The Finishing Touches

by Browne, Hester

  “Good morrrrrning,” purred Anastasia, and the others murmured behind her.

  “Today we’re going to do something very practical. I hope none of you are camera shy?” he went on. “Betsy, could you adjust the curtains, please?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The curtains.” He nodded toward the dusty green velvet curtains. “I need to cut the lights.”

  I wasn’t sure that the curtains wouldn’t collapse in a shower of mold and moths, but I walked over to the windows anyway.

  “Oh, my God!” squeaked Divinity. “Is this like…Introduction to Glamour Modeling?” She looked more thrilled than horrified. “I don’t mind doing a bikini calendar, but anything else has to be totally tasteful!”

  “No!” I said, coughing as ten-year-old dust puffed straight down my throat. “No, it is not.” I gave Jamie a nervous look. He hadn’t quite explained what it was he was going to teach, just that it was “useful party skills.”

  “How’s my technical expert getting on?” He glanced over to Liv, who was trying to plug her digital camera into his laptop. I went over to help her. Jamie had requested an improbable amount of technology for his lesson, including a projector that he’d “borrowed” from work and, fortunately for Liv, insisted on setting up himself.

  “Fine,” said Liv. “Just don’t go too quickly.”

  “I never go too quickly,” said Jamie with a cheeky grin, and my heart sank. I really didn’t want him to tease the girls. They were already cackling like a bunch of oversexed geese.

  “Are we ready?” he asked, and the girls squealed, “Yeeeesss!” as if they were in some cheesy Ibiza club.

  “Oh, God,” Liv moaned under her breath. “Brace yourself. He’s got his Charm Trousers on.”

  “OK. Recognize this?” Jamie demanded, and clicked the mouse on his laptop.

  A huge blow-up of Catherine Zeta-Jones stuffing wedding cake in her mouth appeared on the white wall.

  The girls gasped in shock.

  So did I. “Where did you get that?” I demanded. “Wasn’t that under injunction?”

  “Private collection,” said Jamie smoothly. “Or how about this?”

  He clicked again, and this time Britney Spears and her knickerless undercarriage emerging from the back of a car filled the wall. The girls shrieked.

  “Oh, my God,” I said. I’d never seen that without the tasteful black squares.

  “Blimey,” said Liv. “Shouldn’t that be in the personal grooming class?”

  “Or this?” A quick sequence of Paris Hilton, Tony Blair, and Beyoncé Knowles at a variety of parties flashed up. All three were frozen in that peculiar “my leg’s gone to sleep and I’m playing an invisible trumpet” pose that happens when you’re letting your hair down on the dance floor, unaware that someone is standing by with a camera.

  I felt my stomach shrink in recognition. I was a terrible “pointer” after a few beers. Most New Year’s Eve party albums featured me apparently directing Italian traffic. I sincerely hoped Jamie wasn’t going to start fishing through his own personal photographs for examples.

  “Always remember—the camera is like that best friend you don’t quite trust,” Jamie said in a deep movie-trailer tone. “Handle her right, and she will reward you with flattering images you can use for up to ten years before anyone questions their accuracy. Treat her recklessly, and you will forever be known as ‘the girl with all the chins.’ Everyone, whether they’re appearing in Hello! magazine with their new nose, or just appearing in their own passport, needs to know…how to look good in photographs.”

  Even in the dim light I could see Divinity’s face register shock, and then intense desire to learn.

  “Do you think this is Jamie’s ultimate fantasy?” Liv murmured. “Telling socialites what to think, in a darkened room, while they stare at him like he’s the second coming?”

  “Of course, you can go too far the other way,” Jamie went on, and clicked again on his laptop. “You work out what suits you and then you do it again, and again and again, until it looks like you’ve got some kind of mild paralysis…” As he spoke, a series of Identi-Kit images of Liz Hurley at Premieres Through the Ages whizzed past, in which she was doing the same left leg forward, chest out, hand on hip, dress slashed to the thigh pose. Even at someone else’s wedding, for God’s sake.

  “That’s a classic pose,” said Venetia. “It makes your leg look longer and thinner.”

