“Was I out of order just then? I was,” she said. “Sorry. It was really insensitive, to go on at you, about work and stuff, when you’re only just back from the memorial. I just thought…well, helping out and stuff—isn’t it what Franny would want? You saving their bacon by being practical and smart?”
“I know,” I said. “But that doesn’t actually make me feel better. It just makes me wish I’d told her the truth before…before she…”
Liv grabbed my hand as my eyes filled, and I went on quickly. “There is…another reason why I said I’d go back to the Academy. But it’s completely secret, and you can’t let on to a soul. Not even Nancy or Kathleen. I might…” My stomach felt quite fluttery, saying it aloud. “I might have found someone who knows who my mother might have been. Be.” I told her what Nell Howard had said about the 1980 glamour girls and their out-of-control aristo boyfriends. “I didn’t get a chance to ask her any more. She’d left. But I can get her address from the office, I bet. If I go back…”
“You’re going to trace your mother, finally! I always knew you were seriously posh underneath!” said Liv breathlessly. “Abandoned by a cad in a Miami Vice jacket! Or a top hat and tails! That is like a romance novel! Nancy’s going to be thrilled!”
“Yeah, well, don’t get carried away—it doesn’t sound like any of the girls were exactly Mother Superior material,” I said. “And don’t tell anyone just yet. I’m not sure how Nancy and Kathleen would feel about me looking. I don’t want them thinking I’m going to trace my parents and abandon them. Neither of them have families, you know, apart from me.”
“As if! Oh, you definitely have to go back now,” said Liv. “I need to know how it ends.”
“This isn’t a detective novel,” I said faintly. “It’s not going to be Lord Farquhar in the billiard room with a candlestick and Miss Scarlett. This is my life.”
“I know. I’ve been there for the last fifteen years, watching you pretend you’re not really interested. It’s been the longest trailer in existence.” Liv pointed a chopstick at me. “I will do everything I can to help you.”
I looked at her over the crowded table.
“In that case, you can start by not pointing your chopsticks,” I said, helping myself to sweet and sour pork balls. “It’s the height of rudeness.”
Five
If you’re wearing very high heels, fishnets are easier to walk in than sheer stockings because they slip less inside the shoe. They’re also far more eye-catching.
As soon as I got back to Edinburgh, I bit the bullet and asked Fiona for ten days off.
Fiona was about as calm as a shop owner in the end throes of January sales could be, i.e., she couldn’t speak for five minutes, and when she did, it was in tiny squeaks punctuated by wild gestures toward the cash register. However, when I explained what I was going back to do—save a finishing school from ruin using only my math degree and my glass-polishing tips—she gave me a look that clearly said, You’re checking into rehab, aren’t you? I didn’t need to add anything else, and she even pressed a pair of black patent-leather pumps into my hands, “for luck.”
I spent the rest of the week reading what I could find about modern finishing schools on the internet. There wasn’t very much. That didn’t surprise me, because for one thing, who on earth needed to be taught manners anymore? And for another, surely the whole point of social coaching was to give the impression that you’d always been so poised and elegant, not that you’d bought your manners. Besides, Miss Thorne didn’t seem to be the type to embrace the technological age. No one needed to email a bishop.
The night before I flew down to London, I watched every episode of The Apprentice that I could find on YouTube. Then I hauled every navy item of clothing out of my wardrobe and practiced scraping my curls into a sort of bun until I looked almost severe. I packed some Georgette Heyer romances to read on the plane for etiquette and some Post-its that I’d borrowed from the shop stationery drawer for efficient note taking.
And I packed another notebook, a smaller one that I could sneak into my bag, for taking covert notes. On the first page, I’d written, Nell Howard’s phone number?
At half past nine the following Monday morning, after catching the first Edinburgh–Heathrow flight, I stepped bleary-eyed out of Green Park underground station and onto Piccadilly, with its bright sales signs and coffee shops glinting in the winter sunshine.
