by Plum Sykes
“You know the young lady?” asked the butler.
“Yeah, I do,” said Charlie, never taking his eyes off me.
I looked away. I mean, I felt like I was going to melt, or cry, I wasn’t sure which. Just to really confuse things I also found myself wondering if they have Overnight Kits in Britain. There was a tense silence, interrupted by the butler asking, “Can I offer your friend a sherry?”
“Actually, I’d adore a Bellini,” I said optimistically.
“She’ll have a cup of tea,” said Charlie.
I don’t want to get all analytical or anything, but the fact is people never change. Charlie was as fervently opposed to Bellinis now as ever.
“Certainly,” said the butler, scooting from the library.
“Well, we do seem to meet in the oddest places. Perhaps you’d like to tell me what you’re doing here,” said Charlie, propping himself up against the mantelpiece in front of the Canaletto.
God he looked cute, but who wouldn’t with Canaletto as a backdrop? Still, I was très annoyed. Why did I always feel like a schoolgirl being admonished by a head prefect whenever Charlie was around?
“My parents live down the road. I’m here for my dad’s fiftieth and my stupid car broke down. I was trying to call home. But what the hell are you doing at the Swyres’? Do you know the Earl?”
There was a pause, then Charlie said, “I am the Earl.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a long story, but the reason I left New York in such a hurry on Monday was because I’d just heard that my father died. My mother, Caroline, reached me as soon as she could—don’t you remember when she called? I took the first flight. I’ve inherited the title.”
It all took a little while to sink in. The mysterious Caroline was Charlie’s estranged mom. There was no other girl, I thought, somewhat relieved.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I said.
I felt terrible. There I was, sulking about the one-night stand, being rude to Charlie, breaking into his place, and it turned out that his dad had died. The last few days must have been a nightmare for him.
“Charlie, are you okay?” I said.
“I’m fine. My dad was a funny old bird—quite peculiar—and we weren’t really that close. But it’s sad.”
“But why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“We lived in America. My dad never told anyone he was an Earl. He just used Dunlain, the family name. You don’t go around in LA advertising you’ve got some crazy English title. And then, this place, I vaguely knew Dad still had it but he was pretty secretive about it. When he died I found I’d inherited this estate I’ve never thought about or had any real connection to. I haven’t been here since I was six. It’s all rather a shock.”
Why do one-night stands always end up being way more complicated than you ever could have imagined? If I’d gotten the story correct, Mr. Overnight Kit here was the Little Earl, the Boy Next Door of Mom’s fantasies. There I was thinking Charlie was just some nice, normal guy, and all along he was a total secret silver spoon, completely tricking me about who he was. And he’d called me spoiled! I preferred Charlie before, when he was just some struggling movie director from LA.
There was the tap of heels and an attractive older woman walked into the library. She was wearing skintight navy riding breeches, muddy hunting boots, and a man’s white shirt. Her brown hair was in a net at the nape of her neck. She was a walking Ralph Lauren ad, only chicer.
“I’m Caroline, Charlie’s mother. You must be the lady from the halfway house?” she said, looking at me.
Suddenly I remembered Mom’s old feud with Charlie’s mom, a.k.a. the Countess of Swyre. It had never been resolved. Oh god, I thought, this could be awkward.
“Mom!” said Charlie. “She’s a friend of mine from the States. Her parents live at The Old Rectory.”
I froze. The Countess tensed. She knew that I knew that she knew that I was the daughter of the Chair Affair guy.
“What’s wrong?” asked Charlie.
“Ugh, whoever said being in the country was a quiet life! I’ve never been so worked off my feet,” said the Countess, speedily changing the subject. She sat down opposite me in a Louis chair, looking piqued. “It takes me half an hour to get anywhere in the house.”
There was a knock on the open door. The butler walked in carrying a silver tray laden with tea things.
“Your mother’s here, miss, to take you home,” he said, setting the tray in front of Caroline.
“Darling! I insisted I’d come and get you,” trilled Mom, walking jauntily into the room with Julie following. “Dad had to go into town and pick up the wine for the party tomorrow, otherwise he would have come.”
