Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

o begin with, he could hardly believe his eyes, but a quick check against the genuine article left him in no doubt. As soon as Vogue was relinquished in favor of Queen, James leaned across and asked the chaperone if he might be allowed to read it.

“Station bookstalls are closing earlier and earlier,” he said idiotically. “I couldn’t get anything to read.”

The chaperone agreed reluctantly.

He turned to the second page. “Cover: Picture yourself like this…black silk georgette dress with chiffon handkerchief points. Ostrich-feather boa. Turban with flower, matching dress. Made to measure by Zandra Rhodes. Anne’s hair by Jason at Vidal Sassoon. Photograph by Lichfield. Camera: Hasselblad.”

James was quite unable to picture himself like that. But at least he now knew the girl’s name, Anne. The next time the real-life version looked up, he showed her by sign language that he had spotted the photograph. She smiled briefly at James and then returned to her book.

At Reading station the middle-aged lady left, taking Vogue with her. Couldn’t be better, mused James. Anne looked up, faintly embarrassed, and smiled hopefully at the few passersby walking up and down the corridor looking for a seat. James glared at them as they passed. No one entered the carriage. James had won the first round. As the train gathered speed he tried his opening gambit, which was quite good by his normal standards:

“What a super picture on the front of Vogue taken by my old friend Patrick Lichfield.”

Anne Summerton looked up. She was even more beautiful than the picture James had referred to. Her dark hair, cut softly in the latest Vidal Sassoon style, her big hazel eyes and faultless skin gave her a gentle look that James found irresistible. She had that slim, graceful body that all leading models need to earn their living, but Anne also had a presence that most of them would never have. James was quite stunned and wished she would say something.

Anne was used to men trying to pick her up but she was rather taken aback by the remark about Lord Lichfield. If he was a friend, it would be offhand not to be at least polite. On a second glance she found James’s diffidence rather charming. He had used the self-deprecating approach many times with great success, but this time it was perfectly genuine. He tried again.

“It must be a hell of a job being a model.”

What a bloody silly line, he thought. Why couldn’t he just say to her, I think you’re absolutely fantastic? Can we talk a little and if I still think you’re fantastic perhaps we can take it from there? But it never worked that way. He knew he would have to go through the usual routine.

“It’s bearable if the contracts are good,” she replied, “but today’s been particularly tiring.” Her voice was gentle, and the faint transatlantic accent appealed to James. “I’ve been smiling my head off all day, modeling an advertisement for Close-Up toothpaste: the photographer never seemed to be satisfied. The only good thing about it was that it ended a day earlier than expected. How do you know Patrick?”

“We were fags together at Harrow in our first year. He was rather better than me at getting out of work.”

Anne laughed—a gentle, warm laugh. It was obvious he knew Lord Lichfield.

“Do you see much of him now?”

“Occasionally at dinner parties, but not regularly. Does he photograph you a lot?”

“No,” said Anne, “the cover picture for Vogue was the only time.”

As they chatted on, the thirty-five minute journey between Reading and London seemed to pass in a flash. Walking down the platform of Paddington Station with Anne, James ventured:

“Can I give you a lift home? My car is parked around the corner in Craven Street.”

Anne accepted, relieved not to have to search for a taxi at that late hour.

James drove her home in his Alfa Romeo. He had already decided that he could not hold on to that particular luxury for much longer with petrol going up and cash flow going down. He chattered merrily all the way to her destination, which turned out to be a block of flats in Cheyne Row overlooking the Thames; much to Anne’s surprise he just dropped her off at the front door and said good night. He did not even ask for her telephone number and he only knew her Christian name. In fact, she did not have any idea what his name was. Pity, she thought as she closed the front door; he had been a rather pleasant change from the men who worked on the fringe of the advertising media, who imagined they had an automatic right to a girl’s compliance just because she posed in a bra.

James knew exactly what he was doing. He had always found a girl was more flattered if he called her when she least expected it. His tactics were to leave the impression that she had seen the last of him, especially when the first meeting had gone well. He returned to his home in the King’s Road and considered the situation. Unlike Stephen, Robin and Jean-Pierre, with thirteen days to go, he still had no ideas for defeating Harvey Metcalfe. But he was hatching plans for Anne.

On waking in the morning, Stephen began to do a little more research. He started with a close study of the way the university was administered. He visited the Vice-Chancellor’s office in the Clarendon Building, where he spent some time asking strange questions of his personal secretary, Miss Smallwood. She was most intrigued. He then left for the office of the University Registrar, where he was equally inquisitive. He ended the day by visiting the Bodleian Library, and copying out some of the University Statutes. Among other outings during the next fourteen days was a trip to the Oxford tailors, Shepherd and Woodward, and a full day at the Sheldonian Theatre to watch the brief ceremony as a batch of students took their Bachelor of Arts degrees. Stephen also studied the layout of the Randolph, the largest hotel in Oxford. This he took some considerable time over, so much so that the manager became inquisitive and Stephen had to leave before he became suspicious. His final trip was a return journey to the Clarendon to meet the Secretary of the University Chest, and to be taken on a guided tour of the building by the porter. Stephen warned him that he anticipated showing an American around the building on the day of Encaenia, but remained vague.

“Well, that won’t be easy…” began the porter. Stephen carefully and deliberately folded a pound note and passed it to the porter “…though I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out, sir.”

In between his trips all over the university city, Stephen did a lot of thinking in the big leather chair and a lot more writing at his desk. By the fourteenth day his plan was perfected and ready for presentation to the other three. He had put the show on the road, as Harvey Metcalfe might have said, and he intended to see it had a long run.

Robin rose early on the morning after the Oxford dinner, and avoided awkward questions from his wife at breakfast about his experience the night before. He traveled up to London as soon as he could get away, and on arrival in Harley Street was greeted by his efficient secretary-cum-receptionist, Miss Meikle.

Elspeth Meikle was a dedicated, dour Scot who looked upon her work as nothing less than a vocation. Her devotion to Robin, not that she ever called him that even in her own mind, was obvious for all to see.

“I want as few appointments as possible over the next fourteen days, Miss Meikle.”

“I understand, Dr. Oakley,” she said.

“I have some research to carry out and I don’t want to be interrupted when I’m alone in my study.”