Dressing the Dearloves

by Kelly Doust

  ‘Oh. All right, I suppose . . .’ she trailed off, chewing her fingernail.

  ‘Yeah? So they’ll take the clothes off your hands then? How much are they going to give you?’ Penny asked, tapping off some ash and eyeing her through kohl-ringed eyes.

  ‘Hmm? No . . . they can’t. Take them, that is. But it’s okay,’ she said hurriedly, ‘I’m not really sure it’s the right thing any more, anyway.’

  ‘Riiiight . . . Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Sorry . . . about what?’ Sylvie asked after a moment, feeling spaced out.

  ‘Jesus, what’s wrong with you, Sylvie?’ Penns exploded. ‘You’ve been off with the fairies since I walked in the door. You’re not still brooding about Dearlove, are you? Because I told you, you’ll get back on your feet soon, babes, you really will.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Sylvie lied. ‘I’m all good.’ And she tried not to think about what she’d seen on her Facebook feed that afternoon, a post put up by Gisele from the night before. It was a picture of Gisele and Dominic, out with Ben and Josh – this time accompanied by Aletha, Josh’s girlfriend, and some pretty, petite blonde girl she’d never met. Sylvie couldn’t be sure from the photo, but it looked like Ben had his arm around her. Sylvie felt sick to the stomach just thinking about it. But then again, did she really?

  ‘Look, I’ll tell you what,’ said Penny, changing gears and sitting up to stub out her cigarette. ‘I’ve got this gig to go to tonight, at the new bar I was telling you about, but I’m meeting up with Jon afterwards. I don’t think you’ll want to come to the gig – I just saw that Olivia Frankston-Fuckwit’s going to be there – but why don’t you go and meet Jon first for a quiet drink, then we can grab a bite in Soho after?’

  Sylvie sighed. Penny was right – she needed to get out. Let her hair down. Think about something else other than her own problems for a change.

  ‘Thanks . . . Sorry, I know I’m a bit difficult to be around at the moment. Thanks for having me,’ Sylvie said awkwardly.

  ‘Sure, doll. Anytime. Why don’t you grab a little somethin’ somethin’, get yourself in the mood, and we can go out for a dance? My shout.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. But a drink, yes. I’ll have a drink.’

  ‘Off you trot, then. Best get ready. I mean, you’re not actually planning on wearing that, are you? I know the athleisure look is hot, but . . .’

  Sylvie looked down at her baggy tracksuit pants and the sweatshirt she’d changed into after her meeting at the V&A. A grey uniform to match her grey mood, but it was as comfortable as hiding under a duvet on a miserable day.

  ‘And why don’t you grab a shower as well? Freshen up a bit? I’ll wait.’ Penns smiled sweetly.

  ‘All right, all right . . .’

  ‘Good girl,’ said Penny, lighting up another cigarette.

  ‘Sylvie – this is Rufus.’

  ‘Oh, hi! Hey, how are you?’ Sylvie asked as she jumped up, giving Jon a kiss on either cheek and looking at the tall, wiry guy in glasses standing beside him.

  ‘Yeah, great. Rufus is a mate of mine,’ he said, sitting down at the poky table Sylvie had chosen down the back, away from the heaving bar. ‘I hope you don’t mind. He’s been shooting around the corner and happened to call while I was on my way here. Rufus, this is Sylv. She’s just back from New York, but really from down Somerset way.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ As he sat down, Sylvie thought Rufus gave her a speculative look, but she didn’t give it much thought – she was often surprised by the number of people who still recognised her from a profile Vogue had done on her, ages ago.

  ‘Drinks, drinks – what’s everyone having?’ Jon asked, clapping his hands together and turning away towards the bar. Good old Jon, Sylvie thought, always the first to buy a round. And a good thing, too – she was totally skint.

  ‘Um – maybe a glass of red? Shiraz?’

  ‘Done. Rufus?’

  ‘Just a beer, mate.’

  ‘All right. Back in a mo.’

  Rufus gave Sylvie a shy half-smile, but was still staring at her in that slightly intense way. She fidgeted under his gaze, casting about for something to say.

  ‘So what are you shooting, then?’ she managed. ‘A magazine or film?’

