The Finishing Touches

by Browne, Hester

  My wooden spoon slipped on a rogue bit of porridge at the thought of Jamie impressing me, but I don’t think Liv spotted it.

  “Don’t look a gift steak in the mouth,” I said, then turned round to see if she had any other Jamie details to add. But she was already checking her stars in the magazine.

  “Ooh, I’m coming into an exciting new business opportunity,” she mused. “And you’re…following your heart. It’s the effect of Saturn.”

  “Liv, you can’t take Saturn to the bank when your card gets stopped,” I urged. “Either we add up your budget now, together, before I leave—or you can get your financial advice from Mr. International Party Machine. You know what happened last time you asked his advice.”

  Liv slapped the magazine shut. “OK,” she conceded. “When you put it like that. I’ll get some paper.”

  The coffee and porridge made the math go down much better, and before half past eight we’d covered two sides of paper. Even I felt reassured seeing the figures written down, even if they were kind of terrifying on the “out” side.

  “Oh, my God,” said Liv. “Oh, my God! I had no idea electricity cost that much! I thought it just…flowed. What am I going to do?”

  “Economize.”

  Liv looked at me as if I’d just suggested she levitate.

  “You need fashion math,” I said. “It helps if you imagine how much worse it could be. Always add the money you could be spending but aren’t to the total you’re actively saving—like, I could be driving into work this morning, which would be congestion charge, plus petrol, plus parking.” I scribbled. “That’s nearly twenty quid. If I go on the bus, it’s cheaper, but if I cycle, on that mountain bike gathering dust in the cellar, it’s free. Five times a week saves…?”

  “Over a hundred pounds!” said Liv immediately.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Isn’t that more satisfying than saving twenty? Now work out how much you could be spending getting to work in a cab, and eating out, then how much it’ll cost to walk, with a packed lunch. Just don’t add it to your spending budget,” I added hastily. “It’s not real money.”

  And having left Liv with a calculator and her bills, I dragged the bike out of the cellar and set off to the Academy. It was partly to show I was willing to cut back too—who enjoys saving on their own? It’s worse than solo dieting—but I didn’t mind cycling the few miles from her house to Mayfair. It gave me a chance to examine my brain wave from every possible angle, before I mentioned it to anyone else.

  The thing was, I thought, slowing down for a pedestrian crossing and feeling my ears tingle with the cold air, life didn’t care whether you knew how to use grape scissors. No school could really prepare you for the scary moment when you just had to get on with it. The best you could do was to be gracious on the surface and tough underneath—and believe that you were capable of more than folding napkins into amusing animal shapes.

  I cycled over Chelsea Bridge and down past the smart riverside houses of Cheyne Walk. I didn’t have to go round by Buckingham Palace, but I did, just for the nostalgia of seeing the big golden statue of Queen Victoria, surrounded by tourists even at this hour. After I’d weaved my way down Piccadilly, I wheeled the bicycle into the empty garage behind the main building, where the Academy Bentley was once parked. The oily smell took me right back to when I used to practice royal waves from the car, my chubby legs dangling off the bucket seats, breathing in warm red leather and polished wood.

  Using the spotted old mirror on the door (no surface went unmirrored in the Academy), I did my best to remedy the chronic hat-hair caused by the cycle helmet, and did my BLT checks.

  Buttons, fastened; red Lipstick, unsmeared; Teeth, fresh. Hair, flat.

  Ready.

  Paulette was ready to greet me with a wooden hanger when I went to hang up my coat in the hall.

  “You’ve got pink cheeks!” she said, by way of hello. “Been up to something, have you? Eh?” She added a wink, in case I hadn’t got it.

  “I cycled in,” I explained. “It was a bit farther than I thought. But good exercise! And green!”

  “That’s what Mark says—he cycles in too.” Paulette winked again and shrugged her shoulders so hard that her earring nearly caught in her cardigan. “Though in his case it’ll be to save money, I reckon. He’s one of those types who recycles his own—”

  “Good morning!” I said loudly as the front door was flung open and two girls slouched in.

