The Finishing Touches (30 page)

If she came.

Nell Howard was definitely coming; she’d called me to confirm. I had my mother’s letter tucked in the back of my notebook, ready for her to look at, to see if the handwriting rang a bell.

I stared into the mirror, hoping for an irrational second that I might see something in there, the ghosts of Phillimores past perhaps, offering a clue or some kind of sign. Please let her come, I wished. Please let—

“What do we say about looking in mirrors, Elizabeth? Once is sane, and twice is vain!”

Miss Thorne had popped up, apparently from behind the massive urn of flowers, and I nearly squeaked with shock. “Was there something you wanted?” she said, moving closer to the door as if taking up a tactical position.

“I just thought I’d come down, in case there were any early arrivals,” I explained. “We want to look welcoming, don’t we?”

Her thin smile tightened. “Isn’t that a job for the principal?”

I thought that was a bit rich, since her contribution to the planning had been limited to sending me memos about how big the sandwiches should be.

“We’ve had so many acceptances that I’m sure we’ll both be rushed off our feet!” I said cheerily, and turned to Divinity’s crystal-encrusted iPod, hidden among the daffodils. Music for the Royal Fireworks began to pour out of the speakers tucked behind vases, in alcoves, and up the stairs.

“Just like the old days!” I said with a smile.

“I fear those days are gone,” sighed Miss Thorne. “Well, whatever happens today, you’ve done what you could, dear. And there’s one bright spot, with Venetia’s engagement.” She brightened up at that.

I bit my lip. Was marriage really all that mattered to Miss Thorne and Adele? Was it more important than whether the place stayed open or not?

“Maybe there’ll be
more
good news before the end of term,” she added rather mysteriously.

“Like the next term happening?” I inquired.

There was a firm rap on the lion’s head knocker, and she bustled to the door.

I bustled after her, and there was a brief struggle to open the door first, which I won by dint of my superior height. I did
it in one graceful but firm move, blocking her from appearing to the visitors. Those years playing goal defense on a brutal school netball team hadn’t been entirely pointless.

“Hello!” I said, extending a welcoming hand to the three women on the doorstep. “Welcome to the Phillimore Academy.”

I scanned their faces nervously. Was this them? It was impossible to tell how old Phillimore Old Girls were. I stepped back, confused. Where was Divinity with her list?

Ironically, it was Miss Thorne who came to my rescue, shoving me aside with a discreet elbow.

“Yes, welcome, welcome!” she cooed, stretching out her hands. “Oh, it’s Bunny, and Minty, and Alexandra! How wonderful to see you again, dears!”

Bunny, Minty, Alexandra. None of those names was familiar, and they didn’t seem to be inspecting me too closely either as they crowded round Miss Thorne and showered her with enthusiastic Phillimore compliments about her hair.

I swallowed. I could hear the tip-tap of more high heels trotting down Halfmoon Street. This was just the beginning.

After that first trio, the ever-punctual
Phillimore Old Girls positively streamed in, pitching up in clusters of two and three, their sweetie-colored suits and sheepskin vests making pastel splashes against the black-and-white tiles. They brought daughters and goddaughters and began assiduously introducing them to everyone with hearty handshakes. It made my and Divinity’s job much easier, as I kept my ears open for the magic names. I didn’t need to check with Nell’s list: I knew them by heart now.

Sophie, Coralie, Caroline, Rosalind, Emma-Jane.

The trouble was, virtually everyone who’d ever been at the Academy was called either Caroline or Sophie, so after ten minutes my ears were burning.

After the initial burst of curious Old Girls came a stream of more regular people, attracted, I hoped, by the feature in the paper. There were some graduating teenagers in black tights
and ballet flats and huge bags, some with harassed mothers, some definitely without; a few women in their thirties, with brave smiles and freshly cut divorce hairdos; and even one or two deeply reluctant lads dragged along by their sisters or mothers. Their tentative smiles at the boy/girl ratio soon turned to pure fear as Anastasia swooped on them to be guinea pigs for Liv’s makeover class.

