The Finishing Touches

  I knew it would be very hard to persuade this one that I was a management consultant. She could probably tell how much I earned just from looking at my earrings.

  Adele opened her mouth and smiled with enormous delight.

  “Oh, my God, it’s Little Orphan Annie!” she cooed, looking as if she’d been waiting fifteen years to see me again.

  Twelve

  All clothes look better when you stand up straight.

  “Adele, what perfect timing— come and join us!” cooed Miss Thorne as if we were just having a spot of afternoon tea, not discussing something vitally important to the future of the very place we were sitting in. “We were just discussing your mentoring program.”

  “Oh, don’t!” Adele pretended to blush modestly as she sashayed across the room and took the seat next to Mark. It was tricky to sashay across pile carpet in three-inch stilettos and a tight camel skirt, but Adele gave it her best finishing-school shot.

  “You make it sound so serious, when it’s really just me trying to help the girls out as best I can, in my own way!” She turned to Mark. “Hello, Mr. Montgomery,” she said, putting a teasing hand on his knee. “How good of the world of finance to spare you!”

  Mark uncrossed his legs and seemed uncomfortable for the first time.

  Miss Thorne beamed at her across the desk. I’d forgotten how thick the pair of them were. Adele had won the Lady Phillimore Prize in her year, technically for being the most poised and promising but really, Kathleen reckoned, for sucking up harder than a vacuum cleaner in white gloves.

  “How was your trip, dear?” she asked, as if Mark and I weren’t there.

  “Oh, amazing. Such fun!”

  “Have you been away?” I asked, to be polite.

  “Adele has been up in Scotland,” Miss Thorne said, then waited a beat and added, “with Lord Phillimore.”

  What? I could feel my mouth start to drop open and had to stop myself. Lord P’s January shooting trip was strictly old boys only—“the Toddlers,” as they called themselves, even though half of them were on their third hips. “But he never takes anyone up there!”

  I almost added, “not even Franny,” but I stopped myself. Sometimes it was really hard to remember she was gone.

  Adele giggled and flapped her hands. “Oh, I’m sure he would if you asked, Betsy! I just mentioned to Pelham before Christmas that I’d never been shooting—poor Edgar had an allergy to tweed, made him swell—so he invited me up to Scotland for a day or two before the season finished. I could hardly say no, could I?”

  You bloody shouldn’t have asked, I thought. It was only a few weeks after his wife’s memorial service!

  “Did you manage to bag anything?” I asked crossly.

  “Isn’t it mainly ropy old birds at this time of year?” asked Mark, turning to look at me with an innocent expression.

  “It depends where you’re looking,” I said.

  Miss Thorne gave me a piercing look over her glasses. “Or how high you’re aiming.”

  Either Adele was oblivious, or she was pretending not to notice the dark hints clattering around her.

  “And how are you, Betsy?” she asked, swiveling toward me, keeping her knees demurely locked. She wore very glossy tights, I noticed, reluctantly conceding that she had the legs of a teenager. Her eyes were still a bit close together, but everything else was polished into the sort of sheen that comes from letting someone else take over your basic maintenance. She’d worked on her elocution too, because her voice was now so low and velvety she could have done voice-overs for men’s razors.

  “I heard you were here…helping out,” she went on. “Pelham said I might bump into you. Anything you need to discuss, you’re very welcome to run by me, you know.” She waited a moment until I was about to speak, then added, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Betsy, but I do think I’m a teensy bit more qualified to advise them on the realities of weddings and marriage and so on. Although I’m sure you’re doing your best.”

  Rise above it, I told myself. You’re a successful, fulfilled, taxpaying graduate. All she’s done is persuade old men she’s interested in golf.

  “Well, I hope it’s not all going to be about weddings and marriage. Mark and I were just discussing the new direction,” I said. “We think there should be a fresh approach, with more emphasis on independence.”

  “Elizabeth thinks we should be teaching girls how to change tires and apply for bank loans,” Miss Thorne confided over her desk.

  Adele laughed, right on cue. “Isn’t that what husbands are for?”

