by Kelly Doust
‘. . . Chanel suits, Pucci gowns and Halston jumpsuits without bras, you name it,’ Tabs continued. ‘You just wouldn’t believe the contradictions . . . They’re all stunning, too. Like princesses out of the Arabian Nights, if Tracy Anderson was their personal trainer. You’d never believe it,’ Tabs confided, relishing their rapt expressions, ‘but I doubt any of them has a single hair on their bodies. Their eyebrows are plucked to sheer perfection. I heard one client of ours flew her brow artist to London by private jet.’
Sylvie laughed. ‘It sounds like the women I met in New York . . . well, apart from the private jets.’ She leaned forward to take a second helping of dessert, before passing the bowl over to Tabs. Sylvie had almost forgotten what a good cook her mother was – it was the first time in ages she’d actually felt like eating anything, and two platefuls of everything later, she was stuffed.
‘Some people obviously have more money than sense!’ Lizzie snorted, drawing a long sprig of mint from her glass and eyeing up the vodka bottle on the bench nearby, her gaze just a little out of focus. ‘Make me another one please, Sylvie dear,’ she said, patting Sylvie’s hand.
‘Be careful with those,’ said Wendy quietly. ‘I’m not sure how they’ll go with your medication.’
‘Stop fussing over me, Wendy!’ Lizzie snapped. ‘I have to die of something.’
Sylvie saw her parents exchange a look. ‘Of course, Lizzie darling, if you’d like another.’ Sylvie got up and went to the sideboard quickly, half-shielding the vodka bottle with her hands as she poured out a drink that was mostly soda and sugar syrup. She looked over at the table as she was stirring it, and her mother’s eyes flashed her a warning. Lizzie turned around just in time to see it.
‘Oh God, stop it, will you? Stop treating me like a child! I’m not an imbecile, you know, and we all die eventually. I may as well enjoy myself while I’m around. Where is Gigi?’ Lizzie snapped, looking sharply towards the door, although Sylvie was sure that her mother had told her earlier that Gigi wouldn’t be joining them.
‘Working on some project,’ Wendy said calmly, standing up to clear away the dishes. ‘She said to say she’s sorry, darling, remember? She’ll see us in the morning.’
Tabs abruptly stood up from her chair. ‘Thanks for a lovely meal, Wendy. Gosh, it’s getting on a bit . . . You sit down. Let me clear this up.’
She clattered together the bowls and spoons and then made her way towards the kitchen, leaving the four of them to share an awkward silence.
Sylvie couldn’t help but feel a little relieved that Gigi hadn’t joined them this evening – three Dearloves were quite enough to deal with, thank you very much, particularly with Lizzie in this kind of mood.
‘I expect you’re feeling quite relieved to be out of that world now anyway, Sylv,’ said her father, breaking the silence. ‘You were under an enormous amount of pressure, weren’t you? That can’t have been easy.’ Robin’s long artist’s fingers fluttered over the edge of the table, his eyes full of sympathy.
Pressure doesn’t begin to cover it, thought Sylvie. She opened her mouth to say something, but Lizzie jumped in ahead of her.
‘Robin! I simply cannot abide the way young people are coddled these days. In my time, we never played the victim . . . People managed, even in total uncertainty. These days, everyone bleats on about being treated unfairly, and being so stressed all the time. I ask you, what’s more stressful than living with the constant threat of being blown up? Or having to hold on to an estate like this – maintain one’s family reputation – when some people would have us believe we don’t deserve a scrap of it . . .’ She then swung around to Sylvie. ‘You’re fine, aren’t you, Sylvie? I saw that piece in The Times, by the way, the one about your company’s collapse. Looked it up today. It’s a damned shame, that’s what it is. My generation could certainly teach yours a thing or two about stress.’
Lizzie’s words hit Sylvie like a blow. She had never heard her great-grandmother speak with such vitriol before – at least, never when it was directed towards her. And she’d thought she was Lizzie’s favourite! It only went to show that – just like Gigi and Robin before her – one’s good standing within the Dearlove family was conditional on what a person made of themselves.
Wendy cleared her throat. ‘Lizzie, I think that’s a little unfair . . .’ she started tentatively, but Lizzie slammed down her glass on the table and they all jumped a little.
