leaving Harry hanging.
Although I am adept at
getting bats out of a house, it took quite some time to rid the library of this
one. Rushing upstairs and changing for dinner at breakneck speed to avoid
freezing to death, I felt strange knowing that Charlotte and Harry were in the
house too. I had imagined the moment of their arrival ever since I had replaced
the phone to Charlotte ten days ago and had pictured myself chic in my mother’s
scent, drifting downstairs carrying a vase of flowers or a small pile of
relevant books, while Mary opened the door to them both and took their coats.
As it happened, Mary seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth, Inigo
had made a fool of me and I had been caught out in a knitted cardigan with a
huge hole under the arm.
I sat
down on my bed and stared out of the window, thinking of Harry and Marina
Hamilton in the Jazz Café (which required quite a lot of imagination as I had
never been to the place myself, nor had I ever even drunk an espresso), and
wondering if this was one of those Key Moments in life where you are offered a
chance to do something out of the ordinary that will mean nothing is Ever The
Same Again. I wondered if he had said anything to Charlotte about his idea —
perhaps it was her suggestion? If I was entirely honest with myself, there was
a greater proportion of me that was flattered and excited to be asked to help
Harry than there was irritated by the idea. Yet extending that honesty further,
this excitement came much more from the possibility of seeing Dorset House
again and attending a truly marvellous American-style party than it did from
spending time with Harry. Perhaps Johnnie would be there, I thought, then
scolded myself for being so silly. It was starting to get dark now; the
branches of the lime trees at the top of the drive glowed ghostly pale. The
snowfall had altered the scenery for our weekend, had opened up more
possibilities, made memories of it before the first nightfall. I would take
Charlotte to meet Banjo tomorrow. I smudged on the tiniest bit of lipstick and
slid into my new Selfridges shoes. They were already bitterly uncomfortable. My
mother was always talking about ‘wearing shoes in’, but what she really meant
was breaking through the pain barrier so that you no longer notice how much
they are pinching. I wondered how she was, and whether she was regretting her
hasty exit from Magna.
‘Snow
on snow,’ I muttered to myself.
‘Are
you ever coming down?’ yelled Inigo.
I
wobbled dangerously in my heels and thought how lost the effect would be now
that my guests had seen me at my scruffiest. I paused for a moment, then kicked
them off and pulled on my usual scuffed red flats. Racing down the stairs,
three at a time, I forgot about carrying flowers and looking intellectual and
smelling grown up. There would never be any point in pretending in front of
Charlotte. What’s more, I thought wryly, Harry was a magician so he was always
going to be able to see through me.
Charlotte
was sitting by the gramophone in the drawing room, changed into black trousers
and a thick white jersey. She had pulled the sleeves down over her hands.
‘You
got my requests then,’ she said with a grin.
‘What?’
‘Snowfall
and forty-fives.’
I could
put up with Harry, I thought, as long as it meant I could spend more time with
Charlotte.
Chapter
6
HOW TO
LIVE AT HOME AND LIKE IT
Although Inigo and I
always had wine with Mama at supper (she refused to drink on her own), neither
of us had ever consumed the amount of alcohol that we did that first weekend
with Charlotte and Harry. Inigo raided the cellar and stripped it of the last
few bottles of Moët (Mama only ever pretended to like champagne) and Charlotte
produced a large bottle of brandy that she had stolen from her mother’s drinks
cabinet. Both she and Harry drank like adults, without much fuss and without
seeming to be terribly affected by the amount that
Although I am adept at
getting bats out of a house, it took quite some time to rid the library of this
one. Rushing upstairs and changing for dinner at breakneck speed to avoid
freezing to death, I felt strange knowing that Charlotte and Harry were in the
house too. I had imagined the moment of their arrival ever since I had replaced
the phone to Charlotte ten days ago and had pictured myself chic in my mother’s
scent, drifting downstairs carrying a vase of flowers or a small pile of
relevant books, while Mary opened the door to them both and took their coats.
As it happened, Mary seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth, Inigo
had made a fool of me and I had been caught out in a knitted cardigan with a
huge hole under the arm.
I sat
down on my bed and stared out of the window, thinking of Harry and Marina
Hamilton in the Jazz Café (which required quite a lot of imagination as I had
never been to the place myself, nor had I ever even drunk an espresso), and
wondering if this was one of those Key Moments in life where you are offered a
chance to do something out of the ordinary that will mean nothing is Ever The
Same Again. I wondered if he had said anything to Charlotte about his idea —
perhaps it was her suggestion? If I was entirely honest with myself, there was
a greater proportion of me that was flattered and excited to be asked to help
Harry than there was irritated by the idea. Yet extending that honesty further,
this excitement came much more from the possibility of seeing Dorset House
again and attending a truly marvellous American-style party than it did from
spending time with Harry. Perhaps Johnnie would be there, I thought, then
scolded myself for being so silly. It was starting to get dark now; the
branches of the lime trees at the top of the drive glowed ghostly pale. The
snowfall had altered the scenery for our weekend, had opened up more
possibilities, made memories of it before the first nightfall. I would take
Charlotte to meet Banjo tomorrow. I smudged on the tiniest bit of lipstick and
slid into my new Selfridges shoes. They were already bitterly uncomfortable. My
mother was always talking about ‘wearing shoes in’, but what she really meant
was breaking through the pain barrier so that you no longer notice how much
they are pinching. I wondered how she was, and whether she was regretting her
hasty exit from Magna.
‘Snow
on snow,’ I muttered to myself.
‘Are
you ever coming down?’ yelled Inigo.
I
wobbled dangerously in my heels and thought how lost the effect would be now
that my guests had seen me at my scruffiest. I paused for a moment, then kicked
them off and pulled on my usual scuffed red flats. Racing down the stairs,
three at a time, I forgot about carrying flowers and looking intellectual and
smelling grown up. There would never be any point in pretending in front of
Charlotte. What’s more, I thought wryly, Harry was a magician so he was always
going to be able to see through me.
Charlotte
was sitting by the gramophone in the drawing room, changed into black trousers
and a thick white jersey. She had pulled the sleeves down over her hands.
‘You
got my requests then,’ she said with a grin.
‘What?’
‘Snowfall
and forty-fives.’
I could
put up with Harry, I thought, as long as it meant I could spend more time with
Charlotte.
Chapter
6
HOW TO
LIVE AT HOME AND LIKE IT
Although Inigo and I
always had wine with Mama at supper (she refused to drink on her own), neither
of us had ever consumed the amount of alcohol that we did that first weekend
with Charlotte and Harry. Inigo raided the cellar and stripped it of the last
few bottles of Moët (Mama only ever pretended to like champagne) and Charlotte
produced a large bottle of brandy that she had stolen from her mother’s drinks
cabinet. Both she and Harry drank like adults, without much fuss and without
seeming to be terribly affected by the amount that
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