Free All Change: Cazalet Chronicles by Elizabeth Jane Howard Page B

came into their own, and she dreaded having to walk anywhere, least of all the steep, narrow little staircase that led to their bedroom.
    But he went ahead, held out his hand to help her. ‘Whatever comes to pass, you’ve always got me,’ he said, looking down on her with his mournful bloodhound’s eyes.
    A threat? A promise? As always, when he presented himself thus a wave of irritation followed by a protective feeling overcame her. He was the one who needed looking after, she knew that, but he meant well.
    ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know I have.’

THE YOUNG MEN
    ‘I appreciate that it has become something of a cliché, but my grandmother has actually died and I do want to go to her funeral.’
    His editor looked at him with some distrust.
    ‘Neville, I seem to remember that your grandmothers have died a number of times during the last year.’
    ‘I know, but this is for real.’ He smiled charmingly. He was wearing a black velvet jacket – much the worse for wear – a white shirt open at the neck, corduroy trousers that had once been black, and tennis shoes. ‘Every now and then, real life catches up with one. Or death, I suppose,’ he added. He looked at the floor when he said that, then raised his eyes to hers. He looked, she thought, exactly the way you would imagine a poet to look, if you’d never met one, but he was surprisingly practical, demanding and good at his job.
    She looked through her diary. ‘You have a big shoot coming up next week.’
    ‘I know. On Friday. Outside the Albert Hall.’
    ‘Friday and Saturday.’
    ‘Sue, I really don’t need two days for that. If you agree, I can get Simon to ring all the clothes places and the agency for the models. I’ve said which ones I want. It’s all organised – honestly.’
    ‘OK. You win. But don’t you dare let me down. ‘
    ‘Rest assured, my darling.’ And he looked at her with bland blue eyes in a manner she had learned to distrust, but also found hard to resist. He was, after all, only twenty-five, and she had discovered him, and as he was not yet well enough known to go freelance, she wanted to keep him. He had worked as an assistant to both Norman Parkinson and Clifford Coffin – a good grounding – and only a few months ago, when they were not available, he had come to her and suggested that he stand in. He had done a surprisingly professional job, was brilliant at using a model’s best points and concealing any bad ones.
    ‘Off you go, then,’ she said dismissively. She was his boss, after all.
    Back at the ranch, as he sometimes called the grotty little basement flat in Camden Town that he shared with Simon, whom he found washing up coffee cups, he said, ‘All clear. Get me a cup of coffee, then ring Pansy and tell her to arrange all the clothes for Friday.’
    Simon wiped his hands on a dripping teacloth and looked about for the kettle. ‘She won’t be pleased at that. She likes to be consulted, not told.’
    ‘Tell her it’s our grandmother’s funeral. That usually shuts people up. And, Simon, do stop behaving as though you’re under water. You’re my assistant. That means you have to work twice as hard as I do.’
    Yes, and for a measly three pounds a week, Simon thought, as he filled the kettle and set it on its wheezing way. He was four years older than his cousin, and look at the situation!
    A lock of his blond hair fell over his high forehead as he bent over the tin of Nescafé to scrape out its remains. This was proving to be yet another job that was not for him, and goodness knows there’d been a good many of them in the last six years. University had been fine, national service had been awful – he’d never wanted to be an officer – and he had then learned half-heartedly to be an electrician. His father had wanted him to go into the firm, but he didn’t want that either. So he had drifted from one pointless job to another, while Teddy, roughly the same age as him, now had a salary, a flat of his own and