The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance

by Kirsty Greenwood

  So in the days running up to Saturday and the London Advertising Association Awards ball, I try my absolute best to focus and be the very model of a perfect vintage woman. I revise the Good Woman tips, use Pond’s cold cream on my face every single night, avoid Jamie downstairs like a criminal avoiding capture – though I’m on my bedroom balcony at Thursday lunchtime when I spot him outside the clinic with a pretty girl who I assume to be Kiko, and that makes me feel a bit weirded out – I barely go running at all, practise waltzing with Grandma, and I even manage to write ten thousand words of the book. When I send them to Valentina she responds with an email that simply says:

  I smell a bestseller.

  Which I show to Grandma, who, as expected, bursts into noisy, happy tears.

  So everything is going exactly according to plan. And soon I’ll be done with all of this, loaded, and safely on a plane to somewhere lovely and warm and exotic and far away.

  On my own.

  Which is definitely for the best.

  Definitely.

  All week long, Grandma busies herself tailoring one of her old ball dresses for me to wear on Saturday. She does this super privately, in the manner of Dexter preparing a kill room. Apparently she ‘wants it to be a lovely surprise for me’. As if I could ever get giddy over something as sappy as a freaking ball dress.

  Except that, to my dismay, I do.

  On the afternoon of the LAAA ball, I’m chilling on the bed, intermittently playing Bejeweled Blitz, writing words for the book and googling ‘help – how to stop sudden and unwanted mushy feelings seeping in?’ when Grandma knocks on my bedroom door.

  ‘You may enter!’ I call out, speedily deleting my search history and closing the lid of my laptop.

  Grandma bustles in, holding a cream padded clothes hanger that displays the most gorgeous piece of clothing I have ever seen. Even more beautiful than my sequinned ‘Juicy’ knickers. I think I actually gasp out loud at the sheer beauty of it.

  The ball dress is palest ice blue, with a silk, strapless, boned bodice that flares out onto a layered tulle skirt, stopping at mid-calf. At the gathered waist there’s an intricate band of silver lace, so subtly embroidered that you can’t see it unless you’re up close. It’s fucking amazing.

  I dart over and touch the silk bodice – it feels cold and smooth beneath my hands, like the jumpsuit I was going to wear to The Beekeeper launch. People like me don’t get to wear dresses like this. People like me don’t care about wearing dresses like this! But it’s an incredible dress. The kind of dress Summer would fist-fight someone to get her hands on.

  ‘It will look wonderful with the strawberry blonde of your hair,’ Grandma beams. Then she glances at her watch. ‘Which we should perhaps make a start on now. We haven’t a great deal of time, and it must be perfect. Chop-chop.’

  She carefully hangs the dress on the big wardrobe door and sashays downstairs to the kitchen where she has laid out all her rollers and brushes and setting lotions and potions and make-up like she’s holding a vintage cosmetics jumble sale.

  Tonight, Grandma has decided that I will wear my hair in thick, smooth waves with an extreme side parting à la Veronica Lake. While I idly watch Netflix on my iPhone, she hums Doris Day songs and spends ages rolling my hair up into huge rollers, setting it with the hairdryer, and smoothing it down with hair serum before spritzing on enough hairspray to hold it in place during an apocalypse. I avoid choking to death by lifting up my vest and using it to cover my mouth and nose. As Grandma paints on my make-up (black liquid-lined eyes, curled eyelashes and crimson lips), I try to concentrate on the task at hand and not what Leo might look like in a tux.

  When my hair, make-up and nails are complete, Grandma helps me into the vintage girdle, corset, a strapless version of the bullet bra and then, eventually, the dress. I hurry back downstairs to the big mirror in the hall, Grandma trailing excitedly behind me.

  ‘Fuck,’ I whisper in response to my reflection.

  On this occasion, Grandma pretends not to hear me curse. To be fair, if she swore she’d probably say the same thing right now.

  Because I look unreal. The crystal blue of the dress looks crazy with my cream-pale skin and rust-gold-coloured hair. My make-up is flawless, my hair even more so, my neck looks longer, my waist even smaller, there’s not a false eyelash, patch of tan or Pot Noodle stain in sight.

  I look like someone else entirely.

  I am Lucille.

  I think of Leo’s reaction when he sees me and get an excitable flip in my gut.

