Handbag Love was about the only thing the girls and I had in common, and I hoped it might result in some more enthusiastic audience participation than I’d seen so far for Miss McGregor and her fish forks.
As per notebook recommendations, I didn’t give myself time to be nervous outside the Lady Hamilton Room. I thought of Franny, pulled my shoulders back and my spine straight, then breezed straight in, with a cheerful smile masking my nerves.
“Good morning, girls,” I said, making my way to the desk at the front.
To my surprise they were all there, surrounded by Starbucks venti takeout cups and muffins. But instead of lounging at their desks texting, they were gathered around one desk, from which I could make out an impassioned wailing. It sounded like Anastasia, from the violent untranslatable bursts of fury punctuating the yowls.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, hurrying over to the source of the drama. “Are you all right, Anastasia? Is she hurt?”
I directed this question to Clemmy, one step back from the scrum of concern shielding Anastasia from view. She was opportunistically hoovering up the remains of a muffin like an anteater.
“Her Porsche’s been towed,” she revealed. “Left it on a red route once too often. Now it’s in Colliers Wood, and we’re not even sure if that’s in London. Dad’s gone berserk—and he’s in Moscow.”
“My father!” sobbed Anastasia. “If it happened again, he said he vould keel me! And I vill keel the parking varden…” The rest was lost as Divinity and Venetia administered scandalized hugs.
“Why doesn’t she just get a parking permit?” I asked Clemmy. “Surely it’s not that hard, outside her own house?”
Clemmy hoiked up her eyebrows, which she seemed to have stenciled in with charcoal. “Complicated. For legal reasons.”
For a small woman, Anastasia could make a truly bloodcurdling noise. You could have heard her on the steppes.
I thought quickly. “Ana,” I said, raising my voice over the din. “Ana, stop crying. I’m sure we can come to some arrangement about getting you a parking permit registered to this address. There’s space in the garage for you to park there.”
Instantly the howling stopped, the crowd parted, and Anastasia’s sharp face appeared from under her mane of streaky hair. “Really? You could do that for me?”
“Er, yes,” I said. Mark looked like the sort of man who knew about London parking permits, and the garage had been empty since the Academy Bentley had been sold. “We might make a small…administration charge,” I added, thinking about champagne for the Open Day.
Relief swept over Anastasia’s face. “Votever you vant,” she said happily. “It vill be cheaper than this fine! Thank you so much!”
“No problem,” I said. “Happy to help.”
The other girls boggled at me as if it was weird to have anyone listen to one of their problems, much less help them out. I took advantage of their momentary silence to get the first lesson under way before I had time to think about what I’d just promised to do.
“Now then, change of plan,” I said, putting my handbag on the desk. “From today, morning sessions are going to be with me, or with my team of specialist tutors. We’re going to focus on some more modern skills. Things you need to know when you’re out there, living on your own and fending for yourself.”
“Oh, my God!” said Divinity, clapping her hand across her face. Her nails were gold and long, and she nearly took her own eye out. “I am so not going to be able to feed myself! My mum has to come down every weekend and start my dishwasher for me!”
“You’re so lucky,” said Clementine. “I can’t wait to get out of my stupid parents’ stupid house and their stupid rules. Bring it on.”
“Good! That’s really positive, Clemmy. So, first things first!” I said. “Could you put your bags on your desks, please?”
They didn’t need asking twice, and laid their bags reverentially in front of them, tweaking the straps and buckles to their best advantage and casting competitive sideways glances.
Venetia’s was a tiny clutch for credit cards only, whereas Divinity had a Chloe Paddington with a massive lock. Clemmy’s patent leather bag was pocked with chains and studs, and Anastasia’s classic tote seemed to be made from some endangered species. Swan skin, possibly.
“Oh,” said Venetia in a syrupy tone of fake approval, “your Chloe Paddington again, Divinity. It’s so sweet the way you’re such a one-bag girl.”
Divinity beamed, but Clemmy gave Venetia a dirty look. “Better a one-bag girl than a ten-man bag, Venetia.”
I stepped in, terrified that the fragile mood of positivity would vanish before I could start. “They’re all gorgeous! I’m very envious! Now, could you tip them out?”
