat against the cold, shiny curve of the wall to guide her.

Harriet didn’t remember, afterwards, how she got home. She supposed that she must have followed the route mechanically, borne along by the homegoing tide.

When she reached the flat she found herself walking through the rooms, touching things, picking up vases and books and ornaments as if she had never seen them before. She went to each window and pressed her forehead against the glass, looking out at the familiar vistas. She found it hard to believe that she had lived in this place for four years, ever since her marriage. It seemed unfamiliar now, the house of strangers. She didn’t know what to do with herself in these rooms. There was no food to cook; usually one of them shopped on the way home. Tonight, there would have been the Thai dinner.