The Finishing Touches

by Browne, Hester

  This was hopeless. What I needed was to find Nell Howard’s phone number from the records. Get some proper information instead of hunting through the history of deportment in pictures—

  “Can I help you?” asked a man’s voice, and I jumped and spun round.

  It was the man from the reception—the bursar. Mark Montgomery.

  I only recognized him from the wire-rimmed glasses and tense expression. Instead of the formal suit he’d had on at the memorial, today he was wearing a tweedy jacket with a gray pullover underneath and a pair of dark green cords, and he looked much more comfortable. I could definitely see the wholesome porridge oats commercial now. All he needed was a faithful spaniel by his side and he’d be the perfect country vet.

  Stop imagining, I told myself. I spotted a sheaf of papers in his hand, some of them bills, and my own stomach tensed. Mark seemed agitated too—his dark hair was ruffled, as if he’d been running his hands through it. Now that I looked more closely, I could see it was thick and wiry. He must have made quite an effort to get it so flat before.

  “Sorry, have we met?” he asked, peering at me. “I feel like we’ve met somewhere before.”

  Jamie would have made that comment sound like the cheesiest chat-up line ever, and probably used the opportunity to lean up against the wall, but the way Mark said it, he sounded worried, as if he should know. His mouth twitched.

  He had a good mouth for a man—quite wide, not too full, tilting down sardonically at the ends.

  “Yes!” I said. “I was about to come looking for you. Betsy Phillimore? We met at the reception.”

  “Of course,” he said, tilting his head with a brief smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Miss Phillimore, the famous business guru turned sandwich maker.”

  At once I started to feel a bit flustered. Miss Thorne wouldn’t know a consultant if she was bitten by one, but Mark Montgomery the accountant would. “Um, yes. Well, no. Not sandwiches today, I hope! I’m just here to take a look around and advise on…” My brain went blank as he looked at me expectantly. Again, all I could think of was Fiona’s shoe shop. “Advise on getting a good fit between customer and curriculum. Polish everything up. Weatherproof it for this tricky…season.”

  Mark raised his eyebrows as if I were a bit mad. “Season?”

  “I mean, financial climate.”

  There was a distinctly unladylike cackle of laughter from the direction of the Literary Appreciation class.

  “Oh, my God, I’ll kill that tattooist! I said a porpoise! Not a tortoise!” Divinity’s anguished howl was probably audible back in Leeds.

  “Shall we go to my office?” Mark sighed. “You can only hear a delightfully dull roar from the girls up there.”

  I followed him up the back stairs to the second floor, where the offices were—Nancy’s old matron’s room and the other secretary’s office, now empty of course. In fact, it seemed that only Mark ever came up here, from the way it had been left to return to nature. By the time we reached the upper landing, the wrought-iron pansies in the banisters were gray with dust, not gold gilt, and the cobwebs draped over the portraits were like something from a Halloween shop. I half expected to find crows perching on the banisters.

  “When was the last time this place was spring cleaned?” I asked, unable to stop myself. “Or are you running some kind of spider sanctuary?”

  “Ha ha,” said Mark. He pushed open his office door, which still had COL. J.C.P. MONTGOMERY, BURSAR on it, left over from his father’s time, and let me go through first. “If I had money for cleaners, do you think I’d have just spent the last hour debating with Miss Thorne about whether to pay the electricity bill or the lawyers?”

  “And which did she choose?” I hoped my voice didn’t sound too ironic.

  His dark eyes met mine over the edge of his glasses and his mouth turned up at one corner, as if he wouldn’t normally be sharing this particular information. “Neither, since you ask. She’d already spent the money paying the taxi company. But she’s made a list of things we can sell, so that’s OK.”

  “Oh, really?” I said. “Is that up to her?”

  “No.” Mark closed the door behind him and shrugged off his tweed jacket. I realized why he was wearing such an outdoorsy selection of clothes; though the classrooms were warm, it was virtually subzero up here. “So you want to stick your nose in the books, do you?”