‘One’s good name is all that matters. My sister never understood that either. Reputations take a lifetime to build but can be torn down in seconds . . . When Victoria died during the war, I was devastated, but I also knew that she didn’t have it in her . . .’
Sylvie was alarmed to see what looked like tears in Lizzie’s eyes. Surely she must be mistaken – her great-grandmother never cried. Never.
‘Goodness, it is getting late. I think it’s time for bed, Lizzie dear,’ Wendy chimed in again, bustling to Lizzie’s side and clutching the handles of her wheelchair.
‘She was so young . . . I promised Papa I would take care of her You remind me of her, Sylvie . . .’ Lizzie slurred slightly, patting Sylvie’s hand. ‘So pretty . . . so dreamy and idealistic. So naïve . . .’
‘Say goodnight, Lizzie,’ Wendy said briskly. ‘I’ll tuck you in and then go grab a hot water bottle, shall I?’
‘Bedwards! Off you go, old lady,’ Lizzie muttered thickly, waving a hand in dismissal at Robin and Sylvie.
Wendy snapped back the brakes on the wheelchair and turned around to shoot them a look. Then they were gone.
‘I’m fine!’ they heard Lizzie protesting loudly as they disappeared down the hall.
‘Oh, darling,’ Robin said after a moment. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to throw you in it back there. Lizzie was a bit sozzled.’ He paused, looking at his daughter intently, head cocked to one side. ‘What did happen, though, in the States? You can tell me, you know.’
‘Dad,’ Sylvie said, shaking her head. ‘Can we just have one evening without me having to think about it – please?’
‘Of course, darling.’
‘Look, I’m knackered. I’ll do the dishes, then I’m going to turn in.’ Sylvie stood up. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow?’
‘Of course. Sleep well, darling.’
‘You too.’ Sylvie leaned over to kiss her father’s stubbled cheek, and rubbed his arm roughly. Robin clutched her shoulder, the look in his eyes one of relief.
‘You’re still my girl.’
‘I know. G’night, Dad.’
‘Goodnight.’
Later that night, after Sylvie had borrowed a nightie from her mother (another item she’d forgotten – sleeping in her knickers at Penn’s house was one thing, but sleeping half-naked in her family home was quite another) and said goodnight to Tabs, Sylvie was tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep.
She threw off the blankets in frustration and crossed over to the window, pulling aside the moth-eaten brocade curtain. The moon was full and bright outside, gently illuminating the gardens and fields beyond, and cast a reassuring yellow glow in the inky sky. She shivered in the frigid air, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. Over on the nightstand, her phone lit up with an alert – someone posting something on Facebook, she realised, crossing the room to pick up her phone.
As she clicked onto the app, Sylvie was assailed with a picture of Ben, smiling warmly from the screen, his arms wrapped around Gisele and Josh, in some hip little bar on the Lower East Side. They all looked like they were having so much fun together.
Suddenly she couldn’t quite hold her panic at bay.
The thoughts came flooding back to her: of that awful day, a few months ago, alone in her Brooklyn workshop. She’d gone in on a weekend, thinking she might try to kickstart her newest collection, but she’d felt so dull and heavy. She was surrounded by fabric samples and colour swatches, but was seeing them swim before her eyes and thinking that nothing much made sense any more. She was fresh out of ideas. Her backer
s were lining up to criticise her, the media was hovering like vultures, and the burden of having to produce collection after collection, with no pause for breath in between, was like the heaviest of weights on her shoulders. And the thing that usually made her creative brain come alive – the handling of beautiful fabric, the feeling of it flowing through her fingers – was giving her nothing, absolutely nothing.
Towards the end of that long, lonely day, as the light outside grew dim, and with only pieces of crumpled fabric ankle-deep around her and a pile of discarded drawings to show for it, Sylvie snapped. In a mounting fit of desperation, she threw down the samples in disgust, and grabbed her black leather jacket off the back of her chair. Stomping out of the studio, she left all the lights on, telling herself what she needed was a walk, a break, a hit of fresh air.
Traipsing through the busy back streets of Brooklyn, headphones in her ears and the music lifting her spirits, she almost didn’t register him until he’d passed her by.
‘Sylvie?’
