The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets

by Eva Rice

  ‘Just go with what you feel comfortable in, darling,’ she kept saying.

  ‘That’s just the problem. I don’t feel comfortable in anything.’

  ‘Don’t wear anything then. Must dash, ginger scones.

  Still, there was no place more enchanting than Magna in the spring, and Mama and I were the best of friends on the mornings that we awoke early. linked arms and walked from the kitchen garden to the pond and back, our lungs full of the whispered sweetness of viburnum flowers, hearts brightened by the huge swaths of crocuses bobbing regally beside the overgrown paths that threaded round the outskirts of the back lawn. We felt the delicate warmth of the sun on our faces and realised how much we had missed it, and I breathed in the scent of the box hedge that marked our route round the fruit cages during the war and reminded me of our days in the Dower House when, in the height of summer, we helped the ladies of the WI pick raspberries and blackcurrants. I thought about New Year’s Eve and it seemed an age ago to me already.

  ‘The garden looks wonderful, Mama,” I would always say when we arrived back at the house.

  ‘It’s chaos, darling.’

  ‘I like chaos.’

  On the night before the Ritz dinner, one more remarkable thing happened to me. In fact, it was something so remarkable, it was all I could do to contain my astonishment and delight, and not go shouting with glee all over the house. I plodded upstairs to my bedroom a little after eleven, closed my curtains and flopped down on my bed, worrying, as ever, about what to wear the next day. Now that the hour was drawing near,’ I was considering pulling out of the whole thing, even if it meant sacrificing Johnnie. And anyway. I thought, surely Harry would be kind enough to give me the tickets even if I ducked out of my role? I dismissed this thought almost as soon as it entered my head. Harry was not the sort of man who would take kindly to being messed about. There was time for one last,’ sorrowful glance at my drear clothes before the dawn broke. I stood up, then stopped dead as something caught my eye through a crack in the wardrobe door. I don’t want to sound too C. S. Lewis about what happened next, but suffice to say that I padded across the room and pulled open the wardrobe door and stuck my hand in. What I encountered was not Narnia, but something even more enchanted. It was a pink box, ribboned in black and labelled ‘Penelope’, which eliminated my two seconds of concern that this was simply Mama racked with guilt and stuffing the packaging from her latest purchases out of her own line of vision. I dragged it out with a small cry of delight, my heart thumping in my chest, and pulled off the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside was a lot of expensive-smelling pink and white tissue, and wrapped up within the tissue was something with a label that sent my heart racing. Selfridges. Like a child taking a much longed for turn at the lucky dip, I stuck my hand in and pulled out a handful of soft black material with the most glorious sheen of glitter. It was a dress, a perfect, adorable, dream dress, the like of which I could never have imagined yet now that I was holding it, could not imagine living without. I scrambled to my feet again and flung off my nightie.

  ‘Oh!’ I whimpered, for I couldn’t help it, and if anything like this has ever happened to you, then you will know exactly how I felt. The dress might have been made to measure; it was demure all right, but it was the first time that I had ever worn anything that made me feel so much like a woman. The first thing I thought when I looked at myself in the mirror was that I looked capable of extremely sophisticated conversation, and it shocked me, but above all else, it excited me. I found another box, smaller this time but equally delicious, containing a glorious pair of Dior heels, the sort that Mama would die for and I would surely never be able to walk in. In with the heels was a packet of super-elegant stockings, and almost hidden away under the last bit of tissue paper was a little evening bag containing a stick of Yardley lipstick in an elegant red colour called Rose-bud. Who had done this? Mama? It simply wasn’t her style, and she would never have encouraged a dress like this anyway. Harry? It had to be, yet how had he got into my room? How had anyone got into my room? I remembered, with a shiver, that I had kept my door locked all day for fear that Mama would send Fido up to root out Marina the rodent. I had kept the key in the pocket of my trousers. I rummaged frantically for some sign — some indication of how he had performed this most sensational of tricks. Of course, what I found told me nothing, except that as a magician Harry was getting better and better. A card was attached to the underside of the box, and inside the card was a simple note written in turquoise ink.

  From your Fairy Godmother.

  Whoever on earth she was, I thought, she had terrific taste. I packed the clothes, shoes, stockings and lipstick carefully into my wardrobe again, and shoved the boxes under my bed, vowing to dispose of them before Mama,’ Mary or anyone else found them. The next morning, after a surprisingly sound night’s sleep, I peered under the bed, wondering if it had all been a dream. Instead, I found Marina the rodent asleep in the shoe box, like an ornament amongst the pink tissue paper. Like her namesake, she knew which side her bread was buttered, I thought.

  If Harry didn’t win his great love back, at least the guinea pig appreciated the way he did things.