  “Please.” I tried to sound cheerful. “I always say, get the worst thing over first and everything else is easy.”

  He slung his jacket over a chair, started rummaging in the filing cabinet, and said, over his shoulder, “I should warn you, it’s not a pretty sight.”

  I wondered whether he was talking about his office or the accounts. If Miss Thorne’s study was an essay in elegance, no such expense had been lavished on the bursar’s office. Files and papers were stacked on every available surface, apart from the large oak desk, which was perfectly clear except for a thin laptop, a silver vase of scarlet tulips, and a calculator on the red leather top. It gave the impression that someone had just shoved everything off with one furious sweep of the arm.

  “They’re not my tulips,” he said, catching me looking. “Someone puts them there every other morning. Tells you everything you need to know about this school’s away-with-the-fairies attitude to economy, if you ask me.”

  I wondered who was putting flowers on his desk. Then I wondered why he didn’t wonder. What sort of man didn’t wonder that? Well, maybe men didn’t.

  “Oh, I disagree,” I said. “You only need three or four; they look cheerful and last for ages. Good value for money, for flowers.” I thought of the enormous display of fake lilies downstairs in the foyer—and the air freshener. “Better to have nice plants, though. They last longer.”

  Mark snorted. “Would you like to tell Miss Thorne that? When the flower budget’s bigger than the insurance budget and no one will listen to a word a qualified accountant says, you have to wonder what the hell’s going on.” He stopped riffling through papers and looked at me. There was a directness about his expression that made me feel oddly warm in the chilly room. “Please, sit down. I think you’ll need to, if we’re going to be talking about the finances.”

  He gestured toward the library chair opposite his, and I dusted it with my hand before perching on the edge and getting my notebook out to buy myself a moment to compose myself—again.

  “So,” I said, clicking my pen. “What’s the situation? Be honest.”

  Mark took off his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “In layman’s terms?”

  I bristled at that. I’d already had my outfit and my manners assessed today. My brain wasn’t something I was worried about, though.

  “If it makes it easier for you,” I said. “But I’ve got a math degree. I can do really hard sums. Often without using my fingers.”

  Mark had the grace to look apologetic. More surprised than apologetic, actually.

  “Sorry,” he said with a remorseful smile that made him seem younger than his tweed jacket. “I’ve gotten rather used to talking to Miss Thorne. She doesn’t think nice girls sully themselves discussing money.”

  “This one does,” I said. “And I reckon the girls downstairs aren’t afraid to either.”

  “Fine. Good. I won’t sugarcoat it; the Academy’s on the last lap,” he said, rustling through some papers. “There’s no money coming in for next year, because for some inexplicable reason, we have absolutely no takers for the Running a Stately Home course, and the trust is down to loose change. I’ve advised Lord Phillimore that it would make sense to sell the house and, if they absolutely have to carry on with this finishing school, buy somewhere smaller. In—I don’t know—in the suburbs or somewhere.” He found the document he was looking for and pushed it across the desk.

  I picked it up, and my fingertips brushed against his. Mark pulled his hand away quickly. “But, if you want my professional opinion, and it’s amazing how little anyone cares about tha
t round here, I think he should sell, period. Finishing schools have been a ridiculous anachronism since before the war.”

  My attention was immediately distracted from the faint tingle in my fingertips and the beginnings of a blush on his cheeks.

  Sell the house? Give up the Academy, just like that? It sounded so much more real, coming from a complete stranger. And if it was sold, that was the end of my investigations, even before they’d begun! I couldn’t stop a huff of shock escaping my nose, and he spotted it at once.

  “You don’t think Lord Phillimore should sell?” He looked at me in a direct way. “Or you think we should still be teaching flower arranging to grown women?”

  I tried to keep my face neutral. I didn’t want him to think I was letting my emotional connection to the place cloud my professional judgment.

  Supposed professional judgment.

  “Well, surely there are things we could try before selling up or moving?” I suggested. “The location is what makes a place like this. It’s part of old London. I bet Anastasia’s dad wouldn’t have sent her if the Phillimore Academy was in Streatham.”

