Authors: Jan Warburton
*
His funeral, held in St Martins-in-the-Fields and presided over by the Reverend Austin Williams, was well attended by hundreds of people who'd either known him or worked with him. He'd been the sort of man of whom no one could think ill. I knew I was one of many who would always be grateful for his kindness and generosity.
Gazing up at the church's magnificent baroque arches and architraves above and around me, while the choir sang
The Lord is My Shepherd
, it suddenly dawned on me that I would now need to find out to whom I would pay my rent from now on? With the hope that someone decent would take over the property ownership, I then realised I knew very little about Norman or his family.
Together, he and Kate had seemed such a singular entity, as if no other person counted much in either of their lives. But I supposed he had to have some family and they would be down there at the front of the church with Kate. I could just see her tilted head, elegant in black felt. Having not personally been able to speak to her yet, I'd been told she had taken it all bravely and calmly.
I remember someone saying after my sister's death, of which I was now reminded in great detail, that grief manifests itself in different ways with every individual. Just as I recalled being unable to accept Belinda's untimely demise all those years ago, Kate would also somehow be grieving in her own way. Tears now welled up in my eyes as I thought of my sister, the only other person's funeral I'd ever attended, and I realised again how much I missed her.
The burial was in a small graveyard in North London, near to where Norman had been born. An elderly brother, Vincent, was the only family member attending; all the others had either passed away or were much too old and frail to come. A funeral tea organised by his brother was held in a nearby hotel, during which, Kate, pale but composed, nodded gravely as she acknowledged everyone's condolences. I guessed she would be glad when the whole ordeal was over, so that she could mourn in private.
Whether she did or not, I never knew, but I heard she was soon modelling again, within a few days in fact, and busier than ever. I could never get hold of her anyway, despite leaving messages all over the place for her. Perhaps keeping so occupied was her way of coping best.
A month later Kate's lawyer contacted me. It seemed Kate had been the main beneficiary in Norman's will. Apart from a money legacy to his brother, the rest of Norman's estate, including his flat in Kensington and the Beauchamp Place premises, had been left to Kate. Hence
she
was now my landlady, which, in a sense, gave me some relief.
As far as the rent was concerned, I was to carry on much as before, paying Kate through a standing order arrangement between our two banks. She had also been happy to let it stay at the same nominal amount. She continued living in Norman's luxurious flat, although her modelling work still kept her travelling all over the world.
I saw little of her over the following year, apart from the occasional job she did for me when she was available. By now she was in tremendous demand and easily the most famous face in the business. Pictures of her constantly decorated the covers and pages of all the top fashion magazines.
To my knowledge no other man replaced Norman in her life. She kept herself very private and despite appearing occasionally on the arms of so-called eligible bachelors at huge, showy affairs, she stayed aloof from the rest of the swinging sixties party scene.
On the few occasions we saw one another, I tried to break through the enigmatic facade she had adopted. But apart from our fleeting encounters at social affairs and fashion shows, regrettably we had little chance to develop our friendship further. This saddened me, since we'd always seemed to get along so well before. If anything, since Norman's death, she'd become more remote than ever.
Things about her began to strangely disturb and fascinate me, things which had not registered with me before; such as the unusual manner in which she often tilted her head to one side as she listened to anyone talking to her. Then there were those times when I noticed she would set herself apart, appearing not to want to enter into any conversations going on around her, which added all the more to her mystique.
I so admired her unique beauty, particularly in front of the camera, and I desperately longed to know her better. It was also bizarre how, apart from obvious work-related reasons, she would often enter my thoughts during my most private, intimate moments. Why was this?
Could it be, that admiring her so, I simply wished to be like her, or perhaps I was even jealous of her because of the way everything had seemed to go her way, especially her success and fame? Yes, that had to be it.
On the other hand, could it be something else far more bewildering to contemplate? Was my own sexuality even in question here? Certainly I'd had no desire for a man since Alex. But I'd basically put that down to being addicted to my work and because the passion and dedication I now put into my designing left me almost drained of any other emotion.
Why then, was I unable to explain or refute what was becoming a constant personal inner debate?
PART THREE
CHAPTER 18
LONDON, LATE SUMMER, 1968
I tapped my pen on my desk. 'Come on now, Lynda; get your thinking cap on. We want a good name for this collection. It's got to make the right impact.'
Across the room, Lynda put her scissors aside and sat down. With glazed eyes she looked straight through me, her mind obviously ticking over. I had been doing the same for the past few days now. I’d never normally bothered with collection titles but this particular one I felt warranted making a real statement.
I poured us two cups of Earl Grey tea, placing one in front of her. She lifted her cup and took a sip. 'Mmm, you’re right,’ she murmured, swallowing hard. ‘Something snappy and
different
; that's what's needed.'
*
Two days later and we were still no further on. It was even preventing me sleeping at night.
Then, one evening as we were leaving work, Lynda turned to me. 'I think we're doing this all wrong. Perhaps, if we don't try quite so hard, something brilliant will occur to us. I certainly hope so, because it's even keeping
me
awake at nights now!'
Slinging her oversized leather bag over her shoulder, she turned off the lights.
'I think you’re probably right,' I said with a sigh. 'We’ll wrap up thinking about it for the next few days and then, who knows, an inspiration may suddenly present itself.’
