The carriages were so tightly crowded in the Bellinghams’ street that it would have taken us less time to walk from our house. But I was wearing my new yellow silk dress and had spent an hour being certain my hair curled just so. I would not have either mussed, so Charles had no choice but to tolerate the hackney ride. Once there, I was nearly overwhelmed. Everything not moving in the house was draped with red fruits and gold chains and rather hungry-looking vines. Guests filled the halls and spilled from every doorway. I have never seen such bright colours and jewels on a gathering—ladies and gentlemen alike; with the many crystal chandeliers, it was nearly blinding.
“God help me,” Charles groaned, and flagged down a footman with a tray of champagne. He downed his in a swallow. I would not be so crass. Champagne is delicious and must be savoured, “Well, come on, then,” he grumbled, and pulled me through the crowd. There were more footmen everywhere, and more champagne.
Charles pointed out people as we passed. Yet another of the King’s sons. A Russian duchess, an Italian prince. Beau Brummell, famous for being famous, and whose criticism of a lady’s appearance may consign her to the social netherworld. Lord Gratham, who had married a great heiress and was suspected of driving her to insanity with laudanum. His mistress, Charles whispered, was reputed to be slipping bits of arsenic into his whisky decanters. I do love my brother.
I confess I merely gawked for the longest time.Then I spied the Miss Quinns with Mr. Eccleston. They all appeared quite pleased to see me. Soon, we were quite a jolly group, joined by Mr. Tallisker and Mr. Davison, who were so gallant as to make certain I danced my fill and was not without champagne. How merry we all were! Charles went off to drink with his friends, leaving me delightfully un-spied-upon. And then, none too soon, Mr. Baker appeared.
He looked very handsome, as always, and greeted me most warmly. Then, for the next hour, he did not talk to me at all. He laughed with his fellows. He danced with both Quinns. He bowed nearly to the floor when Miss Hartnell arrived, dressed in an aqua confection that made me nearly green with envy. He composed an ode on the spot to Miss Partridge’s swanlike neck.
It was not his best work.
I was introduced to a Mr.…Oh, bother his name. Brown, or White, or Black, perhaps. Perhaps none of them. But he was quite a bit older, six-and-twenty, at least, and very nearly very handsome. Blond curls, the brownest eyes (now I do not think his name could have been Brown, after all), a smile that curled up at the edges. He complimented my dress, brought me a lobster canape and an odd, greenish drink that tasted strongly of liquorice, and wished to dance.
It was then that Charles and his fellow Hussars decided to leave for other entertainments. He tried to insist on taking me home first, and would not be put off until one of the Misses Quinn—I confess I was suddenly having the oddest difficulty telling them apart—promised her mama would convey me home in her carriage. I still do not think Charles liked the matter, but it was so very noisy, we begged most prettily, and his friends were tugging at him. “No more champagne!” he said, although I thought he was teasing, and I stuck my tongue out at him as he went. Then he was gone, and I had another of the liquorice drinks, and although I know it was not at all proper, guided Mr. Whomever a bit when we were on the floor, so that we danced very near Mr. Baker and Miss Partridge. I laughed heartily at Mr. Whomever’s jests to show just what a marvelous time I was having. I danced with more enthusiasm than I ever have. I made certain to swish my skirts and lift them just that tiniest bit higher to show off my ankles and Spanish silk stockings.
And I made quite certain we passed Mr. Baker as we walked out of the ballroom and onto the balcony.
“You’ll do” is all Mr. Whomever said.
I cannot remember the man’s name, but I remember quite clearly that the buttons on his waistcoat were wood meant to look like ivory, and when he pulled me against his chest, they hurt.
I suddenly did not want him to kiss me. I did not want my first kiss to be from a man whose name I did not recall, who wore built-up heels and had oily spots on his cravat.
His hands were everywhere at once, in several places they ought not to have been. I wished to scream, to call him every vile name I knew, but I was certain that if I opened my mouth, I would be sick all over him. I tried to pull away and felt my sleeve tear, heard that sad sound of rending silk. And then suddenly I was free and he was sitting on the stone floor of the balcony. I wondered for a moment if I had hit him, and then I saw Nicholas.
