The Finishing Touches

by Browne, Hester

  “But what about you?”

  “I’ve got two.” I waved mine, a big white gent’s hankie. “Always carry two—one for you and one for a friend.” I managed a watery smile. “A top tip from the Academy.”

  “Franny told you such useful things,” sniffed Liv, patting her face. “I wish I’d grown up in a finishing school.”

  “So do I,” said Jamie.

  “Shut up, Jamie,” said Liv, blowing her nose with a trumpeting sound. “No one in their right mind would let you into a finishing school. It’d be like letting a fox loose in a henhouse.”

  “A fox?” I could tell by his voice that he was joggling his eyebrows. “Why, thanks!”

  I risked a sideways glance. I’d thought Jamie was in New York, working—but he’d arrived with Liv, looking dashing, as Kathleen would say, in a dark suit, his blond hair cut slightly shorter than I remembered but still falling into his handsome face. When he brushed it out of his eyes with a tanned hand, my stomach still flipped over, memorial service or not.

  It was a habit, I told myself. A bad habit. My stomach had flipped over for Jamie O’Hare since I was fourteen years old; it was hardly likely to stop now. If anything, the familiar ache was replaced by a sense of relief that some things didn’t change.

  “I meant I wished you’d grown up in a finishing school, you plum,” said Jamie. Liv and Jamie still squabbled like teenagers, despite Jamie being over thirty and a company director, albeit of a company that arranged parties for posh girls. “It’d have done you good to have learned some manners. And how to arrange flowers and…” He turned to me and gave me such a charming smile that I forgot to look away and disguise my puffy face. “What exactly did they learn at that Academy? I’m afraid my knowledge of finishing schools is limited to, um—”

  “Dodgy DVDs and his own private fantasy world,” Liv finished. “You knocker.”

  “They learned how to dine with royalty, and talk to anyone, and arrange flowers,” I said through a watery smile. The Academy and its near-fairy-tale lessons had been such a big part of my childhood, it merged in places with storybooks. “They used to rehearse marriage proposals too—accepting and declining without hurting anyone’s feelings, that sort of thing. What to wear to the opera, and to Ascot.”

  “How to be a princess, basically,” sighed Liv.

  “Sort of,” I agreed. “I think there was some useful stuff too. Franny was quite keen for the girls to have things to talk about, in between the proposals and flowers. The girls were there to be finished, you know. Polished up.”

  “Turned into the perfect wives?” asked Jamie, and this time I had enough presence of mind to rest the puffier side of my face against a hand, as if in thought.

  “Nnngh,” I agreed, as my brain finally registered that Jamie’s knee was almost touching mine and conveniently went blank.

  Having a crush at twenty-seven was embarrassing enough; having it on your best friend’s brother edged into Mortification Country. It said something about my distracted state of mind that I hadn’t already mumbled something moronic to Jamie. Whenever I saw him, I acted as if I were suffering from an incapacitating hangover; Liv, who had no idea how I felt, always mistook it for supreme indifference, something she felt Jamie didn’t get enough of.

  “And the school is still running now?” he went on. “What sort of finishing do the girls get these days? Do they still do curtseys?”

  “I haven’t been back in years—” I began.

  “Before you ask,” Liv interrupted, leaning over to rap his knee with her clutch bag, “they don’t learn how to mix cocktails while doing Pilates and waxing their own bikini lines, so if you’re coming along to the reception to check them out, you’re going to be disappointed. We all know what your ideal woman is. And you won’t find her there.”

  I glanced between Liv and Jamie. I’d wondered why he’d been at the service—though it was lovely of him to pay his respects to a woman he’d rarely met—and now the penny dropped. He wanted to see inside the Academy for potential conquests and/or posh waitresses. My heart deflated a little.

  “That is not what my ideal…Oh, forget it, Liv,” said Jamie, seeing my crestfallen face. “I came because I know how much Franny meant to Betsy, and I happened to be in London this week, and I’m glad I did.” He turned to me and said, with the grave charm that kept a stream of triple-barreled Olympic skiers and party girls swooning in glossy heaps all over London’s hottest nightclubs, “She was obviously a real lady of the old school, and if it’s any consolation, I think she passed on a great deal of that to you.”

