by Anna Maxted
She sees me out herself, waving away the butler, and I am left standing on her marble front steps, gazing into the impassive face of a stone lion, breathless and not a little star-struck by our encounter. Her charm is hypnotic, her lack of self-pity astonishing. Reader, he should have married her!
© Sunday Times Ltd
CENTRAL PARK, NEW YORK, 2004
Innocence
Innocence hummed to herself as she skated gracefully around the rink, swish, swish, her white skates cutting along the ice with a satisfying speed. The freezing air bit at her skin and made her eyes water, and she skated faster, relishing the wind in her pink hair, smiling for the cameras, smiling at the crisp blue sky, smiling at the city. From here its buildings seemed compacted, tall, powerful but not too close: a friendly giant guarding her from a distance.
That moron from the newspaper had lapped it all up. Her interview with Oprah had been equally successful. She had presented herself as humble, forgiving, a little fearful, but optimistic. She had shown photos of her grandchildren, she had shed a tear; she had shown courage. She had explained why she had chosen New York for her Coming-out Party: it was a city that understood suffering, it showed spirit in the most dire of circumstances, and it flew the flag for freedom. She was still a little sore at the British ‘justice’ system.
The party was to be held at the Apple Core that evening, but first, she and the Family were having a Private Moment for the press, on the outdoor rink. While too much was never enough, the Coming-out Party, to which guests were invited to dress ultra-glam, was a small affair: only one thousand people. Tickets were three thousand dollars – except for Jack’s ticket which was thirty thousand – with proceeds going to the families of the victims of 9/11, of course.
It was select, it was exclusive, and the electronic scanners at the door were state of the art. She wanted a ‘big do’, yet the idea of crowds made her shudder: she had a fear of being shanked. Foolish – it hadn’t happened inside, why would it happen now? But she couldn’t rationalize her fear; the dread that it might happen was just as bad as it happening. It astonished her that she felt less secure on the outside than in.
She pulled the Siberian white tiger fur coat – ‘Of course it’s fake,’ she’d told the tramp from the Post. ‘It’s just a very good fake’ – closer around her, and went into a spin. There was applause. She smiled, dug her heel into the ice, and clapped a hand over her mouth as if stifling mirth. What she had missed in prison was the loss of status, the fact that she was not appreciated or fawned over. It was wonderful to feel important again, to be made a fuss of.
It was a basic human need, being made a fuss of. The Americans understood this to a degree that the English didn’t. The English were too hung up on dignity and not being labelled a show-off. The Americans knew how to celebrate achievement; here there was no shame in success. She was going to spend more time stateside; more time in the gorgeous Hollywood Hills residence. Now that she was out, she craved the outdoor lifestyle, the space to roam, the sun and the sea, the mountains and the big fuck-off cars.
Claudia was skating miserably around the ice. Today she looked particularly miserable, and on edge. She kept looking over her shoulder. She was the worst person to invite to a photocall ever. Now that Alfie was married to his horse-faced girlfriend, she mooned around like a lost dog. She had never recovered from falling in love with her own father – what an idiot!
She smiled as Emily and Timmy skated past her, holding hands with George. The nanny and little Molly waved from the side. She was proud of Emily. She was a smart girl. She’d made herself the darling of the British press; she’d cut down the number of interviews, but when Molly was born, she’d made a point of sending a gorgeous selection of photos free to the picture desk of every paper and magazine. Now that Timmy had graduated with a 2.1 in History of Art, and was working at a Chelsea gallery, now that she had a fighting chance again of living in a castle, she had got herself back on track.
Emily had launched her own perfume, designed her own fashion line (for a high-street store but then, beggars couldn’t be choosers), she had even modelled it. She had also put her name to a fashion page in one of the posh monthly magazines. There was talk of a salad dressing, but it was early days.
Innocence was reluctantly impressed at her daughter’s survival skills. Emily had repaid her every penny of the allowance that Innocence had given her before she was put away. Emily was probably holding out for the big bucks, but it was still a nice touch. She suspected that Emily was still furious with the family – Jack for favouring Claudia, and Claudia for being favoured – but now that she was no longer destitute, she was able to keep a lid on the rage.
