The Finishing Touches

by Browne, Hester

  I passed Paulette’s office on the way out and barely registered that she was on the phone. I grabbed my coat from the cloakroom and left.

  Nineteen

  Turn off your phone!

  The air outside was damp, and I pulled my collar up around my neck and set off with my head down against the chill.

  I’d no sooner taken five steps than I bumped into someone heading toward the Academy.

  “So sorry!” I began, stumbling back in full apology mode. “I wasn’t looking—Oh.”

  It was Jamie, standing there in a double-breasted black coat that made him look like he was about to star in a Guy Ritchie film about an old Etonian bank robber.

  “No need to apologize!” he said, throwing his hands in the air in fake surprise. “This is a top street for bumping into well-mannered ladies. I come here a lot.”

  I wasn’t feeling very smiley, but one crept out.

  “Lovely! I was on my way to see you, actually,” he went on.

  I didn’t think I could summon up the necessary lightness of heart to flirt with Jamie right now. “I was just going out for a coffee,” I said.

  “Then let me join you. Do you mind?”

  I shook my head, and we started walking down toward Shepherd’s Market.

  “I’ve been thinking about this Open Day of yours, and what you could do to get bodies through the door,” he said conversationally. “I reckon you just have to get people in, talk to them, and they’ll sign up in droves. You’ve left it too late to advertise, but my old flatmate Charlie runs some listings websites and a daily shopping blog. Huge mailing list, lots of different sorts of people. I know he’d drop some mentions in, if you wanted. If you give me the details, I’ll give him a ring.”

  “Thanks,” I said, surprised and rather touched. I had been worried about how we’d get the word out and hadn’t even mentioned it to Liv yet. Jamie had obviously been thinking about it of his own accord. “That would be great.”

  “And I had lunch the other day with a friend of mine who works at a features desk. Have you met Imogen? She loves the idea of a modern finishing school, and I said I’d float the idea of her writing something about it for the evening paper—brilliant circulation, and exactly your customer base. Imogen’s a real sucker for hints and tips and stuff. Always going on about how to get stains out of shirts. Wine stains, usually. But not always. Quite a fun girl, Imo…”

  That was more like Jamie. I hadn’t met Imogen, but I had a pretty good idea what she’d look like.

  “A friend, eh?” I said, out of habit.

  “From university,” said Jamie, turning his coat collar up so it framed his face. “Anyway, I thought you girls were meant to approve of men with lots of friends. Shows we’re not total bastards.” He looked at me over his collar, and just his eyes were visible. They twinkled at me. “Should I be insulted or flattered that you think every woman I bump into is an ex?”

  “Well, if they’re not already, they will be before long,” I said, resorting to a bantering tone. “It’s just a matter of time and three dinners.”

  I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t really mean it, but we seemed to slip into those roles so easily, and Jamie didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed pretty amused.

  “Maybe it’s just sensible girls I have no effect on,” he mused. “You’ve managed to resist.” Theatrical pause. “So far.”

  “Ah, but I’ve seen the photo of you in your page-boy outfit at your Auntie Breda’s wedding,” I retorted smartly. “It’s a known passion killer.” But my cheeks went hot and I was glad we were walking side by side.

  “So, can I give Imogen your number?” Jamie went on. “I thought you could set up a good photo op, like How to Dress for Your Ex-Boyfriend’s Wedding, or something. You could show them the good-manners outfit, and the get-your-own-back outfit. Ask Liv, she’s done both often enough.”

  I groaned inwardly. The thought of persuading the girls to cooperate in front of a journalist made me feel ill—and that was if it was still worth doing.

  “What now?” Light drops of rain had begun to fall, and Jamie had to increase his pace to keep up with my cross, fast walk.

  “Not a good time,” I said. “I think I might have reached my limit.”

  “With what?”

  “With the girls. With everything.” I stopped walking, suddenly right out of energy. We were in the middle of the street, and Jamie pulled me into a doorway to avoid being crashed into by the pedestrians walking quickly to avoid the drizzle. “They don’t care about what I’m trying to do. They don’t understand about real life, or real problems. And I’ve been sacked.”

