by Isabel Wolff
‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘Oh God, everyone’s so cross with me at the moment. Except Andrew,’ she added blissfully. ‘Anyway, I will do it, Rose, don’t worry. I’m sorry. See you on Wednesday night.’
On Wednesday evening I finished work at five-thirty, having had a huge row with the subs who had cut my column down really badly to make way for some crappy ad.
‘That is one thing I won’t miss,’ I said to Beverley as we went into the ladies’ loo to change for the party. ‘The endless argybargy with the subs. I’m sick of having letters butchered. Do you need any help?’ I called into the next cubicle.
‘No I’m fine.’ She emerged looking wonderful in a velvet trimmed cardigan and a calf-length black silk skirt. She applied some make-up, then reappraised her appearance several times. She slipped in a pair of dangly pearl earrings and twisted her hair into a knot like she’d done for the ball.
‘I’m really glad I persuaded you to come,’ I said as we went down to the waiting cab. ‘It’ll be fun.’
‘Maybe,’ she said with a shrug.
‘Has the Ed situation been defused?’ she asked as we sped westwards.
‘Yes, Bella’s done it by phone.’ As we drove through Pimlico Beverley checked her appearance again.
‘Does this lipstick suit me?’ she asked anxiously.
I nodded.
‘And am I wearing too much mascara?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? I don’t want to look tarty.’
‘Yes. I’m quite sure. You look gorgeous, Bev. And so does Trev.’
She put her make-up away. ‘It’s funny,’ she said, as she got a tiny dog brush out of Trevor’s coat pocket and began tidying his fur, ‘but when you first met Trevor, you were quite nervous of him. It was as though you didn’t really like dogs.’
‘I didn’t grow up with one that’s why. My mum was very house-proud and she said she couldn’t stand the hairs and the mess so we didn’t have any pets.’ I glanced out of the window.
‘Were you close to your parents, Rose?’
I pretended I hadn’t heard her. ‘But I do like Trev.’
We heard the chimes of Big Ben as we drove past Victoria station and I speculated about how many people would be there.
‘Three hundred were invited,’ Beverley explained as she checked her appearance again, ‘including a few celebs and some hacks. The twins are assuming that about half that number will show. I hope it’s no more than that because the shop isn’t very big. I’m glad we’re going early,’ she added, as she dabbed on a little more powder, ‘so that we can stake out our place.’
Now we were passing the Albert Hall, then turning left into Hyde Park Gate, then we wiggled through some back streets and came to St Alban’s Grove. It was a narrow street of picture-postcard prettiness.
‘What adorable shops,’ I said as we drove down it. ‘It’s like Toy Town. What number is it?’
‘Number two.’ Of course. The twins had seen that as an omen of success. They should have called the business ‘Two Gether,’or rather, ‘Too Gether,’I thought. We trundled past a bespoke ladies’ shoe-maker with colourful brogues in the window and the Raj Tent Club selling Indian tents and there on the corner, festooned with silver balloons and flying streamers was Design at the Double! The fascia was decked with fairy lights—the whole place seemed to sparkle and shine in the gathering dusk. We glanced in the windows which were filled with beautiful objets—velvet cushions and pink leather boxes and spangly picture frames. As we pushed on the door a brass bell tinkled above us, then we were hit by the smell of fresh paint mingled with the biscuity scent of champagne. There were about a dozen earlycomers, like us, chatting in small knots. Beverley and I took a proffered glass of fizz then greeted Bea, who looked nervous and flushed.
‘Congratulations!’ we said. And there was Bella coming towards us looking very tanned, with visible goggle marks, the ghastly Andrew at her side. I thought of Serena and all the problems I’d suffered because he’d sacked Rob. And I thought of him persuading Bella to go skiing at a time when Bea most needed her help.
‘Hi, Rose,’ he said extending his hand. ‘Glad you could make it.’ Glad I could make it! What a cheek! ‘Sorry about your, er, little work problem,’ he added tactlessly. ‘We read about it while we were away. I know Electra’s husband, Jez, quite well actually.’ Of course. ‘He wouldn’t have liked her going after a bird.’
I gave him an icy little smile, then introduced him to Bev.