As I passed a café full of suits queueing for their morning espressos, I checked myself out in the glass: my outfit, at least, looked convincing. I was wearing a fitted wool suit I’d bought from Hobbs in one of my “proper job” application phases, with my best crisp white shirt and Fiona’s sympathy-gift shoes. Over my arm, as the key “finishing touch,” was my big leather handbag. It was a properly expensive bag, a Christmas present to myself, and it was postbox red. Franny said that red was a neutral when it came to bags and shoes, and I couldn’t wear the color anywhere near my hair without looking like Ronald McDonald.
I turned down Halfmoon Street, where the shadows cast everything into black and white, and while I was still admiring the sun streaming through the iron railings, I came face-to-face with the lion’s head knocker on the door of number 34, and suddenly my confidence deserted me.
I hadn’t actually rehearsed what I was going to say. For some stupid romantic reason, I’d imagined the right words would just pop into my head, and now all I could hear in my head was the Britney Spears tune blaring out of the coffee shop on the corner.
Just get on with it, I told myself sternly, and rapped the brass ring hard against the door before I could think twice. Then I stepped back and took a deep breath as I distracted myself with details.
The Academy hadn’t got any cleaner since the previous week. The murky windows were positively spooky, and next to the discreet smartness of the town houses on either side, the house had the look of a mad old aunt with wild ivy hair and slept-in makeup flaking off the windows.
The door was yanked open, and I took a step back.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m just about to move it!” It was Paulette, the girl with the pixie crop from the reception—the one who’d let the cat out of the bag about the budget. Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes darted back and forth as if she half expected someone else to leap out from behind me.
I held out my hand and tried to say hello, but she was talking and casting worried glances up the street at the same time, while blocking me from entering the house. “I know you’ve spoken to Ana about it before, but I don’t think they have parking restrictions where she lives in Moscow.”
“I’m not here about any parking,” I said. “I’m here to speak to—”
Paulette looked confused, then looked aghast. “You’re not a bailiff, are you?”
Bailiffs? How bad had things gotten here?
“No, I have an appointment with Miss Thorne,” I said, extending my hand again. “She’s expecting me.” I paused, in case she didn’t recognize me. My hair was tied back so hard I’d given myself a mini face-lift. “We met briefly at the memorial service here, last week, but I don’t think we were properly introduced. Is it Paulette? I’m Betsy Phillimore.”
Paulette clapped both hands to the sides of her face, dragging her chipmunk cheeks down in horror. “Oh, my God! You’re the orphan who the Phillimores took in off the steps! The ginger love child!”
“Well, yes,” I said, because none of that was technically untrue.
“And now you’re some kind of consultant busybody type who’s come here to kick everyone’s arse! Like on television!”
“No! I mean, no, it’s really not that…” I tried again. “I’m just here to have a look around and a chat with Miss Thorne. Can I come in, please?”
As I stepped inside, I tried not to let the shock of familiarity undo the cool, collected image I was working hard to present. It still felt strange, being in the Academy again as an adult, and my first impressions were a mix of nostalgia and fresh curiosity. Without
the crush of ladies reminiscing about the good old days, the empty hall seemed much more “Monday morning”—echoing and somewhat chilly.
I noticed Paulette was wearing two pullovers and very thick tights beneath her tweed skirt, as well as her regulation single string of pearls. She didn’t give the impression that either the pearls or the tweed skirt was her first-choice attire.
“Would you like a cup of…No, hang on, I should let Miss Thorne know you’re…” Her forehead creased. “She’s not at her best first thing. I’d leave it half an hour if I were you, give her time to digest her croissant and sweeten herself up. Coffee?”
“Yes, I’d love a cup,” I said, smiling as reassuringly as I could. “Why don’t you let Miss Thorne know I’m here, and I’ll wait in the reception room?” And have a snoop about, I added to myself.
“Good idea,” Paulette agreed, and, without realizing, she let me direct her through the hall toward the headmistress’s office, a large room toward the back of the house.
