‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘These are very interesting photographs.’
American, I realised, a little disappointed, for some reason.
‘How do you know I’m the photographer?’
‘I have my ways and means, Miss Clay. I needed to find out, so I did.’ He smiled, one of those strange broad smiles where the teeth don’t show. He was holding his hand out to shake mine. His grip was light, just a formality, a clench of fingers.
‘I’m Cleveland Finzi.’
‘Well, you know who I am.’
‘I’d like to buy you a drink, if I may.’
‘I’m terribly busy—’
‘Oh, not now. I’m in London for a couple of weeks. Do you have a telephone?’
‘What? Yes.’
‘May I call you?’
I went off in a state of silly confusion to find my handbag where I’d left it in the back room. I searched — no cards. Idiot! I scribbled my number down on a sheet of paper torn from my unfilled appointments diary of 1931 and brought it back to him. Very impressive. He tucked the scrap of paper away in an inside pocket and handed me his card. I glanced at it: CLEVELAND FINZI. GLOBAL-PHOTO-WATCH.
‘Oh. You’re a journalist.’
‘Was. I’m an editor, now.’ He smiled politely. ‘It’s a magazine in America. You may have heard of it.’
I hadn’t, but said, as one does, ‘Yes, now you come to mention it. Definitely.’
‘I’ll call you in a couple of days,’ he said. ‘I’ll look forward to talking to you.’
‘I’ll look forward to talking to you,’ I repeated like a simpleton. I manned the admissions desk at the Grösze and Greene Gallery for the next three days. It was never busy, I’m sorry to say. Greville had decided, prudently, to impose an admission charge of one shilling, a sum that made you a member of the Grösze and Greene Photographic Club for twenty-four hours. It was a pre-emptive attempt to evade any prosecution for obscenity — he’d become worried about the graphic nature of some of the photographs — as the exhibition would open only to ‘club members’ not the general public. I happily went along with the ploy, having no idea of whether it would work or not. Its manifest disadvantage was that it put off passers-by from dropping in out of curiosity or on the off-chance. During the three days I was there our takings only broke £1 once. One day we took in a meagre five shillings.
I sat there surrounded by my Berlin photographs feeling I was in a kind of limbo. I should have been exhilarated — this was my first exhibition as an independent photographer and in London’s West End, no less — but I found my mind turning again and again to the enigmatic Cleveland Finzi of Global-Photo-Watch and his invitation. Was he being sincere or simply polite?
On the third day I was sitting at the desk in my squirrel coat — the weather had turned freezing — and the gallery had been empty for a good hour, when I heard the telephone ring in what had been the back storeroom. I ran for it, knowing somehow that it was Cleveland Finzi at last.
‘Oh. Hello, Greville,’ I said, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
‘You’ve a very good review in the Scotsman.’
‘Have I?’
He quoted. ‘Listen: “Miss Clay has a horror of ‘cliché’ and so has searched Berlin for examples of real lives. She has eschewed the commonplace and sees things entirely for herself with great clarity and honesty.” Isn’t that wonderful?’
‘I suppose I should be pleased,’ I said. ‘My first review.’
‘We might get a few more newspapers, now,’ he said. ‘I’ll see if I can circulate this.’
I put the phone down and it rang again immediately.
‘What is it, Greville?’
‘Miss Clay? This is Cleveland Finzi.’
‘Yes.’
‘Hello? Are you there?’
‘Yes, it’s me. Miss Clay.’
‘I tried your apartment but there was no reply. Luckily I thought I might find you at the gallery.’
‘Luckily, yes.’
‘I’d like to invite you for a cocktail. I’m staying at the Earlham, on the Strand. How does six o’clock suit you this evening?’
‘Yes, yes. It suits.’ I seemed to have lost the ability to speak sophisticated English.
‘I’ll see you in the Palm Court at six.’
I managed to persuade Bruno to stand in for me after lunch and went to a hairdresser’s in Charing Cross Road to have my hair washed and set. I decided that I didn’t have time to go back to Fulham and change but I could at least look entirely different from the anonymous creature Finzi had encountered at the vernissage. Out of my swathed cap, with my hair down and shiny and some slightly extravagant make-up, plus my squirrel coat. . If I kept my coat on I might pass for reasonably glamorous, I thought.
I was walking down Charing Cross Road towards Trafalgar Square, feeling good, a silk scarf protecting my new hair-do, when I passed the entrance to the Bardmont Concert Hall. I don’t know why I stopped, perhaps because I was early for my six o’clock appointment, but I did and idly scanned the poster for that evening’s concert. I read: ‘The New London Symphony Orchestra. Soloist Miss Dido Clay.’
Dido Clay?
I looked again at the programme: Chopin, Debussy and a symphonic tone poem, ‘Aeneas in Carthage’, by Peregrine Moxon. Dido Clay had to be my sister, Peggy.
The new name worked. I’m here to meet my sister Miss Dido Clay, I said, and I was led by a uniformed porter through the passageways to the rehearsal rooms at the rear, hearing, as I approached, piano music in an atonal modern style that I didn’t recognise.
The door was held open for me and there was Peggy at the piano, head down, pounding out some crescendo, eyes closed, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Bash! A final dissonant chord. She slowly lifted her hands from the keys, leaning back, cigarette vertical.
‘Peggy?’
She turned abruptly, saw me, gave a little squeal of pleasure, removed her cigarette from her lips and raced over to me. She kissed me.
‘Never, ever, call me Peggy again,’ she whispered sharply.
‘Sorry. Dido.’
‘I’m Dido, now. Forever.’
‘Dido, Dido, Dido.’
Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight bun making her look stern, worldly. I felt that strange sensation again that she was older than me, though she was just seventeen, I realised. Then she hugged me tightly again, my little sister.
‘Darling Amory! You look ravishing. What’re you doing? Off to some party?’
‘I’m going to meet a man. An American.’
‘Too exciting! Is he rich?’
‘Possibly. But I’m late, I must dash. I saw your name on the poster outside and had to check it was you.’ I smiled. ‘Dido, dearest.’
‘I’ll tell you everything. It was Peregrine’s idea. I’ll telephone you — I’ve a concert and two recitals this week.’ She smiled mischievously and I saw the old Peggy for a second or two. ‘I can’t wait to hear all about your American lover.’
We kissed goodbye and I walked back out to the street feeling the beginnings of a headache. I pushed all thoughts of Peggy/Dido to one side and turned up the Strand, heading for the Earlham Hotel. At reception I told the clerk I was meeting Mr Finzi in the Palm Court and was led along a corridor towards the sound of a harp and piano and on into the wide over-furnished room, filled with tight groupings of chairs and sofas, its famous huge chandelier glowing brightly. My throat was a little dry and I suspected my pulse was beating faster than normal but I told myself, resolutely, to anticipate nothing.