The Finishing Touches

by Browne, Hester

  Come on, Betsy, I told myself, you never have a problem fixing dates with anyone else. You’re teaching it now, for crying out loud. You’re twenty-seven.

  Jamie wasn’t put off by my hesitating. “You could add it to the syllabus?” His eyes were glinting with amusement. “Just don’t tell me what lesson you’re extrapolating from it.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I smiled goofily instead.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” said Jamie. “Now, can I put you in a taxi back to the Academy? Don’t want you to be late for Afternoon Deportment.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And it’s not Deportment, it’s What Every Woman Needs in Her Drinks Cabinet. With our very own Mark Montgomery, who is, I believe, an expert on single malts.”

  Jamie rolled his eyes in horror. “Let me get you a taxi as soon as possible; you won’t want to miss a minute of that one!”

  I smiled and squeezed his arm again.

  I was going to go back. And I was going to make it work.

  Twenty

  Don’t lend money to friends; it’s the fastest way to break up a friendship (after sleeping with their husbands).

  There were some silver linings to my suddenly unemployed status. Or, as Kathleen put it, when I popped in to tell her and Nancy I’d be staying in London a little while longer, “It’s an ill wind that closes a door and doesn’t open a window.”

  She and Nancy were so keen to hear about my Open Day plans that I couldn’t tell them the real reason I was staying on, because that would mean telling them I worked in a shoe shop, and according to Liv, who was also delighted I’d be around to finish teaching her how to work her slow cooker, from now on I should think of myself as a business consultant.

  “Because you are!” she insisted when I got home and the sparkle of my lunchtime walk with Jamie finally wore off. “Sometimes a total disaster is the best thing that could happen to you. I mean, look at me. This time last month, I was engaged to slimy Finn because I didn’t like to say no after he flew me to Paris for the weekend, and I thought interest rates showed you how popular the bank was, or whatever…Now I’m getting paid to teach posh girls how to buy the right shoes! And you’re living here with me! And even my brother is taking me seriously!”

  “He is?”

  “Yes,” said Liv happily. “He said it’s about time I followed your example. He came into the bar this afternoon and told Igor he should consider making me manager. Igor’s giving me some extra evening shifts to try me out. So that’s great, isn’t it? It’s like Jamie said—if I’m working, I can’t be going out on dates with the wrong man and I’m paying off my credit cards faster.”

  I opened and closed some cupboards in search of supper. Was that my example? Working and not going on dates? “Yes, it is.”

  Liv looked up from her computer, where she was compiling a fantasy shopping basket at Net-A-Porter. I’d changed two digits in her auto-input credit card, so there was no danger of it going through, but she still got the shopping hit; we agreed fantasy outfits were a good way of soothing her tissue-paper cravings, a bit like Nicorette patches.

  “He’s being very helpful at the moment,” she observed. “With the Academy and that. He said he saw you this lunchtime too. That’s twice this week. He’s spending more time there than he is at his own business.” She added a meaningful eyebrow raise.

  “Oh, he’s not daft—probably scoping for new customers,” I said airily, though inside I let myself hope there might be another reason. “Four twenty-first birthday parties, four engagement parties, four ‘look at my new Teacup Chihuahua’ parties…”

  “Oh, yeah. Good point. You two should go into partnership. Is he lending you his picky-woman-pleasing skills for this Open Day?” said Liv, clicking a pair of terrifying high heels into her basket.

  “Mmm.” I found a jar of black truffles, left over from some Fortnum & Mason food parcel Rina had sent her. “He’s set up a journalist to come in next week and do a nice puff piece about being finished, twenty-first-century style.” I paused, jar in hand, as the prospect of that sank in. What if Imogen got wind that I wasn’t actually an etiquette expert? What if she found out I’d just been sacked?

  I looked over at Liv, blissfully adding handbags to her look. “Will you come in too? For some moral support?”

  “Yeah, right, tower of academic strength, that’s me!” said Liv, and then she realized I was serious. “You’re not worried they’ll do a hatchet job, are you? Jamie wouldn’t do that.”