Lynda suddenly paused at the front door. 'Hang on a sec ...You just said, "Wrap up." What about a play on the word, "Wrap". For instance “Wrapped up” means “Covered up”, doesn't it, or even, “Dressed up”? I say, that just might be a seed of an idea! Why not call it something like that? “Wrappings” ... yeah, how about that?'
I switched the light back on and stared at her, half grinning. 'You might just have something there! “Wrappings” is good. A bit stark on its own though. How about, “
Silk
Wrappings”?'
'Even better!'
'Yes, Yes, I like that. In fact I prefer it to anything else we've come up with so far. OK then,
Silk Wrappings
it is.'
I heaved a huge sigh of relief. 'At last! Thank God! Now we can both get some decent sleep.'
It was the perfect name choice, particularly as the whole collection was made in different types of silk. I had recently discovered an excellent importer from the Far East for my fabrics. These included wonderful silks from China, India and Thailand in the most amazing choice of colours, from subtle neutral shades through to the most scorching hues. To my knowledge no one had created a Ready-to-Wear collection completely in silk before, and the name
Silk Wrappings
defined it perfectly.
By now I had become quite renowned for my distinctive designs, especially for evening and party wear. My clientele was getting more glamorous by the day. Well-known singing stars now wore my creations on the stage and on TV, as well as to attend big showbiz affairs.
Daywear fashion, however, had recently become slightly confused. The mini, although still very much
in
, was now often teamed with a contrasting midi or maxi look in coats. Hemlines were irrelevant; a woman's skirt length simply relied on personal choice. Nonetheless, I continued to maximise on leg appeal, especially for the benefit of men, often slashing longer dresses and skirts up to the thigh, or making them up in slinky fabrics to be more alluring. Apart from their originality, my designs were always feminine.
Boutique fashion continued to thrive and had almost eclipsed
haute couture
, which had begun to fade from the pages of
Harpers
and
Vogue
. Mary Quant had recently had a great success in New York, and this encouraged me to consider venturing abroad somewhere myself ... when the time was right.
My
Silk Wrappings
collection was a cornucopia of everything beautiful about silk, from the finest delicate slubbed versions to the heavier shantung and, of course, my own personal favourite, raw silk. A distinct oriental influence had recently crept into my designs, many of which were often trimmed with embroidery, silk tassels, braids and cords.
In late September, Lynda returned from visiting her cousin in the forces in Singapore. She was full of enthusiasm about the place and suggested it might be an idea to consider photographing the collection in the Far East, and to promote it there.
'The atmosphere is perfect, Annabel. And of course the oriental influence could be maximised to the full,' she said.
The idea appealed enormously but I was undecided whether it was the right move to make. Was the time ripe yet to venture overseas with my designs? Even so, I promised to give it some serious thought.
Photographer, Jake Sinclair called in the following day to talk over a future photo shoot and I mentioned the notion to him.
The longhaired Scotsman was most eager. 'Aye, I think that's an excellent idea, Annabel! Singapore, Malaysia, and Thailand ... anywhere like that would be perfect. You could also do a couple of fashion shows there to drum up even more interest? Singapore in particular would be an ideal launching venue with so many westerners living there, many of whom will be already familiar with your name.'
'So you think it might work?'
'Aye, I most certainly do, especially if you allow
me
to do the photography.'
I laughed. 'Who
else
would I dream of asking?'
'Look, leave it with me. I'll make some inquiries. You'll still show here next month, of course?'
'Of
course
.'
'Fine. So we'll see how that takes off. Then if all goes well, we could organise a trip ... say, for sometime in December. I'm a wee bit tied up most of November with an extensive
Vogue
shoot in Mexico, but after that I think I could fit it in.'
Jake was much in demand these days. Following Norman's demise, he had even been asked to take over the coveted Spinetti Tyre glamour photography. For the second year running he'd been on location in Kenya and South Africa on their calendar assignment. He was big news and every model loved working with him. Of course, with his fiery Scots temperament, he had none of the gentlemanly approach of Norman Parker Brown, but he never failed to produce magnificent shots, always meeting the main criteria of whoever commissioned him. He and I had developed a superb working relationship and any photography he'd done for me was excellent.
And so, after a successful showing in October, to considerable acclaim in the big fashion glossies, I felt all set to wow the Far East with my
Silk Wrappings
collection.
I contacted Jake's agency. He was away, and just as he'd warned me, he would be tied up abroad most of November. But they would pencil me in for an overseas shoot as soon as he returned. I was happy to wait because I definitely wanted Jake for this job. Meanwhile, forward orders were pouring in from around the country.
*
In early December, Jake was in touch again.
'Leave it with me, Annabel,' he said, when I finally asked him about going ahead with the idea. 'I have some good friends in Singapore. I'll contact them. Allison James for example. She used to be a model agency booker here before she went over there. She should also be able to organise a couple of fashion shows for you in a good hotel there. Raffles, of course, would be the ideal choice, but I imagine we've perhaps left it a wee bit late to book there.' He paused, his blue eyes pensive for a moment. 'Och, I'm sure she'll fix us up somewhere, though. I'm booked up solid in Jan and Feb, so we should really try to fit this trip in before Christmas. OK?'