the Padstow women sniffed. There was a chorus of hear-hears.
“Surely somebody must have some ideas. Sarah, you’ve been quiet. Anybody spring to mind?” Imogen was getting hot and bothered and had begun fanning herself again with the Tommy Padstow catalog.
All eyes were on me.
“Er . . . I’m not sure. . . .”
“Come on—Mike worked in advertising and what with so many celebs doing voice-overs, you must have rubbed shoulders with a few of them.”
“Not really.”
“I suppose I could give Marc a call,” Tara said. “But he lives in Paris and his schedule is always totally manic. I’m not sure. . . .”
Charlotte offered to call Gwyneth. “But I know she’s really up against it trying to finish her new cookbook. Or maybe I could try Catherine. I heard she’s going to be over again in the summer, but it’s such a huge ask, dragging her all the way from Wales.”
“My hairdresser does P. Diddy when he’s in town.” It was the crucifix woman.
“P. Diddy,” Imogen said, frowning. “Isn’t he that rapper chappie? Rather tacky, don’t you think?” She lowered the catalog to her cleavage.
“There is one person who springs to mind,” said Louise in the daisy smock.
“Who?”
“What about Tommy Padstow?”
There were actual squeals of delight. These drowned out the groans from Tara and Charlotte.
“Oh, I a-dore Tommy Padstow,” Imogen said. “The man leaves me quite weak at the knees.”
There were cries of “me, too.” Everybody agreed it was because he bore more than a passing resemblance to Damian Lewis.
“I’ve never understood the whole Damian Lewis thing,” Tara said. “If you ask me, the man looks like a duck.”
There was loud indignation. Damian Lewis looked nothing like a duck. How could she possibly say such a thing? Imogen was forced to shush everybody.
“Anyway, I know for a fact that Tommy Padstow wouldn’t be able to do it,” Charlotte announced.
“Why not?”
“Our neighbors are friends with the Padstows and they’re all off to a villa in the Algarve for the summer.”
“Pooh,” said Imogen.
“I know,” Tara piped up. “What about Greg Myers?”
“Now you’re talking,” Charlotte said. “He’s
really
hot.”
People were oohing in agreement.
“Remind me who he is again,” Imogen said.
Tara rolled her eyes. “
The Sleeper
? It’s the biggest thing since
Homeland
?”
“Oh yes, of course. He is rather dashing. He was in
Jane Eyre
a few years back. I adored his Mr. Rochester. . . . But doesn’t he live in LA these days?”
Tara said she’d read that he was about to start a West End run in
Death of a
Salesman
. “I’d say it’s definitely worth asking him. Apparently he was born round here, so he could well be up for opening the fair.”
“And it just so happens,” I heard myself say, “that I have a way of getting to Mr. Myers.”
What? No I didn’t. What the hell was I doing? Bigging myself up, that’s what. I’d had enough of Tara and Charlotte making me feel like a worm. First they’d informed me that my neighborhood was too ghetto for their brats. Then I’d had to listen to them bragging about their fashion and showbiz contacts.
“Goodness,” Imogen said. “This just gets better.”
Tara was looking distinctly sniffy. “You can get to Greg Myers? How?”
“My cousin Rupert was at Eton with him.”
Chapter 5
“S o after the meeting, Tara collars me and she’s like, ‘Sarah, I had no idea your family was posh. I thought you told me your family were in the rag trade, and didn’t your father used to drive a cab?’”
Steve reached for the wine bottle and topped up my glass. “This woman sounds like a real piece of work.”
“You can say that again.”
“So what did you say?”
“I told her that Rupert’s dad was an international lawyer. I’m not sure if she bought it, though.”
“What does he actually do?”
“Uncle Bernie? He’s in buttons and trimmings.”
Steve laughed.
“Surely somebody must have some ideas. Sarah, you’ve been quiet. Anybody spring to mind?” Imogen was getting hot and bothered and had begun fanning herself again with the Tommy Padstow catalog.
All eyes were on me.
“Er . . . I’m not sure. . . .”
“Come on—Mike worked in advertising and what with so many celebs doing voice-overs, you must have rubbed shoulders with a few of them.”
“Not really.”
“I suppose I could give Marc a call,” Tara said. “But he lives in Paris and his schedule is always totally manic. I’m not sure. . . .”
Charlotte offered to call Gwyneth. “But I know she’s really up against it trying to finish her new cookbook. Or maybe I could try Catherine. I heard she’s going to be over again in the summer, but it’s such a huge ask, dragging her all the way from Wales.”
“My hairdresser does P. Diddy when he’s in town.” It was the crucifix woman.
“P. Diddy,” Imogen said, frowning. “Isn’t he that rapper chappie? Rather tacky, don’t you think?” She lowered the catalog to her cleavage.
“There is one person who springs to mind,” said Louise in the daisy smock.
“Who?”
“What about Tommy Padstow?”
There were actual squeals of delight. These drowned out the groans from Tara and Charlotte.
“Oh, I a-dore Tommy Padstow,” Imogen said. “The man leaves me quite weak at the knees.”
There were cries of “me, too.” Everybody agreed it was because he bore more than a passing resemblance to Damian Lewis.
“I’ve never understood the whole Damian Lewis thing,” Tara said. “If you ask me, the man looks like a duck.”
There was loud indignation. Damian Lewis looked nothing like a duck. How could she possibly say such a thing? Imogen was forced to shush everybody.
“Anyway, I know for a fact that Tommy Padstow wouldn’t be able to do it,” Charlotte announced.
“Why not?”
“Our neighbors are friends with the Padstows and they’re all off to a villa in the Algarve for the summer.”
“Pooh,” said Imogen.
“I know,” Tara piped up. “What about Greg Myers?”
“Now you’re talking,” Charlotte said. “He’s
really
hot.”
People were oohing in agreement.
“Remind me who he is again,” Imogen said.
Tara rolled her eyes. “
The Sleeper
? It’s the biggest thing since
Homeland
?”
“Oh yes, of course. He is rather dashing. He was in
Jane Eyre
a few years back. I adored his Mr. Rochester. . . . But doesn’t he live in LA these days?”
Tara said she’d read that he was about to start a West End run in
Death of a
Salesman
. “I’d say it’s definitely worth asking him. Apparently he was born round here, so he could well be up for opening the fair.”
“And it just so happens,” I heard myself say, “that I have a way of getting to Mr. Myers.”
What? No I didn’t. What the hell was I doing? Bigging myself up, that’s what. I’d had enough of Tara and Charlotte making me feel like a worm. First they’d informed me that my neighborhood was too ghetto for their brats. Then I’d had to listen to them bragging about their fashion and showbiz contacts.
“Goodness,” Imogen said. “This just gets better.”
Tara was looking distinctly sniffy. “You can get to Greg Myers? How?”
“My cousin Rupert was at Eton with him.”
Chapter 5
“S o after the meeting, Tara collars me and she’s like, ‘Sarah, I had no idea your family was posh. I thought you told me your family were in the rag trade, and didn’t your father used to drive a cab?’”
Steve reached for the wine bottle and topped up my glass. “This woman sounds like a real piece of work.”
“You can say that again.”
“So what did you say?”
“I told her that Rupert’s dad was an international lawyer. I’m not sure if she bought it, though.”
“What does he actually do?”
“Uncle Bernie? He’s in buttons and trimmings.”
Steve laughed.
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