The Finishing Touches

by Browne, Hester

  Eighteen

  Pop an Advil before your waxing

  appointment, and the whole experience

  will be a lot less agonizing.

  It was too good to last, of course.

  I woke up too early on Friday morning, with a banging headache, bathed in a cold sweat. I’d been dreaming that I’d gone back to Bellingham Manor, only to find Adele, in a wedding dress, at the front door welcoming guests, none of whom I recognized. She was ticking them off on a clipboard, and when I got nearer I realized that not only wasn’t I on the list, but I’d forgotten to make the three thousand meringue swans for the wedding cake.

  When I got to the Academy, I stomped upstairs to the bursar’s office. The chilly office wasn’t the best place for a girl with a sore head. My tulips had wilted in the Siberian cold, and I could see a pile of bills on Mark’s desk that filled me with fresh dread. I’d barely got my coat off when my mobile rang and added another layer of gloom to the situation: it was Fiona, calling from Edinburgh and my other life.

  My heart sank. She’d phoned me twice while I was cycling. I knew it had to be urgent. She normally didn’t get into the shop before ten, let alone start making calls. I grabbed it and answered in a cheerful, reassuring manner.

  “Hello, Fiona!” I began. “Sorry I couldn’t take your call earlier—”

  “You’ve got to come back this afternoon!” she howled, without preamble. “I’m sorry, but I need you up here. The stockroom’s got mice, and I can’t work this stupid, sodding cash register!” I heard a muffled thud, followed by a mournful bleep.

  “Don’t worry about the register,” I said calmly. “It’s very simple. You need…”

  “No, it’s not simple!” She sounded hysterical. “It’s not simple. It’s new-season time and Maria’s sick and that new girl is pinching stuff and the mice are ruining my spring stock, and I’m here on my own and my kids need me and I need you here! Today!”

  I swallowed. Fiona wasn’t great in a crisis; I’d had to talk her down from several threatened shop closures and spur-of-the-moment sackings before.

  “I’m really, really sorry,” I pleaded, “but I can’t leave yet. I’ll be back as soon as I—”

  Fiona made a scary growling noise and said, “Betsy, if you’re not back here first thing tomorrow morning, then don’t bother coming back at all.”

  “What?” I felt sick. “Fiona, you can’t sack me just like that! I’ve worked for you for four years!”

  “You’re meant to be my rock! I need a manager I can rely on!” she yelled. “Consider this your notice period! You’ve seriously let me down!”

  And she hung up.

  The blood banged in my ears as I tried to take in what had just happened. It felt too surreal. Fiona had sacked me. If I didn’t go back to Edinburgh, I was unemployed.

  Oh, my God. I went hot and cold and a wave of nausea rose up my throat. After everything I’d done for Fiona over the last few years—all right, so I’d abandoned her during the busiest time, and I didn’t know when I was going to be able to go back, but this was important too!

  I hated letting people down, but it was like being torn in four different directions—I couldn’t not let someone down.

  Suddenly I couldn’t bear to be in the Academy, a veritable temple to women who didn’t need to get a job or worry about money unless it was how much to tip their manicurist. I grabbed my coat and ran out to Green Park, where I sat for twenty numb minutes, trying and failing to make a list of what I could do next.

  Of course, I couldn’t sit out there for long.

  For one thing, it was the end of January and it was absolutely freezing, and for another, I could hear Kathleen’s voice reminding me that a problem faced is a solution started. I knew I had to go back and face the music, but unfortunately, the first person I ran into on my way back was Mark, on his way to teach the girls Budgets for Beginners. Being Mark, and fired up with the prospect of passing on his economy hints, he didn’t notice my stunned expression but insisted I come with him to his class for moral support.

  The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me.

  “I’m going to give them both barrels on how they need to get real about money,” he said, clearly relishing the challenge. He’d put on his work suit, to psych himself up, I guessed, although his socks were real bottom-of-the-laundry specials. “I’m glad you’re here, actually. You set them a good example—you don’t mind if I refer to your job in the class, do you? The math degree is great on its own, but the fact that you’ve turned it into a practical career—”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” I said painfully.

