The Finishing Touches (12 page)

“’Course I remember that,” I said. “Shoes are still the first thing I look at on a date.”

“Where are those notebooks?” asked Liv. “God, the hours we spent, going over and over them…They were like
Cosmo,
but better. More ladylike. You should publish them—you’d make a fortune.”

“They’re in my old wardrobe at Kathleen’s. I haven’t seen them since…since I went to university.” I blinked away the memory of shoving them in and slamming the door shut in a fit of humiliation at the thought of not being allowed to compile official ones. “But I don’t think they’re teaching anything like that now. It’s all snobbery and fish forks.”

Liv pointed at the brochure. “But it says here there’s a course on putting clothes together—isn’t that useful?”

“There is, but it’s all
‘tell your dressmaker’
yadda yadda yadda. Girls need to know about sales shopping, and how to buy a perfect little black dress, not
hats
!” It made me cross, the brochure’s assumption that normal women had the time or the money to
have
half the “little social worries” the Academy would fix. “Now, if they were going to teach you how to do a salon-perfect blow dry at home…How much money could a girl save if she knew how to do her own nails, for instance?” I gave Liv’s glossy merlot manicure a pointed look, in light of her own personal credit crunch. “How much money are you spending a month on your nails, for a start?”

“I don’t want to think,” she said—then, under my gaze, conceded, “A lot. I mean, I
used
to.”

“Well, think how much money you could save if you could do it yourself. It’s Budget Day, Olivia O’Hare.” I wagged my
finger at her with a pretend stern expression. “You don’t have to dry-clean jeans, you know, they go in the wash. I can’t believe the stuff no one’s told you over the years. And how to set up your direct debits so they don’t crash your bank account…”

My finger-wagging slowed down as the faint shape of an idea began to take form in my mind. The Academy used to teach girls skills for marriage; why couldn’t it now teach them skills for independent life? Could DIY be the new interior decoration? Could professional blow-drying be the new flower arranging?

“Steady on, Betsy!” Liv gasped, but I wasn’t hearing anything. There was no point trying to re-create the Academy’s former glories—we had to reinvent the finishing school for the twenty-first century! Even Mark Montgomery had to agree that had potential
and
postfeminist credibility. I reached for the notebook in my handbag and started to scribble.

“Basic household stuff—I wish I knew more about that. I spent a fortune on calling out plumbers last year, and I never know if decorators are ripping me off. Do you know where your stop valve is?”

“I didn’t know I had one,” said Liv faintly.

“And mortgages.” I looked up. “I’m assuming your dad didn’t explain the difference between fixed rate and adjustable rate?”

Liv shook her head.

“And wouldn’t you love to know, without having to have some mouth-breather from the bank tell you?”

She nodded obediently, then asked, “Um, why?”

“Because…” I searched around for a better reason than “because”; it had never occurred to me, growing up with no dad to fix my faucets or set up my internet access, that anyone
wouldn’t
want to know. “Because…then no one can patronize you! Or take advantage!”

“Right,” said Liv, unconvinced.

I was on a roll. “This is what the Academy needs to offer! Short courses in making a woman’s life as stylish as possible. What’s more stylish than knowing you’re in control of your destiny? It doesn’t have to be for rich girls—it’s for anyone who wants to feel more in
charge
of their lives!” I tapped my silver fountain pen against my lips, then pointed it at Liv. “What else makes you feel inadequate because you don’t know how to do it?”

“Parking,” she said at once. “How to reverse park in one go so those evil taxi drivers don’t honk and put you off. God, I hate that. Why don’t they realize it
makes
me hit things?”

I wrote down “London driving.” If you could drive in London, you could drive anywhere. “Exactly! And something about wine—I always wish I knew more about wine. Um…What else do you really wish someone had told you when you were eighteen?”

“That the bars of London are paved with divorced men? And some who aren’t quite divorced but tragically saddled with wives who
just don’t understand them
?”

“
That
is a great idea.”

“And stepchildren,” she added. “There’s something no one tells you about in
Brides
magazine.”

“Great. And alimony?”

“Yes, alimony. And pre-nups. What about breaking off engagements? Someone should teach that. And turning down proposals.”

