Summer in Mayfair

by Susannah Constantine

  Suki had left a nightdress and dressing gown for her to use. She put them on and crawled under the bedcovers, burying her face in the pillow. Her body ached with tiredness but her brain raced. She felt the splintering mortification of having done nothing to help Cece growing worse every minute. If she hadn’t screwed up with Bill she wouldn’t have gone to Battersea and if Dan hadn’t taken her home, none of this would have happened.

  She knew she was to blame but she saw Dan in a new light too. Sensing her weakness he had taken advantage, and dazzled by his attention she had surrendered to her loneliness and fallen into his bed. When Cece had run out of the flat, he had done nothing. She wondered if he was somewhere racked with the same guilt and agony as she was, or if he was going about his selfish ways without giving her or Cece a second thought. Everything had been going so well until he came along.

  That she had been a bystander seemed unforgivable; even though others had been taking care of her friend, it should have been her. She wanted to hide her shame but she knew being honest with Suki was only decent thing she’d done that day. She still had no idea what to do, but she knew only by facing up to the truth would she even begin to find a way forward. But right now she had to live with her failure to act and she hated herself for it.

  All her life, Esme had been in the presence and at the mercy of two damaged women: her mother and the Contessa. Both would have dealt with this drama in the same way but for very different reasons. The Contessa would have felt nothing and her mother would have made it all about her. At least Esme felt guilty and this let her know that her moral compass was pointing in the right direction. But what she had done was unalterable. She was blaming Dan in the same way Diana would have blamed Cece. Part of Esme’s motivation in leaving the Highlands had been to break free from these two dysfunctional women.

  In befriending Cece, she had hoped that some of her natural charisma would rub off onto her and that moving in artistic circles would open doors. But despite trying to ride on the personalities of others, she had messed up with the people she cared about most. She had tried to outrun her demons by upping sticks but unless she learnt from what she had done, she would never be free of her past.

  It was easy to see how she had been seduced by Dan – he was sexy as hell, but it had been more than that. Her desperation for a man to replace the ones she had lost – her father, the Earl – had clouded her judgement. And she had fallen for the first guy who had shown interest in her. She didn’t care about Dan but she was heartbroken at having derailed her best chance of a real friendship. And for what? A shoulder to cry on because she had jeopardized her job through being selfish and unreliable.

  Her shiny new life had turned to shit but she felt more grateful to Suki than ever. Esme had been too judgemental of the girl who had taken her under her wing. In her eagerness to escape the society world and husband-hunting, she’d refused to see Suki as more than a stereotype. Yet when Esme was alone, disgraced and lost, she had been warm and practical in her hour of need.

  ‘Esme? I’m home. Got good news.’

  Esme was almost afraid to open her eyes, because once she did, she would know one way or the other. Perhaps she could just lie there forever. Perhaps that was her punishment; to simply reside in hell with her eyes closed afraid of opening them lest things had deteriorated even further.

  ‘Es. Wake up!’

  Her voice didn’t have the tone of someone about to deliver bad news. There was pride in it and the excitement of a soon-to-be-shared secret.

  ‘What time is it?’ Esme struggled from the bedclothes. How long had she been sleeping?

  ‘Five thirty,’ said Suki. She took a deep breath. ‘I found Cece. She’s going to be fine. Small head injury and a broken wrist but other than that… she’ll be out in a few days.’

  Relief swept over her. ‘Thank God, Suki. Oh my God. You are amazing, Suki.’ Esme leapt up to hug her friend. ‘Which hospital is she in?’

  ‘The Royal Free.’

  Esme wondered whether she should send Cece a note and some flowers or would they be chucked in the bin? Should she just show up in person or was she the last person Cece would want to see right now? How would she even begin to show how sorry she was?

  ‘She was bloody lucky. Could have been fatal.’

  Cece could have become a statistic – in the wrong place at the wrong time. In a flash, her life might have been snuffed out. She could feel energy flowing back into her. It didn’t matter what happened tomorrow, because it might never come. What mattered was the here and now and Esme had to find a way to apologize; she had to start making amends and she had to start now.