  “You’re too modest,” Mark replied, and gave me a smile that I’d have enjoyed on any other day. But today it made me feel even more fraudulent than I already was.

  He opened the door for me so I could go in first, and the girls looked hopeful that the male voice might belong to someone more exciting than the bursar.

  “Oh, it’s just you,” said Clemmy, looking disappointed.

  “Yes, just us,” said Mark, not rising to the bait.

  “No Mr. O’Hare today?” asked Anastasia.

  “No,” I said, more tetchily than I meant to. “Today we’re going to talk about how to be smart about money, which is a surprisingly attractive and useful skill to have these days.”

  “Indeed it is,” said Mark. He slipped off his jacket and took out some notes from his briefcase. “Speaking as a man, what really gets my pulse racing is a woman who understands cars, the stock market, and how hard her money’s working for her.”

  He looked up. “I think you’ll find most hedge-fund managers and millionaires are the same, so you might want to pin your ears back.”

  Venetia took out her silver pen and clicked it, deliberately. It was the first time I’d ever seen her attentive since Liv revealed her secret sample sale mailing lists.

  “Now, contrary to what you might think, the Bank of Daddy isn’t funded by the central government,” said Mark seriously, handing out his pre-prepared sheets. “And one day you might find the cash machines don’t work.”

  Divinity looked stunned and scribbled.

  “Divinity, that’s not literally what might happen,” I said. “Don’t panic.”

  Venetia cast a sly look across the desk to Anastasia, but Anastasia was fiddling with her phone, presumably checking that the Bank of Daddy was still open.

  “Are you two listening?” I said, and their heads jerked up. “Because this has just happened to a friend of mine, and it wasn’t very funny for her.”

  “Venetia was probably wondering, does that include sugar daddies?” inquired Clemmy.

  “Sugar daddies are the first to economize in an economic downturn,” said Mark. “Take it from someone who manages private portfolios. You don’t want to be the economy some married man is making.”

  “Smart girls need a rainy day account for emergencies,” I said hurriedly, before we could get sidetracked onto the career prospects of Other Women. “What sort of emergencies might you want to save up for?”

  “An elopement,” said Divinity. “Or a boob job.”

  “Or a boob job repair job,” added Clemmy.

  “Or a hitman,” said Anastasia.

  “I was thinking more of house repairs, or an operation or something,” I said, feeling the yawning social gap between us yet again. “But it’s always good to have some money in case you find yourself out of work or—”

  It tripped off my tongue, after years of repetition, but I suddenly realized I was talking about myself. Of course I had the recommended three months’ salary in the bank, but that wasn’t going to make me feel less angry or humiliated.

  Mark spotted my choked expression and raised his eyebrows.

  I tried to hide my churning feelings. “The first thing to do,” I said practically, “is to add up everything you spend—rent, food, entertainment, everything—and then see what you can save on, to put into your rainy day fund.”

  Th
ere was a general groan, and Mark added, “It’s not hard. I’ve made these budget sheets for you—you just have to fill them in. We’ll go through it together. Who wants to volunteer to come up here and be the example?”

  Four pairs of eyes immediately glued themselves to their desks, as I could have predicted. Mark, who clearly wasn’t an expert on the female mind, ignored the warning signs. “OK, I’ll pick,” he said, and pointed to the nearest girl—Venetia. “Would you mind?”

  She tried to protest, but the girls bayed their encouragement, and she found herself standing by the board, marker in hand.

  “You’ll all be doing this alongside, so concentrate!” he warned. “Now…how much is your rent, Venetia?”

  “I don’t pay rent.” She tossed her head.

  “Really? Where do you live?” demanded Clemmy.

  “None of your business.”

  “You don’t still live with your mum and dad, do you?” Divinity persisted. “Why didn’t you say? I’d love to live with my mum still. Wouldn’t have to worry about laundry.”

  “I don’t live with my mum and dad!” said Venetia, turning red.

