Lady Margaret’s attractive weatherbeaten face – as a true English aristocrat, she scorned the use of any sunblocks or moisturizing regime more elaborate than Pond’s cold cream morning and night – creased into a smile of pure self-satisfaction as she said: ‘Tarquin Ormond, Milly’s fiancé, is—’
‘He’s the lead singer of Ormond and Co,’ Veronica interrupted eagerly, keen to show that she was earning the very large monthly retainer Tamra paid her. ‘It’s sort of folky pop music. They win lots of awards—’
‘He’s Edmund’s second cousin.’ Lady Margaret overrode her effortlessly; a Duke’s daughter who rode to hounds had no difficulty drowning out a mere hired publicist. ‘Which opens up a lot of possibilities, doesn’t it?’
Tamra’s head snapped round like a snake about to strike.
‘But Tarquin doesn’t have a title, does he?’ she said acutely. ‘Edmund’s way higher value!’
‘In our world, of course,’ Lady Margaret said. ‘But Tarquin’s really quite famous now, I think. And Style’s a very different animal from Tatler, which is really the gratin’s in-house journal. No question that Edmund and Brianna Jade would absolutely take priority if it came to that cover. Hmn. Oh, thank you.’
She took the fresh tumbler of Hendrick’s gin and tonic from Marta, ice cubes tinkling against the paper-thin slice of Meyer lemon, tiny triangles cut into its rind to release more of the fragrant oil, and sipped her drink with great satisfaction.
‘But if Edmund has higher social status, which clearly he does, then we really need to hammer that home,’ Tamra said.
‘That’s a very good point,’ Veronica agreed, sipping her own champagne and reaching out for one of the miniature freshly made canapés which Marta had also placed on the table, tiny blinis topped with sour cream and tea-smoked salmon, quails’ eggs dusted with pink salt, little bresaola packets filled with a dollop of low-fat crème fraiche, tied with chive bows, for Tamra.
‘This really makes me want to throw a bridal sh—’ Tamra went on, but Lady Margaret raised her voice imperiously to silence Tamra, slicing a hand through the air to cut her off.
‘You cannot have a bridal shower in Britain!’ she said. ‘I’ve told you, Tamra! It’s unspeakably vulgar to host a party and require people to bring presents! Really, the mere thought makes me shudder with horror.’
‘Some brides in the States have multiple ones,’ Tamra said, unable to avoid grinning at Lady Margaret’s reaction. ‘With different themes and different lists.’
‘Lists,’ Lady Margaret muttered in disgust. ‘As if that should ever be pluralized in this context.’
‘We do these huge bridal showers in the States,’ Tamra told Veronica. ‘Way more elaborate than you guys have over here. You play games like making the bride a dress out of toilet paper, or you get someone in to teach you flower arranging or cupcake making – those were pretty popular in West Palm Beach. They have lingerie showers too, all sorts of themes, and then you have to bring a gift according to the theme. One girl Brianna Jade knew, Megan, had four different showers – a garden one, a lingerie one, a wine-tasting weekend in Napa and an English tea one.’
Veronica was staring at her, totally appalled: even Lady Margaret was goggling at Tamra now, not having heard this information before.
‘And you’re supposed to bring presents to all of them?’ Veronica asked.
‘Oh, at the minimum!’ Tamra was thoroughly enjoying herself now. ‘Megan’s mom and dad were super-rich, so they paid for everything, even the Napa weekend on a private plane. But, you know, in return for that they expected gifts that cost three hundred dollars a pop, minimum. Each time.’
‘And that’s instead of the bridal present?’ Veronica asked.
‘Hah!’ Tamra tossed back some Cristal. ‘You’re kidding me, right? Being a bridesmaid or a groomsman is a huge money pit. You pay for your dress, your hotel, plus your flight to the wedding if you don’t live close by. And if you have a destination wedding in Hawaii or the Caribbean, say, that’s a ton of money right there for everyone. Plus, often you’re expected to fly for the bachelor or bachelorette night – which isn’t ever a night, it’s a whole weekend, and then you have to plan and host those completely, treat the bride and groom for everything. For the whole weekend. Oh, and “dress” means the whole outfit – shoes, jewellery, accessories. The bride usually pays for hair and make-up, though often they book the topnotch stylist for themselves and get some low-level trainee for the bridesmaids. That happens a lot. Not just to save money, but to make sure they look better. And then there’s the rehearsal dinner – the groom’s family’s supposed to pay for that, but I’ve heard of people asking for contributions from guests for that as well.’