‘Beverley was Bea’s right hand woman recently,’ I said pointedly. ‘When she was incredibly busy and needed help.’
‘Really?’ he said disinterestedly. Bella gave me a guilty hug.
‘You did sort that out, didn’t you?’ I asked her sotto voce.
‘Yes, I did. I phoned Ed’s home answerphone and his work answerphone, just to be quite sure. His secretary said he was around, so there’s no way he won’t have got it.’ I sighed with relief.
Andrew and Bella walked away to talk to some other people, and Bea was chatting to Bev so I had a quick look round the shop. On the ground floor were the pretty artefacts the twins were going to sell—tartan tea-cups, hand-blown glass vases, mother of pearl dishes—it was a feast for the eye. Downstairs were the books of upholstery fabric, the wallpaper swatches and the cards of paint effects. It was all so effortlessly elegant and tasteful. Bea had done a great job. As I went back upstairs the babble was building and the bell over the door was tinkling merrily as more people arrived.
‘—Isn’t this divine?’
‘—Ooh look at that lovely button-back chair.’
‘—They’ve got a fabulous range of Jane Churchill too.’
‘—Sort of classic with a twist.’
‘—Klosters? Oh that is smart.’
‘—We’ve just got back from Val d’Isère.’
I could see why Beverley had hesitated about coming; the twins’ clients were a slightly grandiose lot. Still…I had another sip of champagne. Who gives a monkey’s who they are so long as they’ve got the dosh? I saw Bea glance nervously at the door a few times as she chatted to her guests but of course I knew why. Suddenly it opened again, with a merry peal and there was Theo. I saw Bev’s face light up.
‘Hi!’ she said. ‘At last.’
‘Why? Am I late?’ he looked at his watch. ‘No, I’m in perfect time.’
Henry however had still not put in an appearance and I could see the stress building on Bea’s face. As she greeted everyone, and discussed the merits of egg-glazes over sponged paint effects her mind was clearly elsewhere.
In the by now substantial crowd there were one or two who were vaguely familiar from TV. Andrew was talking to them with immense animation, whereas he’d hardly said two words to Bev. He didn’t speak to her because to him she was just a woman in a wheelchair. He wasn’t interested. What a shit… As Beverley and Theo chatted animatedly in the way that they do, I scrutinised Andrew more closely. Every time a pretty girl came within view she would get the discreet sweep from top to toe and then back. He’d clearly perfected the art, betraying his interest only by the merest flicker of an eyelid. As I watched him I realised that the anagram of Andrew is ‘Wander’ as well as ‘Warned’…
‘Isn’t that woman on breakfast telly?’ I asked Bev as Andrew air-kissed an attractive brunette.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s Emily Maynard, she’s a new presenter on GMGB.’ Even in the swelling throng I could make out snatches of Andrew’s brash conversation: ‘You’re looking great…yeah just got back…Klosters…yeah, I did see Prince Charles…oh Wills is a really great guy actually…yeah, I have met him. And Harry.’ I wanted to puke.
‘There are quite a few journalists from the glossies here too,’ Beverley added.
‘Really?’
‘That tall woman over there, the one who looks like Naomi Campbell.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s Lily Jago—she edits Moi! magazine.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘So it is. You’re very good at spotting people,’ I remarked.
‘It’s being in a wheelchair,’ she replied ruefully. ‘You get to watch a lot of TV.’
As Bea circulated I saw her glancing at the door again and then, suddenly, her face lit up. It was as though she were Mary Magdalene and Henry the risen Christ. I could practically hear the Hallelujah chorus as she stepped forward, beaming from ear to ear. As he walked through the door, I recognised the expression on Henry’s face: it was one of suppressed anxiety, as though he was trying hard to appear relaxed. Bea strode up to him, kissed him, then threaded her arm through his and led him away. I saw his face flush, but I was surprised, once again, at his lack of interest. Why didn’t he like her? She was, after all, very attractive, and though undeniably bossy, she had such a good heart… On the other hand she’d freak out once he started trying to borrow her ball gowns. No, I thought, it would never work. Henry would just have to tell her the truth, however painful. Perhaps he should simply have come in a frock.
