by Nancy Warren
They went over the contract, which sounded like what Sylvia had already agreed on, and then shifted to what would happen at the gala. “It’s our way of jumping up and down and saying, Look at us! We’re remaking this classic with things the original didn’t have,” Annabel said.
“Like sound,” Peter added, and everyone laughed.
“Yes, that, of course, but also movies weren’t made on location then as they are now, and we’re very excited to work with St. Peter’s College in Oxford, which will be our main setting. That’s why we’re having the gala there.”
I tried to look enthusiastic, but I’m not sure I did very well.
Annabel said, “You’ll be the guest of honor, of course. And you’ll wear the Cartier set.”
“Yes. Only for that one night, though. It’s in the contract, I believe, that you’ll make a replica for the filming.”
“Oh, goodness, yes.” She waved her hand in front of her face. “Imagine if we lost it or something. It’s irreplaceable.”
“It is.”
She glanced at her notes. “Are you comfortable in front of cameras?”
Oh, that answer was a resounding no, but I had been part of a TV show at my knitting shop with the famous designer Teddy Lamont, and I’d discovered that after the first ten minutes of being super nervous, I’d mostly forgotten about the cameras. There had been a murder during the course of the shooting, but that wasn’t relevant.
Besides, if I said “No,” I might be offered coaching, and I’d had enough of that with Sylvia. “Yes,” I said. “I think I can handle it.”
She nodded. “You know not to look at the camera unless directed to do so?”
I nodded. Even if I wasn’t a natural, Sylvia had been very clear about how to act as though there was no camera pointing at me.
A worried frown creased her brow. “And you know not to talk about politics or anything remotely controversial? There will be loads of media there, and we want to keep our remarks to positive comments about the production.”
I nodded again. Imagine if I told the world that Sylvia walked the earth still, even if she wasn’t still alive. That would certainly get this movie some attention.
But of course I didn’t. We went through the sequence of events for the evening, since they clearly assumed I hadn’t read all the briefing notes they’d already sent me. In fact, I’d practically memorized them and been quizzed by Sylvia.
“Great,” she said brightly. “All that’s left for you to do now is sign the contract.”
The assistant, Emma, brought it and placed it in front of me, giving me a beautiful pen with the production company’s logo on it. She said, “That’s yours to keep. Call it a good-luck charm.”
The nervous accountant said, “Don’t forget to read the contract, which you should always do before signing one. Especially sections—”
“Yes, yes,” the producer interrupted. “Lucy’s not a fool.”
And yet they had shoved a contract in front of me open to the signing page. I glanced up at the nervous accountant and thought he was trying to send me a message. Or was it just that his eyes were so magnified by the glasses that it looked like he was trying to tell me something? Still, I didn’t want to be a fool.
“I assume this is the same contract my lawyer looked over?” And what they didn’t know was that Sylvia had already read over this contract, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea for me to give it a quick glance over too. Sylvia hadn’t been in the business for decades now, and I did have that two years of business college.
I flipped back to the first page. I could feel everyone in the room watching me. No doubt they had other, much more important things to do than watch me read over a boring contract. I wanted to tell them to go on. I didn’t need them in the room. But I supposed politeness held them hostage.
It was as dull as any other contract I’d ever read. Not that there’d been that many. As Sylvia’s heir, I agreed that her likeness could be used for promotional purposes. And then the section about the jewelry I was lending. That, I read more carefully. It seemed very straightforward though. At the end, I did look up. “This seems clear that you only get the jewelry for the gala. And I’m agreeing that for the filming itself, you’ll be using a copy.”
The producer said, “Oh, yes. Can you imagine what our insurance costs would be if we were using a one-of-a-kind Cartier jewelry set during filming?” She shuddered visibly. “I can’t even do that math. Definitely. We only want you wearing the real thing for the launch party. There’ll be security everywhere. You won’t be alone for a minute. Nothing can go wrong.”