  “He wouldn’t, but you just don’t know. I mentioned the possibility of press coverage to Miss Thorne, and you’d have thought I’d offered the girls to Playboy,” I said, flinching again at the mere memory of the glass-cutting glare she’d given me. “She started going on about discretion and the need to remain exclusive. She just doesn’t get the fact that we have to make people come to this event, to get them to sign up. I think ideally she’d have the girls penning individual missives, then delivering them by horse-drawn carriage.”

  “You’re going to be in the feature, aren’t you?” Liv paused on the jewelry page. “Because, God bless Miss McGregor, but she’s not your cutting-edge life-coach type.”

  I nodded. “Well, that’s the other thing…I thought that if my mother was still somewhere in London, she might read the feature and recognize me, then come to the Open Day. I’ve invited everyone I could find, but the letter didn’t come from me, of course—it came from the desk of Miss Geraldine Thorne. And it’s not like I can enclose a photo of myself in that, is it?”

  “Genius!” Liv tipped her head to one side. “You will let me dress you, though? Because—and I say this as a friend, Bets—any Old Girl’s going to take one look at you in that suit and think, ooh no, that can’t be my baby. I left a child in color, not black and white.”

  “Yes, but I need to look smart and chic and…” I spluttered, but I knew what she meant. I’d been trying to add some more color recently, and my old style was slowly coming back, but I was still miles off the beribboned, becurled, bewilderingly girlie girl I’d been at school. I couldn’t throw off ten years’ simmering identity crisis just like that.

  Liv swiveled the computer round to show me. “This is the kind of thing I had in mind. It’ll make you stand out. Show off your hair.”

  She had picked out a bright blue Marni dress, with a full skirt and neat jacket, finished with killer heels and a clutch bag.

  I gulped. It was gorgeous. “Maybe for the Open Day,” I said.

  Imogen the journalist rang me on Monday morning to confirm that she’d be “popping in” the next day to join the morning’s lessons at the Academy, and I sprang into action to make sure it would be memorable for the right reasons, and not because Anastasia chose that morning to be busted by the traffic warden.

  Mark called round at lunchtime to go through my final plans and also to calm me down with a series of questions about money-saving tips we could be implementing.

  “And don’t take her up to the top floor, because I’m trialing some eco lightbulbs that mean you can’t see the dust but you can’t see the stairs that well either,” he finished. “So, run her itinerary by me again?”

  “Ten o’clock, Imogen arrives. Ten-ten, coffee and biscuits and compliments in library; ten-thirty, chat with Divinity and Clemmy in ballroom about their take on modern elegance. Photos.”

  “Divinity and Clemmy?” He raised his eyebrows. “You’re sure Clemmy can be photographed in daylight? She won’t be invisible?”

  “Of course she can. She’s a perfectly charming girl, Clemmy,” I said. “Once you get past the attitude. Did I tell you I’ve found a flatshare in Brompton Road for her to move into with Divinity next month?”

  Mark put a finger on his chin. “Near the cemetery?”

  “No, near…Oh, stop it.” I flapped my hand at him. “She’s lacking confidence; that’s why she’s so narky all the time. I want to show her that I trust her. That’s why I’ve asked her to do this.”

  “Well,
it’s a risk,” said Mark. “You’re sure you don’t want someone to sit in on them and remind Divinity to take her shades off and her gum out?”

  “No! She’ll do both. Jamie told her to—she listens to him. Moving on. Eleven-thirty, walking in high heels, in the garden.”

  “What?” Mark covered his face. “Now you really are kidding me. Walking in high heels? Seriously? Isn’t there an EU law banning that in finishing schools?”

  I lowered my notes. “I know it sounds bad, but I think it’s a postfeminist skill. No one can do it anymore, because everyone wear Uggs and flats, and it’s something all women should be able to do. You should be able to run in high heels. I learned, when I was a teenager. Came in very useful for work, as it turned out,” I added without thinking.

  Mark frowned, trying to see what on earth that had to do with business management, and I changed the subject quickly. “I learned here, in fact. In that garden. Franny taught me, when I was sixteen.”