Nell Howard arrived only five minutes after the doors opened. I spotted her at once, thanks to her sheepskin hat and the dramatic full-length suede coat sweeping behind her.

“Darling!” she cried when she saw me. “Good Lord, what a throng! Ooh, and champagne!” She swooped a glass of champagne from the tray Clemmy was circulating.

“Hello, Nell!” I handed the list of names to Divinity and muttered, “Look after this, and make sure you tell me if any of the names with
stars
next to them arrive, OK? It’s really important.”

“Why?” asked Divinity, her face lighting up. “Are they VIPs?”

“Yes,” I said. “Sort of.”

“What a fabulous collection of fascinating classes,” said Nell, peering at the day’s program and sipping from her glass. I noticed she did the Phillimore trick of discreetly licking her lips so her lipstick didn’t smear on the glass. “Gosh. Dressing to Meet Your Ex in the Lady Hamilton Room. EBay Your Way to Success with Clementine. Sticky Conversations with Divinity and Anastasia. What fun! And how instructive!”

“Um, yes, I hope so. Nell, can I ask you something?” I asked in an undertone, keeping one eye on the door.

She let me lead her into the front drawing room. Quickly, I got the letter out of my bag and showed it to her. “Do you recognize this writing?” I asked, my heart thumping. “It’s
the letter my mother left in my box. I’ve only just come across it.”

She removed a pair of silver glasses out of her bag and put them on very carefully, read the paper, looked intently at it, and chewed her lip.

“Darling, I would love to say yes, but you know,
everyone
wrote like this. Those big
a
’s and loopy
y
’s.” She peered again. “It does look familiar, I will say that. I think…I might have to get a second opinion.”

I could feel disappointment settle in my stomach like a lead scone.

“But look, this is a page from a Phillimore notebook,” she went on. “Look, you can see the hallmark.” She held it up to the light and pointed between the rounded letters.

I couldn’t see anything, but I made a polite
mm
noise, because I could tell she was trying.

Nell didn’t seem disappointed, though. Her eyes sparkled with intrigue. She struck me as the sort of guest you’d love to have at house parties, if only for her boundless enthusiasm. “You never know! She might be here. She might have seen that lovely photograph of you in the newspaper this week. I did—you’ve obviously learned some good photo tricks from somewhere!”

“Here, I hope,” I said. “We have a class on it now.”

“Marvelous! Am I too old to sign up?” Nell pressed the letter back into my hands, folding it over with her own. She had warm, soft hands. “I’ll keep an eye out, shall I? I just know she’ll be here. I can feel it!”

“Please,” I said gratefully. “I’ve rather got my hands full, keeping everything on track.”

Nell winked heartily. “I’m on the lookout! Now, did I see some blinis go past?”

I led her back into the hall and scanned the crowd with rising nerves.

“Don’t panic, darling,” murmured Nell. “I’ve got a good feeling about today.”

I barely noticed the morning racing by as I answered one question after another about a new-look Academy that seemed increasingly real. The drop-in classes must have been going down well, because I directed more and more people toward Mark and his credit card machine in the library, keeping one eye all the time on the crowd of curious new arrivals.

At eleven I caught my own reflection in the big hall mirror and didn’t recognize myself.

I was smiling, and my blue dress was swishing round my knees, and my hair was swinging and shiny like a shampoo ad. I actually looked like the confident woman I pretended to be in my head. Liv popped down between her makeover sessions to tweak me, but even she had to admit there was nothing she’d change.

“You look perfect,” she said, and coming from her that was really something.

My bubbling mood might have had something to do with the room full of flowers and the buzz of everyone working together for a change—and perhaps the little gestures of encouragement I kept getting from Jamie and Mark—Mark, quite subtly with quick smiles, and Jamie, less so, with cheesy winks and thumbs-up. I couldn’t help winking back.