  I tried to remember which two they were. They weren’t easy to make out, being wrapped up head to toe in quilted coats, fur hats, and Ugg boots, topped off with bug-eye shades. The only difference was that one of them had a fiercely studded black leather tote, and the other had long caramel extensions spilling out from under her fur hood.

  From those small clues, I guessed it was Clemmy and Divinity.

  “By ’eck. It’s cold enough to freeze a girl’s implants out there!” announced Divinity.

  “Really? Have you got implants, Divinity? I thought you might have, because—Ow!” Paulette rubbed her ankle where I’d kicked it, then looked at me. “What? I was only asking.”

  “Yes, but then she might tell you. Far be it from me to step on Miss Thorne’s teaching toes,” I said, “but I think for everyone’s sake, let’s leave body parts out of conversation at least until lunch.”

  “Right,” said Paulette. “I’ll just…make some coffee, shall I?”

  “Lovely. Thank you! Now, good morning, you two!” I held out my hand to the girls and made a snap decision not to tell them I was related to the owners. I wanted them to think I knew what I was doing, at least to start with. I could use my middle name—the one Franny had given me in tribute to the marmalade box.

  “I’m Betsy Cooper!” I said, gripping the floppy hand Divinity half-offered to me in surprise. “I don’t think we were properly introduced yesterday. It’s lovely to meet you. I’m here to look around the Academy and see what’s what.”

  Divinity’s hand remained limply in mine. It felt as if I’d picked up a chicken fillet. Not very nice.

  Introductions had been a day-one lesson in the old days. Franny hadn’t taught an official class, but she made a point of ensuring that each student left the Academy “capable of helping everyone remember her name, from the prime minister to the coat-check girl.” She had me coming up with three conversation starters when I was only five—not to show off, but to learn how to help other people fix your name in their heads in the midst of the confusion of a party. It was old-fashioned, maybe, but helpful to me when I was a nervous freshman. Nothing settled party flutters better than a conversation about what your secret superpower would be.

  Divinity’s hand still wasn’t moving in mine. I squeezed it and gave three firm shakes, smiling as I did it.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I prompted her.

  Clemmy snorted and rolled her eyes skyward.

  Divinity looked surprised that I didn’t know who she was. “I’m Divinity Hogg. With two Gs.” She added a camera-ready smile that revealed the gum behind her sparkling teeth. “Lee Hogg’s daughter?” she added, when my face didn’t register sufficient amazement. “He’s a soccer player. Manchester United.”

  “He’s a player-manager now. For, like, one of the biggest teams in Italy.” Clemmy elaborated as if I had some kind of hearing impairment.

  “He’s on telly all the time,” said Divinity. “As a pundit. Do you not have a television?”

  “Wow! I didn’t realize; how exciting!” I said. “But you’re the person I’m meeting—I’d rather know something about you, not your dad.”

  Divinity looked blank and moved her gum from one side of her mouth to the other.

  “Pretend you’re at a party,” I suggested. “How would you introduce yourself there, if we met?”

  Divinity drew in an enormous breath and bellowed, in a voice designed to carry over the loudest club music system, “I’m from Leeds! I’m auditioning for Big Brother! I want to record
my own single for charity!”

  “That’s…a great goal to have!” I said, fiddling with my ringing ear. I wasn’t sure what the polite response was. She certainly wasn’t going to need much in the way of microphones, anyway. “You’ll have to tell me more about that, Divinity.”

  “Will do!” she bellowed, and winked.

  “Hello.” I held out my hand to Clementine with a fresh smile. “Betsy Cooper.”

  “You said that already,” she said with an equally limp grip, which tightened up noticeably when I increased the pressure from my side and inclined my head, in anticipation of her name. I could feel all her many rings digging into my hand, which served me right.

  “Clementine Worthington,” she added reluctantly.

  “Call her Clemmy; everyone does,” said Divinity. “When we’re not calling her Clammy. Or Glumentine. Or…”

  “Watch it, Div,” Clementine snapped. “I’ve got those camera-phone photos, don’t forget.”

  “Hello, Clementine,” I said. “It’s lovely to meet you too. Are you enjoying your term here?”