  “It makes her look like she’s dying for the loo, more like,” said Clemmy.

  “What we need to achieve is something in between,” said Jamie. “Something apparently natural but totally rehearsed from every angle, and something you can do the second you see a camera. You want to walk into a party, throw your pose at the snappers at exactly the same time as you say, ‘OK, that’s your lot,’ and move on, before they work out who you are. Gets you snapped every time.”

  “Oh, my God, this is so useful!” said Divinity.

  “The best way to look good in photos is to be in photos, and that’s what we’re going to work on today, with the help of Olivia O’Hare, top fashion photographer.”

  The girls swiveled to stare at me and Liv. I could see their teeth and diamonds shining in the semidarkness and, in Divinity’s case, a flash of white gum.

  “Hey! Gum out,” said Jamie. “Bit of flash on that and you’ll look like you’re wearing a mouth guard.”

  She had it out and stuck under the desk in a flash, which was quite impressive since she’d resisted all my attempts to remove it on human rights grounds.

  “Can we have some light, please?” Jamie asked, waving at me and beckoning at Liv.

  I made a sarcastic aye-aye salute and opened a curtain. Liv moved nervously to the front of the class with her camera, but at least she looked like a fashion photographer, in head-to-toe black and silver.

  “Before we start, some do’s and don’ts for party pics,” he said. “Do delete any photo of yourself with a double chin, red eyes, or sweat stains—takes a second, and it builds a reputation for photogenic-ness. Do assume that where there are people, there are cameras.”

  “And don’t we know that, Anastasia,” muttered Clemmy.

  “You say press intrusion, I say five grand from the News of the Vorld,” said Anastasia. “Those loos vere in a public area.”

  “Do powder your nose and your forehead unless you want to look like a Star Trek monster, and by that I don’t mean any other kind of powder,” he went on, with an arch look. “If you needed any other reason to say no, you might want to consider this.”

  He added a brief and possibly libelous flurry of celebrity shots on the projector, featuring gurning, bad dancing, coked-up pointing, and several nosebleeds. “As someone very famous assured me just last night, you can’t take it back to the stylist once you’ve bled on it. Never let anyone photograph you from below, never do a full-on face shot if you can help it, and, as you can see here, when people tell you to dance as if no one is looking, ignore them. There is always someone looking. Now, shall we make a start?”

  Jamie’s advice turned out to be surprisingly practical. “Put tin foil on your knee for passport photos so you’ve got your own reflector” was just one tip I found myself sneaking into my notebook. He also made the girls take it in turns to be photographed by Liv, in “a variety of event situations,” which they rehearsed with glee and then critiqued freely on the projector.

  Venetia excelled at the red-carpet poses, being very good at sticking out her long legs and feigning open-mouthed excitement.

  Clemmy was less good at the wedding style shots, but that might have been because the mere thought of a cathedral made her scowl. (“Remember to aim for serene at weddings,” said Jamie. “You don’t want to upstage the bride, but don’t let yourself be caught looking miserable, or else everyone’ll think you’ve got a Bridget Jones complex.”)

  Divinity was a natural in front of Liv’s camera, which she modestly put down to her already celebrity lifestyle, and she
even ran through her range of expressions. “When we had our new pool put in, we sold the photos to OK!” she confided to us. “I did ‘thrilled with my new life in Madrid,’ and ‘proud of my superstar dad,’ and ‘having fun with my sister, Brooke.’” She demonstrated, and even Jamie had to agree you could definitely see the different emotions there.

  Anastasia was “fierce.” Not so much in the Tyra Banks sense of the word, but just…scary. Liv photographed her around the ballroom, trying to make her seem soft and romantic, but she just looked as if she were about to tie someone to a chair and cut off their ear in every single shot.

  I had worried that Jamie’s advice would be a bit, well, leery, but he was kind, and honest. All those years of picking through party photos had obviously armed him with more knowledge than I had given him credit for, and he was gentle about the girls’ pictures, concentrating on their good points, and ignoring the fact that Clemmy’s nose stud looked like a giant spot, and Divinity had a thing about the left side of her face that made her contort herself into grotesque shapes to avoid it being photographed.