As we clicked our way across the black-and-white tiles, my eyes flitted from portrait to portrait, sweeping around for clues to why the Academy was in such dire straits. The pedestal plant holders still trailed ivy down the magnificent staircase, but I spotted cobwebs veiling the higher chandeliers. Next to the old grandfather clock was the museum-piece vacuum cleaner with a fraying power cord and a suspiciously waxy arrangement of out-of-season roses dumped in a large urn.
I stopped, pretending to inspect the oil painting of the first Lady Phillimore but really so I could take a deeper breath. The Academy smelled almost as I remembered, but not quite. Something was slightly off.
I closed my eyes and rolled the different components around my nose like a wine taster. Beeswax wood polish. Old books. Several toxically clashing perfumes—Chanel No. 5, always a favorite; a new one that smelled like loo cleaner; some vanilla body oil. There was always one girl with a vanilla smell. But that potpourri—it wasn’t right. When Franny had been in charge, the entrance hall had smelled of garden flowers—roses, peonies, sweet peas. This smelled stale and slightly…pine fresh.
I spotted a telltale air freshener half-hidden behind the urn of roses on the sideboard. They were fake. And not even good-quality fakes! And the air freshener wasn’t even hidden!
Paulette had stopped a few feet away from the office door and dropped her voice conspiratorially.
“Now, just so you know, Miss Thorne’s got a dental appointment this afternoon, so she might be in one of her moods. Abscesses, you know. From all the mints, I’d say. It’s like an addiction.”
“Paulette,” I said, dropping my voice too. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but does Miss Thorne know you’re telling me about her abscesses? She always used to tell the students that the best secretaries have secrets in them—does she still say that?”
“What? No. Are you sure you’re not an inspector?” Paulette gazed up at me like a puppy who’s done something unpleasant on a shoe you’ve just put on. “I didn’t mean to apply for the secretary’s job,” she confessed in a rush. “I thought this was a hotel. No one even checked my references! Oh, bloody hell. I shouldn’t have said that either, should I?”
I gave her a reassuring pat. “Don’t worry; it’s fine.”
But she hadn’t finished. “Please don’t tell her what I said about the traffic wardens. I’m not meant to be covering up for Anastasia, but she’s had them round here twice this month, and she won’t listen to me when I tell her she needs to sort it out, and her dad’s quite big in the Russian Mafia. She says.”
“I won’t,” I promised. Oh, my God, I thought, my voice spiraling into a squawk in my head, what’s going on here?
I reminded myself that at least it would make a good story to tell Liv. In the meantime, I had to start small.
“Now. Can I give you my coat? Great! Do you have any wooden hangers?” I guided Paulette gently to the cloakroom. “They’re much better for the shape than metal ones…No? OK, don’t worry about it now; I’ll find you some later. Great! Now, if you could tell Miss Thorne? Give us both time to check our lipstick…”
Paulette flashed me a quick, grateful smile, which made her seem about twelve, and rushed off.
While she was busy in the principal’s office, I did the old Phillimore BLT check (Buttons, fastened; Lipstick, fresh; Teeth, clean), then pulled myself up to full height, filled my lungs, and tried to breathe out slowly. Miss Thorne had known me since I was little—what on earth did I have to get het up about? Besides, I now knew she had abscesses and a mint imperial addiction.
And then Paulette was back, looking flushed. “I’ll get the coffee,” she said, ushering me through, and I knocked on the white door of the principal’s office.
After a count of four, a voice trilled “Enter!” from within, and I entered.
I didn’t have a strong memory of the principal’s office, since it had always been Miss Vanderbilt’s domain and I’d never had cause—good or bad—to be summoned to it.
It had once been a drawing room and was painted in Wedgwood blue, with one wall taken up by a full-length bookshelf and another by a pair of French windows that led into the enclosed garden, where students were supposed to cultivate herbs and definitely not sunbathe.
Dominating the far end of the room was a massive antique desk, behind which Miss Thorne was just visible in her sugar-pink cashmere ensemble. Her white hair was set like swirls of whipped cream around her doll-like face, with a triple string of pearls balanced beneath on a shelflike bust. There was no computer in sight, only a silver desk set, three Art Deco Rolodexes, and a Limoges bowl full of mint imperials.
