by Gill Paul
‘Thank you,’ she said, pursing her lips. She didn’t want to talk about Jacques, not yet. She was on vacation and planned to enjoy it to the full – once she had caught up on sleep.
‘You look exhausted, my dear. The journey must have taken it out of you.’ His concern was touching.
Coming back into the room, Wallis overheard. ‘Why don’t we change into tea gowns for an informal dinner? Then you can fall straight into bed afterwards.’
‘Won’t it look incongruous, with Ernest in white tie and us in tea gowns?’
‘Nonsense. We don’t stand on ceremony,’ Ernest assured her.
The maid had already unpacked Mary’s clothes and she found her tea gown and changed. She ate dinner quickly, while Wallis toyed with her food and relayed to Ernest some gossip she had heard that afternoon.
As soon as the dessert dishes had been cleared, Mary made her excuses. She blinked when she contemplated the bed in the guest room: a circular white satin one with rose-pink sheets. But the mattress was comfortable and she was asleep as soon as she closed her eyes.
Next morning, Wallis came to sit on Mary’s bed as she sipped a cup of tea brought by the maid.
‘It’s wonderful to have you here. It feels just like the old days when I stayed over at your folks’ house and we chatted in our pyjamas about boys and decided what we were looking for in our ideal husbands.’
‘Did you find all the qualities you wanted in husband number two?’ Mary asked.
‘Isn’t he a dear?’ Wallis smiled. ‘Such an English eccentric. I do love his funny ways. You’ll see him in the evenings and at weekends, but I have a hectic schedule lined up for our days: lunch at the Ritz today, then KTs are at ours tonight. I do like hosting cocktail hour.’
She got up and opened the wardrobe door to look through the clothes Mary had brought. ‘Do you only have three evening gowns? We’ll have to get you more.’
‘I was hoping not to spend too much, Wallie.’ Jacques had taken a job in real estate after his insurance business went bust in the Wall Street Crash, but people weren’t buying many new properties in the uncertain times. ‘I’m on a shoestring.’
Wallis was looking critically at her suits. ‘They wear a different silhouette here: slim on the hips with a long slender jacket.’
Mary, whose hips were decidedly not slim, asked, ‘Does it really matter? All your friends know I’m a hick from hicksville.’
‘Of course not. I’ll swallow my pride and appear in public with you all the same,’ Wallis teased. ‘Actually, I’m jealous that you don’t have the slightest hint of a wrinkle and not a single grey hair. You are positively blooming. We’ll be fighting off the men when they hear you are free.’
‘Why bother fighting?’ Mary retorted blithely.
Suddenly Wallis flung herself on the bed and pulled Mary in for a tight hug. ‘I can’t describe how glad I am that you’re here.’
‘Why? Is something wrong?’
‘No,’ Wallis assured her. ‘Not that. It’s just that you ground me. Now Mother’s gone, I think you are the only person in the world who knows who I really am.’
‘I’m sure Ernest has a pretty good idea.’ Mary stroked Wallis’s hair, feeling a rush of love for her. ‘Now I had better get dressed before the morning is over – I want to treasure every day that I’m here.’
In the Ritz that lunchtime, Mary glanced around and realised that Wallis was right: the length and shape of her suit were old-fashioned. It was warm outdoors but several women wore furs in a loop round their necks, with the poor creatures’ heads slipped through openings in their tails. Most wore hats as well, and did not take them off indoors. She imagined they must be stifling.
Wallis had always dressed well; even when she was reliant on stingy Uncle Sol for cash she had a knack for putting elegant outfits together. Now, with Ernest’s salary to spend, she had discovered a style that truly suited her: slinky tea dresses that accentuated her slim figure, and tailored skirt suits with wasp waists, accessorised with a striking brooch. Her hair was more severely styled than ever: she wore the same centre parting but pulled each strand tightly into a bun. It had the effect of focusing all your attention on her strong-boned face with those incredible sapphire eyes. Truly she had never looked better. She wasn’t conventionally beautiful, Mary thought, watching her, but by God she was striking. And so alive!