  “And when your husband’s laid up in hospital?” I asked, before I could stop myself. This was exactly the sort of enraging “who needs the vote when you’ve got lipstick?” attitude that was all over the prospectus! “Or bankrupt?”

  Miss Thorne shot me a look. “Not very sensitive, Elizabeth, considering Adele’s recent bereavement.”

  “Of course, I’m so sorry,” I began, mortified, as Adele looked tragic but courageous as she waved away my apologies.

  “I think everything you need to know is in that outline,” said Mark, leaping into the growing tension with a little show of impatience. “Betsy’s laid it out perfectly, I think. We’d offer five basic courses: Home Life, Work Life, Social Life, Love Life, and Family Life, each lasting a week. Clients can mix and match which courses they want. Lots of role-play, lots of lectures from experts, lots of practical discussion.”

  His body language had turned brisk, and I caught a glimpse of what City Mark must be like when he was doing that “Buy! Sell!” thing, or whatever he did in his suit. It was quite steely and impressive, and not very bookish at all. I rather liked it.

  So did Adele, from the shameless way she crossed her shiny calves and put her chin on her hand to listen to him.

  It was as if her whole body was miming, ooh, you’re so clever and manly, I thought crossly. And her calves didn’t spread either.

  “I’ll read the proposal,” said Miss Thorne in a regal manner. “And we can discuss it further when Pelham joins us for the January meeting. In the meantime, I give you my temporary approval.”

  I glanced at Mark. “But the Open Day…I know it’s after the meeting, but I really think we should go ahead and start planning something.”

  “I agree,” he said.

  “An Open Day? What a gorgeous idea!” trilled Adele. “Do let me know if I can help.”

  “Perfect. I’ll put you on the bread knife and sandwich filling schedule, Adele,” said Mark. “You did some catering here, didn’t you?” He got up. “If you’d excuse me, ladies, I should really make a move. Give me a ring if there are any financial matters arising; otherwise, Betsy’s really the mastermind behind all this.”

  With a quick nod to me and a neat body swerve around Paulette, who was entering with coffee and more biscuits, Mark slipped out of the room, and I was left very much on my own.

  “So!” said Adele.

  “So!” echoed Miss Thorne. “I want to hear all about your shooting holiday. Was it your first time?”

  I couldn’t bear to sit through a discussion of Adele’s Highland fling with Lord P. It would have been grim enough anyway just imagining her in her Tweed Barbie outfit, but the combination of Miss Thorne’s delight in catching me out and the growing Mutual Appreciation Society atmosphere was too much.

  “I should really make a move too,” I said, hoping I sounded brisk like Mark. “There’s so much to do! Letters, and so on.”

  “Oh, must you dash off?” Adele pouted unconvincingly. “I’ve only just got here. I haven’t even asked you about my little surprise present for Pelham.”

  I didn’t want to think about that. “I have to talk to Mrs. Angell,” I said, gesturing upstairs. Which was true enough—I needed to know whether she was up for teaching a class on Pet Etiquette. “I’m sure we’ll have a chance to catch up soon.”

  “Far be it from me to blow my own trumpet…” She raised a self-effacing hand. “I’ve got quite a rep
utation for throwing parties that are talked about afterward. I’m sure it’s down to the training I had here.”

  As Miss Thorne simpered and Adele simpered back in a slightly higher register, something occurred to me.

  “Miss Thorne,” I began, “I was thinking that it might be rather fun to have some Then and Now photographs dotted around the Open Day, to show we’re keeping the style but updating the teaching? Could I have a look in the archive? I’m sure Miss Vanderbilt kept some wonderful artifacts in her bureau.”

  The simpering abruptly stopped. Miss Thorne’s eyes shifted from left to right as if she’d spotted a mouse running under the cupboard. “The archive? Oh, we threw a lot of things away, after…” She cleared her throat. “Let me know what you need and I’ll sift through for you. It’ll save you time, when you’re so busy.”

  I got the distinct impression I was being fobbed off. “Some photographs from, say…” I pretended to think. “How about 1980-ish? The year before I arrived?”