  Then I mentally mini-pinch myself. This is fake. Must not get carried away. Keep focused.

  Peach gallops down the stairs.

  ‘Oh, heck, Jess. You look like you’re going to the Oscars.’

  I spin around and laugh out loud in delight. Peach looks epic. Her usually frizzy dark blonde hair is all shiny tumbling curls, pinned up at the back with tiny jewelled clips. She’s wearing a gorgeous midnight-blue taffeta ballgown, a matching satin wrap draped round her shoulders. The colour of it looks amazing against her glowing pink skin.

  ‘You look awesome,’ I say to her. ‘Gavin will be speechless.’

  Peach’s smile plunges into a frown. Shit. I forgot that Gavin being speechless is a very real possibility.

  ‘I’m kidding!’ I speedily correct myself. ‘And anyway, even if things are a bit stilted, remember – I will be there to lubricate the wheels of conversation. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Fo sho.’ We fist-bump, at which Grandma gives us both a puzzled shake of her head.

  Grandma fusses with my hair again, smoothing down any flyaway strands with her thin hands, and my mobile trills once to let us know that the town car Leo ordered to pick us up is waiting outside.

  ‘Remember, Jessica,’ Grandma says as we head to the front door. ‘Tonight, you are representing Leo on his most important night of the year. You must be the very image of elegance. The woman every gentleman at the ball wants to be with, the woman that every other woman longs to know the secret of. How you conduct yourself tonight could make or break the entire project.’

  I pull a face. ‘Jeez. No pressure then.’

  Grandma takes hold of my hand and gives it a squeeze. Her magnified eyes are, once again, teary with emotion. ‘I believe in you, dear.’

  Ugh. Another warm and fuzzy fast approaching. I give her a swift kiss on the cheek. It leaves a crimson imprint, adding a shock of colour to her translucently pale skin.

  ‘Thank you, G. Thanks for the belief. Cool. Awesome. OK.’

  I quickly open the dresser drawer and grab the package that Gavin delivered the other day. I tear off the jiffy bag to reveal an oblong box wrapped in shiny-navy gift paper.

  ‘What’s that?’ Grandma asks.

  ‘Oh, um . . . it’s just a . . . a mascara I bought. I’ll open it on the way.’ I stuff the package into my silver and pearl clutch. The end of the box pokes out of the top. Grandma frowns suspiciously. Ignoring her, I turn to Peach, who’s clasping her evening bag, eyes wide with nervous terror about her first date with Gavin. Her first adult date ever.

  ‘Let’s do this thang,’ I yell, though it comes out sounding a little weaker than I intend it to.

  ‘Have fun!’ Grandma calls, as if this is a real, genuine social event for us and not just part of our wicked plan.

  When we’re halfway down the stairs, Grandma leans out of the door.

  ‘Wait! Wait!’

  Peach and I spin round, wobbling on our heels. ‘What is it? Have we forgotten something?’

  Grandma looks down at her feet. ‘Um, The Facial Book thing you like on the Internet?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘How do I . . . locate that on the online computer machine?’

  ‘You want to go on Facebook?’

  Her lips wobble. ‘I might.’ She lifts her chin. ‘I don’t know yet.’

  Peach and I look at each other in astonishment and laugh out loud. Loads of bizarre things have happ
ened these past few weeks, but Matilda Beam social networking might just be the weirdest one yet.

  I hastily issue Grandma instructions on how to access Facebook on the computer machine and hurry back down the stairs, through the lobby and outside.

  Shitballs. Jamie’s there. He’s pacing up and down the pavement in his doctor’s coat, talking into his phone. Probably to Kiko.

  When he spots us, he ends the call then drops his mobile, clumsily catching it just before it hits the ground.

  ‘Hello, Doctor Abernathy!’ Peach says brightly.

  ‘Hullo!’ he responds, shoving his phone into his trouser pocket. His eyes flicker towards me. He coughs. ‘Hi, Jess.’

  ‘Hey!’ I give an awkward wave. This is weird. I’ve extra carefully avoided him all week. I have no clue what to say. Peach looks between the two of us curiously.

  Jamie swallows hard. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he says eventually in a soft, low voice.

  ‘Why, thank you!’ Peach responds, beaming. She smooths down her taffeta skirt. ‘You are too kind, Doctor.’

