Free The Sea Change by Elizabeth Jane Howard Page B

out of place. Lillian had caught his eye – he indicated her position in the room to Mamie
Fairbrother, and they moved towards it. Arriving, he remembered that the man’s name was George (George what ?) and exchanged a cautious greeting with him. Lillian and Mamie were well
away, and as he turned from them he caught the girl looking at him with an expression of such solemn, open enquiry that he nearly smiled. Then Lillian said: This is Miss Young. She wants to be
somebody’s secretary, so I’ve told her to come and see you tomorrow morning.’

4
    ALBERTA
    T OMORROW morning I am going to be interviewed by Emmanuel Joyce. He is a playwright, and I met his wife at a party last
night – on my second day in London. He wants a secretary to go to New York and Mrs Joyce seemed to think I might be suitable. She was awfully nice to me, and I saw him for a moment: I was
wondering what on earth I had expected a playwright to look like, and he noticed me and nearly laughed . . . It would be a wonderful chance – travelling and meeting interesting people, if
only Papa won’t be nervous about it. He gets nervous at such extraordinary points – he says himself that there’s nothing reliable about his fears. But Aunt Topsy’ll want me
to go (after all it was her idea that I should do a secretarial course) and we shall play at me being Emma, and she being Miss Taylor, and Papa, whether he likes it or not, will be Mr Woodhouse. In
the end he’ll laugh and agree, and then he won’t say anything more – just leave anxious notes in my bedroom: ‘Wash grapes before eating them.’ ‘Do not look at
Goya’s war drawings alone: they may make you too sad.’ That was when darling Uncle Vin took me to Paris. Papa doesn’t mind me going about with him in spite of his being an actor
(apart from being his brother anyway) because he always plays clergymen (although he sometimes plays wicked men dressed up as clergymen in spy films which Papa doesn’t see because he
hates the cinema and there isn’t one nearer than Dorchester) and Papa simply says that clergymen in plays help to make the Church an integral part of people’s lives so Uncle Vin is
helping quite as much, and more interestingly, than he is preaching to about forty people. I can’t think what he’ll say about New York or Mr and Mrs Joyce. But perhaps when they
know that this would be my first job they won’t take me. Uncle Vin says there is an awful lot of never jam today in the theatre. I must go to sleep. We had the most lovely morning shopping,
and I bought all my presents for home. A scarf for Aunt Topsy, and six butterflies from a shop in the Strand for Clem, and a magnifying glass for Humphrey, and a false beard for Serena because she
hates being a girl (Uncle Vin was terribly helpful about that), and a diary for Mary because she’s got to the copying stage and wants to imitate me, and a marble egg to keep his hands cold
for Papa. Then Uncle Vin gave me a marvellous lunch in a restaurant (hors d’oeuvres, lobster, and Camembert cheese) and let me choose a gramophone record for a late birthday present. I chose
Sir Thomas Beecham conducting the fortieth symphony of Mozart – the other side is the Jupiter – and Uncle Vin said jolly good choice. Then he took me out to a huge party at the Savoy
Hotel, and that’s where I met the Joyces. (The party was simply filled with famous people, but unfortunately I didn’t know who most of them were.) Now I must wash my cardigan for
tomorrow.
    Wednesday. Uncle Vin offered to take me, and I said I didn’t want the Joyces to think I was a child, and he drew in his chin and went away without a word. In the end I went to his room. He
was in his dressing gown playing ‘If You Were the Only Girl in the World’ on the piano with a cigarette drooping out of his mouth. I apologized handsomely (he said that) and we arranged
to meet at a place called Notting Hill Gate which he said was near the Joyces’ house.