Goodbye, Jimmy Choo

by Annie Sanders

  Colette was just wiping the remnants of lunch off Pasco’s face when Maddy burst into the kitchen with the supermarket bags. “I’m late for that woman’s little ‘get together,’” she gasped, planting a kiss on the baby’s head. The petite French nanny had been Maddy’s bargaining tool for the move. Either she came too or Maddy wasn’t budging. Colette, despite (or perhaps because of) being from deepest France, seemed even more cynical about a move to the back edge of beyond than Maddy. In fact, Colette’s rooms at the top of the house had to be first for an overhaul as an added incentive, and she was now ensconced in luxury with her wide-screen TV and Malabar curtains, while the rest of the household were having to put up with bare plaster and barer floorboards.

  “Oh, Maddy, leave the shopping,” cooed Colette in that drop-dead sexy accent. “I just change Pasco’s nappy and he be ready. Come on, little man.” She called back over her shoulder, “The builder want to talk to you about the spare room.”

  “He’ll have to wait.” Maddy quickly packed Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food into the big American freezer and plonked pots of coriander and fresh basil onto the windowsill, brushed her hair, and applied some lipstick, by which time Pasco reemerged smelling clean and delicious in his nanny’s arms.

  “We’ll be back after school pickup,” she said, taking the baby from Colette. “I can make a pretty good guess what sort of women will be there—I’ve met them all at the school gate—and it’s not looking like a gathering from the social pages of Tatler. Pasta for the children’s supper? With that lovely plum tomato sauce you do so well—and I’ve even managed to track down some fresh Parmesan. There is a God!” Is that an expression the French understand? she wondered as she swept out of the drive. God, her command of her mother tongue must be slipping.

  By the time she pulled up outside Little Goslings, a substantial Victorian house with every window festooned with a child’s jolly drawing, it was ten past one and she was well prepared for the disapproving looks she’d receive from the nursery nurses.

  “Florence has had a lovely morning,” gushed Clare Jenkins, the name of the nursery emblazoned on the sweatshirt stretched across her ample bosom, “haven’t you, Florrie?” (To flatly refuse to give her name the correct French pronunciation was one thing, but Florrie!) “We’ve done a drawing of mummy and your lovely new house. She’s had some banana and raisins for a snack,” then she added, almost mouthing the words as if to protect Florence from the knowledge that she had a negligent and tardy mother, “but I think she’s a bit hungry. It’s lunchtime, isn’t it, Florrie darling?” Oh stuff you, thought Maddy. Wouldn’t anyone be if all they’d had since breakfast was a handful of raisins and some banana?

  “Thanks, Clare. See you tomorrow. Come on, Florence,” she said, emphasizing the name and grabbing her rather fractious daughter’s hand. “We’re off to meet some nice new friends.”

  Twenty past one now and Maddy wasn’t quite sure how late you could be for a half-twelve invitation around these parts without appearing completely rude. She lit a cigarette, confident that she wouldn’t be allowed to smoke chez Templeton—that was the name—and opened the window wide so it wouldn’t choke the children. Back home, you could turn up virtually when it suited you. Lunches had been long and fun, with nannies (usually from ex-eastern bloc countries) entertaining various offspring in the garden. She’d then return home around five and escape the teatime war zone, with the excuse that she had to get ready to meet Simon in town for whatever dinner or party they were attending that night.

  She overtook a couple of horse riders at speed and vaguely returned their enthusiastic gestures. Did she know them? No, somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she wasn’t achieving all she should in life. “If Madeleine puts half as much effort into her schoolwork as she does into her social life, she will go far,” her headmistress had written on her leaving report from Queensgate. Maddy knew she had been right, and, though she endeavored to read serious books and always to scour the Weekend section of the Daily Telegraph, life was too much fun. She justified her lifestyle by consoling herself that Simon earned quite enough to make her working unnecessary—and what could she do anyway with a couple of A levels and a few years picking wallpaper for the rich and clueless?