  ‘Film. Well, not a film, really – it’s more of a documentary series. About the London fashion scene in the sixties and seventies. Biba, Mary Quant, Ossie Clark and Celia Birtwell – that lot.’ Rufus’s face lit up, coming alive as he started speaking about the popular fashion pack. He was passionate and animated and Sylvie felt herself warm to him.

  ‘Wow, that sounds exciting. What are you doing, exactly – camera work?’

  ‘No – well, sometimes. I’m actually meant to be the director, but we don’t have a massive budget so I manage that as well, some days.’ He smiled self-deprecatingly, and Sylvie decided that she liked him – he didn’t seem to be big-noting himself like some of the other film and television people she knew back in the States, who were all bluff and bluster.

  ‘I remember now!’ Sylvie exclaimed, realising where she’d heard of him – Rufus Davies, she was sure that was his name. ‘Didn’t you do that documentary about Nancy Astor? My parents and I watched it the other night – it was really very good. Didn’t you win a BAFTA for it? I loved all that old footage you found. Especially the clip with the Mitfords, and that bit about Stalin, when she took him to task.’

  ‘Yeah, she was a real character. Nothing like telling a dictator off like he’s a two-year-old having a tantrum. I’m really enjoying this series we’re doing on the sixties and seventies, but that time between the wars is where my heart’s really at. It was such an interesting period, don’t you think?’

  ‘I completely agree. My great-great-grandmother was a bit like Nancy Astor. She used to host salons in the 1920s. Oswald Mosley once said her parties were where “the cleverest met with the most beautiful, and that is what social life should be”.’

  Rufus clapped his hand to his forehead. ‘Oh my God. I thought I recognised you! It’s Dearlove, right? Sylvie Dearlove?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ Sylvie said, her heart sinking. That bloody Daily Mail article.

  ‘You’re the granddaughter of Gigi Love! We contacted her to take part in this series that I’m working on now, just to say a few words, but she never got back to us. And Rose Dearlove was your great-great-grandmother, wasn’t she.’ It didn’t seem like a question. ‘Actually, she’s the one I first wanted to do the documentary on, not Nancy Astor. But I couldn’t get permission from her daughter, Elizabeth, and I wouldn’t go ahead without making any contact at all. I actually tried your mother, not long ago, but as soon as we got into the details, she seemed to change her mind and totally shut me down. The Astors were more . . . accommodating.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mum told me she was going to meet with you. What a fascinating job you have,’ Sylvie said, intrigued.

  ‘Well I don’t do puff pieces, but I’m also not into those sensational, tell-all docos. I wonder how the journos who do those can sleep at night. Don’t they realise there’s real people involved?’ Rufus said, watching her intently.

  ‘My sentiments exactly,’ Sylvie murmured, impressed by his scruples, but there was something slightly . . . not quite right about him, that she couldn’t put her finger on. ‘What made you interested in Rose in the first place?’ she asked.

  ‘I was initially planning to do a doco on Lady Clarissa Hardcastle – do you know about her? She was this artistic, daring woman who married a lord but was never really accepted by the aristocracy.’

  Sylvie shook her head. ‘Nope. Never heard of her.’

  ‘She was a bit of a bohemian, I suppose,’ said Rufus, shifting in his seat. ‘A fascinating woman. While I was doing my research I found that she was friends with Rose, and then all this stuff about your great-great-grandmother began to come to light. Barty Telford’s biographer mentions her a lot, and I found this amazing Cecil Beaton portrait of her wearing this silvery sort
of halo headpiece, and there was just something about her . . . I don’t know, she captured my imagination. There was something magnetic about her.’

  ‘Yes, I know that photo.’ Sylvie nodded, smiling. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? The original is at home somewhere.’ Sylvie considered Rufus, wondering what to make of him. She knew it might be a coincidence, meeting him here, but after the Daily Mail journalist turning up at Bledesford, Sylvie felt a twinge of suspicion.

  ‘How did you say you know Jon?’ she asked, wondering if she was being paranoid, but something in his face just gave way.

  ‘I, uh – Look, I’m really sorry,’ Rufus said, the colour rising to his cheeks. ‘Can I admit something?’