I nodded, but somehow I didn’t feel completely relieved. It was amazing how often when someone said nothing can go wrong that something immediately did.
Chapter 5
I read the rest of the contract, but it all looked fine to me. Sylvia and her estate weren’t taking on any liability and they weren’t attempting to use her jewelry, so I thought I’d grasped enough of that contract to be confident to sign. Which I did.
The minute my pen lifted from the page, Emma took the contract to Peter. I heard a sound like a gunshot. I jumped in my seat only to realize that someone had popped a bottle of champagne. We each had a small glass while Annabel made a toast.
“To The Professor’s Wife. Let’s hope her second marriage is even more successful than her first.”
We all laughed and then sipped. I didn’t hang around much longer. It was pretty clear they all had things to do. As I was leaving, Edgar Smith said, as he escorted me once more to the elevator, “I understand you live in Oxford. I’ll be driving down. Would you like me to pick you up for the gala? You know I’d be only too happy to.”
I was touched and grateful. I actually would have liked him to pick me up. It would have been nice to walk up that terrifying red carpet on the arm of somebody who knew a few people, but Sylvia had been very clear that I would be driven in the Bentley. I and the jewels would only be outside of her jurisdiction for the shortest possible time. So I turned to him and said, “Thank you so much. I already have my ride planned. But I hope you’ll look out for me and introduce me to a few people?”
He understood immediately what I meant. “Of course. There’s nothing worse than being pitchforked into a room full of strangers. But don’t worry, you’ll be the guest of honor. The belle of the ball, may I say. I’m sure your dance card will be full the entire evening.”
He shook my hand as I left, and I was so pleased I had at least one friendly face to look out for at the gala.
And I had until Friday to perfect learning to walk!
However, it turned out our London trip wasn’t complete. There was a visit to a fashion designer in Belgravia. It was so exclusive, we had to ring the bell to be let in. Naturally, I had no say in the gown I was to wear. Sylvia had already been working with the designer by phone and email, so all I was here for was a fitting.
The dress was simplicity itself. A long, figure-hugging column of black, strapless with a sweetheart neckline. Not a bow or a flounce or a speck of decoration marred its simplicity. Essentially, I would be the human equivalent of the black silk that lined the jewelry cases that housed her fabulous collection.
She’d sent them my measurements, and when I tried it on, the dress—or was it, officially, a gown?—only needed to be hemmed. They were waiting for me to stand in it wearing the correct shoes. A selection was before me. Each had a higher heel than I’d ever worn before and, like the dress, was simple, black and strappy. The third pair fit the best, but I felt like I was walking on stilts. However, I was a good sport and stood patiently while the designer’s helper pinned the hem. Delivery was promised for Thursday.
This was getting real.
Naturally, when the dress arrived Thursday, it was perfect.
Friday, I wasn’t allowed to work in my own shop. I had a full day of facial, nails—both hands and feet—and makeup and hair. Sylvia sent a photo of the hairstyle and instructions for the makeup, which was re
latively light. The stylist did my hair in a slightly complicated knot at the back of my neck that left my neck and ears bare.
We’d agreed that I’d dress in my flat, as the thought of navigating the tunnels and the rough wooden steps beneath my flat in those heels was more than I could cope with. Sylvia agreed, and she and Gran arrived at six to help me dress. I’d grabbed a sandwich at the covered market after my hair appointment, as I knew I wouldn’t have time for dinner.
She cast a critical eye over everything, from my French-polished toes to the crown of my head, before helping me to slip into the dress and the new underwear she’d bought to go under it. She must have known I had nothing this nice in my wardrobe.
While it was kind of fun to play dress-up, I felt the weight of responsibility to someone I both liked and admired and was a bit scared of.
At last, she opened the magic jewel boxes and placed the pieces on me herself. When she slipped the diamond necklace around my neck, I shivered. Partly it was the cold platinum against my skin and partly nerves.