  “How do you know all this stuff?” Anastasia demanded while Venetia was posing for “a very upmarket newspaper interview about my life” (hand on chin, eyes focused on middle distance, knees together). I could tell Liv was only pretending to take photos now. “You are very expert.”

  “Oh, just experience,” said Jamie. “I organize a lot of private parties, and I like to make sure that if someone’s paying me to throw the night of their lives, they’ve got fabulous photos to show for it. All part of the service.” He grinned, and I saw Divinity melt in her seat. “And if that means maneuvering the hostess into more flattering lighting, then yes, I have been known to pick her up and carry her three feet to the left.”

  “Do you do celeb parties?” asked Divinity. “I would love to see your address book.”

  “Well, play your cards right, and I could get you on a guest list or two…” He looked at me. “How about a field trip? I could throw in some wine-tasting, Olivia here could advise you on making sure your underwear’s invisible, you could offer your inimitable take on brushing off unsuitable men—”

  “Vhen can ve go?” demanded Anastasia. “Dates!”

  “Yes! Can we bring dates?” asked Divinity.

  “I’m not sure Miss Thorne would allow that,” I said faintly.

  Jamie carried on, looking very serious, although his twinkling eyes undermined whatever credible expert look he was going for. “You can’t beat practical experience in being unimpressed by parties. I could arrange something, no problem. I mean, I know it’s tempting, but you’ve got to avoid being photographed with a star, even for your Facebook page,” he said to Divinity. “They’re always going to be thinner than you, and they’re always going to have more makeup. Even the men. The trick is to be having such a great time in your own corner that they want to get over there with you. Then be photographed with them from afar.”

  “Can ve?” Anastasia’s eyes were pleading, like a very wealthy puppy. “Please?”

  A field trip to the next vodka launch—under the care of me and Jamie. I could see it all going horribly, horribly wrong, and my attempt to save the place ending up in the tackier reaches of the gutter press.

  “If the Open Day goes well,” I said, feeling like someone’s mum.

  I’d never seen the girls so rapt or quiet, and their pens were positively flying over their notebooks.

  Jamie left just before one, promising to return the following week with tips on getting a party kicking off, but not so much that it kicked over the top and turned into a riot.

  Hormonal twittering broke out as soon as he and Liv were out of the door, and I was glad, for his ego’s sake, that he wasn’t there to hear it.

  “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmiGOD!” squawked Divinity, flapping her hands as if her sleeves were on fire. “He is, like, the cutest man I have ever, ever seen! He is totally hot!”

  “Jamie is very hendsome,” agreed Anastasia. She looked flushed, and uncharacteristically distracted. “And very knowledgeable.”

  “He’s quite hot,” said Venetia. “For a young guy.”

  Clementine nodded furiously. “Yeah. He’s hot for any kind of guy.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “That was appalling! I mean, the lesson was great, but he was being a terrible flirt!”

  “No, he wasn’t! He was just being nice.” Divinity’s eyes were wide with adoration. “He said I had a gorgeously expressive face. He does proper compliments, that one.”

  “He does that!” I said, forgetting I wasn’t really meant to know him. “You should see him at parties—he’s always being followed around by adoring women. It’s like he’s leading his own conga line.”

  They all turned to look at me, and I detected a new emotion in the air. Was that…admiration?

  “Is he your ex?” asked Clementine.

  “Jamie? I mean, Mr. O’Hare?” I said. “No, he’s not.”

  “Bit quick,” said Clementine. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I am.” I could feel the color flooding my cheeks; even the slightest blush made me look like a Victorian maiden who’d accidentally walked into a nudist colony. I was about to tell the girls that Jamie was my best friend’s brother when I realized that advertising the fact that proper teachers were now a bit thin on the ground and they were paying for the thoughts of random friends probably wasn’t the best look.

  “Mouth is speaking, eyes are lying,” observed Anastasia. “As we say in the old country.”

  “So you do know him, then?” Divinity persisted, her eyes sparkling with gossip. “How? Where from?”