  I had awoken praying for good weather because although my fairy godmother had been considerate enough to provide me with a dress to die for and sensational heels, she had not considered what I should cover myself with should the conditions from cab to Ritz prove inclement. Mama was fond of telling me that it was unladylike to arrive anywhere without a coat, whatever the time of year, but nothing I owned looked right over my new outfit. In the end, I settled for a thick coat in Black Watch tartan that Mama had borrowed off Loretta one Christmas and never returned. It looked terrifyingly wintery and austere but at least it had a Harrods label and a bit of oomph. I left Magna with a do-or-die feeling in the pit of my stomach and spent the train journey nearly jumping out of my skin in case Rocky happened to be on board again, which of course he wasn’t. Once in London, I jumped into a taxi and fairly flew along the Bayswater Road and down Kensington Church Street and found myself outside Aunt Clare’s front door well before six o’clock. Charlotte answered the door. Her hair was still in rollers, but she could have turned up at the Ritz without taking them out and still looked like the most stylish girl in the room. She wore a red dress with silver shoes that made her even taller than me. Charlotte had no problem with heels and towering over boys. In fact, I think she rather enjoyed it.

  ‘Thank heavens you’re here. Harry’s been going spare all afternoon, convinced you were going to get cold feet,’ she said,’ bundling me into the house.

  ‘I have got cold feet,’ I said. ‘The train was freezing.’

  She grinned and pushed an errant roller back on top of her head. ‘Aunt Clare’s dying to see you. She’s becoming more and more impossible as we near the end of this blasted book. Oh, and she’s convinced that Harry’s madly in love with you, which is why you’re always taking off to parties with him, so humour her, will you? Pity you missed tea today. it was lemon shortbread. I would have saved you a piece but I thought, well, you need to look as skinny as possible for tonight. People stop eating when they fall in love. Think of me and A the T in the caff and how I couldn’t even manage a plate of toast.’ Charlotte shook her head in confusion at the memory.

  Aunt Clare was sipping champagne in her study.

  ‘Ah! How are you, dear girl? Charlotte, do shout to Harry that she’s here.’

  ‘Hello, Aunt Clare,’ I said, kissing her and breathing in the familiar rosewater scent.

  ‘He’s been in such a state, you know, skipping about like a grasshopper all afternoon, worried that you were going to let him down. Goodness, I can’t think what you’ve done to him,’ Penelope.’

  ‘Oh, nothing at all, I should think,’ I said hastily.

  ‘I haven’t seen him this animated since the old king died,’ went on Aunt Clare. ‘He even asked Phoebe to polish his shoes this afternoon. You can imagine how well that went down.’
<
br />   The door opened, and Harry entered the room, fingers wrapped round something that I, in my state of anxiety and confusion, took to be a magic wand. Phew, I thought, I don’t want him at all, not one bit. He looked scruffier than ever, his hair stood on end and his clothes were crumpled.

  ‘You’re wearing odd socks,’ said Aunt Clare reprovingly.

  ‘They match my eyes,” said Harry, grinning at me. He held out what I had thought was the magic wand.

  ‘Cheese straw?’

  ‘Oh, no thanks.’

  Then, quite without warning, Harry crossed the room, held me close and kissed me slowly and carefully on the mouth. Cheeks burning, I pulled away. too shocked to respond with anything other than the briefest of squeaks. Aunt Clare’s face softened, and I think her eyes must have welled up for she pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed them.

  ‘Have a wonderful night, darlings,’ she said thickly. ‘You know, during the war, whenever we heard the wailing of sirens,’ we would head instinctively Ritz-ward. I remember Chips Channon telling me how like a pantomime the war felt once one was safely inside the Ritz for oysters at luncheon. Dear Chips, I must write to him this evening. Make a note of that, Charlotte.’

  Dear Aunt Clare. If ever there was a tangent, she was off on it.

  Charlotte rescued me and dragged me upstairs to get ready.

  ‘Did you see what he did?’ I asked her.

  ‘What?’ she demanded, rummaging in her bag for a lipstick.

  ‘Harry! He kissed me!’

  ‘Oh, that. Don’t worry, it’s all part of the act. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Well, I think I do, really. That wasn’t in my contract,’ I added.

  ‘Your contract wasn’t in your contract,’ said Charlotte blithely. ‘Now. Harry’s leaving in half an hour,’ she said. ‘He’s meeting a couple of friends for a drink first. He’s told me to make absolutely sure that you turn up after him, and after me, for maximum impact.’ She looked at me, affection spilling from her green eyes. ‘I hope you’ve found something to wear. Oh, Christmas, Penelope!’ she cried, catching sight of the Black Watch coat. ‘Surely not?’

  Surely not, indeed. I ditched the coat and borrowed a slim-fitting but understated black pea coat from Charlotte, who had in turn borrowed it from Aunt Clare.

  ‘She need never know,’ said Charlotte breezily. ‘She hasn’t worn it in a decade and a half.’

  She expressed delight and amazement over my dress and shoes. ‘Where on earth did you find them?’ she gasped.

  ‘My fairy godmother delivered them.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  That was one of the best things about Charlotte. She accepted everything without explanation.

  She and I took a cab to the Ritz together, but Charlotte went in ahead of me. ‘See you in five minutes,’ she said, sweeping in through the revolving doors.