  I blushed, and Liv coughed, hard, to disguise a little sob.

  I wanted to store that gem away, but the trouble about being famous for charm was that it was hard to take Jamie very seriously. Besides, it wasn’t true. Franny had done her best to pass on a lifetime of hints and tips, but I just didn’t have her grace. That wasn’t something any finishing school could teach. You had to be born with it.

  The traffic began to move again, and I grabbed the chance to stare out of the window so he couldn’t see my expression. We were moving up St. James now, getting nearer Mayfair and the tall town houses near the Academy, and my heart began to thump in anticipation of the moment when I’d have to get out of the car and not have Jamie’s leg pressing against mine. I mean, face the other guests at the reception.

  “He’s right, for once, Betsy,” said Liv. “You are like her.”

  “That’s really sweet of you to say.” I squirmed. “But Franny was gracious and smart and had fabulous parties and millions of friends. I never know what to say, and I’m still doing my holiday job after five years, even though I’m a university graduate.” I sighed, not wanting to go down that particular route. “She just knew how to make people feel better about themselves. That’s proper manners.”

  “But you’re—” Liv began.

  “I’m not,” I said flatly. “I wish I were.”

  “I can see she didn’t manage to teach you how to accept a compliment,” said Jamie. He nudged me, until I turned back and had to look at him. His grayish eyes twinkled with a sad sort of friendliness, and I wished he’d been paying me the compliment under happier circumstances. I managed a small smile, then readdressed my attention to the traffic lights on Piccadilly, so he couldn’t see my gormless expression.

  “Anyway!” said Liv, slapping her tiny knees. “We’ve done the sad part; let’s concentrate on remembering the good bits! Let’s talk about the way Nancy and Kathleen used to throw duchess parties for you when you were little and Franny would lend you her tiara and fur coat!”

  “Really?” Jamie cocked an eyebrow, and something melted inside me. “Any chance of doing that…Oh, excuse me.” He reached inside his suit pocket and took out his tiny phone. “It’s work. Hello, Jamie O’Hare speaking. Lily! Hello! Yes, the ice sculptor should be with you any minute—the question is, are you ready for him?”

  Liv rolled her eyes at me. “When you turn your social life into your job, I suppose the fun never stops. Or the work never starts, whatever.”

  I rolled my eyes back. We’d turned down Halfmoon Street now and were only moments away from the reception.

  “Are you OK?” she mouthed, all concern, and I nodded bravely.

  “Let’s stop here,” I said. “I’d like to walk.”

  Jamie leaned forward to talk to the driver, phone still clamped to his ear. I could hear the distant gabble of pre-party panic. “Can you drop these two lovely ladies here, please, then take me on to Cadogan Gardens, mate? Cheers.” He sat back. “Sorry, I can’t stay for the bunfight, I’ve got a hostess in distress with an engagement party at seven. Themed round Dirty Dancing. You don’t want to know what I’ve had to arrange.”

  “You came to the most important part,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Jamie smiled, pressing his lips together in a manner that wasn’t flirtatious so much as brotherly, and rubbed my upper arm. “My pleasure.”

  Liv was busy getting out witho
ut snagging her tights, and for a second or two my eyes locked with Jamie’s as his hand rested on my coat sleeve, and I thought he might say something else. Or the conversation fairy might help me out with a witty comment. But the silence stretched, and then Liv’s hand grabbed mine and we were walking down Halfmoon Street, toward the Academy.

  Although I’d often been back to the mews cottage where my adoptive grandmothers, Kathleen and Nancy, still lived, I hadn’t set foot inside the Phillimore Academy itself since I was twelve years old. Their cottage was warm and cozy, full of cake and nannyisms about “not being at home to Miss Rude,” whereas the big house was much more imposing altogether. An old chill of anticipation fluttered in my stomach when I spotted the familiar brass plaque next to the red door.

  I’d felt the same flutter as a little girl, walking down the street after my afternoon turn around Green Park with Nancy. There was always something intriguing to spot in the upper windows of the Academy, some romantic lesson in the mysterious grown-up world awaiting the shrieking girls I saw streaming in every morning, with their padded jackets and long hair.