He was in his element. I saw him making conversation with a Chelsea mother, a stern father, and their daughters outside Clemmy’s eBay demonstration: the girls were giggling, obviously, but as Jamie spoke, the tension melted from the man’s face and he laughed. Then Jamie said something and moved
on with an amiable good-bye. I could tell by the way the ladies leaned in and whispered to each other that they were talking about him.

Jamie’s really talented at this, I thought suddenly. He was happy to meet new people, entertaining to be with, and skilled at putting strangers at ease—all qualities that came up time and again in the notebooks as being rather admirable in a man.

But he’s like that with everyone, I reminded myself as my heart rate quickened. And if he’s like that with everyone…

A hand tapped me on the shoulder. I spun round, a warm smile ready on my lips.

Lord Phillimore and Adele were standing behind me. Adele’s slender hand was tucked into his arm, giving the outward impression that she was letting him support her, while at the same time suggesting that actually she was supporting him. I had to hand it to her, her body language was Nobel Prize–winning stuff.

I told myself not to be such a bitch and concentrated on the positive side of things. Lord P was looking so much better than he had at the memorial—in a new suit, cut narrower, and with a sparky red carnation in his buttonhole. His face was brighter, he stood up straighter, and his whole attitude was more involved and interested.

That’s good, I thought, and tried not to notice that his hair had turned a shade or two darker silver and that Adele was patting his arm.

Patting his arm!

“Now, we’re not going to monopolize you, but Pelham wanted to say hello,” she cooed.

“I wanted to say more than just hello! I wanted to say well
done,
Betsy,” he said, his face bright with pride. “What a transformation! I can’t think why we haven’t had one of these Open Days before—wonderful idea! I’ve just been talking to
Maureen McGregor and she says she can’t wait to get started on these new courses of yours. Happy Homeowning! Dealing with the In-Laws, indeed! Marvelous!”

“Mm,” said Adele pointedly. “Although Betsy will need a little help with the in-laws class, won’t you, hon? Not having had any personal experience on that front.”

“I thought
you
might have some suggestions,” I replied, keeping my face neutral. Adele’s marriage schedule did involve racking up about four sets of them.

“Oh, I do.” Adele nodded and glanced up at Lord P. “I’m
such
a great fan of marriage. It’s the natural state for
everyone
to be in. Don’t you think, Pelham?”

“Absolutely. I’m sure you ladies are all pitching in.” Lord P beamed, and I wasn’t sure if he’d caught her hint. “Just like the old days, seeing the place full of life. Full of laughter. Frances would be so proud.”

“Oh, yes,” said Adele quickly, with a melancholy sigh. “Weren’t we just saying, what a
very
special day Frances made the prize-giving? She always wore such
devastating
hats, and found a prize to give to even the most
uninspiring
girls…”

As Lord P’s eyes misted over with nostalgia, I noticed that Adele wasn’t looking nearly as sharp today as she had last time I had seen her. Instead of the tight pencil skirt and skinny heels, she was wearing a softer jersey dress, with several long strands of pearls. Even her hair seemed less power-dressed than before and was swept up into what was almost a soft bun at the back.

I watched, mesmerized, as Adele’s varnished nails tapped up and down on his sleeve. They were a subtle pale pink today, and her massive sparklers had vanished in favor of a simple signet ring. My mouth opened as the penny dropped. Adele was morphing into Franny in an attempt to bag the second engagement ring of the term!

She saw my reaction and gave me an unmistakable filthy
look that Lord P couldn’t see, thanks to Paulette appearing at his side with a tray of champagne.

“Take one from the left,” Paulette advised him. “That’s the quality bubbly. We’re running a bit short, so I’m giving the cheaper stuff to people who look like they can’t tell the difference.”

“Paulette! Don’t say that!”

“I’m sure
all
our guests can tell,” said Adele with a reproachful glance.