  ‘Sure,’ Sylvie replied coldly.

  ‘You’re probably going to hate me now and want me to leave, but I feel really disingenuous, pretending . . . Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t straight up, but . . .’ He sat up straighter, seeming to gather his thoughts. ‘When Jon mentioned that he was meeting up with you tonight, I’d already put two and two together. I knew you were friends but we are as well, so I asked whether I could tag along to drinks. I’ve done so much research on your family and I thought you might be interested in what I have to say.’

  Sylvie narrowed her eyes. ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Well, I found out some stuff about Rose,’ he continued, finally meeting her eyes. ‘And I was wondering – how much do you know about your family history?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sylvie asked, taken aback. She stood up abruptly. ‘I think I should leave . . .’

  ‘No, please don’t. It’s just difficult to explain,’ Rufus stumbled, holding out his hands pleadingly.

  Sylvie looked down at the blotches on Rufus’s pale cheeks and thought about the Nancy Astor doco and how much they’d all admired it – it really was very even-handed, not at all sensational. A documentary, she thought, done the right way . . . It wouldn’t be the end of the world. It might even help sell Bledesford. Something in her relented. She sat back down and took a deep breath.

  ‘Okay. I don’t know that much about Rose, but I know how popular she was, and how glamorous. I know that when she died, in 1928, she was visiting Paris with her sister-in-law, Birdie, and it came as a massive shock to everyone. I’ve been to her grave at Père Lachaise Cemetery . . . And I know there was a service here in London at Winchester Cathedral. Winston Churchill and Debo Mitford gave eulogies. It was packed. But then you probably know that already, don’t you?’ she asked a little sharply.

  ‘I do.’ He gave a quick, hopeful smile. ‘But you see, that’s the thing . . . When I was looking into it, it seemed to me that – and I know this sounds so strange – but I’ve stumbled across this odd thing and I don’t know quite what to make of it.’

  Sylvie eyed him doubtfully.

  ‘The thing is, I don’t think Rose did die in Paris.’

  Sylvie had a sudden flashback to a conversation, many years earlier, with her great-grandmother. Lizzie had been telling her about how she’d had to go with her father to Paris after her mother died. To make the funeral arrangements. How angry Lizzie had seemed, even all those decades later. At the time, Sylvie had thought it strange that Lizzie’s response seemed to be one of agitation, not grief. She’d been fascinated, but Lizzie had refused to say anything more when she’d pressed her.

  Sylvie leaned towards Rufus. ‘I’m listening,’ she urged. ‘Tell me more.’

  Letter from Barty Telford to Lady Clarissa Hardcastle, 1929, reproduced in Barty Telford’s biography, One Extraordinary Life

  My darling Clarissa,

  I trust you are well and enjoying the English summer. I hear it has been mild, but we’ve had none of that here.

  We’ve been in Tivoli for the past few days, and just this morning toured the gardens of Villa d’Este on Piazza Trento. Cardinal Ippolito created them during the Renaissance to surround his villa, and I must say they are spectacular – the pinnacle of what we’ve seen on our Grand Tour. I assure you, that’s saying something!

  I could wax lyrical for hours about the perfection of the layout, and the many ‘rooms’ he created to highlight the fountains against the background of the Campagna Hills, so that each seems a garden unto itself . . . They are very clever. All are arranged along a central alleyway, with intersecting walkways and alleys leading up to the major fountains. We were so struck by his genius, we were nearly overcome. I myself had to have frequent little rests just to take it all in – one can never be too careful, don’t you know.

  In the end it took several hours to wander around and appreciate the many pools, fountains and playful water features, as well as the pavilions, statues, grottos and the views from the terraces. Gran Loggia was simply superb – I can hardly describe the thrill we felt, walking behind a waterfall at the Fontana dell-Ovato, and suddenly looking out over the valley below. It was breathtaking.

  Lady Flora is doing well, you’ll be pleased to hear. I know you were concerned, but she appears to be thriving in her new environs. We had her husband with us, as you know, which always makes her glow, and I had to say, they kept falling behind . . . to smell the perfume of the flowers, no doubt . . . They were particularly taken with the roses. . . so many of them, and so abundantly rich in colour and perfume. Just a joy to behold. And I can faithfully promise you, my dear – a Rose by any other name does indeed smell as sweet . . .