Mom was dressed in her favorite hot pink dress. Worryingly, she had her opal brooch at the neck. She only wears her opal brooch for special occasions, like Princess Anne’s birthday. She came over to me and suffocated me with a hug. Although I was pleased to see her, I was worried this was not the best scenario for a liability like Mom to walk into.
“Oh goodness! Look at you! You look like one of those underprivileged wives from the loony bin. Please, do wear shoes for Dad’s party tomorrow. Ah, Little Earl!” she said, turning to Charlie. “I am so sorry about your father. Awful, everyone in the village is thinking of you. I’m your neighbor, Brooke,” she said, holding out her hand to Charlie and curtsying. (I swear she curtsied, she really did. I wanted to die.)
“Thank you,” said Charlie, looking bemused.
“Ah, Countess, how lovely to see you after all this time,” Mom continued, turning to Caroline, who barely acknowledged her. “And this is Julie Bergdorf—”
“Hey honey!” Julie interrupted, rushing over to hug me. She was sporting a glowing Southampton tan, a flashy engagement ring with a diamond that was princess-cut (of course), and a flowing lilac dress that I didn’t recognize at all. “Vintage. Prada, 1994. Don’t you love it?”
Julie had changed dramatically since I last saw her. It’s the general consensus among Park Avenue Princesses that you’ll catch a contagious disease from thrift store clothes. I remember one time we were in Alice’s Underground on Broadway she wouldn’t touch me for days after I tried on a pair of 1970s men’s Levi’s in case they had hepatitis B.
“Love it!” I said, kissing Julie on the cheek. As I did so I whispered in her ear, “He says he’s the Earl and that this is his place. It’s so weird.”
“No!” she murmured. Then she dashed over to Charlie crying, “Ooh, loverboy!”
She kissed him full on the lips. After about five seconds she pulled back, her eyes transfixed by the painting behind his head.
“Charlie, you never said you had secret Canalettos!” she exclaimed. “Wow, this place would be worth like a hundred million dollars if it were on Gin Lane. Have you thought of just selling the whole lot and buying Ibiza or something?”
“Hi, Julie,” said Charlie when she released him.
“You know each other?” asked Mom, surprised.
“Very well,” said Julie flirtatiously.
“Now, have you met my lovely daughter?” said Mom, dragging me toward Charlie. “She doesn’t always look like this, you know. She can look very pretty, if she wears foundation and pressed powder.”
“Mom!” I said.
“We’re old friends, actually,” said Charlie, slightly embarrassed.
“Friends! You two! Well, how thrilling!!!” said Mom.
“You’ve no idea how well these two know each other,” said Julie, winking at Mom. “Better than you can imagine, Brooke.”
“Oh goodness me! What a lovely pair they make. Didn’t I always say it was all about the boy next door, darling?” said Mom, her cheeks reddening with excitement. She glanced knowingly from Charlie to me and back to Charlie. “And ooh, so handsome. Tell me, have you inherited everything?”
“Mom!” I said. “Don’t.”
Mom really needs to go to Dr. Fensler. She could get an Alpha-Beta peel and a personality makeover
all in one go. I looked over at Charlie. For someone who is never unhappy, you could say he’d undergone a dramatic personality change. His face was expressionless, glazed with disbelief, as if to say, Who is this ghastly woman? I had to get Mom out of there before she did any more damage.
“Charlie, do you really own half of Scotland like Brooke says? I think that’s totally cool. You’re a dude,” said Julie.
“We should be going, Mom,” I said firmly.
“Now, Little Earl, I would be honored if you’d come to my husband Peter’s fiftieth birthday lunch tomorrow,” said Mom, completely ignoring me.
“Charlie’s busy tomorrow,” said Caroline abruptly. “He’s spending the day with me before I go home to Switzerland on Monday.”
“Well, you must come too, Countess,” said Mom. “How delightful it would be for our families to spend some time together.”
“Our families have nothing to say to each other,” said Caroline coldly. She turned away and poured herself some tea.
Suddenly the atmosphere in the room was frostier than the Arctic. Caroline and my mom both froze over like icebergs.
“What is it?” said Charlie.
“Nothing important. It’s all in the past,” said Mom, looking a little flustered.
“No, tell me, I want to know,” insisted Charlie.
