The truth was, of course, that her mother had not been anything as respectable as that.
‘Your mother was a whore, a prostitute who sold her body to men for money,’ her cousin Emerald had once taunted Rose.
Rose knew that Emerald had hoped to shock and hurt her but how could she when Rose had heard her late father saying the same thing so often in his drink-and drug-induced outbursts.
She was the reason he had had to turn to drink, to drown out the despair and misery of the life her existence had forced on him, her father had often told her. Her, the child he loathed and detested, and who looked just like her Chinese whore of a mother.
After his death, Rose had been terrified that she would be sent away–back to China, where Emerald had told her that their great-grandmother wanted her to be sent, but thanks to her aunt she had been given a home beyond her wildest dreams.
Her aunt Amber and her husband, Jay, had been wonderfully kind and generous to her. She had been brought up at Denham Place, alongside her cousin Emerald, the product of Amber’s first marriage, Jay’s two daughters from his first marriage, Ella and Janey, and Amber and Jay’s twin girls. She had been sent to the same exclusive boarding school as Ella and Janey, and, like them, had gone to St Martins, the famous art and design college in London. She was made to feel just like one of the family–a blessed relief after her wretched early childhood, when her taking one step out of place had provoked her father into a rage–by everyone, that was, except Emerald. For some reason, she loathed Rose and even now, her barbed remarks were frequent and just as poisonous as ever.
Now Rose lived with Ella and Janey in a four-storey Chelsea house, Amber’s pied-à-terre during her bimonthly visits to London to oversee her interior design business.
Rose thought the world of her aunt. There was nothing she wouldn’t have done for her. Amber had protected her and supported her and, more than that, she had loved her too. So when Rose had realised how much it pleased her aunt that she enjoyed talking about interior design, Rose had determined to learn as much about that world as she could. That in turn had led to her aunt encouraging Rose to train as an interior designer so that one day she could take over the running of the business from Amber.
The knowledge that her aunt placed so much trust and had so much belief in her had filled Rose with renewed determination to do everything she could to repay her love and kindness. And that was why she was determined not to let anyone see how much she disliked working for Ivor Hammond.
Her aunt had been so pleased when her old friend Cecil Beaton had announced that he had recommended that Ivor Hammond take Rose on as a trainee.
‘You’ll learn so much more than I could ever teach you, darling, working with him, and I know that one day you will be London’s most sought-after interior designer.’
The taxi was coming to a halt outside the Bond Street showroom of her employer.
The window of the showroom was decorated with an impressive pair of Regency carver chairs, and a mahogany bureau on which stood a heavy Georgian silver candlestick.
Ivor specialised in the kind of furniture and décor that was already familiar to the upper classes, and which appealed to those who aspired to it. Rose’s own taste ran to a look that was less fussy and more modern, but she knew that she would never say so. If her aunt believed that Ivor was the right person to teach her about interior design then Rose was going to believe it as well, and she was going to crush down those rebellious ideas of her own that had her longing for something more exciting and innovative.
‘Oh, there you are, Chinky.’
Even though Piers’ words made her flinch inwardly, Rose did not voice any objection. She had been called worse, after all. Her great-grandmother had made no secret of the fact that she abhorred having ‘an ugly yellow brat’ for a great-granddaughter.
‘Got the info the boss wants, have you? Only I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if you haven’t ’cos he isn’t in a very good mood. The pools winner came in whilst you were out and cancelled her order.’
‘I thought he’d said that he didn’t want to take her on as a client anyway,’ Rose responded.
Their employer had been, Rose thought, unnecessarily cruel about the peroxide blonde, who had tripped into the shop wearing a leopardskin coat and too much scent, to announce that she and her hubby had had a win on the football pools and that they were buying a ‘posh mansion flat’ that they wanted redecorated for them.
‘He may not have wanted her, but he wanted her money all right.’ Piers gave a disparaging sniff. ‘Personally, I’m beginning to think that I really ought to think about accepting one of the other offers I’ve had. As dear Oliver Messel was saying to me only the other day, I really would need to think about my reputation and my future if I were to become too associated with the kind of new-money clients Ivor seems to be attracting these days. Word gets round, after all. And, of course, the fact that he’s taken you on doesn’t help. Well, it wouldn’t do, would it? I’m surprised we haven’t been inundated with requests for quotes for redecorating Soho’s Chinese restaurants.’
Rose’s face burned as he sniggered at his own wit. She longed for it to be the end of the day so that she could escape from the poisonous atmosphere of the shop.
The only time she felt totally comfortable and safe and accepted was when she was with her aunt Amber, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that she wanted to please her aunt so much, Rose would have begged her to help her find another job.
She got on well with Jay’s daughters and they had fun together but, despite their kindness, Rose was still very much aware that she was ‘different’ and an outsider, whose looks meant that people–men–often felt that they had a right to behave towards her in a way that made her feel vulnerable and afraid. They looked at her as though they knew about her mother, as though they wanted her to be like her mother. But she never would be, never…
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Ella, do be careful. You really are so dreadfully clumsy.’
Clumsy and plain, Ella Fulshawe thought miserably, as she bent down to pick up the clothes pegs that had fallen off the desk where the fashion editor’s junior had left them. They were used to hold in the backs of dresses worn by very slim models so that, photographed from the front, the clothes appeared to fit.
Ella had never really wanted to work for Vogue in the first place; she had wanted to be a proper reporter on a proper newspaper. Her sister Janey might have been filled with envy when she had been offered the job, but then Janey lived and breathed fashion whilst Ella wasn’t the least bit interested in it. She wanted to write about important things, not silly clothes, but her father had been so pleased and proud of her when she had been offered the job that she hadn’t felt able to refuse.
‘I expect your father is hoping that working for Vogue will transform you from an ugly duckling into a swan, Ella,’ had been Emerald’s taunting comment.
Had her father thought that working for Vogue would turn her into someone pretty and confident? If so, his hopes had been bitterly disappointed. If anything working alongside pretty, glamorous models only served to emphasise her own plainness, she thought. The models, with their small bosoms and skinny legs, made her feel so clumsy and huge. She had grown to hate her own full breasts and the curves of her body.
‘It’s such a pity that if you had to inherit your poor mother’s facial features you didn’t inherit her figure as well. Frankly, Ella, there is something decidedly bucolic and almost common about so much fleshy excess. Your poor mother would be horrified if she could see you now; she was so slender herself.’
Her