  ‘We should probably go now!’ I take Peach’s hand and drag her over to the waiting car. ‘Take care, Jamie! Bye!’

  ‘Yes . . . bye.’

  I know Jamie watches us as we leave, but I don’t look back.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Only one woman gets to be the belle of the ball. Make every effort to ensure that lady is you.

  Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

  By the time we reach Christ Church in Spitalfields – where tonight’s awards are being held – I’m freaking exhausted. Peach totally clammed up again when we picked up a very-cute-in-his-tuxedo-but-clearly-shitting-himself Gavin from his flat in Hammersmith, and he wasn’t much better either. They smiled nervously at each other in greeting and mumbled a bit before conversation completely halted and it got all kinds of awkward. Which I didn’t particularly mind, but Peach was dying. In order to fill the silence and make it all a bit less uncomfy, I talked and talked the whole way here. As agreed earlier with Peach, I pretended to Gavin that Leo always referred to me by my middle name – Lucille – and that’s what he should call me too, rather than Jess. Then I talked about the heatwave and how hot it’s been and thank God for the car’s air conditioning. Then, when conversation ran dry, I basically turned to commentating throughout the entire journey like some kind of glamorously dressed personal tour guide. ‘So here, we pass a local McDonald’s. Very busy indeed, as is to be expected on a Saturday evening.’ Etcetera. Exhausting.

  At the venue, we get out of the car, hand our tickets in at the entrance and make our way to the Nave room as instructed by one of the very dapper stewards. When we enter the ball space, all three of us gasp in awe. What a room for a party! It’s a converted church: the ceiling is sky-high and ornate. The room is bordered by swish oak panelling and thick, Tuscan columns, all uplit with pink and purple lighting. It’s completely majestic and exciting. The place is already busy, and the atmosphere is throbbing with expectation; an excellent big band plays Ella Fitzgerald numbers at the front of the room and guests in fancy tuxes and luxurious ballgowns mill about the huge dance floor or chatter at one of the massive round tables that are topped with extravagantly colourful flower centrepieces, twinkling lights weaved in-between the leaves.

  ‘Wow,’ Peach breathes. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it!’

  ‘I know!’ I look around in astonishment. ‘They’ve seriously gone all out.’ My stomach flips with excitement against my will.

  ‘Listen, guys, I’m going to go and find Leo. He said he was arriving with his work colleagues, so he must already be around here somewhere.’

  Peach’s eyes widen in horror at the prospect that I might be leaving her alone with Gavin so soon.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I assure her. ‘You two go to the bar, and I’ll find our table, OK?’ Gavin takes a deep breath and musters every drop of courage he has within him to say, ‘Come on, Peach, let me buy you a drink.’

  Before they leave, I grab Peach by the arm and whisper in her ear, ‘A shot of tequila will make things easier, OK! Loosen you both up a bit. You’re ace, Lady P. Just chill out and pretend you’re talking to me. Come and find me in a bit.’

  Peach nods fervently and I wave her off as they rush over to the bar in search of a little liquid courage.

  As I scan the room for Leo, my insides tilt and churn in anticipation of seeing him again. What if my resolve fades and I just dive in for another one of those kisses? What if he wants to make lurve to me tonight? How will I have the willpower to say no? Ugh. I need to get this bloody thing finished. I can’t stand feeling so all over the place.

  ‘Lucille!’ Leo’s familiar deep tones sound out from behind me.

  I spin round elegantly to face him. Leo presses a hand to his chest as he takes me in. ‘Fuck,’ he whispers, leaning in to kiss me lightly on the cheek. ‘You look incredible, Lucille. I knew you would, but this is something else. You are something else.’

  I giggle shyly and to my horror it’s not a completely fake giggle. So I’m basically a person who giggles now? Argh. I fix Lucille’s enigmatic smile determinedly on my face and clear my throat. ‘Gosh, you look rather wonderful yourself, Leo.’

  I’m not lying. He’s wearing a sharp black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt and black bow-tie. His hair is styled more naturally than the super-perfect quiff, a bit mussed-up around the front. His eyes sparkle in a way that I’m sure is reserved just for me.

  How did I think he was weird-looking when I first met him?

  He’s lovely-looking. Gorgeous-looking.

