The Finishing Touches (20 page)

She snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have a…lesson with Miss Buchanan at twelve-thirty.”

Adele hadn’t said anything about it to me, and there was no note on the timetable Miss McGregor had thoughtfully provided.

“I don’t think you are,” I said pleasantly. “This is the new timetable. This lunchtime we’re all going to learn how to make omelets, downstairs in the kitchens.”

“Omelets! Ace!” said Divinity. “I love an omelet, me.”

“That’s because your mother keeps chickens in your backyard—or whatever it is you call your garden up north,” said Venetia as she shoved some diamanté clips into her hair.

“Shut up,” snapped Clemmy. “Divinity’s mother’s got her own llamas. For
fun
.”

“Forget it, Clem. I’m ignoring her,” said Divinity. “I’m rising above it, like Mrs. Angell says.” She made a “nose in the air” gesture that Venetia couldn’t see. Or maybe she could. Maybe that was the point.

“Venetia, I’ll have a word with Miss Buchanan to see if she can rearrange your lesson, but I’d really like you to join us for our lunch lesson, so we can all chat and discuss what new topics are coming up.” I paused. “What exactly is it she’s teaching you, anyway?”

Venetia turned round with a flick of her mighty bangs and looked me up and down as if she wasn’t sure how much she had to tell me.

“It’s a Personal
Development
class,” she said. “And it’s only me taking it, because…” She paused for maximum disdain.
“Because Miss Buchanan doesn’t feel that there’s anyone else here worth teaching.”

“Ooohh!” said Divinity, rising above it. The other two didn’t seem to be taking it lightly either. Forget omelets—I could have scrambled eggs on the resentment radiating from Clemmy.

I smiled as nicely as I could and said, “It’s not up to Miss Buchanan to decide whom she teaches. She should be offering the same class to everyone. I’ll see if it can be rearranged for this afternoon,” I said. “In the meantime, I’ll see you in the kitchens in five minutes, with everyone else.”

“Yeah, right.” Venetia turned her back on me and started glossing over her lipstick with a lip brush, although from the amount she was applying a spatula would have been more appropriate.

“Rise above it,” whispered Divinity. I had to stop myself doing the snooty nose gesture, but I managed it, somehow.

Venetia did not appear for
Kathleen’s lesson in whipping up a healthy fridge lunch, and Paulette didn’t know where she’d gone.

“Lunchtime’s a funny time to go for a lesson, though, innit?” she mused from behind her novelty desk organizer full of pencils with fluffy toppers. “Unless it was Social Dining or something? They did get into a car with some bloke in a hat—could have been a chauffeur, or it could just have been a bloke that enjoys wearing uniforms, I suppose. Like Michael Jackson? Not that I was spying out of the window or anything. Nice car too—Rolls-Royce, I think. Personalized plates.”

“Thanks, Paulette,” I said, grateful for once for her total lack of discretion.

I went back upstairs to make some lists for the Open Day and got as far as the database of Old Girls who’d been invited for Franny’s reception. This time my heartbeat raced as I
checked the names Nell had given me against the names on the database and found that though all had been invited, only half had RSVP’d, and there was no record of who’d actually been there. Sophie had been there, and Caroline, Lady Tin Foil, and several others, but not Rosalind or Coralie.

I filed my nails thoughtfully; it always helped me think. There were loads of reasons my mother might not have wanted to come back, if indeed she hadn’t. She could have been ill. Not everyone enjoyed memorials. She might have worried that I’d be there, waiting. I’d have to think of a really great reason for them to come back to support an Open Day—something that would tug at the Phillimore strings of duty.

I had to do it quickly too. According to the large calendar Paulette had put on my desk, I had about ten working days to arrange the whole bash. I could rely on Kathleen to handle the food, and Mark to sort out wine or something, but everything else would have to come from me—otherwise Miss Thorne would make it look like her awful brochure, and there’d be glove etiquette going on in the foyer.

I started drafting a letter, but after ten minutes I realized I couldn’t concentrate without more coffee and headed downstairs to get some refreshments. The noise in the Lady Hamilton Room stopped me in my tracks.

Mrs. Angell was supposed to be teaching Miss Thorne’s traditional syllabus, but unless it was Making Yourself Heard at Ascot, I had no idea what it could be. The yelling was audible outside the room. I put my head around the door in case Mrs. Angell had thrown in the towel and left them to fend for themselves with a copy of Debrett’s.

“Ah, Betsy!” said Mrs. Angell, her glazed eyes latching on to me gratefully. “You can settle an argument for us. Is it, or is it not, appropriate for a first date to take place in the most expensive restaurant you can find these days?”

“No!” I said, shocked. “Of course not! Who ever said that?”

“Adele,” said Venetia at once. “She says it’s important to assess your date’s commitment to the future of your relationship.”

“That’s rubbish,” I said. “It makes you look as if you’re putting a price on your company. Besides, you should
always
offer to split the bill, just so he can say no, but what if he says yes? What then?”

Venetia’s expression conveyed that this was beyond her sphere of experience.