‘Josh!’
He smiled at her, and they started to speak at once.
‘Hi—’
‘Hey! What are you up to?’
She’d always had such a nice relationship with Ben’s best friend. There’d never been any of that awkwardness that sometimes came when you started dating someone new and they introduced you to their mates. Far from the jealousy she’d been expecting, there was nothing but an instant rapport and genuine warmth between them. She could tell Josh liked her a lot, right from the beginning. Ben had teased them both. Josh had been saying she was the perfect girlfriend – talented, gorgeous and clever – and Ben had manhandled her into his arms. ‘Whoa, back off, she’s all mine, buddy!’ Sylvie couldn’t pretend her cheeks hadn’t pinked with pleasure.
‘Hey, what are you up to?’ Josh asked now, grinning from under his black floppy fringe. Josh had a full beard, which Sylvie didn’t usually like – beards seemed shifty, somehow, like, what did they have to hide? – but it really suited him. It made Josh look more manly and grown up – more so than Ben, Sylvie thought, even though he was the one with the important job and Josh was the free-spirited creative. He was currently playing in a band, and managed to scrape together his rent working, on and off, in a craft brewery located only a few streets away from her studio.
‘Just clearing my head. Work . . . you know?’ She let out a shaky breath. ‘And you?’
‘Well – that’s a drag. Come for a drink with me. All you need is a break.’
‘That’s what I was thinking.’ Sylvie sighed, wondering whether she should. ‘Okay,’ she said, making up her mind. ‘Sure.’
Together they walked to the end of the block, turning into a little hole-in-the-wall bar Sylvie barely registered. A dark little space, with no one she recognised inside, the bar was warm and inviting, and made her feel more relaxed than the usual trendy places she went to with Ben or her fashion friends. After Josh had grabbed them both beers at the bar, they sidled into a cosy little booth down the back.
Oh God. That night . . . Sylvie thought now, shuddering slightly as she hurriedly clicked out of Facebook and returned the phone to the bedside table. She wanted to block it from her memory.
But, just like all the thoughts that seemed to swirl around her head these days, it stubbornly refused to go away.
Fumbling in her bag, Sylvie took out a couple of sleeping pills with her tablets, washing them down with a glass of water and crawling back into bed. But try as she might to sleep, or to focus on her breathing exercises, she continued to toss and turn until the early hours of dawn.
Conversation with Gram Parsons (formerly of The Byrds and The Flying Burrito Brothers) on groupies
Rolling Stone, 1972
‘What you need to realise is, there’s no one cooler than Gigi, yeah? She has a way of being an inspiration just by being there . . . I’ve known lots of girls on tour over the years but Gigi’s different.
‘I first met her at Villa Nellcôte in southern France, I think – or maybe it was before then. We got really close there, anyway. She was friends with Keith’s girl, Anita. He was recording in the basement with The Rolling Stones, and the two of them were like these beacons of light at the end of each all-nighter session, whipping up parties and encouraging us to get up to all sorts of mischief . . . Once we went into town dressed up as royals and rebels, rioting through the streets with our instruments in hand, causing a scene. Gigi had outfits picked out for every one of us and Keith and Anita were Napoleon and Josephine. Gigi was the original Madame Déficit – Marie Antoinette – a slash of red at the throat from the guillotine . . . That was a wild evening.
‘Everyone’s running from something, but Gigi’s not your ordinary little girl lost. She’s mostly got her shit together, she just refuses to conform. She doesn’t trade on her beauty either, although she is gorgeous. A temptress in snakeskin boots, ha! Gigi’s a little older and wiser than most party girls, and she has this voice . . . she could be a chanteuse. I don’t think she cares, though. There’s a total style about her. Something luminous. I feel happy whenever I see what she’s wearing each day, because she’s like a chameleon. And have you noticed her eyes? It’s like, whoa, man – they’re magnetic. So shiny and bright, so full of hope. I fuckin’ love Gigi . . .’
12
‘The summer house, the orchard, the nursery, the stables . . . you name it, it all needs work,’ sighed Wendy, biting her lip and looking around the kitchen, which was in dire need of updating as well.