  “No. But I’ve been expelled from three schools, and my parents have”—she hooked her fingers in the air—“‘run out of options.’” Clemmy tossed her bangs out of her eyes as if she didn’t care either way. Her hair was even more blue-black than it had been yesterday, and as I looked closer, I saw she had a swallow tattooed between her thumb and first finger. Only a very small one, though, and it looked suspiciously smudged. Almost like it was drawn on in pen.

  “Her dad’s a bishop,” explained Divinity. “Brother’s one of the Vicars to Watch for 2009. They’ve got enough bats knocking around the belfry without her turning up at confirmations dressed like that. What is it your mum does, Clemmy? Spiritual healing with blessed twigs?”

  Clemmy gave her a warning look, and Divinity raised her hands. “Just saying.”

  “I’m a disgrace,” she informed me, staring up from under her bangs, challenging me to be shocked. “Not like my sister, who’s married with about a hundred kids, and my brother, who’s, like she says, a career vicar. I’m the black sheep of the family. I have parishioners praying for me on an hourly basis,” she added morbidly.

  With her sleepy kohl-ringed eyes, Clemmy reminded me more and more of a grumpy raccoon. Quite sweet, really.

  “Three schools?” I tried to look impressed, not disgusted. “Wow. For the same offense each time? Or did you develop a range? All the best people have been expelled from somewhere. My best friend’s brother was expelled for making a profit on the school disco. He does it for a living now, so you never know.”

  Clementine’s mouth drooped, as if that wasn’t the reaction she’d hoped for.

  “Do tell me more later; I’d love to hear the gory details. Anyway!” I said brightly. “Now we’ve been introduced, shouldn’t you be in a class? What’s your first lesson? I don’t want to hold you back.”

  “Cordon Bleu Cookery,” said Divinity. She’d turned quite chatty and offered me some gum, which I turned down on account of a spearmint allergy I’d just made up. “We call it Cordon Bleeeeuurgh because half the class throws up whatever we make. It’s all, like, brandy snaps and crème brûlée and bits of stuff in gelatin.”

  “The kind of thing that your granny serves at Christmas parties,” said Clemmy. “On paper doilies.”

  “Your granny, maybe!” Divinity nudged her and added, for my benefit, “Clem’s granny’s dead posh—she lives in a castle wi’ carpet on the walls. My nan serves up a Cadbury Yule Log and prawn cocktail, even now my mum offers to get the caterers in. Can’t beat a Yule Log, I reckon.”

  “What would you prefer to be making in cookery lessons?” I asked, getting my notebook out.

  “Cocktails!” squealed Divinity.

  “Anything vegetarian,” said Clemmy.

  “And organic,” added Divinity. “I get rashes if I eat too much dairy. Detoxes would be good.”

  “But food you can cook yourself?” I suggested. “And a seduction supper if you want to win a man through his stomach? And something for when you’re on a diet, or needing cheering up? What about a simple dinner party you can throw together for some friends, or for when you get back from a club and you’re starving?”

  “Or when if your battery’s dead and you can’t get the delivery number?” suggested Clemmy sarcastically.

  “Exactly,” I said, ignoring the sarcasm.

  “I’d like to be able to do a Sunday roast like my other nanna does,” said Divinity wistfully. “Yorkshire puddings and gravy and that. All the trimmings.”

  “That’s a great suggestion,” I said, scribbling. I’d have to hold Kathleen back from teaching a Sunday roast. And what red-blooded man could resist a girl who could whip up a dish of crisp roast potatoes? “I need lots of feedback from you, so don’t hold back—tell me everything you’d like to know, OK?”

  I smiled and, without thinking, Divinity and Clemmy smiled back. For a second they looked like a perfectly charming pair of girls, not scary fashionista rich kids at all.

  Then Clemmy looked shocked at the strange sensation in her facial muscles and reverted to looking like she was concealing a bat under her quilted coat prior to biting its head off at the first opportunity.

  The Cookery class was held downstairs in the house, in a side room off the old kitchens that took up most of the basement. When the house was the first Phillimores’ London residence, there’d been marble-lined ice rooms and game cupboards and tens of kitchen maids and cooks in various ranks, all slaving to turn out elaborate dinner parties, and more servants to wash it all up afterward.