Chapter 27
London, June 1931
MARY LOVED THE SOCIAL WHIRL IN LONDON AND according to Wallis was soon ‘a hit’ with her friends. There was a cocktail party every evening at six, more often than not in the spacious drawing room at Bryanston Court, where Wallis herself mixed the KTs and served tiny sausages and little biscuits with caviar. There were a lot of Americans in their set: Wallis’s cousin Corinne and her husband George, who worked at the US Embassy; the three glamorous Vanderbilt girls, Thelma, Consuelo and Gloria; and the US air attaché Mike Scanlon and his wife Gladys. There were also some British friends of Ernest’s sister Maud, but they tended to be older and more staid.
One evening Wallis threw a dinner party for the American set, where she served Southern recipes from her and Mary’s youth: Maryland fried chicken and biscuits, pork cake, shrimp and corn pie. Conversation was about whether Judge Wilkerson would manage to pin tax evasion charges on Al Capone.
‘They have to find some way of getting him behind bars,’ Corinne insisted. ‘Did you see those photographs of the St Valentine’s Day massacre? We can’t live in a country where his gang can mow down seven men in broad daylight.’
‘The Eighteenth Amendment is responsible for the creation of gangsters like him,’ Mike Scanlon argued. ‘As soon as governments ban a popular substance like alcohol, they invite criminals to step in and even give them a veneer of respectability.’
‘It made criminals of us all,’ Wallis declared. ‘We each crossed a line when we took our first sip of illegal hooch, and who knows where it will end? Perhaps we will progress to more serious crimes – like exceeding the speed limit.’
‘As they say here in Britain, the law is an ass,’ Ernest commented. Two of the women gasped and he quickly corrected himself: ‘An ass as in a type of donkey, that is.’
Mary admired Wallis’s skill as she ensured everyone was engaged in conversation, asking questions about areas she knew they could discuss, and never permitting a lull. They moved on to talk of the Empire State Building, which had just opened in New York – ‘It’s breathtaking,’ Mary was able to report, ‘but I’m sure there are many collisions on the sidewalk as passers-by crane upwards at its soaring heights’ – and of hailstones the size of golf balls that had recently fallen in New Jersey, breaking hothouse windows and causing many sore heads.
‘No one wants to leave Wallis’s parties,’ Mike Scanlon whispered to Mary, ‘because they have so much pep in them.’
Ernest took a back seat, happy to let his wife be the centre of attention, and Mary gravitated towards him after the meal. In no time at all their old friendship had been re-established, as if she had never quarrelled with him back in New York. She enjoyed asking what books he had read recently, and questioning him on architectural sights she had spotted while gadding around in a taxicab with Wallis. It was clear he had never told Wallis what Mary had said about her, and she appreciated his discretion.
On the rare occasions when it was just the three of them at home for an evening, Mary watched Wallis and Ernest together. She loved them both dearly and wanted them to be happy, but she could sense Wallis was not in love. She liked Ernest – everyone did – but she wasn’t giddy the way she had been when she met Win; her eyes didn’t light up the way they had when she spoke of Felipe Espil. Did Ernest love her, or was he just swept away by her? She was great fun to be around, but Mary wasn’t convinced they had enough in common. Could Ernest see the vulnerability beneath the carapace, the part Mary thought made Wallis human and lovable?
On the morning of 1 June, Wallis came rushing into Mary’s bedroom with news. ‘Th
e Prince of Wales is going to be at Consuelo and Benny’s later, so you’ll get a chance to meet him. Won’t you wear the green silk? It’s your most fetching gown. I’ll lend you my emerald necklace. And let’s get our hair done this afternoon.’
Mary laughed. ‘Anyone would think you were trying to match me with the poor man.’
‘Don’t you want to make a good impression? He is your childhood pin-up after all.’ Wallis seemed more effervescent than usual.
‘Fine, but before we go you’ll have to remind me how to curtsey and what to call him . . .’