Sylvie suppressed an urge to poke Tabs, who was nodding earnestly in response to her mother’s words. She took a sip of tea instead, and thought it would be a bloody miracle if they managed to do anything before the first viewings – Bledesford had always had that peculiar feel to it, of being from another dimension, operating under its own distinct timeframe. Trying to achieve anything around here was like wading through molasses.
Wendy was making jam this morning, and the air in the kitchen was warm and sugar scented. She continued to stir the sticky mixture on the stove while listing out the staggering set of tasks which needed attending to. ‘The agent says we should be doing as much as we can to up the asking price . . . Robin’s busy with his painting and I don’t want to distract him when he’s on such a roll, but he’s agreed to handle repairs on the outbuildings while I focus on interiors . . . The orangerie doors need fixing – one of them’s barely holding on to its hinges – and we should completely clear out the greenhouse . . . You know what it’s like inside, sweetheart – one of the agents I spoke to said that lovely greenhouses can be a “unique selling point”, so it’s probably important to get it up to scratch. At the very least, we need to empty it of all the rubbish. We might need to arrange a skip. I’ve had a good go through half the rooms in the house, but there’s still the attic. I’ll get to that in a moment. Tabs, don’t for a second think I mean you, by the way – you’re to relax and enjoy your stay here, this is just for Sylvie’s benefit . . .’ Wendy said, tapping the wooden spoon on the bench and drumming her fingers, lost in thought.
‘Yes, you chill, Tabs,’ said Sylvie, rolling her eyes. ‘I’ll be working like a Trojan while you sit on a sun lounger by the pond, working on your tan. Mum clearly has my next few weeks all stitched up, don’t you, Mum?’
Lizzie hadn’t joined them for breakfast this morning but had called numerous times on the mobile phone Wendy kept permanently attached to her belt. Each time, her mother had gone running with food, water, medicine, or whatever else Lizzie needed. Sylvie privately thought that her great-grandmother was most likely nursing a rotten hangover after last night’s mojitos.
Robin was in his studio and Gigi still hadn’t surfaced. Sylvie presumed she was holed up meditating, holding a séance or whatever other nonsense she usually got up to.
‘Of course I’ll help – it would be a pleasure, Wendy,’ said Tabs, beaming. ‘Although you must be feeling a bit sad about it all. It’s a shame to let the place go, what with all th
e family history you have here . . .’
For a split second Sylvie thought she saw her mother’s mask slip and she looked crestfallen. But then Wendy bustled back into action, wiping down the bench beside the Aga with fervour, her smile firmly back in place. ‘Everything will work out for the best, I’m sure.’
Sylvie looked out towards the greenhouse. She hadn’t been inside for years, but the last time she had, she’d noticed that it had that vegetal, damp smell of abandoned places returning to the earth. The glass windows had been opaque with grime and moss, and the light had reminded her of being underwater.
Something caught her eye. Ah, there was Gigi, over on the old love seat.
Palms upraised on either knee, she was sitting cross-legged in a classic yogi’s pose. She looked Buddha-fat in one of her floaty blue kaftans, incense burning on a flagstone nearby, and her always-impressive chest displayed a massive lapis lazuli pendant which flashed in the weak morning sun. Her witchy eye makeup and long hennaed hair made her look like a gypsy fortune-teller at the circus.
Wendy shot Gigi some impressive side-eye through the foggy panes of the kitchen window. Things had always been a little awkward between the two women – especially since Gigi had moved back to Bledesford about fifteen years ago. She and Wendy tended to disagree on most things, but generally Gigi left her daughter-in-law to handle things. Gigi had always been more concerned about herself, anyway.
When Gigi had split up with her most recent husband, a reputed cult leader from California, she had returned to Bledesford. No one had known if it was for good – least of all Gigi. But despite annual trips back to the States for yoga retreats and to catch up with old friends, it seemed she was here to stay. Sylvie’s grandmother had a long history of being unpredictable. Not to mention flighty and selfish. Abandoning her young baby – Robin – to a less-than-impressed Lizzie to look after, she’d taken off for a life of hedonism, hippie communes, sex, drugs and rock’n’roll. For years she’d been one of the world’s best-known groupies, á la Pamela Des Barres, touring for years with famous rock bands and generally relying on the generosity of her fabulously rich and well-connected friends to get by.