  “Didn’t have you down as an expert,” he said. “I haven’t seen you wearing high heels much.”

  “I didn’t realize you noticed that sort of thing,” I said, surprised. Surprised and slightly flattered. “I used to wear them all the time. You don’t lose the knack. It’s like riding a bike—all about balance, and momentum, and proper weight distribution. The right shoes can transform the way you walk.”

  “You’re making it sound like a matter of engineering,” said Mark, his mouth curling up at the edges. “I had no idea it was so scientific.”

  “Well, it is,” I said. I didn’t think this was the time to go into it; I didn’t want to confirm any stereotypes he already had about women and shoes. I looked up at him hopefully. “Next comes reverse parking in the mews. And I need a favor—from you. I’m short of a car, basically, for reversing around. Anastasia’s going to let us use her Porsche, and Miss McGregor’s got her Morris Minor, but I don’t want to risk a random stranger’s vehicle. Not with Divinity on the loose.”

  He looked at me with something approaching horror on his face. “You’re asking me to lend you my pride and joy, the reason I slave away at the coal face of banking every day, for the girls to crash into?”

  “Ah!” I waved my finger at him. “Except they won’t! Because you’ll be in Ana’s car, teaching them not to!”

  “Oh, that’s very good,” said Mark, leaning back and folding his arms. “That’s very good.”

  “Then lunch, then two o’clock, Worst Case Dress Disasters with Liv—you know, what to do if you’re wearing the same as someone else, or if you snap a heel, that sort of thing—finishing with a simple kitchen supper for friends with Kathleen, if Imogen hasn’t run for the hills by then. What do you think?”

  I leaned back in my chair too, and held my breath, waiting for Mark’s reaction. I knew I’d get a genuine response from him. Unlike Jamie, Mark wasn’t good at positive spins—unless they were on a racetrack, I supposed.

  “Betsy,” he said, after an agonizing pause, “you know what?”

  “What?”

  He pushed his glasses up his long nose. “If it wasn’t for the high heels thing, I’d be writing you a check and signing up for next term myself. Actually…”—he tilted his head inquiringly—“how big are your shoes?”

  I nearly burst out laughing. It was the kind of thing Jamie would say, but it wouldn’t be as funny as it sounded coming from Mark, in his checked shirt and cords.

  “No!” I said, and pointed to Franny’s notebook. “A lady never lends her shoes.”

  The next morning, while Imogen interviewed Clemmy and Divinity in the library, Anastasia and I sat in the Lady Hamilton Room with Jamie, trying to imagine what they were saying.

  We were supposed to be having a role-playing lesson about how to get out of a bad date with good grace—starring Jamie as the date from hell, which I could tell Anastasia regarded as something of a stretch—but since Venetia hadn’t turned up, it felt more like sitting in on someone’s disintegrating relationship, and we’d given up.

  Well, Jamie and I had. Anastasia was still quite keen.

  “Where is Venetia?” he asked.

  “Venetia, Venetia,” snarled Anastasia, throwing up her hands. “Must you talk about your ex the whole time we are eating? It is so rrrude.”

  “We’re taking a break, Ana,” I said, and sighed. “I hope she does turn up today—it’s important.”

  Just then Divinity reappeared through the door, her eyes wide. She was wearing a lot of makeup “for the photo shoot,” and had had about six new inches added to her hair. It nearly touched her tiny bottom.

  “Oh, my God, that Imogen is so nice!” she squealed. “I told her everything you said to—about our flatshare and about how we’re stylish but savvy, and she’s just photographing Clemmy by the grand piano in the ballroom.”

  I checked my watch. I needed to get the walking-in-heels lesson under way soon, but without Venetia, the only one of them who ever wore heeled footwear, it could easily go wrong. “Divinity, do you have any idea where Venetia might have got to?” I asked. “It looks pretty bad if there are just the three of you here.”

  Divinity looked a bit embarrassed. “She said she was going out for lunch. With Miss Buchanan. She’s maybe gone early.”

  I glanced at Jamie. “Why’ve they gone out for lunch? Is it a lesson?”