She looked from Veronica to Lady Margaret, relishing their stunned expressions; she did enjoy shocking the Brits with information about American cultural habits that they found outrageous.
‘What?’ she said, drinking more champagne. ‘You never saw Bridezillas?’
‘Clearly I have to,’ Lady Margaret said, awed. ‘This sounds like an absolute hoot! Tell me, if people have a – what did you call it, a “destination wedding” – are they expected to give a gift as well as hauling themselves to Hawaii or the Caribbean?’
‘Sometimes,’ Tamra said with a wide, beautiful smile, ‘they’re asked to contribute to the bride and groom’s travel expenses as a gift.’
‘Oh my God!’ Veronica shook her head in disbelief. ‘So, basically, they’re getting married just to squeeze as much money from their family and friends as they possibly can?’
‘Exactly. It’s all about the money – well, and about being the centre of attention,’ Tamra said. ‘Megan was beyond obnoxious. She kept holding up hoops to make her poor bridesmaids jump higher and higher. Luckily BJ was just second-tier – because,’ she added with an even more beautiful smile, ‘Megan didn’t want my gorgeous girl anywhere near her in the wedding photos. Her daddy bought Megan a new nose and a personal trainer, but you can’t buy what Nature gave my girl.’
Her eyes narrowed once more.
‘And that’s a point,’ she said. ‘You put this Milly thing next to my Brianna Jade and she’ll blow her right out of the water. BJ photographs like a dream. That tiny little thing’ll look dull as ditchwater next to her.’
Lady Margaret and Veronica nodded in agreement with that statement. Tamra adored her daughter, but she wasn’t doting in any way; she was perfectly clear-sighted about Brianna Jade’s strengths and weaknesses.
‘That’s why I was thinking a bridal shower,’ Tamra said glumly. ‘We could’ve invited her and a lot of other girls who aren’t very pretty and posed them so BJ just pops out of every photo. That’d show Style who they ought to pick.’
‘Darling,’ Lady Margaret drawled, ‘I have two words for you: engagement party! Throw it at Stanclere, invite Tark and Milly and a ton of others. Lots of press, lots of photos. Edmund won’t like it much, but he’ll quite understand that it’s part of the deal, as you say.’
Veronica nodded. ‘Things are really changing with the aristocratic world. It’s the younger generation. Posh people who wouldn’t have dreamt of having their weddings in Hello! are seeing their children on the covers now. Lady Natasha Rufus Isaacs – she’s the daughter of the Marquess of Reading,’ she added for Tamra’s benefit, ‘had a ten-page spread in it when she got married last year. Royalty attended, it was very high-level. She even namechecked Boodles the jewellers in the piece – they lent her a diamond parure – and she got publicity for her ethical clothing line. Of course, she snagged a nice donation from the mag for the line, blah blah, but you know, the social rule about only wanting to appear in the papers when you’re born, marry and die is totally gone now.’
‘Hatched, matched, dispatched,’ Lady Margaret mumbled through a mouthful of blini. ‘How we used to put it.’
‘I love it! An engagement party!’ Tamra’s eyes sparkled so brightly that they might have been made from the backlit black glass of the fo
untain wall. She clapped her hands, her cuff bracelets jangling. ‘Over a weekend, right? We’ll plan it like a military operation for the photo opportunities and make sure that Milly and Tarquin can come.’
‘He might have tour dates we’ll have to build around?’ Veronica mentioned.
‘I was at school with his mama,’ Lady Margaret said cheerfully. ‘Head prefect when she was a weedy little fourth-former. Put the fear of God in her on multiple occasions. I’ll ring her up and tell her to get me some dates from her son, pronto. Don’t worry, they’ll be there.’
‘Milly’s an actress, she may have commitments,’ Veronica warned.
Tamra rounded on Veronica, but Lady Margaret was there first.
‘Please – all actors are absolute tarts for publicity,’ she said, taking another blini. ‘You tell her she’ll be photographed for a glossy magazine. She’ll be there, even if she has to fly in for the night.’
‘Exactly!’ Tamra said. ‘Veronica, you’re bringing me problems and Margaret’s bringing me solutions!’