“Vhy vould you do that?” asked Anastasia.

“Because…” I looked round the class at Mrs. Angell for help, but her frizz suggested she’d spent much of the lesson either clawing at her face or raking through her hair.

“Well,” I said, “you should
offer,
he’ll say, ‘no, really,’ and that’s that. But sometimes, if the date isn’t going well and you have no intention of seeing him again, offering to pay half is a better way of making that clear than ignoring his calls for the next month. It’s a polite way of saying, ‘I had a nice evening
as friends
but let’s not do this again.’”

“What if it’s a crap date and you feel like he owes you?” asked Clemmy.

“Only you can decide how much you’re worth in oysters,” I said.

“You must have been on some terrible dates,” said Divinity sympathetically.

“Oh, God, everyone goes on some stinkers, don’t they—” I started to say, then stopped myself. They didn’t need to know about my rogue’s gallery of first dates. “Why are you discussing this?” I asked. “Is it part of the lesson?”

“Divinity has a date,” said Clemmy. “We’re helping her organize it.”

Mrs. Angell’s eyes bulged in appeal. “We were talking about
how to announce one’s engagement. Divinity suggested
Heat
magazine.”

“So you’ve gone back to basics with some Date Management discussion! That’s a great idea!” I said, reaching for my notebook. “So, who’s your date with, Divinity?”

Divinity’s face was glowing. “Don’t ask,” she said. “I don’t want to jinx it!”

“Matthew Hartley,” said Venetia, sounding bored. “He has no money, stupid long hair, and a junk heap of a car, and he bailed out on her the last two times. I’d go for sushi, Div—you can eat on your own then, and you won’t look stood up.”

Divinity spun in her chair. “Shut your head. He couldn’t come. He’s an artist; he had a deadline.”

“Had no cash, more like,” replied Venetia scornfully.

“Then you should suggest somewhere he can afford,” I said, ignoring her and making for the blackboard. I found a pen and wrote: “Location.” “The more informal the better. Which do you want, after all—great conversation, or lobster?”

“Lobster,” said Venetia and Anastasia at the same time as Clemmy and Divinity said “Conversation.”

“Where should I go?” Divinity’s pen was poised and she had a familiar, paranoid expression on her face. “Name names!”

It was a while since I’d eaten out in London, and my mind went blank. All I could remember was La Poule au Pot in Chelsea, where Jamie had taken me once when I was down visiting Liv and she’d been called away by an urgent fiancé. It had been all those things: cozy tables, delicious food, free-flowing wine, although I hadn’t really noticed at the time, thanks to the outrageous gossip he was telling me. If I ever had a date with Jamie, it was definitely where I’d want to be taken.

“La Poule au Pot is…” My voice went funny, and the girls stared. “Very good. Or Le Boudin Blanc round the corner from
us here? Bistro food, quite romantic, easy to get home from if it’s gone badly, or easy to go for a stroll if it’s gone well…”

That had been another one. When I thought about it, I could remember pretty much every restaurant Jamie had taken me to—he knew all the nicest places and insisted on paying because it was “good research for Party Animals.” Our dinners did linger in the memory, despite not complying with my usual rules for successful dates. I usually had at least one glass of wine too many, stayed until the poor waiters were sweeping under our table, and ended up falling a tiny bit more in love with him.

They weren’t dates, I reminded myself. That was the whole point.

“You’ve gone very red,” Anastasia observed. “Are you having a hot flash?”

“Anastasia!” gasped Mrs. Angell. “Medical symptoms! And how old do you think Betsy is, anyway?”

“She’s bright red,” Anastasia repeated. “Look at her.”

“Dates in restaurants are a nightmare,” groaned Clemmy, ignoring my confusion. “I always worry about how much to tip, and then if he doesn’t tip enough, I get embarrassed and feel like I should add something, but I never know how much that should be.”

“Tipping is a good litmus test, though,” I agreed. “Tight wallet, tight heart, as they say.”

Mrs. Angell seemed relieved the lesson had got back onto safer ground. “Tipping! Yes, good! Fifteen percent. And a pound for the coat girls. What other tricky moments can we encounter when we’re dining out, and how might we rise above them? Have you had a tricky moment?”

“Oh, my God, yes!” agreed Divinity. “What should you choose so you don’t look like a pig? I always worry about that. Is it, like, still really bad to have the bread?”

“No,” I said. Where did they learn this stuff? “Always eat exactly what you like. My friend Jamie says that nothing puts a man off more than a girl who orders mineral water and a green salad and then won’t add dressing. And he’s dated more girls than you’ve had hot dinners.”

Looking at them, maybe that wasn’t the best choice of expression.

“Anyway,” I hurried on, “who wants to look like a high-maintenance control freak on a first date?”

“That’s not what Miss Buchanan says,” said Venetia. “She says men find control an aphrodisiac.”

She rolled out
aphrodisiac
with dramatic relish.

