Authors: Elli Lewis
'You can be such a wanker, James.' It was strange hearing that particularly English swear in her German accent. But she managed to make it sound good. 'Don’t listen to him,' she had said to Amy. 'Andrea will love you.'
James had stared at his wife incredulously and even Harry had shifted in his seat, looking anywhere but at her.
'Well, she might.' Giselle had amended, looking less certain.
'In short ladies and gentlemen, can you be upstanding,' James was now finishing. There was an orchestra of screeching chairs as everyone complied. 'Harry that includes you. Oh, sorry, you are. Couldn’t tell.' There was an uncomfortable twitter at this. 'To the bride and groom.'
'To the bride and groom,' the room chorused. Glasses clinked and the band struck up an instrumental version of
Love Love Love
by the Beatles.
She and Harry spent much of the rest of the night travelling around the room greeting guests, most of whom she had never laid eyes on before. Many of those she recognised purely by virtue of their appearance in the finance section of the papers over Harry’s shoulder. It was strange, but she was an outsider at her own wedding. Glamorous women and meticulously styled men around her were having animated conversations, greeting each other with air kisses and chattering enthusiastically and she felt removed, other. She reasoned that many brides probably felt like this. So many of her sister’s friends had warned her that it 'went by in a blur'.
Amy presently realised she had barely seen her now-mother-in-law the whole day, an impressive feat considering that the size of Andrea’s hat must surely have qualified to make it visible from space. It was as if she was avoiding her. Which made it all the more disconcerting now, as a crowd parted, to see her stern face eyeing her determinedly a mere few steps away.
'Ah, Amy,' she simpered, closing the distance between them surprisingly fast given her short stature. Her smile was close lipped, her eyes up close seemed to bulge slightly more than usual. And were some of the lines on her forehead gone? She looked stretched. It was distracting.
Andrea air kissed her on both sides, surrounding her with the unmistakeable scent of Chanel.
'Well done.' Amy thought this was a strange thing for Andrea to say. It almost sounded like she was congratulating a competitor on a win. But that was ridiculous. Amy smiled as widely as she could muster. Andrea had never been anything but pleasant to her. She’d been accommodating and nice from their very first lunch.
That first meeting seemed a lifetime away now. Amy had actually been incredibly nervous about meeting Harry’s mother for the first time. It was obvious that he was not only close with his mum, but sought her approval on everything from clothes purchases to political views. The phrases 'Mummy thinks' and 'mummy says' seemed to pepper every conversation they had. She had found this more than a bit off-putting, but reassured herself that it was good that they had such a close relationship.
Harry too was obviously not in a hurry for the two to meet. It was a full three months before he introduced her to 'mummy' over a Sunday lunch at her South Kensington home. Amy had driven past the wide expanses of white stucco frontages many times before, but had never been inside any of them.
As they entered, she saw that the terraced home, contrary to its outside appearance, was vast. Grand staircases wound both upwards and downwards and it clearly extended back a long way as well. Despite the large windows, the house was beset by gloom, no doubt in part because of the dreary albeit tasteful regency colours used on its walls and heavy drapery surrounding every window frame. It had the sense of old worldliness, of an historic country estate. Amy had no doubt this was by design.
Throughout the lunch, Andrea had asked Amy a series of questions about her parents and her background.
'You went to Birmingham, how cheerful,' Andrea had said, her tone as bright as an August sun by the Equator. Dazzling. Overpowering.
'It was a really great place to study. A great mix of work and a social life. Really great.'
'Great,' Andrea had said, putting an unnatural emphasis on the word. She stretched her lips into a grotesque approximation of a smile, like a clown, makeup failing at the end of the party. There was a lot of smiling going on, none of it authentic. 'And then you were at Drakers,' she went on. Was this a job interview? Amy hoped she wasn’t going to prod that sleeping tiger too much. She really couldn’t face talking about her failed career.
'Mummy,' Harry had said, only the tiniest hint of reproach in his voice, and out of the corner of her eye Amy saw him put a gentle hand on his mother's. 'Let’s not talk shop.'
'Quite right,' Andrea had said, patting her son’s hand. 'Do you do any charitable work, Amy?'
Desperate to impress, Amy complemented everything from the floral arrangements to the food and, by the end her cheeks had ached from the effort of smiling.