Veronica quailed under her employer’s stare.
‘I’m not paying for negatives,’ Tamra continued to the hapless publicist. ‘What I want is non-negotiable! I’m damn well going to see my daughter on the cover of Style Bride with a tiara on her head and the words Style Bride of the Year plastered across her skirt in gold lettering! You get that, right? Believe me, there’ll be a nice bonus for you when you pull it off – not if, but when! Because you’re going to do it. Ever heard the expression “going Indiana on your ass”? I swear to God, Veronica, you’d better give this everything you’ve got or I’ll open a can of whoop-ass on you like you’ve never even imagined!’
Veronica’s mouth was open, her eyes wide and frightened. Tamra’s voice was loud enough that as it rose, a squirrel which had managed, somehow, to scale the glass wall and was crossing the circular lawn, jumped, looked around in panic and shot up one of the cloud-pruned japonica trees as fast as its tiny feet could scamper.
‘I simply love it when she shouts,’ Lady Margaret observed, polishing off the blinis. ‘You’d better do what she says, you know. I have no idea what a can of whoop-ass is, but I doubt very much that you want to find out.’
Chapter Eleven
The private members’ drinking club in a basement beneath a side street tucked away behind Old Street roundabout was as plush, dimly lit and richly upholstered as Tamra’s Chelsea garden was shiny and bright. It was impossible to imagine daylight here, let alone visualize Tamra, Veronica and Lady Margaret sitting in the sunshine, glittering in thousands of tiny sparkles from the leaves of the huge glass tree spreading above them. The club was called the Den, though its décor was den-like only if you imagined its inhabitants as the most pampered and sleek of Burmese cats, strolling on silky paws over the thick carpets, jumping up with easy springs to the burgundy velvet love seats and curling up there, staring with cold green eyes at the waiters bringing them Martinis to lap, their fur glowing softly in the flickering light of the candles set into recessed iron wall sconces.
Ludo, a founding member, was certainly as sleek as any Burmese with his slicked-back blond hair, pale blue Savile Row-tailored shirt, Ralph Lauren linen suit and Dunhill cobalt silk knit tie: as always, his entire appearance was as polished as his Burberry silver cufflinks. His companion was much more soberly dressed, in head-to-toe black with a flash of white at the neck, but his handsome face was creased with amusement as he watched Ludo wave his hands around theatrically, describing the meeting he had had with Milly and Eva earlier that day.
‘Lily of the valley!’ Ludo was saying impatiently with a very telling roll of his blue eyes. ‘So expensive, so delicate, barely grows in Italy, where they want to have the wedding – we’ll have to fly it over and honestly, it costs so much that I can’t make much of a mark-up on it, which is the worst of all!’
‘Ludo, really,’ his companion remonstrated.
‘This whole thing is so cutesy,’ Ludo said in disgust. ‘Peonies, stock, veronica, sweet peas in vintage teapots – you won’t believe this, but Milly actually had the idea of arranging flowers in old jars from sweet shops.’
‘Oh, I rather like that,’ murmured his friend, picking up his stemmed glass and sipping at the pale orange liquid inside. The cocktail was called a Wildcat, a blend of cachaça, pisco, mezcal, blood orange, kumquat and lime juices, with a touch of gooseberry jam and Tokay wine: it had been garnished with a physalis, whose tiny bright orange fruit with its crisp, wing-like dried leaves was the perfect visual counterpoint to the drink. The Den prided itself on its avant-garde cocktails and considered each new creation a feast for the eyes as well as the taste buds. Given the eye-watering proportions of mixed alcohol in the glass, however, sipping was definitely the way to go.
‘Oh please,’ Ludo said. ‘Can you really see me sourcing vintage sweet jars?’
‘Dear, I can see you commissioning them from a factory with faux-vintage labels if there was enough profit in it for you,’ his companion said with great amusement.
Ludo burst out laughing and clinked his own drink to the Wildcat: his was a Tango No. 2, a mixture of rum anejo, amber vermouth, absinthe, Benedictine, mandarin and grapefruit juices with a champagne float, served in a deep champagne coupe, and decorated for some reason rather cheesily with a little yellow and white gingham napkin round the stem, which Ludo had promptly discarded with a muttered: ‘No. Just no.’