He was looming over the other man, looking quite fierce and completely disgusted. For a fleeting moment, I saw him as utterly splendid. My friend and hero. And then he turned to look at me, and his expression did not change a whit. He was just as fierce, and every bit as disgusted.
“Go inside, Katherine,” he growled. “I will take you home.”
“But how did you know . . . ?”
He jerked his chin toward the door. I saw Miss Hartnell then. She did not look smug, but decidedly anxious. “As lacking as you are in sense,” Nicholas snapped at me, “you are fortunate in your friends!”
Miss Hartnell held out a hand. It did not occur to me to ignore it, or to be angry at her for tattling on me. She gently led me around the edge of the ballroom, toward the hall. For being so slender, she is surprisingly strong. I felt almost upright, until suddenly they were there in front of us: the Quinns, Mr. Baker’s cronies. Mr. Baker himself.
I wished to sink into the floor. They must know, I thought miserably, that I have drunk too much, and behaved like a trollope, and been humiliated in front of . . . well, anyone with eyes. They will laugh at me and that is the end of my Season . . .
“I am feeling unwell,” I heard Miss Hartnell inform the gathering. “Miss Percival is being so very kind as to accompany me home.” For a few moments, they all made a fuss over her, petting and demanding to be the ones to see to her care. All the while, she held me steady, giving my hand an encouraging squeeze or two. Then, without quite knowing how we came to be there, we were in a carriage, where her mother was waiting.
Our house was silent when we arrived. Charles and Papa were still out, Mama asleep. Miss Hartnell helped me to my room, chatting with comforting cheer about nothing of importance as she did. She found a basin, held back my hair while I was vilely ill, and told the maid to be gentle. Then she left, with an encouraging smile and not a single word of reproach.
There is little as wretched as a foolish girl who drinks too much and yearns for the most sought-after young man. I do not think I shall ever like liquorice again, but I think I am going to be very fond of Luisa Hartnell.
July 7
I Can See Clearly Now
Or, should I say, I can breathe clearly. I have had the worst head cold known to womankind. You know, the copious snot, then no snot no matter how hard you blow, sneezing, hacking, headachy, look-like-an-extra-from-a-zombie-flick kinda cold.
Leaving me to spend two dismal days in the flat, watching an impressive selection of veterinary and dog-training programs on the numerous BBCs, and reading the mags and rags the (s)mother collected for me. Among the mind-improving Times, Guardian, and London Review of Books, she did manage to include Hello! (reports of Prince William’s demise... sorry, engagement might be greatly exaggerated) and, bless her maternal patootie, American Vogue (lose the skinny jeans yet again, ladies; yet again, wide-legs are coming).
It’s a toss-up as to who’s worse at our current positions, me as sickie or Mom as nurse. We both have a tendency toward surliness. Dating back to . . . well, my childhood, probably. In all fairness, I should probably take a smidge more of the responsibility. She’s usually fine for the first day or so; I’m pretty cranky from the first sniffle. Which neither explains nor excuses her flat refusal to return the Hershey’s she bought from Mr. Sadiq, and replace it with multiple Curly Wurlies.
“It’s a chocolate bar, Catherine. You asked for a chocolate bar.”
“That, Mother, is like presenting me with a dachshund, miniature no less, wh
en I requested a pony.”
“You like that dog more than you like me, madam.”
Frequently. I adore that dog. But that’s hardly the point.
We argue over matters of tremendous importance when I’m sick.
“‘Look Right,’ Ma. It’s a Sign. A message to every girl in London.”
“Absolutely. ‘Don’t get crushed by the big red bus with stairs.’”
“Please. Mother. Look deeper.”
“Fine. It’s saying, ‘Catherine Vernon, wear the clean bra and panties, lest you get hit by the big red bus.’ ”
And, “That diary is living history, Catherine!”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t the term ‘history’ automatically imply ‘dead’?”