  Mark swung in his chair avoiding my gaze. “Listen, I understand. It’s always hard when a property like this goes out of the family. But we won’t undersell it, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll make sure you’re not done out of your inheritance.”

  Was he suggesting that I was in this for the house? My neutral expression started to melt. “This isn’t about any inheritance,” I said hotly, putting my hands on the desk so he turned back to face me. When our eyes met, I flinched at how challenging his expression was, but I held my ground. “I’m not here because of any money. This is about keeping something alive that’s been in the Phillimore family for years. Something that my…my mother cared deeply about. I know it’s got its problems, but I’m sure we can put our heads together and come up with new measures to—”

  Mark raised a hand and interrupted me. He seemed more weary than cross. “Betsy, I appreciate what you’re saying, but if you’re trying to tell me that there’s a market for finishing schools in this day and age, you’re talking to the wrong man.” He folded his arms over his chest and tipped his head to one side. “Shall we put our cards on the table here? I think it’s terrible. Insulting. Encouraging girls to think there’s nothing more to life than folding napkins and making themselves pretty—for God’s sake! What next? Spinet lessons?”

  “I’m not saying things have to stay exactly as they are—” I began, but he hadn’t finished.

  “I’ve tried to suggest updated courses, like house buying or managing their not inconsiderable allowances, for instance, but Miss Thorne insists that it’s not what they’re here to learn.”

  “And what are they here for?” I asked. “I wish someone would tell me.”

  “To turn into the ideal wee wifey? But what would I know? I mean, I’m just a man.” He lifted his palms, and I got the feeling we were actually agreeing, not arguing at all. “That’s what we should be looking for in a girl—napkin folding. Not smart budgeting, or funny conversation.” Mark stopped, self-consciously, as if he’d said too much. “Anyway, I don’t know if it’s worth it anyway—not a single one of those girls downstairs has the first idea what goes on in the real world,” he went on, pushing a hand into his dark hair and making it stick up even further. “Forgive me if I’m being tactless here, but I’m amazed at just how bloody normal you are. I was expecting Management Barbie, but you’re the first Academy graduate I’ve met who makes any sense at all.”

  “I didn’t go!” I nearly yelled, almost missing the backhanded compliment. “You must be the only person here who doesn’t know that!”

  “Oh.” He looked surprised. “I assumed…”

  Maybe I had overreacted, but he’d touched a raw nerve. “What? You assumed I’d just waltz in here and start telling you what to do? No!” I snapped. “I’ve got real business experience, and more than that, I want to do everything I can to keep this place open, because I promised Lord Phillimore that I would try. I’m not here to catch you out, or take over; I’m just here to help him. If I can’t think of anything, then we can discuss selling the house. But not until I’ve tried.”

  Up to that moment I hadn’t realized how strongly I wanted to do that, and I realized I was pounding the desk for emphasis. Mark was looking at me rather differently. He sat back in his office chair and folded his arms, waiting to see what I would say next.

  It occurred to me that experienced management consultants probably didn’t pound the desk in meetings. Not so soon, anyway.

  “Have you got a brochure there?” I asked, trying to modulate my voice. “I think I should have a look at how the Academy’s marketing itself. And last year’s accounts too.”

  I watched him as he opened and closed drawers, pushing up the sleeves of his gray cashmere sweater as he muttered to himself about filing. There was a different atmosphere in the room now—as if we’d edged tentatively into each other’s confidence. He’d been a bit too honest with me; I’d been a bit too honest with him. But it felt all right, as if we might actually be on the same wavelength.

  At least this was one man who wouldn’t be put off by my geeky math degree, I thought, noticing the frayed collar of his checked shirt. Mark didn’t seem like a man who bothered too much with clothes. That sweater, though—it looked like a Christmas present from a girlfriend…

  “Here.” I jolted back to attention as he passed a glossy brochure over the desk, along with a clear plastic file of neatly typed figures. “Don’t read it while you’re drinking coffee.”