  What galled her now, as they drove toward Long Wellcote, was the thought that at least in London she could make sure she went to the right exhibitions and operas and kept up with the sharp end. The closest thing Ringford had to offer in terms of culture was a framing shop with prints of Provençal lavender fields in the window. She glanced in the rearview mirror at her beautiful children: Pasco with a dark coloring that suggested his European grandparentage, and Florence with her blond curls, so like Simon, and her thumb in, gripping her beloved rabbit with her other hand. Suddenly she had an image of the woman she was in danger of becoming: a country mumsy who spent her life going from school playground to bloody coffee morning to bloody toddler group to bloody boring lunches, talking about potty training and school fund-raising. It just wasn’t her bag.

  Hers was more Prada, and the prospect loomed terrifyingly of a life without one, or for that matter, lunch at Harvey Nicks, Jimmy Choo’s, or a couple of hours shopping in New Bond Street.

  Royally pissed off, she finally found Sue Templeton’s house at the other end of the village and pulled up outside, behind a new Peugeot MPV with a “Don’t Kill the Countryside” sticker displayed in the back. The house, a pastiche of Georgian splendor, complete with porticoed porchway, sat on the corner of a road of other unimaginative boxes and, through the new privet hedge, Maddy could make out a garden strewn with garish plastic trikes.

  As Maddy jerked on the hand brake and turned off the engine, she could feel herself about to weep with despair. “Sod the bloody countryside,” she wailed out loud. “It deserves to die.”

  Chapter 2

  Izzie could hear Sue Templeton’s loud, unrelenting voice long before the door opened. Her big face fell when she saw who it was. “Oh, it’s you,” she brayed. “We were beginning to wonder if you were coming. At last. Is that the cake? Abigail will be thrilled.”

  Of course it’s the bloody cake, you dopey tart, thought Izzie, but smiled artlessly and mouthed invented excuses for her lateness. Sue shepherded her through the oppressively narrow hall.

  “Bring it through,” she ordered. “Fortunately we haven’t started eating yet.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have waited for me. Sorry, I should have called to say I’d be late but—”

  “We weren’t waiting for you,” Sue retorted, then thinking perhaps it was a bit too rude to speak that way even to Izzie, corrected herself, twinkling revoltingly. “I mean we’re waiting for our guest of honor—Mrs. Huntingford House!”

  “Mrs. who? I don’t think I’ve met her. What an unusual name!”

  “No, Isabel,” Sue explained as if to a tiresome child. “She’s the new woman who’s moved into Huntingford House. Come up from London, husband did something seriously important in the City, setting up a business locally now—to do with computers, I think,” she honked. “Isn’t it always?”

  Rolling her eyes to indicate that the details of the business were not the important part—only the size of the bank balance—Sue flapped her hands irritably at the hesitant Izzie and ushered her through. “Her little boy is at Eagles with ours, and I thought she’d like to get to know us all better. So important to make sure you have plenty of friends when you move to a new place!”

  Laudable sentiments, but Izzie suppressed a cynical smile. Sue’s hospitality had never been extended quite so freely to her. Izzie could tell by the sense of anticipation in the overheated kitchen that Mrs. Huntingford House had been identified as something of a social catch. This should be funny!

  As they entered the room, Izzie could hear stifled laughter then a hurried “Ssshhhh!” She felt herself tense up even further. There were three women already seated at the table: Linda Meades and Clare Lorrimer were so inseparable that she always thought of them
as one, a bit like Ant ’n’ Dec or Rosencrantz ’n’ Guildenstern. Meades ’n’ Lorrimer kind of blurred into a sea of silky camel knits, silky camel hair, and too-orange fake tan—all in a flawless eggshell finish. Even the lip gloss was coordinated.

  Shoehorned in close to the wall opposite was Fiona Price. Looking frumpy and uncomfortable—her one concession to femininity a pair of gold earrings shaped like stirrups—perspiration beaded her bleached mustache in the airless kitchen, and her arms were clamped across her boobs. Fiona reminded Izzie of an overstuffed armchair, but any idea of coziness was deceptive. Affectionately known in Izzie’s house as “Frau Schadenfreude,” her speciality was spreading the word. She was more effective than Reuters, and, like CNN, seemed to function 24/7. What bothered Izzie the most, though, was the obvious delight she took in other people’s misfortune. When a friend’s husband had been banned for drunk driving, Fiona had virtually pinned Izzie to the wall outside Boots to impart the sordid details.

