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that such-and-such a hat or bag would go beautifully with the dress their magazine was featuring. Of course, she wasn’t allowed near the real queens of their professions, Audrey Withers of Vogue , Ernestine Carter of the Sunday Times , Beatrix Miller of Queen , but she sometimes would get the chance to sit quietly in a corner and listen to her boss, Lindy Freeman, as she talked to them. She had brilliant ideas, did Lindy, the use of live mannequins in Woolfe’s windows to launch the previous autumn’s collection being her greatest yet. She was a tough boss and often had Eliza working until nine or even ten at night, and her wrath over mistakes was terrifying, but she was immensely generous, both with her praise and in giving credit where it was due. Eliza had never got over the sheer heady thrill of hearing Lindy tell Clare Rendlesham—the petrifying Lady Rendlesham of Vogue ’s “Young Idea”—that the idea of sending a cloud of multicolored silk scarves together with a simple black shift dress had come from “my assistant Eliza.”

    “Darling,” said Lindy when she got to the office, “I want these coats taken over to Audrey Slaughter. I don’t know if they’re young enough for her, but it’s worth a try. And on the way back, you might pop into Ruban’s and buy a few yards of ribbon: white, pale blue, and lemon. I’ve got an idea for an advertising shot: kind of weaving them into a model’s hair. Nice for our wedding promotion.”
    “It sounds lovely,” said Eliza. She loved going into Ruban de Paris, just off Hanover Square, with its rows and racks of ribbons and buttons.
    Audrey Slaughter, an inspired young editor, had just launched Honey , the first-ever magazine for that new social curiosity, the teenager, and moreover was persuading the big stores to open up Honey boutiques within their fashion departments, stocking the kind of trendy, young clothes that teenagers would want to buy, rather than near-replicas of what their mothers wore. She liked the coats but said she really couldn’t use them, that they were a bit too grown-up and certainly too expensive.
    “Pity, though, they have a really nice line. I haven’t seen anything quite so sharp anywhere.”
    Eliza reported this to Lindy, who sighed.
    “It’s a problem for us. Of course Vogue and Queen sometimes do young fashion, but for the most part our young clothes are ruled out of court as being too expensive. It’s such a shame.”
    “The customers buy them, though,” said Eliza. “Surely that’s what matters?”
    “We-ell, not as often as I’d like. The perception of Woolfe’s is still that it’s very much for the mothers rather than the daughters. And I can’t get as much publicity as I need to change that view.”
    “Couldn’t you get some younger clothes made up that were just a bit cheaper?” said Eliza. And then: “Sorry, sacrilege, I know; Woolfe’s isn’t about cheap, of course.”
    “Well—maybe not complete sacrilege,” said Lindy. “Not even sacrilege at all, actually. In fact, you might’ve given me an idea, Eliza. I need to think it through a bit, but meanwhile let’s have those ribbons. And I can try this idea out on your hair.”
    “Please do,” said Eliza, and sat feeling almost unbearably excited as Lindy wove yellow ribbons into her hair. She had given Lindy an idea! If only the rest of her life could be as good as work.

    “Oh, God. Here we go. Turbulence ahead. Now they’ll all be sick. Oh, the glamorous life of the air stewardess. Scarlett, it’s your turn to collect.”
    Scarlett didn’t mind. She loved her job so much that even collecting and emptying sick bags was bearable. She still adored it, even now that she’d been doing it for two years.
    Scarlett loved the fun, the glamour, the status of it all. She loved the dizzy excitement of the walk through the terminal wearing her uniform, the blue-and-white dogtooth suit, the white shirt, the jaunty cap, smiling confidently, being pointed out