“Katherine Percival was a pretty, privileged teenager living in a big city, going to parties and chasing boys. How on earth could that not interest you? It is you!”
“Ditzy? Obsessed with yellow dresses and . . . gack . . . bad, soppy poetry? Not using a guy’s first name—even in her diary?”
“It was the era, Catherine. Things were different.”
“Wait, wait. You just explained how very same it was.”
“Catherine, had I not been there when you were born, I would wonder who your mother is.”
“Are you absolutely sure they tagged me correctly in the delivery room? I mean, what if Michelle Pfeiffer was in the hospital at the same time, and there was a mix-up . . . ”
“Trust me, your father and I demanded a blood test when you turned two.”
My mother can be a decent smart-ass in her own right.
Elizabeth Sadiq called . . . or rather, she rang. As in, “Oi, Cat. I’m ringing from Westbourne Grove. I’m here with the girls ...Can you hear me? My mobile’s rubbish today.” Imagine city street noises in the background: cars with bad mufflers and crashing gears, the bass beat of an old reggae song, much high-pitched female giggling.
“I can hear you.” It sounded like heaven.
“So, we’ve had our shoe fix, and we’re about to gorge on chicken tikka. Then on to completely unnecessary . . . Hang on . . . Don’t you dare, Imogen! I mean it. No more Alice bands. God, she’s so Sloaney. So, will you come, then?”
She has friends named Imogen. They wear headbands and are probably blond and skinny and take vacations in places that don’t sound like they’re spelled, like Gstaad or Ibiza. I would hate them. And love them to death.
“I’m sick,” I moaned, with appropriate Victorian drama.
“Sick? What, like, vomming?”
“Well, no, but copious snotting . . . ”
“So come! Keep your knickers on, Consuelo. I’m almost done.”
She has friends named Consuelo. They’re impatient, probably Spanish, and gorgeously sloe-eyed with big boobs and brothers named Alejandro. “Now listen, Cat, get the Regent’s Park Tube to Baker Street—”
“I can’t.”
“Of course you can; any berk can use the Tube. You just—”
“It’s not the Tube. I adore the Tube. It’s that my nose is red, my eyes are red, and my hair . . . well, does Edward Scissorhands evoke a good picture?”
“Ah. Right. Saturday, then?”
You gotta love a girl who understands. And I didn’t even have to mention the massive, red Mount St. Helens that erupted on my chin yesterday.
So, back to wallowing in self-pity for another half day. By the time this morning rolled around, I was ready to read the Guardian. The (s)mother’s loving, concerned, nurturing comment as she trotted off to another day of fun and games at the BM? “Take a shower, Catherine. You look like something out of Macbeth.”
Thanks, Ma.
No, really, thanks, Ma.
All of fifteen minutes after I’d reluctantly bathed and clothed my sorry bod, the doorbell went. Now, considering the fact that it’s not really my doorbell and I wasn’t expecting either guests or a care package, I debated not answering it. But I figured it might be Elizabeth, so I hit the intercom.
“Oi!” I’ve always wanted to say that. It’s just so . . . well, cool when people like Elizabeth Sadiq or one of the Weasely twins use it.
“Catherine?”
Voice like velvet? Veddy English, veddy posh? Totally male?
Omigodomigodomigod!
“Will?”
No mirror anywhere near the door. What is the deal with Professor Fungus? Doesn’t she check before she leaves the house in the morning, even if just to make sure she doesn’t have some mold hanging out of her nose?
“Sorry to drop by without ringing, but your mum says you need releasing into the wild.”
I’m torn. Do I love my mum? Or do I consign her to the circle of hell reserved for (s)mothers and gym teachers? Time will tell. In the meantime...
What can be done in the three minutes it takes a virile young Englishman to climb four flights of stairs:
• Zit check and frantic application of heavy coat of concealer (didja know they call zits “spots” and makeup “slap” here?—works for me).
• Equally frantic inner debate on whether eyeliner might not have been a better choice. He couldn’t possibly remember that I don’t have an Eva Mendes-esque mole on my chin. Could he?