‘Hi, Rose!’ Henry waved at me apologetically, then discreetly rolled his eyes. He seemed unable to escape Bea’s vice-like grip as she introduced him to all her friends. She attached herself to him in the way that Cherie Blair used to hold down Tony, as if the poor bloke were about to run off.
‘Oh, Henry,’ I whispered. But he’d brought it on himself. ‘You twit.’
‘Hmmm,’I heard Bev say to Theo. I looked at them and suddenly realised that I’d been standing with them for ages and that I ought to circulate. So I got chatting to a couple of journalists from the Sunday Semaphore who commiserated at my recent mauling in the press. And then I spoke to a woman from Country Living who was going to do a feature on the twins. Then I talked to a blonde journalist called Claudia who wrote for Heat magazine, and whose speciality was pop.
‘I’m the twins’ first customer,’ she explained. ‘I bought a lamp here yesterday, before the shop had officially opened, so Bea kindly invited me along. Your face looks very familiar,’ she added. ‘Oh…I’ve got it. You’re the agony aunt, aren’t you? You got all that flak about Electra last week.’
‘Well, yes, I did get a lot of flak,’ I said bitterly. ‘But I guess she came out of it badly too.’
‘Oh I don’t know about that,’ Claudia said with a smirk. ‘Ooh no,’ she said, with a sip of champagne, ‘I don’t know about that at all.’
‘What do you mean? The press trashed her.’
‘Well…’ Suddenly someone clapped their hands and the babble of voices hushed.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Design at the Double,’ announced Andrew—whose party was this? I wondered indignantly—‘pray silence for Bella and Bea.’
The twins’ faces flushed with pleasure as they looked round at the assembled throng. I glanced at Claudia’s profile. What on earth did she mean? But I couldn’t ask because Bea was about to speak. She clasped her hands in front of her, like a communicant at the altar, then cleared her throat and smiled.
‘Bella and I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone for coming,’ she began, ‘it means a lot to us that you’re all here. For years we’ve dreamed of having our own business and, finally, that day has arrived. Design at the Double is our baby, in a way, and so we wanted you to help us christen it tonight. But before we do, we have a number of people to thank: notably our bank manager, Keith, who has extended to us a generous business overdraft facility which we hope we’ll never have to use. We’re also very grateful to our friend Rose Costelloe, our very own agony aunt, who’s supported us so much.’ I blushed. ‘We’d also like to thank Beverley and Trevor McDonald who helped out so brilliantly last week.’ I glanced at Beverley. She was smiling. ‘But most of all,’ Bea added, ‘I’d like to thank my boyfriend Henry…’ AAAARRRGGGGGHHHH!!!!!! ‘…who first told us about this shop. We’d been looking for premises for ages,’ she went on blithely, ‘but none of them had felt quite right. But when we saw this it was, well,’ she smiled coyly at him, ‘love at first sight. So will you raise your glasses to Design at the Double, everyone, and do please tell all your friends.’
I glanced at Henry as we toasted the shop. He’d gone the colour of a Sicilian tomato and there was a polite smile super-glued to his face. How could Bea be so reckless? How could she not have read between the lines? She had set herself up for a heartbreak with her flat refusal to face facts. For the facts were that Henry had never really pursued her. She had pursued him. So much for her strategy to be, what was it?—‘direct and upfront’. Men—especially macho ones like Henry—simply don’t like being chased. That, I suspected, was the real reason he wasn’t interested in her. He broke away from Bea, and came up to me, his brow glistening, his mouth still set in a rictus grin.
‘Christ!’ he whispered, as we ran a hanky round the back of his neck. ‘What a way to be billed.’
‘Well, I did tell you,’ I whispered back.
‘Hmm, you did. But it gives completely the wrong impression,’ he added glancing at the assembled crowd.
‘Oh well,’ I said with a shrug. I helped myself to a passing tray of canapés. ‘It doesn’t matter, does it, Henry? No-one really knows you here. It’s far worse for her.’
‘Yes it does matter actually,’he hissed, looking anxiously round again. ‘It absolutely does.’