  Anastasia’s eyes widened. “I doubt it. Unless it’s about how not to eat anything.”

  “No,” said Divinity, “it’s a date coaching thing.”

  “What?”

  “Venetia told me she’s got some rich bloke on the go and Miss Buchanan’s giving her tips on what she’ll have to do when she gets married to him. Parties and social life and that.”

  “But I thought that was something you actually learned with Miss Thorne?” I asked curiously. “On the old syllabus.”

  “No, he’s foreign, and political—it’s dead complicated, apparently,” said Divinity. “I don’t know any more than that. Venetia’s right coy about it. Apart from his cash. She’s not coy about that. He’s rolling in it.”

  “We’re not offered this advice,” said Anastasia. “Even though my dad is foreign and very political. And he is spinning in it.”

  “I wouldn’t want those lessons, anyhow.” Divinity chewed her upper lip. “In fact, she told me I should get rid of Matthew. Said he’d never have the earning potential for a proper springboard husband.”

  “And a springboard husband is…?” asked Jamie.

  “A man who launches you into the right kind of circles,” said Clemmy. “He’s your first one. Then you need a concrete husband. To cement you into place.”

  “I have a friend who married a man like that,” agreed Anastasia.

  “Well, I thought it was stupid!” Divinity said. “I told her what you said about company being the important thing, and she said that was why you were still on the shelf.” She looked horrified. “Sorry.”

  “I’m not on the shelf,” I interrupted, very conscious of Jamie sitting next to me. “I’m an independent woman who doesn’t need a man to springboard me anywhere. There’s no such thing as a shelf anymore, for God’s sake! And—”

  “Moving on,” said Jamie smoothly. “Divinity, I’ve taken you out for a drink, but I’ve brought my mother along with me to check you out. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Your mother?” said Anastasia, leaping in and feigning bewilderment. “You are his mother? But you are so young! Surely you are his older sister? You must tell me vhere you got your marrrvelous skin-care routine.”

  Jamie turned to me. “You really are teaching them fast.”

  Jamie had a meeting in town at twelve, so I gave Venetia another ten minutes and then herded the girls into the back garden, leaving Paulette with strict instructions to ring my mobile when Imogen and the photographer were on their way down. I didn’t want any unflattering wobbly shots finding their way into the article.

  “We’re going back to basics,” I told them, un
locking the garage. The old Silver Cross pram was right at the back, looming under a huge dustcover where it had been since I’d last taken my heel-wearing lessons, about ten years ago.

  “God. That’s like something out of the ark,” muttered Divinity as I struggled to get it out. “My car’s smaller than that.”

  “Were you, like, one of those huge babies you see on telly?” marveled Clemmy. “Help, my tot’s a ten-ton toddler? That kind of thing?”

  “No! It’s just been in the family since about 1950. Everything was bigger in the old days. Are you going to give me a hand?” I gasped, dragging it into the garden.

  We stood round it and stared as dust rose from the ancient cloth hood. I gave the handle a tentative shove. It came up to Divinity’s chest, practically, and creaked like a galleon in a high wind.

  “Right, girls,” I said, pushing up the sleeves of my cardigan. “Watch this.”

  I wheeled it to the end of the path, threw my flats into the pram, slipped on my killer heels, and proceeded to push it toward the house.

  “Shoulders back, hips forward, bosom out,” I yelled over my shoulder. “Your hips should be making a figure eight—put one foot in front of the other! Weight on the ball of the foot, not the heel!”

  The pram made it much easier, but I could have done it without. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed wearing heels. I felt lighter, and flirtier, and longer, as if someone were pulling me up through a string attached to my head. My walk bounced. I was facing away from the girls, so they couldn’t see the slow smile that crept over my face as I lifted my gaze to the February sunshine.

  At the end of the path, up by the house, I did a neat three-point turn, spun round on one foot, and started back, this time slightly quicker, with even more wiggle in my walk.

  Anastasia put two fingers in her mouth and gave a deafening whistle, just as my mobile started ringing in my pocket.