• Mental idiot-slap.
• Scan of flat for the best places to sit where I can hide my chin in semidarkness.
• Effect semi-semi-dimness by turning off the two closest lamps.
• Shove Hello! under the sofa, dump the Times (opened and slightly crumpled for that been-read look) on the table.
What can’t:
• Microdermabrasion.
• Streaky caramel highlights.
• Tae Bo.
• A quick skim of Bridget Jones or Pride and Prejudice for helpful hints and clever quips.
Okay. This boy is seriously adorable. (See pix below.) I discovered that, in the semi-semi-dimness, if I kinda squinted, made his straight hair curly and blue eyes brown, he kinda kinda looks like Orlando Bloom. Kinda.
Well, no, as you can see, he looks more like that incredibly suave actor who was in all those old movies with what’s-her-name, but it doesn’t matter either way. He’s gorgeous in his own right.
Turns out he was dropping off some more dusty old family papers at the BM en route to meet a friend for pub grub. Friend canceled, (s)mother mentioned my recovery from pestilence, and so arrived this gallant swain on our doorstep.
He didn’t stare at the zit. (Remember that chin-down, look-up-through-the-lashes look we all practiced to perfection in seventh grade? A modified version is fab for times like these.) He didn’t sit across the room from my pestilence. He didn’t even flinch at the blinding orangeness of the sofa as he sat down. Next to me.
And of course, there’s that loooong minute where I’m thinking of and discarding all the right/wrong things to say, and debating whether to offer him tea (do people under the age of thirty drink tea? do we have any? what if we don’t have bags, but just loose stuff, and I end up serving him sludge?), and trying to keep my chin down and eyes up without looking like a puppy who’s just peed on the rug . . . Then, too, there’s my determination not to say anything, just to ask questions. About him. And what interests him. And to look fascinated with every word he speaks in response.
“Tea?” I blurt.
“No,” he replies, grinning. “Thank you.” Then, after glancing around: “Remind me, whose flat is this?”
So I tell him about the world expert on creeping mold and we agree there is no remedy for the carpeting and then discuss the painting.
“Obviously the artist was a tortured soul,” he says somberly. Not.
“Mad cow disease” slips out before I can decide it’s probably not wise to mention it in the presence of an Englishman who might or might not like hamburgers. Then: “Tea?” And he laughs.
“All right. Let’s have tea. Anyplace you’d especially like to go?”
Anyplace you’d care to take me. “Notting Hill,” I hear myself say. It�
��s cool, Elizabeth called from there, and it’s far enough away that we’ll have to spend at least an hour together.
He smiles approvingly. “Notting Hill it is.” And unfolds all six-foot-something of himself from the sofa. Which means when standing, he’s taller than I am. Like, taller. Which, as you all know from those years when walking around my bedroom with heavy books on my head had nothing to do with posture and everything with losing an inch or two, is a very good thing.
I had no idea, and couldn’t exactly ask, if this little outing is to kill time or is a mission of mercy. And I don’t care. Just call me Time-Killer-Charity-Case. I’m in.
I do love the Tube—the endless escalator rides that make you feel like you’re heading into the center of the earth, the young men with guitars playing 80s covers in the tiled tunnels (Will told me it’s called “busking,” and he flipped a pound coin into the case of the one singing “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me”—maybe because people kept shouting “Yes!” from the platform), the veddy propah voice telling you to “mind the gap” as you step into the train. The sideways rocking of the cars that makes you bump up against the person sitting next to you. I made sure to sit so he was on the nonzit side.
He had one arm slung across the back of the seats, so it wasn’t around my shoulders, but I could feel it if I leaned all the way back. With my chin still down, I noticed his shoes: brown leather oxfords, big, slightly battered, and infinitely classier than the silver-and-black Nikes Adam wears with such pride. And his jeans: faded and soft-looking over his knees and at the crease of his thighs. He wears his clothes like they’re made for him, a totally comfy second skin. Wish I could do that.
Falling in Love with English Boys Page 6