I thought quickly. “If anyone notices, tell them it’s part of a course we offer, on wine tasting or something. But don’t let them take two glasses,” I added, imagining Mark prising the second flute out of a guest’s hand.

“Not for me, Paulette,” said Adele, patting her tiny stomach. “I mustn’t!”

“Why? You up the duff?” she inquired.

“What? Goodness, no! I don’t drink during the day!” Adele looked affronted, then checked with Lord P to see if he’d noted her abstemiousness.

She was wasting her time there, I thought. He liked a woman who could hold her claret.

“In recovery, are you?” Paulette went on.

“Thank you, Paulette.” I steered her away firmly. “I’ll catch up with you later,” I called to Lord P, who raised his flute to me in thanks. Adele fiddled with her unfamiliar hairpiece while she thought no one was looking and then resumed her expression of sweetness when he turned to ask her a question.

Paulette and I had barely got into the hall when Divinity came rushing up, her hair quivering with excitement.

“They’re here!” whispered Divinity.

“Who?”

She waved her guest list at me. “Your VIPs! Three arrived together—I watched them getting a drink.”

I grabbed the list off her and checked: Coralie, Sophie, and Emma-Jane had been grouped together by Divinity’s gold pen and ostentatiously ticked off. She’d clearly learned her door policy from years of queueing outside clubs, having made her own VIP list, which I was sure she’d be letting guests catch a glimpse of.

The breath caught in my throat.

“There was some confusion about the names,” Divinity went on. “They’ve got, like, millions of surnames, and one of them’s brought her daughter, she says…”

“Her daughter?”

Divinity seemed puzzled. “Are you OK? You’ve gone dead white.” She went into bossy Liv Stylist mode. “Here, you need blusher—”

“No, that’s sweet, but I’m fine.” I scanned the room, hoping to spot Nell so she could introduce me, but she was nowhere to be seen. “I’ll…I’ll go and say hello.”

I squeezed my way through the guests, catching faint snatches of sales pitches about email etiquette from Mrs. Angell and jump-starting a flat battery from Mark, until I spotted an unlikely trio standing by the champagne table.

Nell’s photo, taken in almost that very place, flashed up in my mind—languid blond Sophie, fiery Coralie, and naughty Emma-Jane with the Shetland pony bangs—and I tried to overlay that with the spooky Stevie Nicks lookalike, the white-haired matron in drapey clothes, and the bouffant newsreader peering at the caviar-topped blinis Anastasia’s mother had sent by the truckload as a thank-you for sorting out her daughter’s feud with the parking wardens.

I swallowed and counted to ten, but my heart was racing. Was one of these three women my mother? Was this it? How did I ask?

There was nothing in Franny’s notebooks about how one
was supposed to flush out a runaway parent without actually asking directly. That was presumably why the upper classes invented charades—for practice.

One of them—Sophie, by the look of the blond hair—spotted me staring at them, and then I had no choice but to dive right in.

“Hello!” I held out my hand and let my manners take over while my brain kicked into gear. “I’m Betsy,” I said. “Betsy
Phillimore.
Thanks so much for coming along this morning—I hope the new ideas meet with Old Girl approval?”

If I was hoping for a Hollywood-style double take of realization and a flurry of strings and paper hankies, it didn’t arrive.

Emma-Jane stared at me as if she were translating what I’d said into a different language in her head, while Coralie smiled in a terrifying manner that showed expensive white teeth but no laugh lines. A creeping sensation ran over my skin; I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of any of these women revealing herself to be my parent. I didn’t really fancy any of these genes turning up in me in later life.

I pressed on anyway.

Sophie shook my hand; it was a limp shake—what the Academy used to call “a brittle bones society special.”

“Hi,” she said. She smelled strongly of patchouli and menthol cigarettes. “Sophie Townend-Gooch. Are you
Betsy Phillimore
? As in…” She dropped her voice and swiveled her hooded brown eyes like a spy. “The baby we weren’t supposed to know about?”