  “I’ll see what I can find,” she said tersely.

  “Thank you.” I could tell I wasn’t going to get much more. “I’ll leave you to it, then!”

  “Oh dear!” said Adele. “I think I’ve left my mobile phone upstairs. Would you excuse me, Geraldine, while I go and have a look? Come on, Betsy—we can have a girlie natter on the way…”

  She was next to me at the door before I knew what was going on, and suddenly I found myself being swept out into the hall on Adele’s arm. Beneath the silky blouse were biceps of pure steel.

  Her heels click-clacked next to mine as she powered me toward the stairs, and I racked my brain for something polite to say to her. As it turned out, I didn’t need to, because I barely got a chance to breathe, let alone contribute to any conversation.

  “So how are you getting on with the girls? They’re so funny, aren’t they? Don’t you find Venetia a sweetie pie? She’s extraordinary—she and I have an absolute riot in our lessons together; well, I say lessons, it’s more of a chat with an older sister. I’m merely passing on my experience, because what is heartbreak if not a hard teacher? I’m sure you’re just the same. Although it’s such a different view of life they’ll be getting from you,” she babbled. “Working, I mean. Having to come home to an empty flat and putting out your own bins or whatever it is you have to do for yourself. Have you had your hair Yuko’d, by the way? It’s looking very…tamed.”

  “No,” I said. Yuko’d? What was that? I’d have to check with Liv.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your recent bereavement,” I said, desperate to make my apology before it went on the slate that I hadn’t. “It must have been an awful shock.”

  “Well, he would play tennis at all hours of the day, and after a wee dram too,” sighed Adele. “I did tell him, ‘Edgar, watch your heart,’ but…” She lifted her shoulders. “What can you do with these outdoorsy men? I still think of him every time I smell cherry brandy. And cough medicine.”

  “It takes a while to get used to it,” I said, thinking of Franny as we swept past her old rose bowl. “I know I still pick up the phone to call Franny—Lord P does too. They spent their whole lives together, you know.”

  “Did they? Although not their whole lives,” Adele corrected me, with a gentle squeeze of the arm as we started up the staircase. “Pelham has years ahead of him.”

  “I meant they spent nearly every minute together,” I said. “They were devoted to each other.”

  “Yes, we were talking about that this weekend,” mused Adele. “That man is so brave. But I said to him, ‘Pelham, you must keep busy. You have to get out there and live the rest of your life. It’s what Frances would want you to do.’ As I’m always telling Venetia, it’s no good thinking life is a fairy tale and that some handsome prince will come and rescue you. The girls need broader horizons. International aspirations.”

  I stopped on the landing, amazed that Adele and I had a single thought in common. “Do you think so?”

  “Absolutely! Why restrict yourself to Englishmen? You’ve got to research your prince,” Adele went on, walking again. “Have a plan—a nice little starter marriage, and then something challenging, and then a longer-term companionship deal, so you don’t spend your fifties trailing around IVF clinics. I’m still very young, of course, but not so young that I can afford to hang around looking miserable. Edgar would have wanted me to be happy. My next husband would ideally be titled, and still fertile, because I plan to have children at thirty-seven and thirty-nine. Then I hope to meet a lovely American chap—I’m saving Americans until I’m a little older and more in need of their excellent private health care.”

  I stared at her to see if she was joking, but I didn’t think she was.

  “So what’s held you back?” she asked, suddenly solicitous. “Don’t tell me—you were the other woman? Waiting for him to leave his wife, but he never would?” She made a so sorry face.

  “No!” I stammered. “I was not!”

  “Or are you one of those career girls who makes out that she doesn’t want to be looked after but secretly has a crush on her boss?” Adele wagged a finger at me. “Because that’s fine for a few years, but you’re not getting any younger—and I say that as a friend, Betsy.”

  I couldn’t imagine a parallel universe in which Adele Buchanan would be a friend of mine, but I controlled myself under the gaze of several previous Lady Phillimores. Besides, we were outside the Lady Hamilton Room now, with the girls waiting for Mrs. Angell to get out the old Sliding Scale of Tips chart. They could probably hear everything.