‘I absolutely banned the sweet jars,’ Ludo said now, taking an equally judicious sip of his drink. ‘We’re walking a delicate line here pitching for the Style Bride cover, you see. I somehow have to pull off a blend of the rather saccharine, wild-flowers-in-antiqued-birdcages, running-through-the-meadows-hand-in-hand wedding that Milly wants, and something chic enough for Style to snap it up. It’s by no means impossible, and if anyone can manage it, it’s me.’
‘Always blowing your own trumpet,’ his friend commented.
‘Oh, I wish!’ Ludo said naughtily. ‘But I’ve had a little word with Jodie Raeburn, the editor – we bumped into each other at a do at the Langham the other night. She says that she’s very keen on fresh and modern, and this whole faux-simple, Keira Knightley eloping-with-the-daisy-chain-and-Chanel-and-Renault thing does feel very fresh. So there’s that. Ooh! News! And she told me who Milly’s competition is – that American heiress who’s marrying Edmund St Aubyn! You know, the stunning blonde, all teeth, hair and tits? God, I love her. I’d so much rather be doing her wedding than Milly’s. Her mother will just throw money at it, millions probably, and it’ll be old-fashioned classic glamour, which is so much more me than wretched scrawny little Milly and her pissing lily of the valley and fresh herb displays in vintage china. God, I loathe that word “vintage”. It’s just a way of selling barely recycled old tat to idiots! It’s almost as bad as “shabby chic”, which, you know, ditto.’
Ludo’s friend settled back in the embrace of his red velvet armchair, plucking up the trouser fabric over one knee with long pale fingers so that he could cross that leg smoothly over the other, a flash of black silk sock showing between the trouser hem and the suede Gucci loafers.
Ludo took a sip of his Tango No. 2.
‘I’d really prefer to be planning the glamorous wedding, not the eco-chic one,’ he sighed. ‘And the Yank girl is absolutely perfect for Style. I’m sure Victoria Glossop will be signing off on the final decision, and she just loves that all-American, Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue look. I mean, who doesn’t?’
‘But Milly’s marrying a pop star,’ his friend said comfortingly, resting his hands on the wide padded arms of the chair. ‘They’re famous, and they’re young. Everyone loves youth. It’s the terrible curse of our age, this tendency to set youth up as a cult and worship at its shrine, when it knows nothing of the real challenges that humans face with the ravages of age and time.’
‘Oh, please, Father, take off the dog collar,’ Ludo said pettishly. ‘I’m not in the mood for a sermon.’
; Father Liam Wiles, Ludo’s close friend and officiator of all the Catholic blessings at the weddings planned by Ludo, smiled gently, not a whit offended.
‘I was attempting, perhaps rather clumsily, to console you, Ludo,’ he observed. ‘Style, like almost all glossy magazines, literally idolizes youth and inexperience, and I was pointing out that you may well be advantaged by having the younger clients.’
Ludo sniffed, muttering, ‘Tarquin strikes me as a little inexperienced, but Milly’s been stretched out on the casting couch more often than young Piers over there.’
He nodded at the passing waiter, a slim and handsome would-be actor, who flashed him a swift smile and wink as he skimmed by their table with a tray borne high. Ludo warmed to his theme.
‘I hear Milly’s wedged her ankles by her ears for producers more times than a novice in a nunnery waiting for Mother Superior to come in with a big altar candle and—’
‘Ludo, please!’ Father Liam ran a finger impatiently under his stiff white dog collar.
‘Oh come on,’ Ludo pouted. ‘You know what all those nuns are like. Why did they go into it in the first place? They’re worse than female prison guards, and they’re all utter and complete lesbians.’
‘Well, I can assure you that I did not enter the priesthood for that reason,’ Father Liam said coldly.
‘No,’ Ludo said irrepressibly, ‘but the new intake of fresh young Jesuit meat every year at your lovely Mayfair training centre is a delicious little extra bonus for some of your colleagues, isn’t it?’
‘Ludo, I’m shocked by the sacrilege of your conversation sometimes!’ Father Liam uncrossed his legs, planting the soles of his loafers on the carpet, his handsome brows lowering.
‘I’m sorry.’ Ludo reached out to touch Father Liam’s knee. ‘Father, forgive me, I’m such an awful sinner . . . my wicked tongue just runs away with me sometimes.’
Bad Brides Page 18