'She loved you,' Harry had said, squeezing her hand as they left. Relief had coursed through her. It was like passing an exam. Like winning a medal. Crossing that finishing line and collapsing on the ground.
And, as if to reward her success, as if to signal her acceptance, a mere two weeks later Harry had asked her to marry him.
The proposal had been utterly flawless. Choreographed to perfection. Any girl’s dream. Harry had told her to pack a bag for an overnight’s stay. This was nothing new, they had been on countless little trips and Harry enjoyed surprising her. Yet, she had known this was different when he had picked her up in a chauffeur driven Bentley, which had whisked them off to St Pancreas Station and directly onto the Eurostar, first class.
After checking in to their suite at the Shangri-La, complete with direct view of the Eiffel Tower, Harry had surprised her with a new outfit, a vintage 1950s Christian Dior black cocktail dress. She remembered how she had been beset with a range of emotions. She had truly loved that dress, with its raised off the shoulder collar and knee-length A-line skirt, but there was also a tinge of annoyance there. She couldn’t help but experience a sense of indignation and she couldn’t put her finger on why. She had dismissed it, instead deciding to enjoy the opulence of the day. And after all, it really was a beautiful dress.
It was a couple of hours, several cocktails and a horse-drawn carriage ride later that, in Paris’s renowned Taillevent restaurant, Harry had sunk onto bended knee. Amy had been unable to immerse herself in the moment, all too conscious of the stares of the diners and waiters around them, yet he seemed completely at ease. He held out a small box, opening it to reveal a glittering ring of sparkling white diamonds surrounding an enormous yellow one. Amy had since learned that this family heirloom was a four carat radiant cut 'canary' diamond, an incongruous name that inexplicably made her giggle every time she thought about it.
Amy had forced herself to focus on Harry, looking into his eyes. There was confidence there, yes, but Amy saw just a flash of something she had never seen before. She could have sworn she glimpsed a pleading earnestness in his expression before it quickly disappeared. She couldn’t remember his speech; only what he looked like half-kneeling before her. And she would never forget the thoughts running through her mind at the time.
Faced with his irrepressible grin, far away from home in those opulent surroundings and in the light of the truly spectacular rock in front of her, the overwhelming thought that had surfaced had been, why not?
'Where is the table plan? For the love of everything holy will somebody find the table plan?'
'No, no, no, you cannot use forks without the crest, it simply won’t do.'
'But I thought we were having beef for the main? Maybe a nice joint?'
'Those flowers are a bit tall, don’t you think?'
The voices of several members of the Society trilled in Amy’s ears as she worked to make final preparations for the evening. Before she had arrived at The Dorchester that morning, it had felt as though she had everything under control, but now it was like she was in a particularly raucous hen house acluck with rumours of a fox spotted in the area. She hadn’t managed to convince Andrea to put a block on the members entering the venue before the event itself so now she was faced with twenty women, each with their own 'small adjustment', 'minor change' or 'teeny tiny request'. Those who weren’t able to be there in person were calling instead, the air alive with the sound of ringing phones
'Millicent there simply isn’t a need for a further course. It would have added to the budget and we’ve got a target of how much we want to raise for the charity,' she had explained to one particularly elderly visitor.
'Amy the wines have arrived.'
'The bar is over there. Give them to Jemima, she’s dealing with alcohol.'
'Amy this can’t be right,' Esther waddled over, looking frazzled and holding a copy of the seating plan.
Oh, the seating plan. That seating plan had been the work of hours, days and weeks of careful negotiations, arguments, threats and manipulations. It wasn’t just about who would sit on which table. It was who they would sit next to; who needed to be kept away from whom and even which table numbers had particular significance. Of course, the whole task was made harder by the fact that the other girls on the committee knew the guests infinitely better than she did, so she had had to preside over discussions that meant little to nothing to her.
Amy focused again on Esther as she said, 'George von Cleese is sitting between Georgina von Cleese de Bray and Camilla Hildergrant. And on the same table as Catherine von Cleese.' She was practically panting at this point.
'Right,' Amy said. 'What’s wrong with that?'
'Oh nothing,' brayed a voice from behind her accompanied by the almost overpowering scent of Chanel No. 5. 'If you’re French.' Amy turned to see Olivia smirking. Unable to contain her enjoyment at bestowing knowledge upon Amy she explained, 'You’ve placed him between his current wife and his mistress with his ex-wife across the table.'