  In winter, the four-story façade was like an Advent calendar, with a different scene behind each lighted square: blond girls waltzing together in the old ballroom, where molded plaster vines were picked out in gold above glittering crystal chandeliers, and on the floor beneath them, the Social Dining class, struggling with a plateful of oysters and seven different glasses.

  On very hot summer days, the sash windows at the front were opened, and Nancy and I would catch the sounds of a piano being hammered and enthusiastic singing as we walked down the street. Not that we ever went in through the red door; we took a side alley two houses down that ran into the mews behind the street and from there let ourselves into Kathleen’s kitchen, where table manners were more rigidly enforced than they were in the Academy’s Social Dining class. Both Kathleen and Nancy were well into their sixties when I arrived and were fond of the “elbows off, napkins on, plenty of prunes, and early nights” approach to child rearing.

  Now that I thought about it, I’d had a very Brideshead Revisited sort of childhood, though it had seemed perfectly normal at the time…

  I was jolted out of this daydream by Liv nudging me.

  “I said, did it take you long to get everything arranged, Betsy?” she asked in a tone that suggested I’d probably done everything in an hour. I had a reputation for organizing, which, to be honest, wasn’t 100 percent deserved.

  I shook my head. “I didn’t do very much, really. I did offer, but it’s been so busy in the shop, and Lord P insisted that he’d manage it all himself. In fact, he specifically told me not to take time off work and come down.” I paused, wondering now if I’d done the right thing. “I thought it was best to let him, you know, keep busy.”

  Keeping busy was my personal therapy when things were bad. Right now my flat and the shop were absolutely spotless, with every account filed and shelf spotless. A couple of days after Franny’s funeral I’d even arrived early and washed the windows, to the amazement of the assistants. I’d used vinegar and newspaper. That was one of Nancy’s Good Housekeeping tips, not Franny’s.

  “Probably for the best,” Liv agreed. “I suppose there’d be people at the Academy to help? The headmistress?”

  “Mm,” I said, distracted by the middle-aged ladies with “good legs” already heading toward Number 34 like honey-blond bees: obviously old Phillimoras from their confident walk in high heels.

  “And there’s always Kathleen and Nancy,” she went on. “I can’t imagine they’d stand by and let him undercater a party. You know what Kathleen’s like—” Liv went into a terrible impression of Kathleen’s Lancashire solidness, with her hands on her nonexistent hips. “If a party’s worth having, it’s worth having wi’ lots of sandwiches. A cake shared is a pleasure halved. Better to feed the birds after than starve the guests before.”

  Kathleen and Nancy communicated entirely in pithy sayings, most of which I now suspected them of making up to suit the occasion.

  “At least there’ll be plenty to eat,” I said. “That’s one thing you can be sure of. That and the three hundred thank-you notes Lord P will get in exactly twenty-four hours’ time.”

  We were nearly outside the house now, and as we approached, our pace slowed as we tried to pretend we weren’t looking at the famous Doorstep of the Abandoned Child.

  Over the years, Franny, Nancy, and Kathleen had told the story about the Cooper’s marmalade box left on the Academy’s front step so many times that it was sometimes hard to remember it had actually been me inside it. Obviously, I had no memory of it myself, and what I’d really wanted to hear wasn’t what had happened but how excited and delighted they had been to find me there and how Franny had sent to Harrods for nappies.

  I’d told the tale quite often myself at school, admittedly with a few elaborations involving cloaked figures and tearstains on the blanket, and there were times when I’d even made myself cry with secondhand pathos, along with everyone around me. But as I got older and started thinking more deeply about why my mother might have left me and where she might be now, I wasn’t sure it was healthy to feel so detached. The simple truth was that I wanted to feel something—but there was nothing there, except the little bee charm that I wore every day around my neck on a gold chain Franny had given me.

  I tried to feel a flicker of something now, seeing the front doorstep where the box had been wedged against the bootscraper, but all I could see was tatty ivy clinging to a frontage that needed a lick of paint.

  “Head up, shoulders back, chest out,” said Liv as she rapped the lion’s head door knocker. “Just remember the happy times, OK?”