“Oh, they do that,” I said. “They work on the principle that once you’re a Phillimore girl, you’re turning titled suitors down left, right, and center. What they don’t tell you is how to decide
whom
to marry.” Another light bulb lit up in my head. “Does your friend Beattie still work for Mishcon de Reya? Would she come in and talk about pre-nups?”

“If the new Director of Studies at the Phillimore Academy asked her, how could she say no?” asked Liv only half-jokingly.

“But I’m not going to be in
charge
of this, I’m just…” I began, and ground to a halt.
Was
I in charge now? Would Miss Thorne take me seriously? A math degree and an armory of vinegar-related household hints only went so far, especially with no money to spend on new staff.

Liv spotted my wobbling confidence and leaped in, as she always did. “It’s a really great idea, Betsy,” she said, reaching over the table to grab my hand before I could start chewing my nails. “I can’t believe they haven’t thought of it before! It’s a
brilliant
idea.”

I pulled a face. “But will they listen to me, though? I’ve only been there one day, and Miss Thorne’s already reminding everyone that I didn’t go there and have no idea what a finishing school’s meant to be. Mark Montgomery seems to think I’m some kind of bimbo, and he’s virtually got the estate agents measuring it up already. Only Miss McGregor seems remotely friendly.”

“Be reasonable,” said Liv. “You’ve only been there ten minutes! Once they’ve sussed you’re not there to put them out of a job, I’m sure they’ll warm up.”

“Mm,” I said. “Not sure Miss Thorne’s ever going to warm up to me. Not even if I started a fire in her office.”

“What about the girls? You haven’t said much about them.”

I realized I hadn’t. “Well, they’re all right, I suppose. I don’t think they care what they’re being taught. I think most of them are there because it’s handy for the shopping more than anything else.”

“Well,” said Liv, throwing up her hands as if her point were proved. “How much more interested are they going to be when you go in there and tell them there’s new lessons about beating the sales and dumping a love rat?”

I thought of Anastasia. She probably had her own methods for dealing with love rats. None of the girls needed to economize on manicures, but in the few hours I’d been there, I’d noticed that Divinity, for one, seemed eager—paranoid, even—about doing the “right” thing. And Clemmy struck me as being insecure rather than genuinely angry. Maybe they would get something out of real-life lessons.

“I suppose so,” I said slowly. “I just think the Academy needs to appeal to more people, not just the usual superwealthy crowd. But I guess everyone needs to spot a good man and a classic coat.”

“Exactly! What have you got to lose?” said Liv. “If it keeps the place open for another few months, it gives you more time to do some hunting around for potential parents. If it closes tomorrow, that’s it. The files are shut.” She slapped her hands together dramatically. “You’ll be reduced to going on one of those daytime DNA shows if you really want to track her down.”

My stomach plunged. I’d had that selfish thought niggling at the back of my mind the whole day but hadn’t liked to acknowledge it. It was true, though. If Mark had his way, the house would be on the market in a matter of days, and I’d only have myself to blame for not looking earlier.

“You know, you’re the only person insensitive enough to put it like that,” I said with a crooked smile.

“Yes, but I’m the only person who knows how much you want to find her. Deep down, when you’re not worried about hurting anyone’s feelings. It’s about time, Betsy. You’ve done so much on your own, and you’ve been the best daughter the Phillimores could have had, but you’ve got to move on with your life.”

“By going backward?”

“No, by finding out for sure, so you can make some deci
sions about who you are instead of worrying that, deep down, you’re not good enough!”

“Is this about those application forms again?” I said.

Liv shoved back her chair, got up, and gave me a tight hug in a gangling rush of long arms and blond hair. She smelled of fresh white flowers, as she had for years. We’d picked our signature fragrances at thirteen, on Franny’s recommendation: hers was Pleasures, mine was Chanel No. 5.

“I know you can do it,” she said, squeezing me. “You just have to work out what you think
I
ought to know, what Franny told you, and what you’ve learned. Listen, if you can teach me to be half as capable as you, I’ll be fine. And I’d pay to learn that.”

“Liv, that’s really sweet,” I said, but already my brain was whirring with possibilities.

The Practical Reinvention of
Olivia O’Hare began the next morning, with a proper breakfast of the sort Kathleen would approve.

I had to nip out myself to the local supermarket to get the actual food, but by eight the porridge was on the stove, the toast was in the toaster, and I was head-deep in the fridge, wiping down the sticky marks, when Liv came stumbling blearily into the kitchen in her dressing gown. This was one she’d nicked from the Ritz in Paris.