“What?” Venetia laughed, then her voice turned hard. “No.”
“I ken’t,” said Anastasia. “Not vithout my lawyer.” And she clamped her lips shut.
“Why not, Ana?” asked Divinity. “What have you got in there? A gun?”
“Not in this bag, no,” said Anastasia. “But I have a…” She whispered something into Divinity’s ear, and from the way her eyebrows shot up into her hairline, I decided not to make her share it with the class.
“OK,” I said, trying to sound confident. I didn’t want to lose momentum. “Let’s start with my bag. This morning, we’re going to talk about editing down, so you don’t end up giving yourselves back problems.”
I undid the zip with a flourish and opened it up like a flower. “As you can see, it’s not as big as Divinity’s, but I bet it’s got more in it.”
Venetia’s perfect eyebrow hooked sarcastically. “Oh, who’s that by?” she asked, faking confusion. “I don’t recognize it.”
“The label doesn’t matter; it’s what’s inside that counts,” I said. “Now, the trick is to have bags inside bags, so it’s easy to see what you need straightaway.”
One by one, I unpacked my essentials: silver makeup pouch, mobile bag, notebook, mini umbrella, painkiller-and-breath-mints bag, gold change purse, lilac pencil case, and so on and so on, until the desk was covered with a surprising amount of stuff.
I felt a bit as if I were undressing in front of them—a woman’s bag is, after all, her own private kingdom—but it seemed to have got their attention.
“Oh, my God,” breathed Clemmy when I’d put the final handkerchief down. “It’s like Mary Poppins’s bag with the hatstand.”
The thought of spooky Clemmy revealing her Disney-watching habits was pretty endearing, and the girls’ impressed expressions did boost my confidence. For a moment I felt like a real teacher.
“I’ll be honest,” I admitted. “I took out the same amount of receipts and manky paper tissues before I came.”
“And your spare knickers?” Divinity winked. “Eh? Eh?”
“We’ll come to that,” I said. “Right—let’s make a list of what every girl needs in her bag. What are your must-haves?”
“Shades,” said Venetia and Anastasia at the same time.
“Yes!” I said. “They stop crow’s feet, hold your hair back, and also disguise hangovers and end-of-the-day makeup.”
“And to stop guys eyeing you up in clubs.” Divinity giggled.
“And to stop guys eyeing you up in clubs.” I went back to the board and wrote down shades. “What else?”
“Phone?” said Venetia. “The right phone, of course.” She cast a sideways look at Clemmy, which I guessed was pointed. “If you only have one, it’s much easier.”
I ignored that. I wasn’t going to get into a “how many phones have you got?” discussion with Venetia. “Of course, phone. Has everyone got a taxi number saved in their phone? And two contacts saved under ‘ICE’?”
They looked blank, so I added, “In Case of Emergency, if you’re hit by a car? Or if you pass out in a club?”
Anastasia and Divinity started to scribble.
“Who else should you have in your phone?” I was on a roll now, drawing arrows on the whiteboard.
There had been two pages on this in my notebook: Franny had been very thorough in Crisis Prevention. “Your dentist—I can’t even think with toothache, let alone find old appointment cards—your doctor’s surgery, your local police station, and perhaps the number of the local car pound, too, in case your car mysteriously disappears?”
I glanced at Anastasia as I said that, with a hopeful smile. I was relieved to see her grin back.
“Ebsolutely.” She nodded. “Also AA, in case of…emergencies.”
“Very good.” I wasn’t sure whether she meant the Automobile Association or Alcoholics Anonymous, but didn’t think it was the moment to go into it.
“And one of those crack spring-cleaning squads,” cackled Divinity. “If your parties are anything like mine. Remember the last one, Clemmy? When that friend of yours sledded down my stairs on a suitcase and took out the whole banister and we thought the house was going to collapse? Clemmy? Oi!”
I noticed Clemmy was looking mutinous and tried to involve her.
“Clemmy? What are the essential numbers in your phone?”
She tossed her black hair. “My therapist. And my life coach. And my dad’s secretary.”
“Therapist,” I said, writing it down as if it were normal. Poor Clemmy, I thought. Even if she’s making it up, that’s pretty sad.