The day was spent in a flurry of hair, nails, make-up and careful accessorising before they took a taxicab to Consuelo’s at six. Every guest was formally announced by a butler as they entered the room, a system Mary rather liked because it helped her to remember the names. It was half past six and she had almost finished her first drink when the butler announced: ‘His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, and Mrs Thelma Furness.’
Mary looked over and was startled to see how short the prince was: probably only five foot six or seven. He was wearing a loud houndstooth-check suit and had prominent bags under his eyes, nothing like the handsome blonde youth whose picture she used to kiss in magazines. Of course, he was thirty-seven years old and not a youth any more. Thelma was an exotic raven-haired beauty with a pretty laugh.
The Prince chatted first to a group near the door, but moved from one circle to the next every few minutes, making his way slowly around the room, cigarette in one hand and drink in the other. Mary smiled as she saw Wallis manoeuvre into position so that he would have to talk to her next. He greeted her warmly, seeming pleased to see her, and Wallis was clearly at her most animated, but Mary was not close enough to hear what they were discussing.
At one stage they both turned to look at her and Wallis beckoned. Mary approached, feeling a flutter of nerves, and dropped a curtsey of sorts.
‘It’s an honour to meet you, Your Royal Highness,’ she said, then she looked into his face and saw a turned-up nose and the saddest blue eyes she ever had encountered. It was a shock; not what she had expected at all. What did he have to be sad about?
For a moment they examined each other, then he said, ‘I hope you will enjoy your stay in London, Mrs Raffray. We do like welcoming American visitors.’
‘I’m already entranced by the history in every street; you have so much architecture,’ Mary gushed.
‘A wonderful setting to show off the beauty of you American women.’ The Prince smiled, looking at Wallis.
She replied in her best flirtatious style: ‘Why, sir, you are just a heartbreak to any woman because you flatter her but you can never marry her.’
He laughed at that, throwing his head back. ‘Mischievous as ever, Mrs Simpson. Keep up the good work.’
Mary was shocked. After the Prince had moved on to talk to the next group, she whispered in Wallis’s ear: ‘Bessiewallis Warfield Simpson, I do hope you are not trying to seduce that poor man.’
‘Good Lord, no!’ Wallis whispered back, wrinkling her nose.
Chapter 28
Brighton, 5 October 1997
RACHEL DECIDED TO CALL HER MUM AND ASK IF there was any chance of increasing the number of guests at the wedding if Alex were to pay. Her mum suggested that instead of finding a bigger restaurant, they have a party afterwards for all the guests they couldn’t fit on the eighteenth.
‘That’s a good idea,’ Rachel mused, ‘but I don’t want you and Dad having any more expense. I suppose we could hold it here at the flat.’ She hated the thought – it had taken days to tidy up after their New Year’s Eve party – but that would be the cheapest option.
‘I’m happy to buy a case of champagne and help you prepare some food.’
‘Mum, you’re doing enough as it is. It’s Alex’s turn to contribute something to this wedding.’ Her tone must have revealed her mood, because her mother picked up on it straight away.
‘What’s he done?’
It felt disloyal to talk about the previous day’s argument, but she couldn’t help herself. Her mum listened, and when Rachel had finished her rant, she was reassuring. ‘It’s only natural to argue during an engagement. Every couple does. You’re looking for faults in the other person, and worrying about whether you can put up with them for the rest of your life. No one’s perfect. We all have annoying habits – even you!’
Rachel swallowed. It was true. She wondered how Alex put up with her pickiness over clothes and decor. He was usually laid-back in those areas and let her make the decisions.
Her mum continued. ‘You need to stop criticising the documentary. Remember, it’s his career on the line. Next time he says something you consider tasteless, just button your lip.’
Rachel knew this was good advice.
‘And let him bring whoever he wants to the party. Why can’t it be a chance for him to invite his colleagues?’
Rachel didn’t like the idea of their wedding being turned into a networking event, but she supposed the main thing was that he turned up, they both said their vows and became man and wife. All the rest was window-dressing.