“Breakfast?” she said, yawning. Even yawning, Liv didn’t have a double chin, the lucky mare. She looked pretty much the same when she’d just woken up as she did in full going-out mode. “I just have coffee in the mornings, generally.”

“The Book of Kathleen says an empty stomach is a false economy,” I said. “What you need is a bowl of porridge first thing—it wakes up your brain for work and stops you from
grazing all morning. And then blowing a fortune on nibbly things for lunch.”

“God, yeah. Igor might as well give my paycheck to Fresh and Wild.” Liv sighed. “There’s one opposite the bar—I must have spent half my take-home pay on organic salad.”

“Yes, well, that’s the first thing we’re going to tackle,” I said. “Your take-home pay and where it’s going.”

“Ha ha ha,” said Liv. “Before nine o’clock? You’re funny!” She looked at me. “You’re not joking, are you?”

“No,” I said. “Sorry.”

“I’ll put some coffee on,” she said, shuffling toward her shiny espresso machine—one of the happier relics of an abandoned engagement that had reached the gift-list stage.

“Now, are those
all
your bills on the table?” I asked, stirring the porridge. “Or just the most recent ones?”

I heard the sound of a cup being dropped in panic. “I don’t know!”

“Well, that’s this morning’s job,” I said, carrying on stirring calmly. “Find them, and file them. Even the ones you’ve hidden in the biscuit jar.”

Liv made a strangled noise. “How do you know about those?”

“First place I looked. Are you working at Igor’s today?”

“No, I don’t have a shift until tomorrow afternoon.”

“But you’ve asked for some more shifts, to cover Erin’s share of the bills?”

“Er, no. Ooh! Can I have some porridge now?” she asked hopefully.

“Have you got a calculator?” I said firmly. “We need to work out whether more shifts are going to cut it, or whether you might need to rethink the whole part-time bar girl, part-time art photographer thing.”

“Really?” Her hand inched closer to the magazine that had
arrived in the morning’s post. Liv had subscriptions to everything with perfume ads in it.

“It’ll take five minutes to do, compared with days dreading doing it,” I said bossily, then realized to my horror that I sounded just like Kathleen. “It’s not as bad as you think,” I added in a consoling voice, turning back to the porridge. “You’ll have some rent from me coming in for the next fortnight—no,” I added, as she tried to protest. “Fair’s fair. I insist.”

Behind me, Liv sighed. “That’s really kind of you. But we can save on some supper tonight—Jamie’s going to take us out. He was just going to take me for a pizza round the corner, but then I told him you were here, and he upgraded us to a steak in Chelsea. Must be trying to impress you, eh? Either that or he’s checking it out for some work reason.”

My wooden spoon slipped on a rogue bit of porridge at the thought of Jamie impressing me, but I don’t think Liv spotted it.

“Don’t look a gift steak in the mouth,” I said, then turned round to see if she had any other Jamie details to add. But she was already checking her stars in the magazine.

“Ooh, I’m coming into an exciting new business opportunity,” she mused. “And you’re…following your heart. It’s the effect of Saturn.”

“Liv, you can’t take Saturn to the bank when your card gets stopped,” I urged. “Either we add up your budget now, together, before I leave—or you can get your financial advice from Mr. International Party Machine. You know what happened last time you asked his advice.”

Liv slapped the magazine shut. “OK,” she conceded. “When you put it like that. I’ll get some paper.”

The coffee and porridge made the math go down much better, and before half past eight we’d covered two sides of
paper. Even I felt reassured seeing the figures written down, even if they were kind of terrifying on the “out” side.

“Oh, my God,” said Liv. “Oh, my God! I had no idea electricity cost that much! I thought it just…flowed. What am I going to do?”

“Economize.”

Liv looked at me as if I’d just suggested she levitate.

“You need fashion math,” I said. “It helps if you imagine how much worse it could be. Always add the money you
could
be spending but aren’t to the total you’re actively saving—like, I could be driving into work this morning, which would be congestion charge, plus petrol, plus parking.” I scribbled. “That’s nearly twenty quid. If I go on the bus, it’s cheaper, but if I
cycle,
on that mountain bike gathering dust in the cellar, it’s free. Five times a week saves…?”

