My Father would – if it were something people really did, rather than a figure of speech – be pinching himself. He is sitting on a leather banquette in what can only (this being the 60s) be described as a swanky Soho eatery with his left thigh leaning lightly, seemingly carelessly, against the right thigh belonging to Jean Shrimpton.
The Shrimp! My Father is thigh-to-gorgeous-firmly-tanned-yet-somehow-also-yieldingly-creamy-thigh with Britain’s first supermodel.
Perhaps she hasn’t noticed? She is, after, still a little woozy after gulping down a handful of those rather groovy pink pills, left thoughtfully in the changing cubicle at the shoot earlier. Or perhaps (this being the 60s) she is simply inured to fairly minor forms of unwanted physical contact. If she called the cops every time some bloke touched her up, the Krays and all those other colourful Cockney crims of the period would be free to rampage across London at will, entirely unrestrained by the forces of law and order.
In any case, she leaves her leg where it is. And My Father, emboldened by alcohol – he has drunk two large G&Ts before lunch, and more than his share of two very decent bottles of Beaujolais with it – increases the pressure slightly. And thinks, “Maybe I’m in with a chance here…. and anyway, what have I got to lose?”
Actually, what My Father really wants to do – he is quite drunk, he realises – is reach across and touch her nose. It’s such a perfect nose; so small and flawless; turned up at the tip to so exactly the right degree. My Father is seized by a powerful, almost irresistible urge to find out if it feels as perfect as it looks.
And then suddenly, he feels quite sad. She’s such a nice girl. He wasn’t expecting that. Over lunch, before thigh-on-thigh action was even the remotest possibility, they have talked about dogs and horses, both girlish passions of hers; she has expressed sensible-sounding views on books that he hasn’t read (Doris Lessing, Sylvia Plath); and she has engaged in surprisingly spirited banter with Donovan (the great Donovan!) over matters of mutual professional interest. And all the while, though sounding not unlike the bright, nicely brought up convent girl that she undoubtedly is, she has looked…. unearthly; like something out of a Botticelli; a semi-divine being bathed in a weird, self-emitted phosphorescence.
And now My Father realises that he doesn’t just want to touch Jean Shrimpton’s nose, or even fuck her; he loves her, and wants to take her home with him, to be part of his life for ever. And he knows, suddenly, that if this proves not to be possible, what remains of his life will be desolate, grey, devoid of consolation. My Father, bravely confronting that prospect, is on the brink of tears. (A master of spin long before the term comes into use, he wonders for a moment how he might be able to present the Jean-Shrimpton-as-long-term-house-guest story to my mother, in a way that will make it seem advantageous to her. Companionship? Domestic help? Relief from the obligation to perform unsavoury conjugal duties?)
And then Donovan gets up from the table, and leaves the room. My Father has been too absorbed in his private misery to notice, but a waiter has come over and summoned Donovan to take a call from his agent, on the phone in the restaurant’s crushed velvet vestibule.
My Father rallies. He is alone with the Shrimp! He will never have an opportunity like this again. He is, he reminds himself, at the peak of his powers. He is an attractive man; more attractive now, in fact, in his early 40s, than he was as a younger man. He has grown into his strong-featured, heavy-browed looks. His hair, which started to thin in his late 20s, seems to have stabilised, and remains lustrously dark, almost entirely free from the encroaching grey that is colonising the temples of so many of his contemporaries. My Father is no film star, but he could certainly be described as a distinguished-looking man. He is successful, too. In his job as Deputy Head of Publicity at the Gas Council, he is making surprisingly good progress with a wildly over-ambitious project to modernise the image of a monolithic nationalised industry, sclerotic in its processes and antediluvian in its attitudes. More importantly, in terms of how he values himself, My Father is making real headway politically; exceptionally well connected among the best lobby journalists, regularly summoned to secretive pow-wows in Westminster snug-bars, on first name terms with Cabinet ministers. (Well, with one. So far.) And, to cap all this, he has just had his third novel published to respectful if disappointingly-some-way-short-of-adulatory reviews. He is, he reminds himself, by any standards, a good-looking, successful and exceptionally able man. And one, he adds as a not-to-be-forgotten and somewhat self-satisfied postscript, with at least the beginnings of a reputation as a womaniser; so certainly not one to pass up a sexual opportunity as unprecedented as this one.
Alone. Slightly the worse for alcohol (and therefore not entirely responsible for his actions). Thigh-to-thigh. With Jean Shrimpton. Who seems to like him. (She has called him darling four times over lunch, though it doesn’t occur to him that this may be because she has forgotten – or perhaps never known – his name.)
My Father coughs, as perfunctory cover for shifting a couple of inches to his left, increasing the pressure of his thigh on hers. He says something, which comes out a little slurred and indistinct, but which is probably an invitation for her to accompany him on a visit to the House of Commons later in the afternoon (which we hopes will impress her). And he lifts his left hand, with the intention of reaching out for that adorably perfect nose, before realising, just in time, that she may consider this an off-puttingly unorthodox approach, and redirecting his grasp towards her (equally perfect) bare right knee, which he feels sure she will warmly prefer….
KERBAMM! With remarkable speed and co-ordination (the Shrimp has drunk nothing but soda water over lunch), and extraordinary ferocity, she has snatched up a fork and plunged it into the back of his hand. At least, she has attempted to; blunt, it has bounced off without breaking the skin, but nevertheless causing My Father quite astounding pain, which he expresses (along with his disappointment, rage and abject humiliation) in a great wordless howl that seems to last for several minutes.
Jean Shrimpton murmurs something that is completely drowned out by My Father’s agony, but which may be, “Too dull, darling.”
“God, this bird is fucking lethal with cutlery,” remarks Donovan, taking in the scene imperturbably, as he returns to the table, his phone call complete.
“Now, who’s joining me in a thimbleful of the exceedingly fine Armagnac they have in this gaff?”
*****
By way of context, My Father has recently signed Jean Shrimpton to be the “new face” of High Speed Gas, for what is rumoured to be a five-figure fee. She, having broken up some time previously with David Bailey, is now muse to Terence Donovan, arguably the second most celebrated photographer currently practising his art in London. The lunch, which is to celebrate this exciting creative collaboration, is being paid for by Donovan. He will later include it in the monthly account he submits to My Father, under the heading “photographic processing chemicals”.