  ‘Was Bill OK?’

  ‘In the end,’ said Suki. ‘He told me about you missing the show, and losing the money. I was going to just tell him you were sick, but I figured the truth would go a long way. So I told him about Cece getting run over. And before you ask, of course, I didn’t tell him about Dan. At first, he was a bit off – like he didn’t believe me – but I reminded him how hard you work and of all the times you’ve covered my ass. And then he calmed down. A bit.’

  There wasn’t much conviction behind her delivery, but Esme chose to believe it anyway.

  Yesterday her fuck-up at work and Bill’s fury had seemed like the end of the world. Although she still had no clue how she was going to deal with that ghastly mess, Cece nearly dying put her own woes into perspective.

  She felt like she had been released from a nightmare, given a second chance and was determined to find a way of convincing Cece how sorry she was. If she could do that, then apologizing to Bill wouldn’t seem quite as hard.

  She had been so busy trying to forget or rearrange her past that she had forgotten to work out who she really wanted to be. She knew now that the essence of herself could not be changed and that that was all right. She’d been so impatient, so told herself that in time she would become less naïve and gauche. The problem had come from wanting to change overnight by flying on the coattails of those she deemed sophisticated and worldly. She needed to grow up at her own pace. If she didn’t, there would always be disaster waiting in the wings.

  Right now she wanted to repay Suki for her loyalty and to make amends for labelling her a brainless Sloane. Then an idea struck her.

  ‘What are you up to tomorrow?’

  ‘I was meant to be having lunch with the future in-laws but Johnny’s had to go away,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘You?’

  ‘I’m having lunch with Princess Margaret tomorrow at Kensington Palace.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I’d love it if you came with me, Suks. PM will adore you and I’m sure she won’t mind if I bring you along.’

  Suki looked like she had just been knighted. ‘Are you sure?’

  Esme nodded and felt for the first time in a long while that she’d done a kind thing.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The first thing Esme did when she got back to the gallery was order the biggest bouquet she could afford with the last few pennies she had until her next pay cheque. (If Bill was still going to pay her final wages – he’d be within his rights to take it as debt repayment, Esme knew.) She chose pink and blue blooms with a note saying ‘Forgive me’. She prayed that this would ease things before she went to visit Cece in hospital.

  Johnny’s father had offered his driver and Mercedes to take them to the Palace and Suki was coming to collect her at noon. She must have phoned at least five times fussing about what to wear and when she arrived – on the dot of twelve o’clock – Esme thought Margaret Thatcher had done a detour via Jermyn Street.

  Suki – in all her sartorial lack of wisdom – looked a decade older than her twenty-five years. Pussy cat shirt, bouclé skirt suit in dusky rose, nude tights and a pair of black capped sling-backs from Chanel. She even had the Mrs T handbag, a smooth leather tote with gold buckles capable of biting your fingers. Hours of thought had gone into this outfit and Esme didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was lunch
not the opening of parliament. How she had managed to pull together such staid formality at short notice was nothing short of a miracle. Where the hell had she got these clothes?

  ‘Wow, Suki, you look so smart.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said with the confidence of someone who knew she was wearing all the best labels.

  Esme had asked to borrow something, as her only dress was soiled and her mum’s shorts were lying on the floor in Dan’s bathroom – and would stay there. Suki proffered a holdall and she feared what was inside.

  ‘Hurry up and put these on. We don’t want to be late.’

  ‘These’ were a white lace off-the-shoulder peasant dress and espadrilles. She would look like Suki’s daughter. But whilst dated, it suited her more than if Suki had brought her an outfit that matched hers. When she put it on she looked less maid of honour and more the romantic subject of a David Hamilton photograph. There was something slightly erotic in its innocence and once she’d added gold hoops, Esme was pretty pleased with her appearance. It had a fresh cleanliness that she certainly wasn’t feeling after the last twenty-four hours.

