Bergdorf Blondes (26 page)

“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?”

T
he 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 re
cent 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 with 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 disap
prove 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.

I heard a door slam downstairs and voices. Everyone was back. I hurriedly hid the little box in my zebra handbag. Feet sprinted up the stairs and suddenly Mom, Dad, and Julie were crowding in at the door.

“Are you all right, dear?” said Mom. “Why are you lying on Julie’s clothes?”

“I’m just really jet-lagged,” I said, not getting up. “Sorry about today, Mom, I didn’t mean it about the party.”

“I’m sure most people would rather be stuck in traffic than come to one of your mother’s parties,” said Dad. “Aawwggghhh!” he howled as Mom clipped him smartly on the back of the head. “Peter, it’s
your
party.”

“Well, I wish you’d let me invite some of my friends then.”

“Mom, I’m sure everyone’s going to love it,” I said.

“We had a lovely chat with Caroline after you left. That Charlie is a very sensible boy, you know. Convinced his mother that she was being melodramatic about the chairs. We’ve made up. After all these years! The Countess is coming to the party, with Charlie. Isn’t that
sensational
news?”

No
, I thought.
Maybe if I called Patrick Saxton he’d send a helicopter for me. I wonder if there’s anywhere it could land in the garden of The Old Rectory?

“I thought I’d wear my Caroline Charles cream suit. What do you think?”

“Who’s Caroline Charles?” said Julie.

“She’s Princess Anne’s favorite designer.”

If only Mom would face up to the fact she’s American and wear Bill Blass like everyone else’s moms, she’d look a whole lot better.

“Do you know how the father managed to disappear like that, in America?” asked Mom.

“They never used the title. Charlie told me,” I replied.

“Title
s
darling, plural. Dunlain is the family name and the titles are the Earl of Swyre and Viscount Strathan. If you’ve got that many names and you move countries, I suppose no one ever knows who you really are. I don’t understand the British, covering up those wonderful titles! It’s criminal. By the way, the Finnoullas are bringing their daughter Agatha tomorrow. She’s a lesbian, darling, but we all have to pretend we don’t know.”

Rest was impossible that night. Maybe Julie
would
look more glam in Valentino than Zac Posen, I thought as I lay in my bed in the spare room not sleeping. Anything to distract my mind from the day’s events. I mean, yes, Zac P. is the trendiest designer in the world this second, no argument, but does a girl really want to look like Chloë Sevigny on her wedding day? I swear this is
nothing
to do with wanting a free Valentino outfit, but I suddenly felt compelled to stop Julie from ruining her wedding day by dressing as an indie actress.

“Julie,” I whispered. “Are you awake still?”

“Sort of. What is it?”

“What about Valentino, for the dress? I mean, when Debra Messing wore him to the Golden Globes she went from no-name TV girl to fashion star overnight. Maybe Zac’s too avant-garde.”

“I’m asking a lot of designers to make me something. I’m just trying to keep everyone happy. Then I’ll decide on the day. I always change my mind a million times about what I want to wear when I go out so I’m figuring I need multiple options on my wedding day.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I so can. Wow, can you believe Charlie has that incredible place? And all that antique stuff. I wonder if he’ll ever invite me to stay after I was so mean
dating Todd in Paris. Eew, the triple-dating I used to do!”

Henry had really had an effect on Julie. I mean, she never even used to be conscious she was triple-dating, let alone show any remorse.

“Julie, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Did Charlie break up with you in Paris?”

“Eew! Okay, yeah, I guess he did.”

“Why did you say you were still together?”

“Duh. Because, historically, no one
ever
leaves Julie Bergdorf. I don’t know why you let so many men break up with you. Do you think Charlie would sell off any of those paintings? I really dig that Canaletto in the library. It would look so much cuter in my bedroom at The Pierre though.”

“I don’t think people sell off their family heirlooms here,” I said.

“Shame. Everyone thinks you’re madly in love with each other. And he’s got that house and everything! You two would be so cute together.”

God, Julie was turning into my mom.

“Julie, stop it!”

“He wouldn’t be a bad person to date. At least we know now he could afford a driver. He’s a
terrific
catch. Mind you, after your incredible tantrum this afternoon and being so rude to Charlie—”

“Oh god, was I terribly rude?” It was starting to
dawn on me how unforgivably ill-mannered I’d been today.

“How
weren’t
you rude?”

Coming from the reigning queen of bad manners herself, this was a bit much. Still, Julie was right. I mean, I’d broken into Charlie’s house, stolen a beautiful tchotchke—though since he didn’t know about that it didn’t really count—had a meltdown in front of him, insulted Charlie, his mom, and mine, and all right after a death in the family. Looking back on it, I realized how embarrassed and cross I was about the whole Little Earl business, thinking Charlie was trying to trick me. Now, lying there in the dark, I felt foolish. Maybe I’d overreacted. Charlie was probably a perfectly decent human being—even if he’d taken terrible advantage of me during that weak moment at the Mercer—who’d actually been pretty sweet to me on several unhappy occasions. He hadn’t tried to mislead me about being the Earl, he just wasn’t a big fat show-off, unlike some of my other dates, Eduardo and Patrick to name but two. I mean, English toffs have some crazy code of honor where they never say anything that might be considered even the teensiest bit show-offy. The fact was, I regretfully admitted to myself, Charlie had impeccable manners, and I had shown myself to have less than perfect ones today.

“Julie, god, I feel like such a jerk. Do you think if
I apologize to him at the party tomorrow he’ll forgive me?”

And I could return the pillbox, I thought. That would be almost as hard as apologizing. It was so divine I was getting totally attached to it. It would be so much nicer for my Tylenol to live in there than in their paper carton.

“Yeah, you should. Then we can all enjoy the party, and maybe you can get laid.”

“Julie, stop it! Have you got an Ambien?” I asked. I’d never get to sleep without a chemical boost.

“Sure,” said Julie, rifling around on the floor. She found a little plastic jar, popped it open, and handed me a tiny pale orange tablet.

I slipped it in my mouth and washed it down with a sip of water. Bliss, I thought as I lay back on Mom’s crisp Irish linen pillow. If only I could take another Ambien when I woke up tomorrow morning.

“Wear this,” commanded Julie the next day, handing me a pale pink silk dress trimmed with lace. It had a sexy split up one side. It was completely inappropriate for an English garden party.

“I’m wearing the Balenciaga dress,” I protested.

“You can’t! That dress has been so
done
. Kate Hudson wore it to the Golden Globes, then there was a
shot of Charlize Theron at Cannes in it. Next thing you know it’ll turn up on Rebecca Romijn-Stamos at the MTV awards, and then it’ll really be over,” sighed Julie. “I’m concerned that a preppy white dress is not the best get-the-guy-with-the-castle number.”

Since I wasn’t planning on getting the guy with the castle anyway, I didn’t really care. But it did occur to me that maybe Charlie wouldn’t be quite so cross with me when I gave him back his golden pillbox if I was looking really adorable and showing a bit of leg. I mean, if you can distract a man from his real purpose with fashion, do, I always say. I took the silk dress and slipped it on. It was almost one o’clock and we needed to join the party.