  “Morden, isn’t it?” said Clemmy slyly. “One of those stops right at the end of the Northern Line?”

  I was about to help her by suggesting she make up an amount, knowing how competitive the girls were about things like this, but it was too late. Clemmy had hit a nerve, and the girls were on it like scent hounds.

  “My parents live in Wimbledon!” snapped Venetia. She swallowed and pushed her hand into her mane of tawny extensions. “I spend some of the week there.”

  “Let’s say six hundred a month for rent,” I said quickly. “For the sake of argument.”

  Venetia clenched and unclenched her hands. “Can we move on?”

  “Yes, let’s,” agreed Mark. “Now, utilities, by which I mean heating, lighting, gas, that sort of thing. How much, roughly, do you think you need to set aside for that?”

  “Three thousand pounds?” suggested Divinity, trying to be helpful.

  “No idea!” said Venetia defensively. “What sort of normal person knows that?”

  Even though I could tell she was overplaying it, I still felt annoyed. “All normal people know how much their utilities cost!”

  “I’m not a normal person,” said Venetia, tossing her head. “And I don’t want to be either.”

  “No,” said Clemmy. “You’re an It Girl who lives at home with her mum and dad.”

  “Shut it, Batgirl!” snapped Venetia, and although my annoyance was building, I was curious at the glimpse of something darker beneath Venetia’s smooth expression. She seemed very jumpy all of a sudden. She’d been happy enough to go on about her thousand-pound hair extensions and her waxing regime—why was she being so defensive now?

  “Ladies! Can we concentrate?” demanded Mark.

  I thought that was unlikely, given the electric mood now crackling back and forth. Mark’s determination to wring actual figures out of them was only going to end with some teeth-grinding competition about who spent the most on nothing, and I didn’t think I could face that, not with Fiona’s sacking ringing in my ears.

  I had to engage them, and very quickly.

  “Right,” I said. “We’ll come back to budgets in a minute. First, Fashion Math. Pay attention. This is how you work out the difference between the cost of something and its value to your wardrobe. That one classic LBD you buy at full price for five hundred pounds seems like a lot, but divide it by one wear per month over, say, three years, and suddenly it’s just…thirteen pounds per wear! That’s a low CPW!”

  “So long as you don’t mind vearing the same drrrress so much,” said Anastasia. I think she was trying to be funny, but I wasn’t sure. “I vould get bored.”

  “You accessorize.” I clenched my teeth and turned to Mark for support. He was frowning, his arms crossed.

  “You’ve lost me,” he said. “LBD? CPW?” He looked blank. “Is this advanced math?”

  “Cost per wear,” explained Divinity. “Little black dress.”

  “Ah,” said Mark. “Not really my forte, fashion.”

  “We know,” said Venetia with a sympathetic glance, which I took exception to on Mark’s behalf, though he remained oblivious.

  But at least they seemed to be awake now.

  “Don’t forget the HFC—hidden fashion costs. That sequined dress you snap up in the sale for a hundred quid, reduced from a thousand,” I went on. “Looks like a bargain—or is it? It’s probably been dumped in the sale because the trend’s over, so you have to wear it a lot while it’s still in fashion. First time out, someone spills something on it, you have to take it to a specialist dry cleaner, it costs thirty pounds. You wear it again, someone says, ‘Oh, it’s your signature dress!’ You feel embarrassed, you drink too much, you rip a section of sequins off, more dry cleaning, more repairs, suddenly it’s cost you two hundred pounds—”

  “I had no idea shopping was so complicated,” said Mark.

  “Sequins, cashmere, anything dry clean only—high HFCs,” I said, scribbling on the board. “Now, imagine your dad’s stopped your allowance—how can you save up some money to spend in the sales?”

  “I’d hold my mother to ransom,” said Anastasia. “And get a pig’s ear from the butchers, and—”

  “I’d go to OK! magazine and do a spread,” added Divinity, thinking we were embarking on another role-playing sort of game. “Or go on a reality game show.”

  “I’m not joking,” I said firmly. “Serious now. Any suggestions?”

  There was silence.