  “You? Sacked? By whom?”

  “By Fiona, my boss. In Edinburgh.” I leaned my head back against the red brick wall and closed my eyes. Telling Jamie finally made it real. “She told me to get back today to deal with her crisis; I told her I couldn’t; she told me not to come back at all.”

  “Oh, bad luck,” said Jamie. “But everyone gets sacked at some point. It’s character building.”

  “I’ve never been sacked,” I said sorrowfully.

  “Then you probably weren’t having enough fun at work.” He nudged my arm. “Anyway, haven’t you been bellyaching to Liv for months about getting a new job?”

  “Well…” I was distracted by the idea of Liv discussing my moans with Jamie, and then distracted again that he’d remembered. “Yes.”

  “So there you go. You don’t have to worry about resigning. And you’ve got another job lined up already,” he said reasonably.

  “Where?”

  “Here, you plum! Lord Phillimore’s paying you the going rate for your consultancy, isn’t he? You could either take that cash and go back to Edinburgh and overhaul finishing schools on a professional basis, or you could stay here and teach at the one you’re successfully overhauling now.”

  “If it stays open,” I said morosely.

  Jamie pretended to slap his own head. “Well, what better incentive have you got to make it work?” he demanded. “This is business, Betsy. This is what it’s like. You think that Douglas and I didn’t spend a fortune hiring our friends to pretend to make our free parties look overbooked? You think we started out experts in the art of mass entertainment?” He paused. “Well, obviously, I did, but it took a while to bring Dougie up to speed. The coaching I had to do to get him to stop dancing like his dad…You should see him now, though. He dances like my dad.”

  He waved his hand in front of my face so I had to look at him. “And you’ve danced with my dad, Betsy. If Tom Jones ever needed a shorter, hairier body double…”

  “Sorry,” I said. “It’s just getting…I don’t know. I feel out of my depth.”

  “How?” Jamie seemed genuinely surprised. “You’re a natural at this. You’ve got everything up and running in, what, a few days? I love your lesson ideas—I was telling Imogen, and she couldn’t wait to get her name down for next term.”

  “It’s not just the lessons.” I threw up my hands, not sure if I could put it into words. “It’s everything else. I mean, just going back there’s bringing up all sorts of things I haven’t thought about in years. How bad I felt when I wasn’t allowed to go as a student, because it wasn’t for the likes of me. Having to think about my mother. Wondering who I really am. I mean, I’m not like those girls in there.”

  “Of course you’re not. You’ve got drive and purpose. And determination. And of course you’re about a million times more sensible.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.” I didn’t want Jamie to tell me how sensible I was. The girls had already made me feel like the dullest woman in the world this morning, and to make it worse, sensible women didn’t get sacked by their flaky bosses. Or snogged by Jamie O’Hare. Or anything. We just paid our taxes on time and knew how to change fuses.

  I pushed myself away from the wall and started walking again. “I need coffee, is what I need.”

  “No, you need a walk and a change of air. Weren’t you b
rought up by a proper nanny? Come on, let’s go to the park.”

  Jamie steered me away from Berkeley Square, over the solid traffic on Piccadilly, and into the peaceful stretch of Green Park. The gray skies and chilly weather had kept most of the office workers inside for lunch, and we strolled down the tree-lined avenue almost on our own. I felt better, walking along in silence with him. There was something about the purple crocuses under the trees and the sight of Buckingham Palace and the London Eye rising up over the skyline that distracted me nicely.

  Jamie bought us hot coffee from a stall, and I wrapped my cold fingers around it to keep warm as we headed toward the huge golden statue of Queen Victoria, where tourists were taking holiday photos of the Guards stamping around inside the palace gates.

  “Last time I watched the changing of the Guards at Buckingham Palace, I was five years old and had mittens on a string,” I said as we leaned companionably against a pillar.

  I thought Jamie was going to joke back, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned and looked at me.

