great.' Kitty dipped into the bowl and licked her fingers, then remembered that icing was fattening.
'I'm thrilled. Why was it great?'
'It just was. Everyone was really nice and what I wore was OK and French is really easy. They're masses behind me.'
'Do you have a best friend?' asked Violet, chocolate ringed round her raspberry mouth.
'I think so. She's called Charlotte.'
'I have a best friend. She's called Summer. But I have to pretend I don't like her because she's a girl,' Sam confided.
'Mum has a date, Kitty,' Violet said. 'With a very young boy named George.'
'Young being the operative word,' her mother said dryly. 'He's twenty-two.'
'Bloody hell! That's only nine years older than me!'
'Will you help me decide what to wear?'
This was their favourite pastime, one that had begun when she was little. Kitty loved her mother's wardrobe. At Hay she used
to climb in amidst fur coats and taffeta dresses that slid against her with a sigh of history. She sat with a torch, reading
for hours. The cupboards contained the essence of her mother. Overalls, paint-smattered, and T-shirts thin and soft with years
of wear and washing. Dresses that swore fun and seduction, heels worn down with dancing and late nights in the rain.
They surveyed her mother's wares like hawk-eyed cloth buyers, dismissing scraps of silk, a heel too high, a sweater too mumsy.
'The rose,' Kitty declared finally. The rose was her mother's standard date dress. It had a heady history of success.
'Aren't we a bit bored of it?' Marina asked fretfully.
'No, it's good. Honestly,' Kitty said.
She watched her mother's party ritual, the long bath with orange-blossom oil (a witch had told her it made men crazy), body
cream swept on surely, the make-up applied with the fine strokes of a painter. She looked like a pert-lipped Matisse woman
but thinner. Kitty told her this and Marina crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. She wasn't wearing any knickers.
The doorbell rang.
'Darling, give him a drink and tell him I'm on the phone to my gallery in England.'
'It's midnight in England,' Kitty said.
'Oh, my gallery here then. Please, and try to keep Violet out of the sitting room. She gets a little over frankwith new people.'
Kitty answered the door.
'Hi,' she sing-songed. 'I'm Kitty. How do you do. Mummy's on the phone to her gallery in New York but do you want a drink
. . .' She looked at him. He was unbelievably handsome. She fancied her mother's date.
'You look just like your mother,' he said. 'I'm George and I would love a Martini. Do you know how to make it or shall I help
you?'
'I know how,' she said faintly.
'Good girl.'
They sat in the sitting room with the huge bay windows.
It was still light. She wished she had put on her dot of Chanel No. 5.
'Kitty, you make a mean Martini. Have you started school yet?'
'No, I'm at university.' It fell from her mouth.
He raised an eyebrow.
'Seventh grade. I started today,' she said, blushing.
'Seventh grade, that's cool. How is it?'
'I liked it. The lessons weren't difficult, but that could have been because it was the first day. It's odd having boys, I'm
not used to that.'
'Somewhat different from boarding school, I'd imagine?' he said, and his tone was sweet.
'Oh yes,' she said fervently.
They talked about books. His favourite was Catch 22. She told him about Sense and Sensibilip, which he'd never read. He laughed
quite a lot at the things she said, as though they delighted him, and she didn't mind, because he was not patronising or humoring
her, she knew. She felt like they were on a date, that she was amusing him with her witty little stories. When she laughed,
she touched Mr Fitzgerald's necklace at her throat as she had seen her mother do when she liked a man.
The reverie was broken when Marina burst in, vital and awash with colour, trailing orange blossom behind her.
George swallowed.
'God you're beautiful,' he said.
'Thank you,' she said smartly. 'I'm sorry I kept
'I'm thrilled. Why was it great?'
'It just was. Everyone was really nice and what I wore was OK and French is really easy. They're masses behind me.'
'Do you have a best friend?' asked Violet, chocolate ringed round her raspberry mouth.
'I think so. She's called Charlotte.'
'I have a best friend. She's called Summer. But I have to pretend I don't like her because she's a girl,' Sam confided.
'Mum has a date, Kitty,' Violet said. 'With a very young boy named George.'
'Young being the operative word,' her mother said dryly. 'He's twenty-two.'
'Bloody hell! That's only nine years older than me!'
'Will you help me decide what to wear?'
This was their favourite pastime, one that had begun when she was little. Kitty loved her mother's wardrobe. At Hay she used
to climb in amidst fur coats and taffeta dresses that slid against her with a sigh of history. She sat with a torch, reading
for hours. The cupboards contained the essence of her mother. Overalls, paint-smattered, and T-shirts thin and soft with years
of wear and washing. Dresses that swore fun and seduction, heels worn down with dancing and late nights in the rain.
They surveyed her mother's wares like hawk-eyed cloth buyers, dismissing scraps of silk, a heel too high, a sweater too mumsy.
'The rose,' Kitty declared finally. The rose was her mother's standard date dress. It had a heady history of success.
'Aren't we a bit bored of it?' Marina asked fretfully.
'No, it's good. Honestly,' Kitty said.
She watched her mother's party ritual, the long bath with orange-blossom oil (a witch had told her it made men crazy), body
cream swept on surely, the make-up applied with the fine strokes of a painter. She looked like a pert-lipped Matisse woman
but thinner. Kitty told her this and Marina crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. She wasn't wearing any knickers.
The doorbell rang.
'Darling, give him a drink and tell him I'm on the phone to my gallery in England.'
'It's midnight in England,' Kitty said.
'Oh, my gallery here then. Please, and try to keep Violet out of the sitting room. She gets a little over frankwith new people.'
Kitty answered the door.
'Hi,' she sing-songed. 'I'm Kitty. How do you do. Mummy's on the phone to her gallery in New York but do you want a drink
. . .' She looked at him. He was unbelievably handsome. She fancied her mother's date.
'You look just like your mother,' he said. 'I'm George and I would love a Martini. Do you know how to make it or shall I help
you?'
'I know how,' she said faintly.
'Good girl.'
They sat in the sitting room with the huge bay windows.
It was still light. She wished she had put on her dot of Chanel No. 5.
'Kitty, you make a mean Martini. Have you started school yet?'
'No, I'm at university.' It fell from her mouth.
He raised an eyebrow.
'Seventh grade. I started today,' she said, blushing.
'Seventh grade, that's cool. How is it?'
'I liked it. The lessons weren't difficult, but that could have been because it was the first day. It's odd having boys, I'm
not used to that.'
'Somewhat different from boarding school, I'd imagine?' he said, and his tone was sweet.
'Oh yes,' she said fervently.
They talked about books. His favourite was Catch 22. She told him about Sense and Sensibilip, which he'd never read. He laughed
quite a lot at the things she said, as though they delighted him, and she didn't mind, because he was not patronising or humoring
her, she knew. She felt like they were on a date, that she was amusing him with her witty little stories. When she laughed,
she touched Mr Fitzgerald's necklace at her throat as she had seen her mother do when she liked a man.
The reverie was broken when Marina burst in, vital and awash with colour, trailing orange blossom behind her.
George swallowed.
'God you're beautiful,' he said.
'Thank you,' she said smartly. 'I'm sorry I kept
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