  True to form, the women all pretended to have forgotten her name, greeting her with vague but perfunctory smiles, so she had to go through the indignity of introducing herself again. From then on they ignored her, talking instead about the sweeping changes “Mrs. HH” had made to the house since she’d arrived. Each had some juicy tid-bit of information to impart, gleaned from the carpenter, the postman, the man at the deli in Ringford, the florist, and more, testifying to the lavish lifestyle and effortless chic of their still-absent guest.

  Stuck for something to say, Izzie eventually piped up. “There was a woman in a car just in front of me when I parked. Perhaps that’s her and she’s forgotten the house number.” Sue went to peer through the lavishly swagged curtains on the front window. “Yes, that is her! I’ll go and get her. Isabel, do put that cake down and could you pour a glass of wine . . . ?”

  But a ring at the doorbell cut off Sue’s string of commands in midstream. She fussed with her hair, pulled lint off the inevitable knitwear, and, bracing herself, went to answer the door, her accent poshed up as she greeted her guest in rapturous tones. From her vantage point by the kitchen window, Izzie watched bemused as the others preened themselves for the arrival of this new marvel.

  The woman who walked through the door, the very one she had seen in the BMW, was clearly a cut above her welcoming committee. Yes, indeedy—a different breed altogether. Very urban chic but kind of effortless. This woman was a class act, and it wasn’t just the hair; everything about her screamed entitlement, languor, money—such an irresistible blend. Izzie blinked rapidly as she strove to itemize her gorgeously understated ensemble. Her accessories were perfect, from Gucci shades pushed up on her head to the soft glint of Patek Philippe on her wrist, right down to powder-blue suede driving shoes revealing a hint of slender tanned feet, the beautiful baby on hip and exquisite little girl in tow. Even the slightly petulant expression and hint of a frown line between the carefully shaped brows fitted perfectly.

  Izzie prided herself on being able to scent good breeding at a hundred yards—it was a gift that had come in handy through the years—and this was an absolutely prime example. The arrival’s bust was slightly larger than hers and she looked a few years younger, but apart from that they were about the same size. Izzie wondered fleetingly whether she could get friendly enough with this vision to find out which charity shop she honored with her castoffs.

  “Oh, sorry, this is Isabel Stock. Isabel, Madeleine Hoare. Isabel’s made this lovely cake for Abigail’s party this afternoon. Isn’t it gorgeous? Every little girl’s dream. A perfect fairy princess. And another little Barbie to add to the collection!”

  Izzie winced as the newcomer’s incredulous glance swept over the pink monstrosity. She had to say something, to dissociate herself both from the ghastly conceit of Barbie in a Victoria sponge cake and icing crinoline and from the other women there, before she was dismissed along with them. Over here! she felt like shouting. I’m not like them. Honest! I used to live in London too. I’m interesting really.

  The Madeleine woman paused, tilted her head, and arched an eyebrow, scrutinizing the icing.

  “Christ! It looks like a stag party for toddlers. Are those jelly tots or silicone implants?”

  Izzie was startled, not sure how to react, and then from somewhere dug up a witticism. “Just the job for Abigail’s party,” she mused. Madeleine stifled a laugh, and at that moment there seemed to be a connection—almost imperceptible, but it was there. She shot her a quick glance, then looked more closely at the cake.

  “How on earth did you get the wretched doll to stand up? Did you shove her in there with brute force?”

  “Pretty much,” replied Izzie. “It was either that or cut off her legs.”

  A shocked murmur ran round the room, but the newcomer’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Sounds a bit like Boxing Helena,” she challenged, now staring straight at Izzie, who came straight back with, “Not so much Boxing Helena—more Nigella meets Hannibal Lecter.”

  Madeleine’s peal of laughter was all the more pleasing because of the uncomprehending stares of the others there. Izzie, who was still clutching the cake despite Sue’s orders, had a look of sheer delight on her face as the significance of what was happening began to sink in. Apart from the two of them, the room was in puzzled silence, but in Izzie’s head an angel chorus was crooning. For the first time in two years someone, apart from Marcus, of course, actually seemed to be on her wavelength.

  “It’s Maddy by the way,” she said, as if for Izzie’s ears only.

  “Mine’s Izzie, to rhyme with busy.”