Secretly, Innocence thought that a bout of poverty had done Emily the world of good. She no longer expected other people to pour her drinks.
And where was Jack? ‘Fear of Bad PR’ was a wonderful thing. It had forced him to hop on a plane (well, maybe not hop) and to go through the charade of playing happy families. Ah, there he was, in a black leather jacket. Oh dear, visions of George Bush trying to look ‘hip’.
‘Jack, sweetie, join me on the ice!’ she hollered, and grinned as ten camera lenses whirred in his direction.
He laughed, with difficulty, and his minders shuffled close. ‘I would, darling,’ he roared back. ‘But I prefer manly sports. I don’t like twiddling around. I’d be gripping your wrist as tight as handcuffs – you’ll think you’re back in the joint!’
She tried to sound amused, and failed. ‘Oh come on, sweetie! Don’t be such an old man! You’ve only got mild arthritis. Come on, one whirl around the ice. It’s not as if I’m asking you to marry me!’
He gave her the finger. There was a frenzy of whirrs and clicks. Damn. That was the thing about damage to the frontal lobe. He was a liability. He was no longer able to judge what was socially acceptable. Emily had been hugely upset, she had confided to the Mail on Sunday, when he had sent his granddaughter a card on her first birthday that read, ‘Happy Birthday, dear Molly, love from Jack’. Even the Earl’s secretary had signed off as ‘Grandpa’.
Innocence raised an eyebrow and stepped daintily off the ice. Patrice was on hand with a hot chocolate and a cigarette.
‘Thanks, sweetie.’
She sashayed over to Jack and sat beside him. ‘You’ve aged in dog years,’ she murmured in his ear with a loving smile.
‘You look fat in white,’ he replied, ruffling her hair. He knew she couldn’t stand for her hair to be touched.
‘I pity you, being a widower and a cripple,’ she sighed, stroking his brow. ‘When you haven’t had a lay in six years – I mean, without paying for it – you’re bound to be cranky.’
He roared with laughter, but she was pleased to note that the heartiness was forced. ‘Speak for yourself, Fat Ass,’ he whispered, slapping her knee with quite painful affection. ‘Or did you find yourself a couple of crack hoes to play with while you were banged up?’
She laughed uproariously, delicate hands cradling her throat, although she would have rather liked, at that second, to cradle his throat. ’ “Crack hoes”, Jack? Oh darling, have you been listening to Aswad again?’ She tossed her hair (it didn’t move). ‘And, sweetie, you know I swing both ways.’ She smiled. ‘It would be foolish of me to rely utterly on men, for anything. Why limit your options?’ Pause. ‘Oh, I forget. You don’t have any.’ She winked. ‘Play nice for the press, and maybe later I’ll let you watch.’
She stood up and nodded to Jamie, who clapped his hands. ‘Those guests requiring transport to the Apple Core, please come this way,’ he announced. New York had some duff traditions and those stinky horse-drawn carriages that hung around Central Park were the worst. Innocence couldn’t think of anything more ghastly than being towed along under a germ-riddled flea-infested blanket by a farting pony, with its arse inches from your face. So she had hired all of them to ferry assorted family and skating guests to the party, but she was travelling in a pink glass pumpkin coach, drawn
by four white stallions. God bless America!
Unlike Jack, Innocence knew what made a good party. Karaoke. Oh, sure, there was other music. All the kings and queens of pop had fallen over themselves to offer their services because of the charity element – God, these people were so transparent. So she’d agreed that a few of them could come along to sing their little songs. Justin seemed like a sweet boy, and it couldn’t hurt, although none of their music was her thing. And of course, it was quite a compliment that Abba had offered to reconvene for the occasion. But would Abba make her look old? If only the Spice Girls hadn’t broken up.
She also liked a good dress up. Fuck Audrey Hepburn – her style icon was P. Diddy, a man unafraid of a good fur and a nice diamond. One of the most hateful elements of jail was being forced to wear cheap, itchy, ugly clothes, the same as everyone else. Now that she was out, she could use haute couture as a barometer of her wealth and status again; she could rise above the flotsam because when Karl Lagerfeld designed a one-off pink mohair body stocking in your honour, it put every other pretender in their place.