Miss Thorne looked up as I stepped into the room, and her expression of welcome had just the right amount of pleasure and surprise. She didn’t rise as I approached the desk, my hand at the ready for shaking, but instead added a flourishing signature to some document and pressed an old-fashioned blotter over it.
I felt as if I’d wandered uninvited into a state opening of Parliament. Immediately, I felt too tall, too clumsy, and in all the wrong clothes. The thick pile carpet was almost impossible to walk on in my new slippy-soled high heels, and I was terrified I’d slip and go tumbling over her desk.
“Elizabeth!” she said. “Do have a seat. You’ve caught me finishing some letters—would you excuse me a moment?”
“Of course,” I said, retracting my hand self-consciously and taking a seat in the spindly chair opposite. My accent had shifted a few postcodes nearer to Buckingham Palace. “Am I early?”
“Ohh, no, no. Well. Maybe by just a moment or two.”
I am not, I thought. I knew I was dead on time, because I always was. Punctuality, as I’d had drilled into my infant brain, was the politeness of princes.
Miss Thorne certainly wasn’t as friendly as she had been at Franny’s memorial tea. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt: I wasn’t so great before my morning coffee either, and if I didn’t write things down, I’d forget my own head.
While she carried on scribbling, I smoothed down my skirt, put my bag down by my side, and scanned the room discreetly for any photos of a 1980-ish vintage. Miss Thorne’s office was full of silver-framed portraits of old girls, on the walls and propped up on the bookshelves. Dear Miss Vanderbilt, with much love, Ninks Harrington (nee Featherstonehaugh!!!!) xxx read the nearest, scrawled in a round hand over a photo of a jolly brunette posing with her feet splayed in the Deportment class’s classic photograph position (standing). She was proudly holding a baby who already looked like a merchant banker, in front of a Range Rover parked outside a large house, with two black Labradors at her feet.
Mid-eighties, from the peplum and shoulder pads. Too late.
I kept looking, trying not to make my tilted head seem too obvious: it seemed to be a theme, squeezing all your worldly goods into one photo—ball gowns, tiaras, yachts, and in one case, a helicopter featured, as did teeth, well-applied makeup, and a faraway expression, as if the real photographer were standing som
ewhere to the left of the one taking the picture. I was surprised to see one graduation photograph, positioned almost out of sight, and then realized it was my own.
“So sorry! Now! How lovely to see you again so soon, Elizabeth,” said Miss Thorne, a smile lighting up her soft cheeks as she clicked her fountain pen shut.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s so nice to be back, and see so much is just as I remember it.”
“Although you were never actually a pupil here, were you? Strictly speaking.”
I was somewhat caught off balance by that. “Well, no,” I admitted. “Not strictly speaking. But, you know, I spent so much of my childhood around the teachers and girls here that—”
“Yes.” Miss Thorne’s smile became more rigid. “You always were sitting in the classes, weren’t you? And running up and down the corridors.”
Was she being friendly, I wondered, or was that rude? But Miss Thorne wasn’t finished.
“And playing in the beauty studio. And getting in and out of that practice car as if you were at a premiere.”
I could feel my face getting pink and reminded myself that the girls had loved having me around, and the teachers never complained. I counted to five in my head and tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, as Nancy would. But Miss Thorne carried on smiling in that strange indulgent way, as if she had been determined to put me in my place right from the moment I’d sat down.
What on earth had Lord Phillimore told her about my visit to put her back up so much? I wondered. Had he embroidered my already overembroidered credentials? What was I doing now, working for the Bank of England?
All I could do was be polite, I reminded myself. Put a good, thick coat of manners over everything.
“Well, it was quite a few years ago now!” I said. “So much has changed, hasn’t it?”
“Dear me, yes.” Miss Thorne nodded, but in a way that made me wonder if she was actually answering a different question.
I unclipped my handbag and removed my leather-bound notebook and pen, ready to take notes. It gave me a moment to get a grip.
The Finishing Touches Page 7