  Hmm, I wonder what he looks like in the buff? I bet his willy is a really good one.

  Argh. Danger-thoughts.

  Must change the subject.

  ‘This is quite an event isn’t it?’ I purr, indicating the extravagantly opulent room. My eyes widen in awe as I notice Daniel Craig strolling past us towards the bar as if it’s completely normal that he’s here with the non-famous folk. ‘Bond,’ I squeak. Now there’s someone who definitely looks good in the buff.

  ‘Ah, it’s just the brands showing off,’ Leo chuckles, as if James Bond hasn’t just breathed in the same air as us. But then, he is super used to hanging out in celebrity circles. ‘They bring their famous spokespeople so it all looks more glamorous and important.’

  At the back of the room I spot Benedict Cumberbatch – God, is there any event that guy doesn’t attend? And ooh, there’s Claudia Winkleman. I like her. I like her fringe.

  Leo reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out a tiny grey velvet box. ‘Not a sick bag this time,’ he grins. I take the box from him, rub my thumb over the soft velvet and open it. Nestled inside is a tiny diamond and sapphire brooch in the shape of a Ferris wheel. It’s unusual and lovely and exactly to my taste.

  ‘Wow,’ I gasp. ‘You . . . you really shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I wanted to!’ He lifts the brooch out of the box and carefully pins it onto my dress. ‘Something to remind you of the night we met.’

  ‘I love it,’ I say truthfully, shame squelching around in my belly at the fact that he’s bought me this amazing present under entirely false pretences.

  I reach into my clutch bag and hand Leo the package I brought with me.

  ‘What’s this?’ he says, his eyes twinkling with surprise.

  ‘You’re not the only one who can bring gifts to a date, y’know.’

  Bemused, Leo tears open the navy gift wrap and opens the lid of the oblong box, peering inside.

  He laughs out loud. ‘A paintbrush!’

  ‘It’s a good one. The website says it’s fine-pointed and the tip is made of Kolinsky sable,’ I mumble, embarrassed to find that suddenly I feel shy. Why did I bloody get him a paintbrush? It seemed like a cool, funny idea last week. Now, at a fancy ball, and him having just given me a diamond brooch, it feels all kinds of meaningful and romantic. I cough. ‘I just thought you could, you know, paint some stuff.’ I
shrug casually. ‘Do some art . . . things.’

  Leo stares at the brush for a second, fingering the tip of it before pressing it to his chest. ‘Thank you, Luce,’ he says quietly, looking at me in an intense, serious sort of way that tickles my skin. Then he tucks the box into his inside pocket and leads me towards our table. As we make our way through the bustle, I notice that everyone’s eyes are on me. Not in the way they were the night at The Beekeeper launch, like I was a subject for ridicule, but with interest, envy, lust, wonder. It’s a weird sensation, and not an entirely pleasant one, either. I feel a bit like I’m on show, like I’m a doll to be admired. Like . . . Felicity.

  But still, I’m here to do a job, so I do it; I smile and simper graciously as guest after guest says hello to Leo, congratulating him on his nomination, predicting that he’s a shoe-in to win it, how they just looooove his Drive Alive ad . . .

  Despite Leo making every genuine effort to include me in the conversations, it occurs to me that apart from an appreciative or envious glance or polite hello, no one is paying any real attention to me. No one asks me any questions about myself. I am, quite simply, arm candy.

  We eventually make it past all the advertising suck-ups and reach our table. Leo introduces me to the people already sitting down.

  ‘Lucille, this is Martin, our copy man. Martin has the most amazing Ferrari you’ve ever seen. I’ll have to take you out for a ride in her soon. She runs like a dream.’

  ‘Of course!’ Martin says cheerfully.

  I frown slightly as I get a flashback of Leo making a sexist comment at the fair, talking about giving someone curvy a ride before Martin took her home. Was he talking about a car? Man alive, I really have got the wrong end of the wrong stick about Leo Frost. I was so quick to judge him . . .

  He introduces me to two more people from the senior team at Woolf Frost and their partners, who all seem nice and friendly, if a little formal. Then he reintroduces me to the fourth table-dweller – bloody Rufus Frost, the world’s douchiest douchebag – who calls me Lucy and kisses my hand again with his gross old cigar-stinking mouth. Spew.