Today she was wearing a clinging pink Dior satin off the shoulder gown with forty thousand pounds’ worth of sequins, crystals and jewels sewn into the fabric (Galliano was another designer who embraced extravagance, she couldn’t abide a tightwad), a diamond tiara and red suede Mary Jane pumps by YSL. She relished the sensual feel of expensive tailoring against her skin. In fact, now that she was out, pretty much everything made her feel horny.
She’d told Jack the truth – she had had a few bitches inside. Girl power and all that. But you couldn’t beat a nice prick! As ever, she found Jack’s animosity attractive, although the animosity would have meant shit had he not regained his muscle tone. As it was, his physiotherapist needed a medal for services to womankind. One of the few times she’d laughed in prison was on receiving a scrawled letter from Emily, who was a most lazy communicator, that had expressed her horror on catching sight of her father’s legs under his hospital gown. ‘His left leg definitely looked withered. Eeek!’
Now, after a strict regime of Pilates and physiotherapy and lean protein, every firm and manly bulge was where it should be. Who needed brains? Innocence tried not to cackle. She might lure him up to the penthouse suite. Possibly, if she was in the mood, she might invite that dumb blonde East Coast heiress to join them. She was twenty-eight, fair of hair and dark of eyebrow, jaw-droppingly stupid, not too thin, and her name was Muffy … Buffy … Fluffy? Innocence couldn’t recall. She was the kind of person you ached to bully in bed.
Innocence was in a punchy sort of mood.
She stood on the balcony to give her welcoming speech, and surveyed the room. Everything was perfect. The caviar had been flown in from Petrossian Paris on Robertson Boulevard, LA. It was a long way but you want what you want. The strawberry margaritas were sublime. The new Baccarat glass chandeliers lent an enchanted quality to the atmosphere. Every guest was exquisitely attired. Yet she was restless. There was a tension in the air that was making her brain itch, and she knew its source. She whirled around.
Claudia, sitting glumly on a chair. That stupid child, she had a face that would spoil milk.
It occurred to her that the room had gone silent, and people were looking up expectantly, slight confusion blurring their smiles.
She hastily slapped a saintly look on her face. ‘Welcome,’ she purred as Patrice handed her a mike. ‘Welcome, and thank you. Thank you for being here. Your generosity and support means so much – to me, and to the brave people of New York.’
If she could shoe in ‘courageous’ and ‘spiritful’ – was that a word? – she might even win over that slut from the Post.
‘I think that very few of us live a life untouched by grief or tragedy. Whatever our status, whatever our bank balance, whatever clothes we wear, cars we drive, house – or houses – we live in, the loss of those we love – temporary or permanent – must come to us all. But let us not be bitter! Let us count our blessings. And let us remember that loss is the price of loving, and the fact that we have love, and courage in our hearts, must give us hope. Let us not lose our spirit! Let us remain … spiritful. With this in mind, I urge you all this evening to dance and eat and drink and celebrate life. Relish the good and wondrous gifts that it offers us, while remaining mindful of the bad. Speaking of which, I raise my glass to Jack, and indeed, to my whole beloved family.’ Jesus. Patrice had gone all poetic on her – he was going to have to watch himself. ‘Thank you – and enjoy!’
There was a storm of applause and a riot of flashbulbs. She posed, briefly, turning elegantly to one side, chin down, one shoulder forward – one didn’t want to look wide – and swept gracefully down the curling staircase. If she didn’t get laid in the next thirty minutes she was going to go mad. That said, she had prior business. There she was, the little madam.
‘Claudia,’ she barked. ‘We need to talk.’
Claudia jumped. She looked frumpy in a yellow satiny strapless dress that sagged around the chest. ‘What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve been taking style tips from Gwyneth Paltrow.’
Claudia’s only response was to shrug.
Innocence gripped her by the upper arm and hauled her into a side room. Only then did she notice the girl was carrying a brown briefcase.
‘And what the fuck is that?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Bullshit. This is a party, not a conference. It looks out of place and weird. What is it, and why have you got a face like a dead halibut? You turn that frown upside down, dear, or my public will think you aren’t happy for me.’