“Adele says we should regard a first dinner date just like other girls might approach a job interview,” said Venetia. “The right clothes, the right questions, the right background reading.” She curved one corner of her lovely mouth into a superior smile. “The trick is to make them think
they’re
doing the interviewing.”

“And the metaphorical position you’d be applying for?” I demanded.

“Any position they’d like to offer,” muttered Clemmy.

“Wife,” said Venetia, surprised I was asking. “If you want to marry well, you have to apply yourself. It’s no use imagining that the right man will just fall into your lap.” She cast a sympathetic look over at Divinity. “Unless they’re the type to fall off the career ladder for you.”

“You’re here to learn more than just how to be a wife,” I pointed out. “You’re here to learn how to be
yourself
. The best version of yourself you can be.”

“Of course you’re here to learn more than just how to be a wife,” said Mrs. Angell hurriedly. “Adele would tell you that herself. She has many other accomplishments that—”

“No, she wouldn’t,” said Venetia quite confidently. “She
says marriage is like a merger. You have to get your assets in order and be prepared to negotiate hard if you want to secure a decent pension.”

I’d heard enough. It was bad enough knowing Adele was peddling her own brand of matrimonial carpetbagging while I was trying to suggest there might be more to a girl’s horizons, but the merest thought that Lord P was the next in line for her acquisitions board was just too much.

“It depends what you want from your dinner, then, doesn’t it?” I said, quite vehemently. “Do you want an evening out, getting to know someone and enjoying yourself, or do you want to sit through an expensive power struggle for three hours?”

Venetia didn’t even bother to reply.

Divinity put her hand up. “What am I supposed to wear? Should I wear high heels? I’m always falling off them after I’ve got a few on board, but my legs are dead stumpy otherwise.”

I turned back to the board and wrote
Outfit?
Might as well make a lesson of it, I thought.

“Liv,” I asked when I got in that evening. “What
are
you supposed to wear on a first date?”

Liv was in the kitchen, watching
Judge Judy
on the breakfast bar TV while she ironed some crisp white sheets. Her face was wreathed with steam and the blissed-out expression she used to save for her Pilates class. I’d taught her how to use the iron, mainly by calculating the Fashion Math incurred by not sending everything to the laundrette, and now she was ironing everything in sight. I suspected I’d replaced one addiction with another, but at least it was keeping her out of Topshop.

“Depends where you’re going, but you can’t go wrong with a black dress and boots,” she said. “Stuff some accessories in your bag and dress up or down when you get there.” She held
up a perfectly flat T-shirt and gazed lovingly at it. “You know I’d forgotten I’d got this? Ironing is just so cool! It’s amazing what I’ve been finding in my laundry basket—it’s like free shopping.”

“How much have you ironed?” I stared at the pile. “That can’t all be yours, surely.”

“Oh, Jamie dropped a bag of his round, in exchange for some wine,” said Liv beatifically. “He wanted me to do it for a bottle, but I beat him up to a case. He said Dad would be proud.”

I put my handbag down on the table and removed my shoes so I could massage the balls of my aching feet. “I could have done with you today. I just can’t
talk
clothes like you do, not in front of that lot.”

“Oh, you can,” said Liv kindly. “You’ve got your own style. It’s…classic.”

“You mean boring.”

“No, I mean classic.” She started on one of Jamie’s handmade shirts—black, with purple paisley inside the collar and cuffs. “Not everyone needs to be a slave to fashion. You have a classic separates look. Pared down, simple. You use your hair as your accessory, which is…elegant.”

I suspected she meant boring, but didn’t rise to it. I stopped massaging my feet and moved on to massaging my temples, elbows on the table, eyes closed, as the smell of the fresh ironing calmed me down. It reminded me of growing up next to Nancy’s never-decreasing stack of tablecloths and girls’ shirts.

“You know you said you’d help me teach a lesson?” I asked.

“Mmm.” The iron hissed.

“How about tomorrow?”

There was another hissing noise that might have been Liv, not the iron.

“How about that black dress?” I suggested. “Take one black
dress and change it round. From work to party to nightclub—that’s really useful.”

“Isn’t it more from party to nightclub to party to your mum’s affair flat in Knightsbridge with that lot?”

“Well, yeah. But it’s for the Open Day more than anything,” I explained. “I need to have something useful to show people when they come to look round.”

“I suppose I could,” she said dubiously. “But I’d have to practice. How about next week?”

“Practice is fine.” I hauled myself up to a sitting position. “No time like the present. I’ll make a pot of tea and you can use me as your dummy.”

Liv shot a burst of steam at me. “Betsy, there’s only one dummy round here, and it’s not you, believe me.”

One pot of tea later, I was standing on the coffee table in the sitting room in one of Liv’s nineteen “definitive” LBDs, surrounded by a sea of scarves, shoes, jewelry, hats, and fake-furry bits and pieces.

She’d picked a stretchy knee-length dress from Banana Republic with a deep V-neck and three-quarter sleeves, and for my office look she had added a cardigan, a shiny belt, and my patent Fiona Flemings, and twisted my hair up into a neat half bun, ignoring my pleas that it was about to frizz.