  Disconcertingly, the rather exquisite little girl holding onto her mother’s leg giggled shyly. Maddy whispered conspiratorially: “I’m sorry. Florence thought you said zizi—which is the French word for a willy . . . !”

  Izzie snorted with mirth. “No way! I never knew that. I’ll book my Eurostar seat right away.”

  Sue muscled in, puce with anger. “Well, I think it’s a marvelous cake,” she chirped, and whisked Maddy off to the beanfeast going on for the other children in the playroom.

  Left undefended in the kitchen, Izzie felt her balloon of happiness slowly deflate as the others looked her up and down. Trying to hang on to that elusive feeling of confidence, she placed the cake firmly on the pristine Corian work surface, then turned round to confront them with a smile bravely pinned to her face.

  “Wine, anyone?” she said perkily, and seizing the bottle in its frosty plastic insulated jacket (“icy condoms,” as Marcus had dubbed them), sauntered over to the table. She really didn’t fancy sitting next to the Frau at the far end, but Linda and Clare had formed an apparently impenetrable barrier on the far side, and the fug of Opium and Mitsouko that surrounded them was enough to repel all boarders, welcome or otherwise. Sitting at the head of the table seemed presumptuous so she sat down on the only other chair, opposite them, and surreptitiously moved it as far from Fiona as she could. Three sets of eyebrows shot up and meaningful looks were exchanged.

  “Well, Izzie, you look as tired as I feel,” murmured Clare with phony solicitude. “Working hard at the moment? That lovely little house of yours must take some keeping up. Give me modern, anytime. So much easier!”

  Linda joined in. “How’s that hunky husband of yours—Marcus? I haven’t seen him at the gym lately. Not that he needs it; he’s in such fa-a-antastic shape. I remember him saying while we were in the sauna one time that you had a joint membership. Don’t you ever go? So good for the posture—and the skin!”

  Posture! Skin! Izzie’s shoulders had gradually hunched up round her ears, and she could feel her own face now going blotchy with rage. How dare these ignorant trollops try and get her going! Well today she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. Summoning up the remnants of her self-control, she strove to remember Marcus’s nicknames for them. Linda he referred to as the Lizard—all sunbaked and scaly with swiveling eyes and a tongue that kept flickering in and out. Clare was Daisy, and there was indeed something cowli
ke about her huge, over-made-up eyes and wobbly, pushed-up boobs. Yes, that definitely helped. Izzie sat up straight again and smiled broadly.

  “Marcus is really great at the moment, thank you. How clever of you to remember his name. He often used to mention seeing you both at the gym. But you know Marcus, he always has such funny stories to tell when he’s been anywhere, and he makes me just curl up with laughter with the things he tells me. He hasn’t had time to go there lately and, you’re so right, he really is in wonderful shape. We get plenty of exercise together though! The house—well, what can I say? We’re so happy there. We always dreamed of living in a house with character and charm, and we’ve certainly got that. I suppose people always choose houses to suit the way they are. I’m sure yours suits you down to the ground, Clare.”

  The simultaneous intakes of breath round the table told Izzie she’d hit the mark, and she sat back, pleasantly surprised at how easy it had been. She was saved from further interrogation by the return of Sue and Maddy, their hostess still braying and honking her way through her monologue.

  When they reached the table, there was an unexpected pause in the running commentary, and Izzie looked up to see Sue glowering at her. Oh God! What had she done now? Sue stomped off to get another chair, which she shoved in next to Izzie, scraping the leg spitefully down her ankle, then banged another knife and fork down next to hers. Izzie looked in surprise at the cutlery (very scrolly, repro Georgian). How very remiss of Sue to forget to lay a place for Maddy!

  Lunchtime chitchat was steered expertly by Sue toward subjects about which Izzie knew nothing—and cared less. Someone’s dog had come into season, someone’s car went like a bomb, someone else was going to Dubai for half term. Izzie kept schtum, but was encouraged by Maddy’s scant contribution to the conversation. As pudding, a plate of individual sticky strawberry tarts, was produced, Sue looked theatrically at her watch. “Oh, Izzie, look at the time. You’ll have to be going, won’t you?” she said pointedly, then turned conspiratorially to Maddy. “She has a bit farther to go to collect her children from school than we have, you see.”