When she’d placed the earrings, bracelets and ring on, she stood back and narrowed her eyes as though searching for a flaw. Finally, after Gran and I stood waiting without daring to speak or breathe, she nodded. “Yes. That will do.”
It wasn’t wild praise, but at least I could breathe again.
“Theodore will drive you in the Bentley, and he will pick you up again precisely at ten o’clock.”
“I won’t forget.”
I sneaked a peek in the mirror, and I had to admit, Sylvia knew what she was doing. I barely saw myself at all. The jewels dominated. Sparkle, style, elegance. I could see why vintage Cartier cost so much. From the luster of the jewels to the design, the pieces were exquisite.
When my door buzzer went, Sylvia said, “That will be Theodore with the car.” However, when we got downstairs, I found not only Theodore standing there looking uncomfortable but Rafe.
He looked down at Sylvia coldly. “I will drive Lucy.”
Sylvia was not happy with this change in her careful planning but it was clear from his tone and expression that Rafe had made up his mind. She looked as though she were going to argue, then settled on, “You know you can’t go in? Not only will there be cameras there, but, due to the tight security, no one can attend the party who isn’t on the guest list.”
“You’re saying Lucy, who is the guest of honor, can’t bring an escort?”
Sylvia put her chin forward. “She opted not to.”
One hundred percent not true. Sylvia hadn’t given me the option. However, I didn’t challenge her. I was going to be nervous enough. If I had to worry about Rafe getting caught on camera or hovering over me like an overprotective vampire, I’d be even more of a wreck.
He said, “If Lucy goes at all, I will drive her.”
“You can’t so much as get out of the car. This has all been arranged. She’ll be helped out of the car and escorted down the red carpet by an executive producer.”
Another silent tug of wills ensued and he said, “Very well.” I was relieved to have Rafe drive me and thankful Sylvia had been talked out of coming in the car with us.
He held the back door open and, with a last glance at Gran, who nodded encouragingly, I got in the car.
“Don’t crease that dress,” were Sylvia’s last words.
Fortunately, it wasn’t a long drive. Rafe said, “Is this really something you want to do?”
First, it was pretty late to be changing my mind, and second, now that the event was happening, I found I did. I was suddenly reliving childhood dreams where Cinderella gets to go to the ball after all. Sylvia and Gran weren’t exactly fairy godmothers, but they had transformed me from plain Lucy Swift who ran a knitting shop to a glamorous woman going to a fancy party. I remembered as a kid practicing my acceptance speech at the Oscars, waving to the crowds from the red carpet. For one night, I was living my childhood dream. So I could honestly answer, “Yes. Sylvia’s done a lot for me. I’m happy to do her a favor.”
He made a sound low in his throat. “Sylvia usually gets what she wants.”
I didn’t answer, as arguing was pointless. We both knew he was right.
The Bentley drove through the gates of St. Peter’s College in Oxford, as prearranged by magical movie people, and the moment I had been dreading and anticipating was here.
To the paparazzi and the movie producers, it might look like part of a publicity stunt, but this Bentley wasn’t a hired car, and the driver wasn’t some out-of-work actor with a chauffeur’s cap on his head. When I looked in the rearview mirror, no one looked back, but when the driver turned his head, I saw Rafe staring back, and my nerves died down.
He said, “Remember, any trouble at all, just call my name and I’ll hear you.”
I nodded.
He moved as though he’d get out of the car then must have remembered he couldn’t. Instead, the movie’s executive producer, Peter Lambert, was waiting, very dapper in a tux, and opened the door himself. I could hear Sylvia’s words in my head, we’d practiced this so many times. Take your time, one foot out, then take the outstretched hand and come forward in a smooth move right to standing. I remembered to breathe as she’d taught me. I was so nervous I thought I might stumble on the unfamiliar high heels, but I had a little magic in me. The Alexander Technique was great, but so was a spell.
I was nothing but a living mannequin to display the jewelry. And I felt it. I could feel the flash and sparkle at my neck and wrists and ears. I stopped and posed as Sylvia had taught me to do while photographers snapped pictures and a movie camera filmed the entrance.