It really pissed her off. Claudia wrote for a few decent magazines and yet she’d never asked Innocence for an exclusive.
Claudia gazed at the floor, and a great rage filled Innocence, and she stamped her foot. ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you!’ she screamed.
Slowly, Claudia lifted her head, and looked Innocence straight in the eye. ‘It’s to do with Emily,’ she muttered.
Innocence felt a lurch of irritation. ‘What are you talking about? Emily is fine.’
‘What’s to do with me?’ said a clear, indignant voice.
Innocence whirled around. ‘Don’t creep up on me! Jesus!’
‘Emily.’ Claudia looked white as milk. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’
Emily nodded dismissively. ‘Fine, but later. Timmy adores Abba, and I am not going to miss “Dancing Queen”.’
Now Claudia looked green. Innocence hadn’t actually realized it was possible for skin to acquire a greenish tinge. Remarkable. It matched her eyes, but did nothing for the dress.
‘Are the children still up? I do want to show them off. The New York Times is so hard to win over.’
Emily shook her head. ‘Nanny is putting them to bed, Mother. She has a very strict regime. I don’t interfere. Anyway, I gave the Post an exclusive: they love the idea that the children are getting a traditional English upbringing. The poor baby was yanked out of her Dior tracksuit and forced into these, like, totally hideous velvet pantaloons, and we had to promise George a motorized off-roader for making him wear a kilt. They used some of our clothes for the shoot – it was David LaChapelle? He’s such fun to work with, a real artist. It was like shooting a music video. My stylist had worked with J-Lo, and Beyoncé, and my make-up artist had worked with Jennifer Garner and Uma Thurman, and they really knew what they were doing. There was such a great vibe! Timmy had the writer enthralled. He was telling them about the ancient curse of Fortelynes: you know, the belief that if the redcurrant bush that grows by the moat withers, then so will the male line. The truth is, it withers, like, every year, because it’s so fucking cold, and the Countess just plants another one in its place so the Earl doesn’t find out and go mental. And Timmy was telling her about the ghost in the Blue Room. There have been five sightings in the last twenty years. He wears an Elizabethan ruff, and is always reading a book; he appears to be concentrating very hard on the page, despite
not having a head. I’ve not seen him, but the Countess has, and Cook. Oh, and he was also telling her about how he was a “hands-on” dad, how he reads Wind in the Willows to George every night – although he didn’t mention that George hates it, and would totally prefer his Spiderman comic. Anyway, she lapped it all up; she must have spent four hours with us. She said she wanted to see how we operate as a family, and she was just entranced. She was impressed that I only use Nanny six days a week, and that I get Cook to make the children organic food, and that I’ve achieved this perfect balance between my home life and my work life, and I’m only twenty-two. She was quite cheeky, asking about our love life, but I don’t care. We have a great sex life. I said we were very adventurous, if that wasn’t, like, way too much information, but I said the thing about being so young is that you feel you can do anything and never get tired. I don’t get these mothers who are tired, I suppose they’re the ones who have children when they’re really old, like, thirty, and anyway, I think it’s so important that you make time for yourselves as a couple, so it’s not, like, just about the kids. Timmy and I go out every Saturday. We might go to a charity ball, or a musical, or fly to Bermuda for a spa break, because, as Timmy says, we fell in love on a Saturday, and conceived George on a Saturday, and Timmy writes me a little love note every Saturday to mark the occasion – he’s so thoughtful like that. And she was just drooling, like, “Oh my God, don’t talk to me, why can’t I find a guy like that, sensitive and at ease with his emotions, let alone one with a frickin’ castle!” I think she was actually jealous of me, but I can’t blame her. I am so lucky with Tim. He’s even interested in, like, my clothes. He gave me an amazing idea for the spring line, to underlay the satin flare skirts with organza voile, and he suggested adding a squeeze of lemon to the salad dressing. He said, you know, if I’m, like, going to endorse it, I have to, like, not completely barf when I taste it, otherwise it’s selling out. He’s just totally a reconstructed male. Anyway, I think she went home to write it for tomorrow’s paper so, like, you’ll read all about us tomorrow! Yay!’