“Everyone needs a few key celebrity numbers,” announced Venetia while my back was turned. “To avoid queues at you-know-where.”
“You have not…shut up…” chorused the other girls. I drew another line and wrote important celebrity numbers.
“Of course, if you don’t have real celebrity contacts like Venetia,” I said, “you could make some up. Just make sure your flatmate knows she’s Gwen Stefani this evening. Only, if it’s a real celeb, don’t save them under their real names. Why not?”
Blankness.
“Because if your phone gets stolen?” I opened my eyes wide. “And you only borrowed the number off someone else’s phone, and it gets back to the person in question?”
Divinity looked horrified. “Oh, my God, how did you know?” She glared at Clemmy as Clemmy raised her hands in denial, revealing a new swallow drawn in pen on her palm. “Did you tell? Did you tell her?”
“OK, this is one of my own secret lifesavers,” I interrupted swiftly. “If you’re a terrible drunk-dialer and you’ve got an ex whose number you can’t quite bring yourself to delete, save him under ‘are you sure?’ or ‘trouble’ or something to remind yourself why it’s not a good idea.”
The fidgeting stopped, and they regarded me with curiosity for a moment.
“That is the first useful thing anyone’s told me since I came here,” said Venetia.
“How old are you?” asked Clemmy.
“Twenty-seven,” I said. Ten years older than them, nearly. And didn’t I feel it.
“And you have a lot of exes?” asked Venetia.
“No,” I said. “But I think we’ve all got one problem ex, haven’t we?”
“Divinity,” said Clemmy meaningfully.
“Vhat else?” said Anastasia, clicking her pen impatiently. “Vhat’s in that pink bag?”
“Minimalist makeup,” I said. “Skip mascara; dye your eyelashes. One less thing to worry about when you wake up after a heavy night.”
After half an hour the whiteboard was crammed with arrows and items. We’d talked about:
Multipurpose blusher for disguising hangover skin
Keys, ideally on chain attached to bag to avoid snatching
Purse, also ideally on chain, ditto
Emergency bag: to contain selection of safety pins, Scotch tape, Vaseline for sore heels and cracked lips, gum to prevent snacking
Powder compact for checking teeth and tables behind you
A–Z Guide to “assist” attractive tourists
Diary and/or notebook for ideas and for leaving notes for parking wardens
Two men’s hankies for emergencies (emotional/practical)
Hand cream (for hands and flyaways)
Spare pair of pants, rolled very small
Spare plastic carrier bag rolled even smaller (multiple uses)
It quickly became plain that there was a certain gap between my needs and the girls’.
When I produced my hand sanitizer—“You know that yucky feeling you get on your hands when you’ve been on the tube in summer?”—I could see them trying to imagine.
“I don’t know that yucky feeling,” said Divinity. “The yucky feeling is the reason I don’t go on the tube.”
“Um, what if you’ve had sushi for lunch and there was no miniwipe?” I suggested, and they chorused, “Oh, yeaaaah,” and wrote it down.
They didn’t get my brilliant suggestion about saving up the minis from “gifts with purchase” to downsize their traveling makeup bag either (they weren’t the sort of girls who only shopped when there was an offer), and when I asked what they’d do if they ripped a skirt, the baffled consensus was that they’d go and buy a new one.
But apart from that, it went a lot better than I’d expected. And then it was time for lunch.
“Lunch is going to be in the kitchens today!” I announced as the girls scraped their chairs back and started chatting. “So if you want to make your way downstairs…”
I noticed that Venetia had swanned over to the other side of the room, where she seemed to be checking her immaculate makeup in the reflective glass of a gloomy oil painting of some Victorian Phillimore widow at the same time as she was deftly pulling her butterscotch mane into a messy updo. To my surprise, she then added a pair of spectacles—the type you see secretaries removing prior to untumbling their hair and revealing themselves to be office foxes.
I could tell from the acidic glances Clemmy and Anastasia exchanged that this wasn’t new behavior.
“Going somewhere, Venetia?” asked Clemmy. “Or is this beautification for our benefit?”
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, righ
t.” 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.
Fifteen
Watch out for men who don’t tip in restaurants—tight wallet, tight heart.
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.
The Finishing Touches Page 20