The producer said, “This is marvelous. We’ve got such a good turnout. Of course, we spared no expense, hiring the best public relations team in London. This movie will be a sensation.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said. My job was simply to mouth inanities. Sylvia had warned me that nobody wanted to see my personality or hear my opinions. I was only here to showcase the jewels. If she could have put duct tape over my mouth, she’d have been pleased to do it. Instead my lips were covered with an unfamiliar layer of lipstick.
I managed to make it down the red carpet without tripping over my feet. I tried to remember to hold my head high and my shoulders back and my hips forward and to smile and not look at the camera, and it was like writing a math test. So many variables, most of which I didn’t even understand, and trying to make sense of the whole pattern. But somehow I managed.
Peter led me through the huge gothic stone archway, where the doors had been thrown open, and into a stone-floored entranceway with a broad stone staircase going up. But he turned me to the right and into a grand hall of some kind. Again, the floors were flagstone, the walls pale stone, pillars fanned out to an intricate carved ceiling far, far above. I felt as though the whole space had been designed to show off Sylvia’s jewels. No paintings took the eye. Only the lovely, medieval arched windows added atmosphere. A lot of people seemed to be gathered here, all glamorous in their designer finery.
Against one wall, a large screen played the original The Professor’s Wife. It was jarring seeing a much younger Sylvia on screen. Even though the movie was in black and white, the jewels still looked remarkable.
The waiters wandering around with trays were all dressed in 1920s period costume, the men in spats with slicked-back hair and dark suits, the women in flapper gowns and bobbed hair.
I’d make sure Sylvia got some photos of this. She’d have loved to be here.
Peter handed me off to Annabel, the creative director, who’d obviously been on the lookout for me.
“Lucy,” she said in a gushing tone, her eyes zeroing in on the necklace, “you look fabulous.”
The British have a way of saying words like “fabulous” that makes each syllable sound like two. Still, I was happy to be fabulous. At least for tonight. She didn’t need to know that my feet were hurting in the unfamiliar high heels, or that Sylvia had sprayed so much hairspray in my hair that I f
elt like I was wearing a bicycle helmet, or that the underwired, strapless bra was digging into me in places that made it hurt to breathe. Sylvia had said, when she’d finished, “You’ll do.” In Sylvia speak, that was pretty close to Annabel gushing “fabulous.”
And in order to get through the evening, I simply imagined I was Sylvia. Whenever someone said something to me, I would interpret it in my head and think, “What would Sylvia say or do?”
Although I had to amend that. “What would Sylvia say or do if she was in a good mood and trying to impress you?” That got rid of the sarcasm and the cutting remarks. For the most part.
Edgar Smith, Man Drake’s business manager, was as good as his word, and I soon found him at my elbow.
“How are you holding up?” he asked me.
“I’m all right. A bit intimidated.”
He nodded. “Just so you know,” he said in a low, intimate tone, “the ladies’ room is through the arch in the far corner on the right-hand side. I’ll make sure that the first three people you meet are the most important ones, and after that they’re all about the same.”
I was so grateful to him, I almost sagged with relief. Except that I wasn’t allowed to sag. I had that imaginary rope pulling the top of my head into the correct puppet pose. He picked up my hand, and I thought he was going to squeeze it for reassurance, but instead he looked at the emerald and diamond ring on my finger. “That is one serious piece of bling,” he said.
I giggled. “I know. Isn’t it gorgeous? It’s heavier than I thought it would be.”
He looked puzzled. “Don’t you ever wear that set?”
First, I hadn’t even known it existed until a couple of weeks ago. But, even if it was mine, I doubted I’d ever wear it. I now understood why Sylvia had insisted I do nothing but mouth platitudes. I’d already said something stupid. To recover, I basically told him the truth. “I’m afraid something will happen to the set. It’s priceless. What if I lost it or it got stolen? I’d never forgive myself.”