  Two hundred years later, the high-ceilinged rooms echoed sadly, and the huge ovens sat silent and cold. I peered into one of the kitchens, where big KitchenAid mixers were hidden in plastic covers. I used to love watching the goings-on in the Cordon Bleu classes, where the girls learned to make lumpy cheddar cheese straws in preparation for jolly chalet-girl jobs, and gossiped about their dates…

  “Are you all right?” said Divinity, and I realized I’d stopped in the doorway.

  I gave myself a good shake.

  “I’m fine, thank you!” I said. “Just thinking what a shame it is not to be using these facilities. There must be something Miss Thorne could be doing with the space.”

  “Tanning beds? Or a hair salon?” suggested Divinity. “I want to be a top stylist when I leave here. You get to travel a lot, and get free stuff from designers. And I want to get my own perfume line too.”

  At least Divinity had an ambition, I thought. That was a start. On the way downstairs we’d established that her mother had sent her to the Academy to learn how to behave nicely in case her dad was made a UN Goodwill Ambassador when he retired from international football, and she wanted to be a celebrity in her own right too. Clemmy chewed her lip and remained silent.

  “Have you had any lessons about styling?” I asked. “Advice about what to wear when, that sort of thing? Dressing up your good points, hiding anything you don’t like?”

  Clemmy gave me a pitying look as she pushed open the door to the Cordon Bleu kitchen. “Yeah. If you want to go around looking like some old granny. But then, what do I know? Nothing I wear’s ever right.”

  “Unless you’re going to a wake,” added Divinity helpfully.

  I decided it was better not to answer that and ushered them into the class. The Cookery class involved the creation of meringue swans, which Mrs. Angell insisted could be used to carry place cards at dinner parties.

  Venetia made some perfunctory efforts, but Clemmy decided to pipe gruesome meringue rats, and Anastasia finished early and spent the remainder of the lesson selecting a new ringtone for her mobile.

  It wasn’t remotely useful—apart from the hour it gave me to make notes and sketch out ideas for new lessons.

  When the girls stampeded from the building for coffee and cigarettes, I took the opportunity to slip up the stairs to the bursar’s office, in search of more covert information. If any
one asked, I was looking for details of any marketing the Academy had done recently, but what I really wanted to get my hands on were Nell Howard’s contact details and, ideally, the missing photograph.

  Climbing up three flights of stairs all day was certainly going to get me fit, I thought, catching my breath at the top of the moth-eaten landing. Mark Montgomery’s office door was closed, and I knocked, though I didn’t expect a reply—if Mark only came in once in a blue moon, thanks to that full-time job in the City he was so keen for me to know about, it would be ages before he reappeared.

  Hearing nothing, I slipped in and shuddered as the hairs sprang to attention along my arm. I’d been in fridges warmer than the upper floors of this house, and Mark clearly turned off every radiator as he left the room, along with the lights and possibly even the spare oxygen. I pulled my green cardigan tighter around me and headed to the filing cabinets, which I was relieved to find weren’t locked.

  To be honest, I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for as I riffled through the manila folders or, indeed, what I would say to Nell Howard once I did find her details and ring her for a cozy chat. But if Mark Montgomery was planning to advise Lord Phillimore to sell up, I didn’t really have time to worry about the polite way of doing things.

  My fingers flicked through files marked Floral Decoration, Ski trips/Austria, Ski trips/France, and Guidelines for Divorced Parents. Some of the files looked so old they might as well have been written in copperplate, and most of them contained ancient heating bills in pounds, shillings, and pence, or typewritten letters about overdue fees. Nothing remotely scandalous or interesting—although what did I expect in the bursar’s office? Presumably anything juicy would be in Miss Thorne’s files, and I didn’t want to ask her.

  Frustrated, and with time ticking away until Miss McGregor’s napkin-folding class began downstairs, I chewed my lip, then had a flash of inspiration. The invitation list for the memorial service—Nell Howard would be on that! And I’d seen something about that with the unpaid bills on Mark’s desk the previous day…