“This is the worst family in the village, Charlie. They’re a totally untrustworthy, dishonest bunch,” said the Countess unemotionally. “I don’t want you going anywhere near them.”
“Countess!” gasped Mom.
“I feel like I’m in an episode of The Forsyte Saga!” said Julie, enthralled by the drama.
I had to step in before things got any worse. I said, “About two hundred years ago, Charlie, my father sold your father some fake Chippendale chairs. My dad admitted the mistake but there was a rift. The two families stopped speaking to each other completely.” There, it was out. How silly it all seemed now.
“Is that it?” said Charlie, looking bemused and slightly relieved.
“Yes. Now can we please forget the chairs? It was a ridiculous misunderstanding,” chipped in Mom. Then just for good measure she glared at the Countess and added, “Your mother turned it into a scandal. It was simply dreadful for me.”
“That’s not entirely true, but it hardly matters since we have nothing more to discuss,” responded the Countess icily.
There was an uncomfortable silence, and Charlie looked anxiously between his mother and mine. I couldn’t tell who he believed. Maybe the light was dawning and he was recalling distant family history. No one said a thing or moved. As the seconds ticked by, the silence became increasingly awkward. Then Mom threw in a real gem: “Well, now everything’s out in the open, why don’t you both come to the party tomorrow? I’ve got the dearest little mini pita breads in from Waitrose.” She paused and you could see the cogs turning in her brain. “Gosh, this place would be lovely for a wedding, darling, wouldn’t it? Vera Wang could do the dress.”
That was the final straw.
“Mom, stop it!” I burst out at her. “There isn’t going to be a wedding. The idea of me marrying Charlie is the last thing on anyone’s mind, except yours. His mom can’t stand you. The Countess thinks she’s way too classy for us. What she says is true. Charlie and I have nothing to say to each other. Zero. Nothing. You know what? I don’t even like Charlie very much. He can be really mean and patronizing. The Swyres don’t want to come to your party tomorrow, and they’re not impressed by mini pitas.” Then I turned to Charlie and said, “Charlie, I’m truly sorry about your father and everything, but this is a total nightmare. How can I ever trust you when you didn’t even tell me you were the Earl? I’ve got to go. You can all sort it out by yourselves.”
Flushed with embarrassment and on the verge of tears, I fled from the library, shoes in hand. I dashed down the stairs, out into the driveway and straight into the arms of a man in uniform.
“The young lady from the Refuge?” said the policeman.
“That’s me,” I gasped. I didn’t care anymore. “Can you take me home, please?”
12
The most noticeable thing about The Old Rectory is that it’s not old at all. Much to Mom’s irritation, there is no getting away from the fact that it dates from 1965, not 1665. It’s a very comfortable, faux-Victorian, redbrick, four-bedroom house. Still, that hasn’t stopped Mom from investing in climbing roses, wisteria, and ivy, trained to grow abundantly around the front door and windows in an effort to make it look way cuter and more authentic than it really is.
No one was home when I got back. P. C. Lyle, the policeman I’d bumped into outside the castle, had kindly towed my rental car home with us. I went around to the back door and let myself in through the kitchen, lugging my suitcase with me. God, I thought as I climbed up the back stairs to the spare bedroom, what on earth had I just done at the castle? I suddenly regretted the things I’d said far more than I’d thought I would. I felt irritated and bothered but I couldn’t quite figure out why. Maybe I was just jet-lagged. I was so tired after this afternoon, I just wanted to collapse for an hour on my bed.
For a woman afflicted with migraines, Mom’s choice of wallpaper is 100 percent inexplicable. Every inch of the spare bedroom, including the ceiling, was covered with wallpaper of climbing yellow roses, with matching duvets and lamp shades. There were even yellow towels and dressing gowns. Honestly, when I saw it all I thought I was going to die of a headache. The rest of the room was covered with Julie’s stuff, as though she’d just walked in and emptied three suitcases over the bed and the floor (she probably had). There were jewel pouches and wash bags, piles of makeup, two cell phones, an iPod, and brand-new clothes and shoes everywhere. There were even Diptyque candles and a couple of framed photographs of Julie and her dad tossed on the mounds of stuff. Julie always travels as though she is moving house because she read in Paris Match that Margherita Missoni, the young beautiful Missoni kid, always “personalizes” her hotel rooms with things from home to make her feel more relaxed.