  “I’ve got more ambitions for myself than just getting married and having children,” I managed.

  Adele grabbed my forearm with both hands. “God, I’m so insensitive! It’s because you’re worried about what inherited conditions you might pass on, isn’t it? It must be terrible, not knowing your own medical history. You’re so responsible. And so right. Are you teaching this class?”

  I nodded dumbly. I’d never really thought of that before. What inherited conditions might I have? She didn’t mean Charmer Addiction or Lack of Willpower—I honestly didn’t know what there was running through my veins.

  No, I reminded myself, I did know. There was more than likely 50 percent Hector Phillimore. And that was something I could find out about, albeit via an embarrassing conversation with Lord P. It was something I should have done years ago.

  And I ought to do it before someone like Adele decided to winkle it out of him. She was the last person I wanted to hear anything like that from.

  “We must get together and have a chat about Pelham,” she gushed. “I’m dying to give him a thank-you present to let him know what a special weekend I had, and I’m sure you can give me some wonderful hints as to what his secret weaknesses are. But I mustn’t keep you from your class! Toodles, darling!” With that, she pressed her fingertips against her lips, waved them at me, and shimmered off.

  I blinked to recover myself, but I was trembling. I pulled my sleeves down and hoped Adele’s words hadn’t traveled. Stupid cow.

  “I’m totally going to start saying ‘Toodles, darling,’” said Divinity admiringly as I walked in, and I knew they’d heard everything.

  Thirteen

  Always leave a party while you can still dance in your shoes.

  Igor’s, where Liv spent four shifts a week uncorking wine and fending off proposals, was technically called the Soho Typesetters and Darkroom Association, but it had been years since anyone had actually called it that. The new crowd of edgy rich kids and media types who frequented its murky booths referred to it as Igor’s, and the old guard of artists and semiprofessional drunks who knew the full name were too addled to remember what order it went in anyway.

  It was one of those bars that was always cropping up in 10 Places You’re Not Cool Enough to Know About lists, because you had to have been there before, sober, just to be able to find it. For a start, it wasn’t anywhere near Soho. Igor’s was practically in Westminster, down a
side street near the Thames, and I walked past the plain black door at least twice every time. Inside wasn’t much better: like all good dives, it looked significantly better after half a bottle of wine at eight o’clock than it did during daylight hours, but Igor’s had a passionate following, and if you could get in, you were guaranteed a good time and at least three globs of juicy gossip.

  Liv had got her bar job there because Igor was an old drinking buddy of Ken’s. Ken knew everyone, and so did Liv, which gave her the ideal lack of concern when shenanigans took place under her nose. As I kept telling her, Liv could easily have been running the place if she had wanted to: the other bar staff were gorgeously vacant Chelsea girls, and she was the only one who could understand what Igor was saying through his thick Glaswegian accent. The fact that she couldn’t summon up the energy to demand a promotion was down partly to her easygoing nature and partly to the pleasantly half-asleep atmosphere that pervaded the place like a mild anesthetic.

  When I shoved open the door at half past five, Liv was behind the oak bar, drying glasses like a patient angel, while Igor himself waved his beringed hands around and gabbled in tongues.

  “I know!” she was saying. “Oh dear. I know! Really? Dame Judi Dench? Wow. Betsy!” She made a weird pantomime of pointing into the furthest booth, the one usually reserved for VIPs and PRs cutting deals with one another.

  I assumed she meant that Nell Howard had arrived and been whisked into the most private seat in the house. “Thanks!” I mouthed.

  “Barg,” grunted Igor. “Snot tae scunner, barg, Olivia!”

  “Mm,” she said, nodding meaningfully.

  I swallowed and picked my way around the tables, trying to ignore the butterflies rising in my stomach.

  I spotted Nell Howard before she spotted me, when the top of a feathery headpiece bounced over the wooden partition. I could see a petrol-blue patent-leather boot too, sticking out as she crossed her legs, breaking about three Academy rules in one go. She obviously wasn’t one of the beige princesses, like Adele, and it made me warm to her even more.