  ‘You look lovely, Esme. Really pretty,’ said Suki.

  ‘Mother of the bride and her virgin daughter,’ Esme said, smiling.

  Suki laughed and pulled a small can of hairspray from her bag. Lifting her hair in sections, she hosed it down with lacquer until the tin ran out of breath.

  ‘Right. The Palace, here we come!’

  The Downes’s chauffeur was a woman. She wore a green uniform and cap with some kind of black resin plume stuck on the front and she didn’t say a word. Esme put her well past retirement age and wondered what circumstances had led her to driving two giddy girls across London on the weekend.

  ‘So, what do I call her?’ Suki was aflutter with nerves.

  ‘Ma’am, pronounced “damn” not “darm”. When you talk about her to someone else you call her Princess Margaret and if you introduce her to someone you say “Her Royal Highness, Princess Margaret”, which I’ll do when you meet her.’

  Suki looked petrified. ‘I’m never going to remember all this. What about curtseying. Do I have to do that?’

  ‘Of course. She’ll offer her hand. You take it then curtsey nice and low. Men only have to bob their heads.’

  ‘What happens if I head-butt her when I rise?’

  This had been a recurring concern of Esme’s, but it hadn’t eventuated.

  ‘Unless she bends over you, that will never happen.’

  The car turned right off High Street Kensington and into the Palace drive.

  ‘We’re here. Now don’t worry, Suki. I wouldn’t have invited you if I thought you’d fuck things up. She’s lovely and very funny, so just relax and enjoy it.’

  Suki took Esme’s hand and placed it on her lap, peering through the windscreen with all the wonder of a six-year-old.

  ‘Oh God, it’s closed. Look. The barrier. Are you sure we’ve got the right day?’

  Esme giggled and whispered, ‘What’s the chauffeur called?’ nodding towards their driver.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Suki grimacing.

  ‘’Scuse me, Mrs—’

  ‘Slack,’ said the chauffeur. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve done this before.’ And she wound down her window to speak to the policeman in his little shed.

  ‘I have Miss Esme Munroe and her friend for luncheon with Her Royal Highness.’

  The policeman looked down a list and said, ‘Her Royal Highness will be in the garden. First right. Her Royal Highness’s equerry will take care of the young ladies.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

  ‘She didn’t say my name. How will they know who I am?’ hissed Suki.

  Esme ignored her and squeezed her hand as they drove under an arch, where a man in chef’s whites stood in the doorway wiping his hands on his apron. He waved and Esme waved back.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Suki asked.

  ‘The chef, I presume. It’s not like I know the whole staff! This is my first time here since I was little.’ Esme had seen the Princess socially more often than at home here at the Palace.

  Mrs Slack did a grand sweep around the cobbled quadrangle, stopped in front of the entrance and got out to open the car door.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s her… look, Esme, it’s Her Princess Highness.’

  Princess Margaret was in position in the doorway, small and perfectly formed with an enormous smile. She posed, Cecil Beaton ready, with her cigarette holder aloft in one hand and whisky tumbler in the other. Her 1950s cotton dress, with its tiny waist, flawless cleavage decked with pearls and large turquoise pattern, billowed in the light wind. She had aged since her divorce but still owned an old-school glamour that set her apart from her sister.

  ‘Esme,’ she cried, ‘how wonderful to see you, darling.’

  Esme bounded up the steps. She had never been so happy to see this woman who’d been part of her family’s circle since before she was born. Out of all her parents’ friends, the Princess was her favourite because she never talked down to her and had stood by her mother through her illness. On more than one occasion PM had stepped in as her Princess in Shining Armour and although Esme played down their relationship in public, she felt they were genuinely fond of each other. Overcome by the nostalgia and security the Princess represented, Esme could have cried. Grateful to find that some things didn’t change – however messed up her life had become – Esme wanted to hug the life out of her but gave two efficient pecks on each cheek then curtseyed.