  “Don’t give up on this, just because you’ve had one bad day. What you’re doing is genius,” he said. “I wish I’d thought of it myself. You’re selling something everyone wants—secrets. That’s what makes you confident, feeling like you’re in the know. You’ve always had it, when you were at school with Liv. Mum taught Liv how to walk like a model, but you were always the one who looked like you were on a catwalk.” He paused. “You can’t see it yet, because you want everything to be exactly like some vision you’ve got in your head, but give them a few weeks, and I bet those girls will surprise you.”

  He looked meaningfully at me. “They’ll want to be like you.”

  My heart bumped, and I noticed how each gray iris had a bright ring of amber around the outside. Was that what made Jamie’s eyes so piercing? Or maybe it was just the way he was looking at me, as if there were no one else around.

  “Your problem is that you set incredibly high standards,” he went on. “Not for other people—you’re great at helping other people—but for yourself. There’s no point me telling you it’ll work, you’ve got to believe it, instead of assuming the worst.” He prodded my shoulder playfully. “It’s going to be amazing. Stop thinking it won’t.”

  “You’re making it sound so easy.” I hoped I sounded casual, as if I wasn’t buying this flattery, but my voice was unsteady. So were my knees. I groped for something clever to say, but all I could think of was the Guards behind the gate, going through their drill, pitch perfect and absolutely on time, their uniforms glowing in the winter sunshine.

  “You worry too much about being perfect,” he said, still giving me that disconcerting intimate look. “When, actually, a little imperfection is the most attractive thing in a woman. If she doesn’t mind it. I’m sure Franny would have told you that, if you’d asked.” He nodded toward the palace. “Even the Queen has her cereal in Tupperware containers. You think she doesn’t sometimes go ballistic at her corgis?”

  I still couldn’t think of the right thing to say. I didn’t want to be flippant; I didn’t want to be sensible. I wanted to say something that would make Jamie realize I wasn’t just for bantering with, but neither was I some pushover posh girl he picked up at parties.

  Maybe that was a bit too ambitious, in my current state of mind, so I said nothing, which seemed like the best option.

  “Do you want to carry on walking?” he asked, as if he were asking me to dance, and I nodded.

  We strolled back through the deserted park and around the establishment heart of St. James, past more shiny-booted Guards outside Clarence House, then past the old residence of Nell Gwynn—a royal gold digger even Venetia would be proud of—toward the tailors and barbers of Jermyn Street. We’d started back toward Halfmoon Street, through the tall town houses of Mayfair, which hid their modern offices behind graceful balconied façades, when I finally worked out what I wanted to say to Jamie.

  I touched his sleeve, and he stopped walking. “Thanks,” I said. “For listening. And for all your help with lessons and the Open Day and everything. I’m grateful. Really, I am. I couldn’t have got going without you and Liv, and…it means a lot to me that you think it’s working.”

  “You’re welcome. I think it is working. I wish I could make you believe it.”

  We both looked at my fingers, long and white against the navy wool of his overcoat. My red varnish, done the evening Liv and I had watched Pretty Woman and still unchipped, thanks to the oil I’d dropped on it, shone like wet ladybugs. Without thinking, I moved my hand up to his shoulder and squeezed, and then, when that didn’t feel like enough, I lifted my head and pressed my lips against his cheek.

  I don’t know where it came from. It certainly wasn’t very sensible.

  Jamie’s skin had a faint chill, from the rain in the air, but it was smooth against my lips, and without thinking I kissed him again, just to feel it a second time. It was only his cheek, and only a friendly kiss. The rain was falling more heavily now, but I could sense the warmth between our faces as we leaned together for a moment.

  Then I stepped back, surprised at what I’d just done. “Um…”

  “Um?” he repeated. I thought he might arch his eyebrow and make a joke of it, but he didn’t—his expression was less certain than before.

  “Sorry, I-I…” I stammered. My mind went blank, apart from a little voice saying that this would be an excellent Awkward Moment to discuss.

  Jamie broke the tension by reaching into his laptop bag and bringing out a collapsible black umbrella, which he shook out and held over my head.

  “Where’s your umbrella?” he asked. “I thought you carried everything in that bag?”