‘Hen-reee!’ Bea was calling him over. He arranged his features into a pleasant expression again, and sped off. If only Bea realised that he was wearing lacy black knickers under his corduroys she might not be so keen. I turned back to Claudia, the pop journalist I’d been chatting with.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, as she broke off from her conversation, ‘we were talking about Electra. Er, what did you mean?’
‘Nothing, except that you said she’d been trashed all over the papers.’
‘Well, she has.’
‘But she’s got plenty to compensate her I’d say.’
What on earth was she talking about?
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Her husband’s left her, and she’s been made to look ridiculous.’
‘Aah,’ she said, ‘the poor love. But her new single’s still going to go into the charts at Number One on Sunday, so that’ll make up for it.’
‘Is it? How do you know?’
‘Because the Midweek Chart comes out on Wednesday afternoons—I saw it three hours ago. It’s based on sales from certain shops; and according to this week’s chart, “Shame On You” is heading straight for the top.’
‘Oh. I know nothing about pop music,’I said. ‘But, well, good luck to her.’
Claudia looked at me, through narrowed eyes. ‘But don’t you think that’s interesting?’
‘What?’
‘That she’s going to be at number one with this song, when her last single more or less bombed.’
‘Interesting?’ I looked at her blankly. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I’ll tell you what I mean. Two weeks before her new song’s released, Electra gets saturation coverage, not just in the tabloids, where she’d expect it, but in the broadsheets as well.’
‘Yes…?’
‘It’s all a bit fishy don’t you think? I mean, why the hell would Electra write to you about her problems?’
‘Well,’ I said, bristling, ‘because she said I give my readers excellent advice, that’s why.’
‘But didn’t you find it surprising, that she’d confided in you?’
‘Well…ye-es, I suppose I did. But on the other hand, she seemed genuinely desperate.’
‘Oh she was,’ said Claudia. ‘But not for advice about her personal life. That woman has an army of therapists so why on earth would she need you?’ I felt the penny loosen, then slowly begin to drop.
‘A friend of mine’s writing an unauthorised biography of Electra,’ Claudia explained with another sip of champagne, ‘so I know quite a lot. I think someone’s been s
pinning,’ she concluded. ‘Yeah…that’s what I think.’
Ah. Now I told her what Serena had said about having had a tip-off. Claudia’s elegantly plucked eyebrows went up in a knowing way.
‘But who would the tip-off have come from?’ I said, staring at her, as I struggled to work it all out. ‘Kiki Cockayne’s boyfriend is very pissed off at being dumped. Maybe it came from him.’
‘I doubt it,’ Claudia said. She took a packet of Marlboro Lights out of her bag. ‘I think it came from her.’
I stared at her. ‘But if Electra just wants publicity,’ I said wonderingly, ‘then why on earth involve me? All she has to do is tip off the press herself about her relationship with Kiki, then bingo! The long lenses arrive.’
‘I think it’s more sophisticated than that,’ said Claudia, thoughtfully. A twin plume of smoke streamed from her elegant nostrils and she tossed back her head. ‘You see by involving you in it, the story becomes much bigger, because you’re well known too. And then the press keep going with it all week about the rights and wrongs of spilling your guts to an agony aunt, and whether or not an agony aunt’s loyalty is to her readers or to her editor, and whether or not agony aunts should be professionally qualified and whether or not they give good advice. It gives it a variety of interesting angles, all of which lead back to Electra which guarantees that she stays in the public eye.’
‘But how could they have known that I wouldn’t just give her letter straight to my own editor, which is what some agony aunts would have done?’
‘Well, it wouldn’t have mattered to them if you had, because then they get the exclusive in the Daily Post. But this way it’s so much better because it involves an attack by the Daily News on a columnist from its deadly rival, which adds hugely to the scoop’s appeal. You’ve become a big part of this story, Rose.’
‘Yes,’ I said bitterly, ‘I know.’
‘I guess they just knew that you wouldn’t let on to your editor about Electra’s letter.’
‘Well it’s true. The only time I’d ever breach a confidence is if I thought someone was putting themselves, or others, at risk. And I’ve publicly said that, many times, in the media interviews I’ve done.’