  ‘Oh, ma’am, I’ve missed you.’ Then unable to resist, Esme flung her arms around her, to which Princess Margaret laughed.

  ‘Only you, Esme. So full of love. Just like your darling mama.’

  For a beat Esme forgot Suki, who stood starstruck as if waiting to get an autograph.

  ‘I’m not Elvis, dearie,’ said the Princess, smiling at Esme’s friend.

  Esme knew that one thing she couldn’t abide were those in awe of her. Esme should have told her to act normally, worrying that the Princess, sensing her weakness, would choose her as the scapegoat of the day.

  ‘Ma’am, this is Suki. We work together at the gallery.’

  The Princess took a long pull on her cigarette holder, giving her time to come up with a cutting or witty comment. Esme hoped it was the latter.

  ‘Suki? Isn’t that Sooty and Sweep’s friend?’

  At the address, Suki bent double in her deepest curtsey.

  ‘Her real name is Serena,’ said Esme quickly.

  Suki hadn’t moved, frozen in her curtsey.

  ‘I will call you Serena. Suki is the most ridiculous name.’

  Esme gave Suki a sharp kick to get up which she did with a fixed plastic smile that didn’t mask the terror in her eyes.

  ‘How do you do, your majesty?’ said Suki, curtseying again.

  Oh Christ, she’s forgotten everything I told her, thought Esme. She’s in for a bruising.

  ‘I’m not my sister but thank you for the promotion,’ said Margaret.

  The girls followed her into the drawing room, an overly stuffed chamber with a grand piano and a wall of French windows open onto the garden where a dozen or so people mingled. It was like entering into the depths of the Princess’s eyes. If she were a room, this would be it. Painted in cornflower blue and edged with white voile curtains with aqua trim, it was warm and homely but maintained a certain look-but-don’t-touch extravagance. To the left Esme saw the dining room laid for lunch. The rain had finally stopped but the air was damp and would frizz the Princess’s carefully trained curls.

  Suki pulled Esme back and whispered, ‘She hates me.’

  ‘Just be yourself. Don’t suck up to her because she’ll see through it in a heartbeat. And for fuck’s sake don’t ask if Snowdon will take your engagement photographs.’

  ‘I’m not that stupid,’ said Suki, through her painted-on smile.

  Drinks were being served on the long terrace above the garden, and when Esme and Suki wen
t out through the French windows there were two or three small groups already mingling and laughing. You could tell that everyone had been drinking for a while and like the roses and lilac, they seemed to sway in the breeze. It was still hot but after the recent storms the stifling humidity had been replaced by a vague sense of steam rising from the baked ground. The garden was busy with life – not just bees, but butterflies and ladybirds that flitted in the rain-soothed air; a haze of activity that no one else seemed to notice but to Esme it signified a world resurrected by the downpours. The Scottish lass in her missed the natural world and fresh moorland air.

  A cocktail cabinet had been wheeled out onto the terrace for those wanting something stronger than Pimm’s. Large fruit-laden jugs sweated on a trestle table dressed with a white tablecloth and vase stuffed with sweet peas. A liveried butler filled a couple of highballs and Esme handed a glass to Suki and took one for herself. She dipped her fingers into the drink, popping a slice of alcohol-infused cucumber into her mouth followed by a handful of the stale crisps that were laid out in little bowls. At first glance, there was no one else of her and Suki’s age but she did at least recognize one of the Princess’s ladies-in-waiting. Lady Ann was talking to a somehow familiar man and his blonde-helmeted wife. Esme could see from his smiles and guffaws that he was being greasily agreeable and was surprised that an asslick of his calibre was there at all.

  ‘Come on, let’s go for a wander,’ she said, and strolled off into the knee-high maze of the parterre with Suki crunching over the pea gravel behind her.

  ‘I thought there would be some famous people here,’ said Suki, whose suit had warmed up and gave off a sharp stale smell, the re-awoken ghosts of numberless long-ago weddings in the Home Counties. It must belong to her mother, thought Esme.