  “Normally, yes,” I said, flustered. “I must be losing my touch.”

  “Sorry, this isn’t a very big one, if you’ll pardon the expression. Do you mind?” He put his arm around my waist so we could huddle closer together. “I don’t want to get my hair wet, you see. And I’m sure you don’t want to ruin your lovely hairdo either.”

  My hair! I’d almost forgotten: four minutes in rain like this, and my hair turned into ginger cotton candy. I started scrabbling in an inner side pocket of my bag for the emergency plastic rainhood. It was revolting and looked like something Kathleen might wear, but the alternative was too grim to contemplate.

  My fingers closed on the rainhood, and I yanked it out. Clear plastic with big white spots. I hesitated. There was a time when I’d have had a silk scarf in my handbag for this very eventuality, damn it. My life really had gone very practical.

  “If you’re worried about what you look like, it’s only me,” said Jamie good-humoredly. “Don’t forget, I’ve seen you tie yourself up in your own wrap dress after a couple of bottles of champagne. Do you remember Liv’s eighteenth?”

  “No,” I said, tying the hood furiously under my chin. “That wasn’t me. You’re confusing me with another redhead who had an allergic reaction to the canapés.”

  “An allergic reaction to canapés. I’d forgotten.” Jamie put his arm round my waist and hurried me along under the umbrella. “That was a very good night,” he went on, nostalgically. “Do you remember lying on the boat deck after everyone had gone? And how you tried to tell me that the Chelsea and Westminster air ambulance was a shooting star?”

  I did remember. I’d reenacted it nightly in my brain for months after: Ken had hired a boat on the Thames, and right at the end, when we were cruising back toward the dock, Jamie, Liv, and I had crashed out with a bottle of champagne, gazing up at the ink-blue night sky—until Jamie’s girlfriend arrived to drag him to the next party. My replay focused on the feeling of Jamie’s hair very close to my cheek, the smell of his breath. Liv had fallen asleep, or passed out, for ten crucial minutes, in which Jamie and I were technically lying there together, talking rubbish in whispers so as not to wake her.

  We’d stopped walking again.

  “Yes,” I said. “I do remember. You tried to tell me that we were l
ooking up at the Great Typewriter and Orion’s Dustbin.”

  The rain drummed on the umbrella above our heads. It was so small that we were standing almost toe-to-toe. I felt very conscious of my crackling rainhood and of Jamie’s wet woollen coat and his breath mingling with mine.

  I loved that memory because it had been the closest I’d got to being like those lucky girls Jamie swept off their feet. I could feel the wooden deck shifting beneath me as we’d leaned closer to catch each other’s whispers, but even as my fingers were twitching to touch his, a cool voice had warned me that this was how girls went wrong, that this was probably how Hector had tumbled my mother into some romantic clinch that had ended up with me, and all my messy life-ruining consequences. I’d been eighteen—a very young eighteen, still living my life through the elegant rose-tinted world of Franny’s notebooks and Nancy’s romances.

  I’d never know whether Jamie really had tried to kiss me, or if it had just been the boat catching a swell, but I had moved anyway, and the moment had gone, along with the ducks floating past in the dark.

  “I like to think I’m older and wiser now,” he said. I couldn’t quite meet his eye. “If I ever get to lie on a deck on a warm summer night, half-cut, with a beautiful woman suffering from a canapé allergy, I’ll come up with much better made-up constellations.” He paused. “Or not bother with the constellations at all.”

  I couldn’t deal with the sudden change in mood. Was this flirting? Or just friendly teasing? “And if your sister was there?” I asked, and my voice squeaked at the end.

  “I’d chuck her overboard.”

  The rain seemed to be easing up, and for the first time in my life I wished it rained more in London.

  “Can I take you out for supper?” asked Jamie. “Liv’s working on Thursday. I don’t know whether you’re also boycotting men buying you dinner?”

  “Um…”

  I really wanted to say yes, but something held me back. I knew technically what the notebooks would tell me to do—suggest somewhere matey, not datey, to put temptation out of the way—but I was scared that it would live up to my expectations. Scared and a bit thrilled.