When Alex called that evening, he was frustrated that a manager at the Villa Windsor had refused to give them an interview about Diana and Dodi’s visit there on 30 August. He wouldn’t confirm anything about it, either on or off the record.
‘I’ve worked out that they could only have been there for around half an hour, so I’m guessing Diana took one look and said she didn’t like the house and didn’t want to live there,’ he said.
‘I read they were meeting an Italian interior designer,’ Rachel mentioned.
‘Yeah, I heard that too, but I don’t think it’s true. They would have been there much longer with a designer. Something else was going on and I’m determined to get to the bottom of it.’
‘I wondered if it might be something to do with the bracelet with the heart on it,’ she suggested. ‘Diana was wearing it after their visit but not before.’
Alex was silent for a moment. ‘How do you know?’
Rachel explained.
‘Genius,’ he said. ‘Top marks for observation. I’ll look into that.’
Pleased that he was in a better mood, Rachel tentatively suggested that they have a party at the flat, perhaps on the Saturday after the wedding, for those who couldn’t be at the dinner.
‘Don’t you think that’s a bit like having A-list and B-list guests?’ Alex retorted.
‘I don’t think so. The eighteenth is about family and close personal friends, but the twentieth is the drinking and dancing bit that everyone likes best.’
‘OK, I’ll make up a list. But if you could drop some of your interminable aunts and cousins, that would help.’
When Rachel came off the phone, she stared at it for a few moments. There had been no questions about how she had spent her day, no mention of the argument, no words of affection. It was hard to feel close to him when the only topic filling his head was Princess Diana’s death. Soon after they got together Alex had warned her that his previous relationships had tended to fail because of his obsessive attitude towards work but she had never known it to be like this.
Rachel was a self-sufficient type, and Alex seemed to appreciate that side of her. On holiday in Vietnam, when there was a mouse in their room, she was the one who trapped it in a wastebasket and got rid of it while he stood on the bed nervously giving directions; she was the one who did the DIY at home, and her knowledge of car mechanics far outstripped his. She had turned down his offer of money after the break-in and perhaps that made him feel she didn’t need any support – but she did. It was partly her own fault; she hadn’t told him about the huge financial pressure she was under. She had expected him to guess – and it seemed he hadn’t.
When Rachel woke next morning, the weather had turned grey and overcast, with squally rain battering the windows and the cold forcing her to turn on the central heating for the first time that autumn. As she walked to the shop, he
r umbrella kept blowing inside out and the spokes bent backwards so that it was limp and bedraggled by the time she reached the North Laines. This was clearly the end of summer.
The shop was deathly quiet all morning, the door only opening when the postman dropped off some bills. Rachel sat poring over the accounts, trying to devise cost savings, and filled out an application for an extra credit card. She called the art director at Gazelle Films, the company that was looking for 1920s items, but was told abruptly that they couldn’t consider any of her costumes without photographs and that their decisions would already be made by November. That was yet another blow. During the afternoon a couple of regular customers came in and browsed for five minutes, but she knew they wouldn’t buy because she had nothing they hadn’t seen before.
‘I’ll have new stock soon!’ she called as they were leaving. Not soon enough, though. There was an auction in Reading the following week, and she could do another charity-shop trawl, but both would entail closing the shop since she couldn’t afford to pay Nicola to be there.
Suddenly she thought of Susie Hargreaves. It had been over a month since Diana died. Would she be ready to make a date to clear out more clothes?
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch,’ Susie apologised. ‘It’s been a difficult time.’
‘Of course. I understand.’
‘I keep going to the phone absent-mindedly, thinking, “I must call Duch,” then remembering I can’t any more. Her death hasn’t sunk in yet.’
‘How was the funeral?’ Rachel asked.
‘I wept like a baby, but fortunately I was sitting behind some large military type who got between me and the cameras. His wife kept turning round and tutting at the noise I was making.’ She gave a little laugh that had no mirth in it.
‘I watched a bit on TV and it seemed a strange mixture of royal funeral and show-biz tribute. The scenes outside were extraordinary.’