  Now that he wasn’t looking cross, Mark really wasn’t bad-looking, in a bookish way. The glasses were cute, and I admired the way he was more concerned about Lord P than about upsetting Miss Thorne, whom he clearly didn’t have much time for. We had that in common too. He just seemed quite…exasperated about things.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because you might find yourself spitting it all over the place.” The corner of his sardonic mouth lifted. It was a boyish smile. “I understand that’s terrible table manners.”

  Mark had been right to warn me about the coffee. I read the brochure over lunch, in the Pret A Manger round the corner, and I nearly scalded my tongue on my cappuccino with shock.

  The brochure was unbelievably awful. I stopped being surprised at the paltry four students enrolled, because frankly I was amazed they’d even got four. It was expensively printed, on glossy paper, with no vulgar mention of prices, but the text was weird and dated, as if it hadn’t been changed since Franny’s day. Since before then, even. Under Miss Thorne’s new management, the Academy seemed to have gone backward into the England that existed only in period dramas where everyone talked in tebbly, tebbly clipped eccents and had impassioned clinches next to steam locomotives.

  No manners are more prized than those of the English lady, someone (Miss Thorne, presumably) had written, beneath a photograph of a girl in three strands of pearls trying to choose between hats—one like a loo-roll cover with frills and a larger one that looked more like a flattened cabbage—while Miss Thorne lurked instructively in the background. I thought they were hats, anyway. The Phillimore Academy prides itself on taking the girl and handing back a lady who can comport herself with style and grace in the highest echelons of society.

  I wasn’t sure how that related to the awkward photographs of more pearled-up girls sharing some hilarious joke over a porcelain tea service while Miss Thorne looked on with approval and a very smooth brow. They were all sitting with their knees super-glued together in a Las Vegas hotel version of the Palace of Versailles. Or possibly teatime at Madame Tussauds.

  We will endeavour to equip our students with every charm necessary for a challenging and socially inspiring life, it went on, underneath a picture of a model pretending to read Madame Bovary, as if she’d never actually held a book before, while another model pretended to talk on an old telephone that wasn’t connected to anythin
g. I didn’t know whom she was talking to. Wallis Simpson?

  The courses, when they were finally listed, were infuriatingly vague. “Everything a lady might need to know”? In 1980, maybe, if she lived in a Bavarian castle surrounded only by bishops, with nothing to do all day but arrange après-ski parties and make needlepoint cushions. Formal dinner settings, engaging household staff, “chalet cuisine”…There was some vague reference to “life presentation” and “letter writing,” but otherwise it was as if email, female emancipation, and budget air travel hadn’t been invented.

  I’d solved math equations made up solely of numbers and Greek squiggles, but I couldn’t make head or tail of the Academy’s prospectus. What was protocol? What did personal ethics mean? Why did Miss Thorne think that hovering in the back of each shot like an etiquette policeman was anything but sinister?

  I sat back in my chair and stared in dismay at the brochure propped up against my sandwich. To think I’d spent the best part of my adult life feeling swizzed that I hadn’t been allowed to take lessons in how to drink a cup of tea. At least, I thought that was what the assembled etiquette-bots were doing in the illustration.

  Had it always been like this? I wondered glumly. The fascinating secrets I remembered Franny dishing out like sweets, things that made me long to be grown-up enough to test them out…was it really just this? I wouldn’t have wanted this.

  I tossed my empty cup and sandwich box into the bin and walked back down Piccadilly. The sun had gone in, but I hardly noticed.

  I couldn’t even sneak back up to the bursar’s office to go through the files, because Miss Thorne grabbed me as I came in and insisted that I attend her own personal class: Conversation.

  Conversation wasn’t really the point, it seemed—well, not as I knew it. Miss Thorne’s tactic was to teach the girls how to stop any conversation dead in its tracks if it started to veer off the appropriate lines. So I sat, listening to her block any comments about gossip, celebs, illness, politics, television, and tattoos—on which the girls were surprisingly entertaining—and counting down the minutes until I could drop in on Kathleen and Nancy for some moral support and a dose of reality.