  The girls might have been a bit slow on the uptake with basic housekeeping, but when it came to potential gossip, they were a bunch of police sniffer dogs.

  “He’s…he’s a business associate,” I said. Near enough.

  “He’s far too cute to be a businessman,” scoffed Venetia. “And he was wearing a really nice watch.”

  “Watches aren’t everything,” I said, trying to change the subject. “You’re better off judging a man by his shoes than his watch.”

  “Why?” demanded Divinity.

  “Isn’t it time for lunch?” I tried, suddenly keen for the lesson to end.

  Venetia and Anastasia immediately snapped their mobiles open and headed for the door, but Divinity and Clemmy hung back.

  “What can I do for you two?” I asked. “Please don’t tell me you want homework from Mr. O’Hare. He’d be too flattered for words.”

  Divinity gave Clemmy a shove. “Go on. I told you, she’ll know what to do. She sorted out my date with Matt, didn’t she?”

  “Did it go OK?” I asked, pleased. I’d been wondering how things had worked out but not known how to ask.

  Divinity said nothing, but shyly showed me a new Tiffany heart, among the three she already wore.

  Clemmy rolled her eyes and made a puking noise.

  “Oh, don’t be so mean.” Divinity put her hands on her hips. “Right. Clem’s got a problem. She’s homeless. She’s not talking to her mum. What can she do?”

  “Homeless?”

  “I’m not…” Clemmy glowered at Divinity, then said to me, in a sulky monotone, “I had a party, right, while my parents were at some synod, and I put it on my website? And more people came than I invited, like, only about fifty more, or something, and…OK, a few things got smashed. But nothing, like, historical or anything.”

  “They’ve got a posting to Namibia, and they’ve banned her from coming with them!” Divinity blurted out.

  “I didn’t want to go anyway!”

  “And they won’t talk to her! Or let her stay in their flat on her own! What’s she meant to do?” Divinity spread her hands dramatically, as if she were acting out Clemmy’s dilemma for a West End musical.

  “She finds a flatshare,” I said. “Doesn’t she?”

  “How?” muttered Clemmy. “I’ve never…I’ve never had to do anything like that. What if
I don’t like the people? What if I get, like, ripped off?”

  She was staring at the floor, but I could see she wasn’t quite as belligerent as before. Under all the eyeliner she looked scared, and I felt rather sorry for her, even if she had just trashed her mum and dad’s house. People just turned up at parties; you couldn’t stop them. There was a fine line between looking popular and calling the police from the loo.

  “It’s not so hard,” I said soothingly. “You just need to go through the papers and talk to some flatshare agencies about houses in the areas you like, and…” I stopped, as the incomprehension turned into plain fear on her face. “Would you like some help?”

  Clemmy nodded, then remembered to look surly.

  “But what about her mum?” Divinity went on, with another dramatic gesture. “She’s grounded her! And banned her from wearing makeup within a mile of the diocese! Which is, like, against her human rights! Even for a bishop’s daughter!”

  “Clemmy, I’ve had disaster parties, and this is what I’d do, if I were you,” I said. “First, I’d write your mum a letter, on proper notepaper, and say you’re really sorry. Over and over again. It’ll mean more than flowers. And then I’d find a cleaning company and book them to do a blitz on the place. Then I’d look on the bright side—living on your own’s fantastic!”

  I patted her arm. “Bring me the evening paper and Time Out after this afternoon’s lesson, and I’ll give you a hand. I bet you a tenner she’ll beg you to come home the moment she thinks you’re actually moving out. Then you can choose!”

  “See? Easy.” Divinity folded a new stick of gum into her mouth. “Cheers, Betsy. That’s ace.”

  “Yeah, cheers. Got to go,” said Clemmy. They slunk toward the door, but after Divinity went through, Clemmy turned back and gave me a quick, shy smile. It changed her face entirely, showing her white teeth and crinkling her eyes up.

  “Thank you very much,” she said, just like the polite bishop’s daughter she was underneath, then slid out.

  I felt something warm spreading through my chest, and I realized it might actually be job satisfaction.