“Over a hundred pounds!” said Liv immediately.

“Exactly,” I said. “Isn’t that more satisfying than saving twenty? Now work out how much you could be spending getting to work in a cab, and eating out, then how much it’ll cost to walk, with a packed lunch. Just don’t add it to your spending budget,” I added hastily. “It’s not real money.”

And having left Liv with a calculator and her bills, I dragged the bike out of the cellar and set off to the Academy. It was partly to show I was willing to cut back too—who enjoys saving on their own? It’s worse than solo dieting—but I didn’t mind cycling the few miles from her house to Mayfair. It gave me a chance to examine my brain wave from every possible angle, before I mentioned it to anyone else.

The thing was, I thought, slowing down for a pedestrian crossing and feeling my ears tingle with the cold air, life didn’t care whether you knew how to use grape scissors. No school could really prepare you for the scary moment when you just
had to get
on
with it. The best you could do was to be gracious on the surface and tough underneath—and believe that you were capable of more than folding napkins into amusing animal shapes.

I cycled over Chelsea Bridge and down past the smart riverside houses of Cheyne Walk. I didn’t have to go round by Buckingham Palace, but I did, just for the nostalgia of seeing the big golden statue of Queen Victoria, surrounded by tourists even at this hour. After I’d weaved my way down Piccadilly, I wheeled the bicycle into the empty garage behind the main building, where the Academy Bentley was once parked. The oily smell took me right back to when I used to practice royal waves from the car, my chubby legs dangling off the bucket seats, breathing in warm red leather and polished wood.

Using the spotted old mirror on the door (no surface went unmirrored in the Academy), I did my best to remedy the chronic hat-hair caused by the cycle helmet, and did my BLT checks.

Buttons, fastened; red Lipstick, unsmeared; Teeth, fresh. Hair, flat.

Ready.

Paulette was ready to greet me with a wooden hanger when I went to hang up my coat in the hall.

“You’ve got pink cheeks!” she said, by way of hello. “Been up to something, have you? Eh?” She added a wink, in case I hadn’t got it.

“I cycled in,” I explained. “It was a bit farther than I thought. But good exercise! And green!”

“That’s what Mark says—he cycles in too.” Paulette winked
again and shrugged her shoulders so hard that her earring nearly caught in her cardigan. “Though in his case it’ll be to save money, I reckon. He’s one of those types who recycles his own—”

“Good morning!” I said loudly as the front door was flung open and two girls slouched in.

I tried to remember which two they were. They weren’t easy to make out, being wrapped up head to toe in quilted coats, fur hats, and Ugg boots, topped off with bug-eye shades. The only difference was that one of them had a fiercely studded black leather tote, and the other had long caramel extensions spilling out from under her fur hood.

From those small clues, I guessed it was Clemmy and Divinity.

“By ’eck. It’s cold enough to freeze a girl’s implants out there!” announced Divinity.

“Really? Have you got implants, Divinity? I thought you might have, because—Ow!” Paulette rubbed her ankle where I’d kicked it, then looked at me. “What? I was only asking.”

“Yes, but then she might tell you. Far be it from me to step on Miss Thorne’s teaching toes,” I said, “but I think for everyone’s sake, let’s leave body parts out of conversation at least until lunch.”

“Right,” said Paulette. “I’ll just…make some coffee, shall I?”

“Lovely. Thank you! Now, good morning, you two!” I held out my hand to the girls and made a snap decision not to tell them I was related to the owners. I wanted them to think I knew what I was doing, at least to start with. I could use my middle name—the one Franny had given me in tribute to the marmalade box.

“I’m Betsy Cooper!” I said, gripping the floppy hand Divinity half-offered to me in surprise. “I don’t think we were
properly introduced yesterday. It’s lovely to meet you. I’m here to look around the Academy and see what’s what.”

Divinity’s hand remained limply in mine. It felt as if I’d picked up a chicken fillet. Not very nice.

Introductions had been a day-one lesson in the old days. Franny hadn’t taught an official class, but she made a point of ensuring that each student left the Academy “capable of helping everyone remember her name, from the prime minister to the coat-check girl.” She had me coming up with three conversation starters when I was only five—not to show off, but to learn how to help other people fix your name in their heads in the midst of the confusion of a party. It was old-fashioned, maybe, but helpful to me when I was a nervous freshman. Nothing settled party flutters better than a conversation about what your secret superpower would be.