  We next continue our tour onto Rome, where I will write again. I do hope you’re (mis)behaving yourself.

  Yours, always,

  Barty Telford

  22

  Victoria: London, 1940

  The bombs had stopped falling and people around them were starting to unfurl themselves from their emergency positions. It appeared to be over – for now.

  Victoria watched as people stood up, dazed, and made their way towards the station steps. They looked nervous and unsteady on their feet, leaning against the tiled walls for support.

  ‘Come,’ the man said, helping her to her feet. ‘We should go.’

  Victoria unfolded her arms from around her knees, the joints stiff and creaking. How long had they been crouched here, packed in like tinned fish with a thousand others pressed against them? She’d lost track of time in the darkened tunnel.

  As they came up from the Underground, emerging into the dark street, Victoria blinked rapidly and looked around her. She felt a surge of something wild and vital rising up inside her, like a kick to the surface from the bottom of a deep lake. It was over. They’d survived.

  Too stunned to cry, she started shaking violently, the tremors travelling up through her legs and into her torso. Further up her body and into her jaw, until her teeth began to clatter like tiny teacups, upset in their saucers.

  ‘Are you all right?’ The man looked her up and down, his face a picture of worry. ‘I think you’re in shock. Here, take my jacket.’ He wrapped it around her shoulders before she could protest.

  Enveloped in the warm woollen tweed, Victoria breathed in the faint fug of cigarettes and the man’s fear-sharpened scent. ‘Th-thank you,’ she managed.

  Looking around, she took in the deathly quiet of Baker Street. People streamed around them silently, heading in all directions, and smoke spiralled up from a gap in the buildings somewhere off to their left. Maybe it was as far as a mile away, or maybe it was only in the next street . . . It was hard for Victoria to tell. Her breath came quick and fast. She felt disoriented and vague, the air thick with smoke and falling dust.

  The man steadied her as she swayed against him. ‘You need to be somewhere warm, I think.’

  Victoria looked up at him and nodded gratefully. They had just spent the last goodness knows how many hours pressed against each other, in the dark and the cold. Without him, she wasn’t sure what she’d have done. If he’d not helped her on the street, taken her arm, led her down to the Tube station . . . A split second was all it took, to survive or cease to exist. And this air raid had been close – so much closer than she’d eve
r experienced before. The danger had felt so visceral, death so plausibly imminent. Curved against the man’s chest, his arm over her shoulders, waiting it out on the darkened platform, her heart had beaten rapidly in her chest, threatening to escape, and she’d wondered if it would continue or just give out from the fear. And now, suddenly, she found that she didn’t want to leave him.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘My name,’ he said, and she suddenly realised from his accent that he was not English. ‘Forgive me . . . My name is Emil Bruckner.’

  ‘Emil,’ she said. ‘Victoria. Victoria Dearlove.’

  They shook hands. It was an oddly formal gesture for two people who had just spent so long huddled against each other’s body for warmth and comfort.

  His eyes crinkled. ‘You have a lovely name, Miss Dearlove.’

  Victoria blushed and looked away, south-east towards the Embankment and the Thames beyond it. Black plumes of smoke rose up, thickening the air and obscuring the skyline. How much damage had been done?

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped, spotting a café nearby, miraculously open and serving the small crowd inside. ‘Look!’

  ‘A good idea,’ said Emil, steering her towards the candlelit café, his arm protectively cupping her elbow as they stepped over a small pile of rubble and cracks in the pavement, before entering into the delicious warmth.

  After they had settled down in two seats by the window, Victoria sipped at her cup of sweet hot milky tea and realised Emil was smiling at her.

  She smiled back at him, feeling better already.

  ‘Sorry. It’s just . . . Well it’s not every day someone saves my life. I’m not sure about the proper etiquette for dealing with it. All I can say is, thank you.’

  ‘You are most welcome.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask – where are you from?’

  ‘Poland. Warsaw. I taught at the university there, but now I’m a refugee. I live in London these past two years. And I wait. For news of my family. They are still there.’