  Mark and I exchanged a brief, pained look.

  “Right,” I said. “This is the simple way to save up for your…your boob job. You all bring skinny soya lattes in for breakfast, don’t you? Call it two-fifty per day, multiply it by five, say, thirteen quid, times fifty-two…” The pen squeaked on the whiteboard as I added up.

  “Why fifty-two?” asked Divinity.

  “Weeks of the year,” muttered Clemmy. “On our planet, anyway.”

  “And that’s six hundred and fifty pounds a year,” I finished, circling the total. “That’s without the muffins. Double it for muffins.” I paused, as the penny—pennies—started to drop.

  “Who here gets charged for late payments on their credit cards?” Mark asked. “That’s twelve pounds a time, plus the interest…”

  Fifteen minutes later we stared at the whiteboard, which bore the Possible Painless Savings for disposable umbrellas left in taxis, manicures, and, especially for Anastasia, parking fines. Her parking fines ran into a whole second car.

  “You see?” I said, rather pleased at the results. “You could have a holiday for that, just by doing your own nails and going into three more shops before you make that impulse buy!”

  “I’m depressed just thinking about how much I’ve spent on taxis,” said Clemmy. “I feel like I’ve got a hangover.”

  “Just think how much your hangovers have been costing you,” said Venetia sardonically. “You could have been redirecting that in some decent skin care and investing for your old age.”

  I looked round at their faces and was dismayed to see how cynical they were. This wasn’t the effect I’d been aiming for. I wanted them to feel the buzz I got from being in control of my cash, making it work every month, and knowing I had something to fall back on in an emergency.

  It wasn’t about being mean; it was about being smart.

  “Don’t be depressed! It’s smart to have backup cash,” I said. “You think all those millionaires got rich by frittering money away?”

  “Write it down, then!” said Clemmy in a snippy voice. She wagged her finger and tightened up her face as she blinked to emphasize her words. “Quick, it’s useful! For real life!”

  The girls burst out laughing, then tried to hide their snickers, and I realized Clemmy was doing one of her impressions.

  Then I realized she was doing me.

  “Pennies make pounds!” s
he went on, getting more pinched in the face. “Oh no, wait!” And she flattened her hair down round her cheeks, then whined, “Ask yourself, do I need this bag? How much does it cost, versus how much is it worth?”

  I felt myself go chilly, then hot. Was that how they saw me? Mean and lecturing? And someone to make fun of?

  “You’re not taking any of this seriously, are you?” I asked, and my voice sounded wobbly, even to me.

  No one replied. Venetia and Divinity had the grace to look embarrassed and started fiddling with their notebooks, but Clemmy rolled her eyes and glanced at Anastasia, a familiar gesture that I regret to say only stoked the flames of my temper.

  They might not care where the next venti soya cappuccino had come from, but I’d just lost my job trying to keep this place open! I’d done my best to make these lessons interesting for them, persuaded my friends to help, swallowed my pride, and gone back to a place that I’d promised myself I didn’t need.

  Mark had been right from the start. It was all a total waste of energy.

  They didn’t want to learn any of the things I thought were useful for life. Girls like Divinity or Clemmy didn’t buy houses, they inherited them. They didn’t have to apply for jobs or worry about being sacked. They just wanted to have a good time, all the time. And normal girls, well, weren’t they too busy working to sign up for classes like these? Like I should be?

  I had a sudden, heartbreaking insight: I couldn’t ever make this work because I wasn’t Franny. She was the real deal—a truly confident, socially assured lady—whereas I was a shoe-shop manager trying to re-create something that only really existed in my notebooks, in my child’s eye view of how lovely it would be to be grown up. I couldn’t bring Franny back by teaching modern girls old tricks, and if my mother was anything like these spoiled kids, with no idea of what it meant to do a day’s work, did I really want to find her?

  A dull ache spread through my chest and up into my stomach as every reason for being here slithered between my fingers and trickled away.

  I put the cap back on the board marker and clicked it shut with the palm of my hand. “Over to you, Mark,” I said. “I think you can take things from here.”