  It wasn’t quite so straightforward as that, though, I thought. Much as I had loved Franny and the graceful, white-shouldered vision of high-society elegance she had represented, there were other memories attached to the Academy for me. Painful ones that I’d thought I’d put to one side but that were now rising inside my chest like acid reflux.

  The red front door was opening. The nostalgic smell of polish and high ceilings and fresh flowers rushed out to meet me, making my head spin with recognition.

  “Betsy?” Liv’s voice sounded far away. “Are you all right?”

  I took a half-step back away from the black-and-white tiles of the entrance hall, but then I saw a familiar face and my manners took over. Without thinking, I stood up straighter, pulled my shoulders back, and put on my best smile.

  Lord Pelham Phillimore, my adoptive father and the official host, stood at the door, his wiry frame thinner than normal in his dark Savile Row suit. He’d put a crimson silk hankie in the top pocket in a melancholy attempt to comply with Franny’s cheerful dress code, but his distinguished face was gray and tight with strain beneath his white hair.

  I wished I could hug him, but the only time Lord P voluntarily submitted to having anyone put their arms round him in public was when his tailor took his chest measurement. His expression, though, softened when he saw me, and I smiled, hoping he’d read the hug in my eyes.

  “Betsy,” he said, reaching out for my hands, “and Olivia, how lovely. Come in.”

  There’s an irony, I thought, as he kissed my cheek and welcomed me inside. Me, being welcomed into the Phillimore Academy by the very man who’d decided, against his own wife’s wishes, that it wasn’t appropriate for me to attend, nearly a decade ago.

  Two

  A good handshake should be firm but not tight, with three shakes up and down, hinging at the elbow, and plenty of eye contact.

  The day I found out that I wasn’t allowed to join the Academy girls in their napkin-folding, prince-meeting, etiquette classes was the day my life stopped being like something from one of Nancy’s well-thumbed Georgette Heyer novels and turned into something more approaching real life.

  Actually, I’m being melodramatic. I was eighteen. Real life had definitely cut in—I’d already failed two driving tests and had my ears pierced. What
I mean, I suppose, is that for the first time I was forced to consider the possibility that I might not be the abandoned baby of a wronged actress/lovestruck heiress/tubercular ballerina. I mightn’t be special at all.

  Till then I’d enjoyed the luxury of a mysterious past but with the comforting safety net of Franny, Nancy, and Kathleen’s absolute devotion. Franny treated me exactly as if I were her own little girl, and, to be honest, I felt as if I were. It’s hard to miss your “real” mother when you don’t even know what color her eyes are, and Franny couldn’t have loved me more than she did.

  I went to a smart little primary school behind Buckingham Palace until I was eleven, and then Franny sent me to her old boarding school in Yorkshire. I met Liv on our first night, tearfully scarfing chicken nuggets because “it reminded me of home.” Liv’s dad, Ken, was an Irish property wheeler-dealer who’d made a pile from correctly guessing which areas of London would go from scummy to trendy overnight, and her mum, Rina, was a retired fashion model who’d been the “legs” of various famous stockings. We were both outsiders, among the 24-karat posh girls: lanky Liv had a half-Irish, half-London accent that didn’t fit in with everyone else’s drawly yahs; I had carroty hair and dressed just like you’d expect someone who’d grown up in a finishing school would—pearls, kitten heels, Laura Ashley floral skirts. We clicked at once.

  I tried hard at school, knowing how expensive the fees were, and was popular enough, given that my best subject was math, which I loved because everything added up; there was always a right answer and no room for mystery whatsoever. But as my final year approached and we started to talk about jobs and university, something strange happened. I started thinking about my mother, and the Academy, and that sad hope she’d written on the note: I want her to grow up to be a proper lady. I hadn’t really followed what was happening at the Academy since I’d been away, and from what I remembered, I wasn’t sure if I needed to learn half the stuff on offer, unless international economists also had to lay a formal dinner table. But it seemed like the only way I’d ever connect to my shadowy birth mother, even if she never knew I’d been there, as well as pleasing Franny, so I decided it’d be as good a gap year as any.