  I paid the cab driver with shaking hands, and for a moment stood outside the Ritz, trying to breathe deeply and fix a smile onto my face as they say you should do when preparing to make your big entrance, but the doorman bowed to me and leapt forward to help me through the door, so I wasn’t able to linger for long. Inside, the hotel wrapped its charm round me like a cloak. I caught sight of a sophisticated and beautiful woman in the mirror in reception and I realised with a shock of recognition that it was me. I tottered briefly in my heels and pulled my dress straight and beamed at the man behind the desk.

  ‘I’m here for the Hamilton dinner,’ I said firmly. Half of me expected him to laugh and tell me not to be so silly and I was still a little girl and where were my parents?

  ‘Of course, madam.’

  He led me down a long shiny corridor that made me feel as though I was stepping inside a birthday card (it took all my self-control — and the knowledge that I would most likely fall over —not to waltz) and we ended up outside a closed door marked ‘Private’.

  ‘May I take your name, miss?’

  ‘Oh. Um, Penelope. Penelope Wallace. Miss Penelope Wallace. I am Penelope Wallace.’ What was wrong with me? I sounded deranged.

  He opened the door. ‘Miss Penelope Wallace!’ he announced, then melted off, leaving me standing in the doorway like a faun in the headlamps of a speeding car. In fact, nobody even heard the announcement of my name over the din of corks popping and breathless chatter and jazz from the piano player in the corner of the room. Charlotte? I thought helplessly. She was nowhere to be seen. The combination of low lighting and swirling cigarette smoke made me feel like an actress on a first night waiting for the rest of the cast to feed me a line. I shuffled a few paces in, and fairly grabbed at the nearest glass of champagne. George Rogerson, who was (according to Harry) a terrifically committed host, spotted me and quickly disentangled himself from a crowd of Marina’s friends and waded across the room towards me. But someone else got to me first.

  ‘My goodness! If it isn’t my little friend from the train, all grown up. I’ve been worrying about you.’

  And I nearly passed out, for sauntering towards me, more wicked and delicious even than I remembered, was Rocky.

  A silence followed his words — the sort of silence where you can hear everyone’s brains whirring away as they tried to work out who on earth I was. He looked me up and down and actually ran his hand down the side of my face.

  ‘Don’t you look nice,’ he said, smiling softly.

  ‘I see you two know each other. How terrific!’ exclaimed George, beaming.

  ‘We met on the train,’ said Rocky. ‘She was worrying about something quite trivial, weren’t you, Miss Wallace? Whether or not one should be oneself at dinner parties, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I shouldn’t bother, Penelope. Such a dreadful effort.’ George laughed.

  ‘Penelope. Is that your name?’ asked Rocky. ‘How strangely fitting.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I widened my eyes and took a huge mouthful of champagne, and quite ruined my previously sophisticated air by spilling some down the front of my dress. Thank goodness, there was Charlotte, sitting down at the far end of the room, talking to the Wentworth twins. I felt a wave of relief that they were here; at least I would have a couple more people to say hello to.

  ‘Beautiful shoes,’ said Rocky, trying to keep a straight face and glancing down at my legs.

  ‘They’re Dior.’

  ‘Damn. I’d have thought girls who shop at Dior would be able to afford their own train tickets.’

  ‘I could!’ I bleated. ‘I lost my ticket! And I had every intention of paying you back!’

  Rocky smiled and was distracted by a beauty in a dazzling yellow and black cocktail dress.

  ‘Where’s Harry?’ I asked George as calmly as I could.

  ‘Oh, he and Marina have gone to find a pack of playing cards. Apparently Harry’s got some fabulous new tricks up his sleeve. Missing him, are you? I’m just the same with Marina. If she leaves the room for so much as a second, I start to fret.’

  Knowing what I knew about his future wife, I was hardly surprised. George turned back to Rocky.

  ‘Penelope and Harry have been inseparable since last Christmas. We’re all wondering when we’re going to be hearing the chiming of church bells.’

  ‘Is that so?’ asked Rocky, an amused smile playing on his lips.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know—’

  ‘Don’t be so coy, darling. He’s mad for you. Please excuse me; new arrivals. Ah! If you want to talk books with someone, you must meet Nancy. Nancy!’ George lumbered off.

  Charlotte was beside me in a flash. ‘You look radiant,’ she said. ‘And did I see Rocky Dakota talking to you a moment ago?’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘I met him on the train. I had no idea he was going to be here tonight.’

  ‘Why in the name of jumping Jeremiah didn’t you tell me you’d met him?’ hissed Charlotte out of the corner of her mouth. ‘He’s not the sort of man you bump into every day, is he? Christmas! You’ll be telling me later you had Sunday lunch with James Dean.’ />
  There was a soft cough behind me. ‘Won’t you sit next to me at dinner?’ said Rocky, sliding up to me. ‘I’m bored sick of everyone here but you.

  ‘Charmed!’ trilled Charlotte. He turned to her at once.

  ‘Hello. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,’ he said, holding out his hand. In her heels, she was almost as tall as him. Oh no, I thought, heart hammering. Please don’t let him fall for Charlotte.

  ‘Perhaps I could sit between you two,’ suggested Rocky. ‘The Wentworth twins frighten the hell outta me. You know Helena can bite her own toenails?’