I dumped my case and zebra bag in the middle of the floor and collapsed on top of Julie’s clothes on one of the beds. Desperate to distract myself from recent events, I picked up the phone off the side table by my bed and called Jolene.
“He-ey!” she said when she picked up. “Can you believe it about Julie and Henry? I always said one of us would snag him. But I’ve got an issue, with the wedding, and I was wondering if you could influence things?”
“What’s happened?”
“Julie’s asked Zac Posen to make her bridal gown. Vera Wang’s so gutted she’s threatening to retire from bridal all together. Can you persuade her to drop Zac and go with Vera? If Vera retires before I get married, I’ll die. What on earth would I wear?”
“She said Alexander McQueen was making the dress.”
“Oh god, don’t tell me she’s asked him too!”
Weddings always bring out the worst in the Park Avenue set. Their friends’ weddings make them obsess about one thing: their own. But Jolene had a point. If Vera Wang retired, it would devastate the entire unmarried Park Avenue female demographic. Just then I heard a cell phone ringing. It must be Julie’s Tri-Band.
“I’ll try,” I said. “I gotta go. Julie’s cell is ringing. I better get it.”
“Okay. But don’t forget about Vera, and my dress!”
I picked up Julie’s cell. It was Jazz. She sounded even more frazzled than Jolene.
“Where’s Julie?” she wailed.
“She’s not here right now,” I said.
“Oh nooo! I need to speak with her about Mr. Valentino. He’s desperate to make her wedding dress. Any chance you can drag her back from the Zac Posen abyss? No pressure, but I’m really worried about losing my muse job if I don’t secure the Bergdorf bride, plus entourage.”
“Jazz, I don’t know.” This was not a fashion fiasco I cared to be involved with.
“Plee-eease. Valentino will gift you big time. I’m wit
h him on his boat in the Aegean. Why don’t you come down? It’s lovely here. God, what am I going to say to him tonight at dinner?”
One minute Jazz was another innocent lumber heiress, the next she was a ruthless satellite of the Valentino fashion empire. It’s shocking really, when you see your close friends resort to bribery. I would have no part of it, however gorgeous an outfit Valentino might flatter me with.
“Jazz, I gotta go,” I said.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Speak soon, okay?”
Right now Jazz’s career problems seemed very superficial to me. She’d have to sort them out herself. Concerned about my party outfit being horribly creased for tomorrow, I hauled myself off the bed and started to unpack. I hung my new Balenciaga minidress (very hot, very now, very likely to be underappreciated in Stibbly) on the front of the armoire. I laid out my shoes, sweater, and lingerie. But where were my gorgeous pavé diamond hoops? Strictly speaking, they weren’t exactly mine, they were Julie’s. She’d forgotten about them, but I swear I’ve been planning to give them back to her for ages (over nine months now), and I’ve almost gone through with it several times.
I checked every inch of my little suitcase. Emptied my wash bag. Scrambled through my clothes. I grabbed my handbag and shook the entire contents out on the bed. Everything tumbled out. But there was no sign of the earrings. Hopelessly, I put my hands in my pockets and rifled around. I felt a hard little object in my right pocket. My heart sank as I remembered the enamel and gold box. Shoot! I’d totally forgotten to replace it after the butler found me. I pulled it out of my pocket and sat down cross-legged on the floor. I flicked open the top. The inside was lined with smooth gold. On the roof of the lid was an inscription: Presented to the Earl of Swyre, for bravery in the battle of Waterloo, 1815.
Oh, no. Not only was the box a beautiful object, it was of historic significance to the Swyres. It was probably worth thousands of dollars. Somehow, I had to get the box back to the Swyres without Charlie’s finding out I’d taken it. As if Charlie didn’t disapprove of me enough already, this was going to make it worse. Not that I cared; I mean, I was never going to see him again. If he offered me another night of regret I wouldn’t even be tempted. I’d had quite enough of him. I couldn’t wait until tomorrow was over and I could go back to New York and have a regular one-night stand with someone I was never going to see again, who wouldn’t turn out to be the son of the man next door whose family had been feuding with mine for a generation.