Divinity’s hand still wasn’t moving in mine. I squeezed it and gave three firm shakes, smiling as I did it.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I prompted her.

Clemmy snorted and rolled her eyes skyward.

Divinity looked surprised that I didn’t know who she was. “I’m Divinity Hogg. With two Gs.” She added a camera-ready smile that revealed the gum behind her sparkling teeth. “Lee Hogg’s daughter?” she added, when my face didn’t register sufficient amazement. “He’s a soccer player. Manchester United.”

“He’s a player-manager now. For, like, one of the biggest teams in Italy.” Clemmy elaborated as if I had some kind of hearing impairment.

“He’s on telly all the time,” said Divinity. “As a pundit. Do you not have a television?”

“Wow! I didn’t realize; how exciting!” I said. “But
you’re
the person I’m meeting—I’d rather know something about you, not your dad.”

Divinity looked blank and moved her gum from one side of her mouth to the other.

“Pretend you’re at a party,” I suggested. “How would you introduce yourself there, if we met?”

Divinity drew in an enormous breath and bellowed, in a voice designed to carry over the loudest club music system, “I’m from Leeds! I’m auditioning for
Big Brother
! I want to record my own single for charity!”

“That’s…a great goal to have!” I said, fiddling with my ringing ear. I wasn’t sure what the polite response was. She certainly wasn’t going to need much in the way of microphones, anyway. “You’ll have to tell me more about that, Divinity.”

“Will do!” she bellowed, and winked.

“Hello.” I held out my hand to Clementine with a fresh smile. “Betsy Cooper.”

“You said that already,” she said with an equally limp grip, which tightened up noticeably when I increased the pressure from my side and inclined my head, in anticipation of her name. I could feel all her many rings digging into my hand, which served me right.

“Clementine Worthington,” she added reluctantly.

“Call her Clemmy; everyone does,” said Divinity. “When we’re not calling her Clammy. Or Glumentine. Or…”

“Watch it, Div,” Clementine snapped. “I’ve got those camera-phone photos, don’t forget.”

“Hello, Clementine,” I said. “It’s lovely to meet you too. Are you enjoying your term here?”

“No. But I’ve been expelled from three schools, and my parents have”—she hooked her fingers in the air—“‘run out of options.’” Clemmy tossed her bangs out of her eyes as if she didn’t care either way. Her hair was even more blue-black than it had been yesterday, and as I looked closer, I saw she had a swallow tattooed between her thumb and first finger. Only a
very small one, though, and it looked suspiciously smudged. Almost like it was drawn on in pen.

“Her dad’s a bishop,” explained Divinity. “Brother’s one of the Vicars to Watch for 2009. They’ve got enough bats knocking around the belfry without her turning up at confirmations dressed like that. What is it your mum does, Clemmy? Spiritual healing with blessed twigs?”

Clemmy gave her a warning look, and Divinity raised her hands. “Just saying.”

“I’m a disgrace,” she informed me, staring up from under her bangs, challenging me to be shocked. “Not like my sister, who’s married with about a hundred kids, and my brother, who’s, like she says, a
career vicar
. I’m the black sheep of the family. I have parishioners praying for me on an hourly basis,” she added morbidly.

With her sleepy kohl-ringed eyes, Clemmy reminded me more and more of a grumpy raccoon. Quite sweet, really.

“Three schools?” I tried to look impressed, not disgusted. “Wow. For the same offense each time? Or did you develop a range? All the best people have been expelled from somewhere. My best friend’s brother was expelled for making a profit on the school disco. He does it for a living now, so you never know.”

Clementine’s mouth drooped, as if that wasn’t the reaction she’d hoped for.

“Do tell me more later; I’d love to hear the gory details. Anyway!” I said brightly. “Now we’ve been introduced, shouldn’t you be in a class? What’s your first lesson? I don’t want to hold you back.”

“Cordon Bleu Cookery,” said Divinity. She’d turned quite chatty and offered me some gum, which I turned down on account of a spearmint allergy I’d just made up. “We call it Cordon Bleeeeuurgh because half the class throws up whatever
we make. It’s all, like, brandy snaps and crème brûlée and bits of stuff in gelatin.”