That crisis took no less than an hour to resolve in the style of an aristocratic Rubik’s cube. Next was a long and surprisingly fiery debate about candelabra in which Amy had had to serve as mediator between Frederiko the florist and a small uprising of supposedly knowledgeable members.
With doors officially opening at 6:30pm, Amy allowed herself an hour to get dressed, so at 5pm she retreated to a room that the hotel had provided for her. There she met her hairdresser and makeup artist who, in a haze of heat and mist, transformed her from harried event organiser to sleek and preened.
Throughout this exercise, she fielded calls and texts on her phone, with various committee members barging in at different times citing one emergency or another. She was so preoccupied that she was unprepared for the moment when they finished their work, swivelling her to the mirror with a dramatic
swoosh
.
She was wearing a champagne coloured strapless Oscar de la Renta tulle gown in which she would happily have walked down the aisle it was so beautiful, her waist cinched in with a metallic belt. Her eyes looked enormous, framed by a gentle shimmer that echoed the colour of her dress and her lips were richly pouty in a soft, inviting pink. Her hair meanwhile was in gentle waves, tumbling down her shoulders in a glossy curtain. As she gazed at herself in the mirror, she found it hard to reconcile the vision of this well put-together woman with the mass of nerves and exhaustion that echoed inside.
Breathing in as if preparing for a long dive under water, she thanked what she now jokingly referred to as her 'entourage' and left her hotel room, descending to the ground floor. As the elevator doors opened, she saw Freddie in deep discussion with the concierge. He had also clearly had time to change and was wearing a black tuxedo, his hair spiked up as always. It was so unusual for him to be so dressed up that he looked almost vulnerable, child-like. As their gazes met, she saw his eyes widen fleetingly and he appeared to freeze for a moment before returning to his conversation.
There was little time to dwell on this. With only minutes to go until the event started, Amy embarked on a whirlwind of organisation: She counted the tables again, referring to the table plan; she talked to the bar staff and waiters, trying to make them feel welcome, but also ready; she obsessively looked around assessing every area to check it was pristine.
Finally, at 6:15pm, she and Freddie surveyed the room.
'It looks really good.'
'If you do say so yourself,' Freddie joked.
'You did most of it,' she replied.
'You really don’t give yourself enough credit. You put so much into this. You’ve done such a good job.' She beamed at the compliment.
The lobby of the events suite was abuzz with excitement and anticipation. Outside, there was a rope line behind which stood a gaggle of leather clad photographers, chatting animatedly as they waited for their subjects. A powder blue carpet – the colour of The Children’s Fund’s logo – led up to the front doors of the hotel. Amy was proud of the fact that it was covered in the hand prints of many of the children who the charity helped.
Within minutes, the first car pulled up, a black taxi, out of which emerged Lord and Lady Sicklemore. They were shortly followed by the Tinkerbottoms and then the Finches, each in what were almost certainly executive car services. From then on, there was a steady flow of lavish vehicles of varying sizes and types, each depositing what looked like the entire cast of
Burke’s Peerage
, not to mention a full edition’s worth of
Tatler
. Amy found herself in a frenzy of checking off lists with the door staff, ensuring there was a clear line for the coats and managing people’s entrances.
By 7pm, the room was full. A retro 1940’s style band was playing on the stage while waitresses milled around with exotic looking drinks.
At first, there seemed to be no sign of any of the younger or more well-known members of the Society, leaving Amy anxious that none of them would turn up. But Freddie remained confident that it was just a case of fashionable lateness.
Sure enough, just over half an hour after the event had commenced, there was uproar as the photographers all began shouting and jostling within their confines. Looking out of the glass doors, Amy saw none other than Binky Hijinx emerge from an enormous Lexus SUV. Amy then saw with a jolt that her driver had also stepped out and was casually throwing the keys of the vehicle into the air, presumably for a valet parking attendant to catch. Not that he seemed to care whether anybody
did
catch them as he didn’t so much as glance to check on their fate. For all he knew, the car could have been in anybody’s clutches.
'Oh my gosh that’s Miles Slater!' Amy heard a waitress shriek quietly to her friend. 'He’s so hot.'
'I didn’t know he was back with Binky,' the other one jabbered excitedly.
'Can you blame him? Just look at those legs.' Both girls sighed and then, noticing Amy looking at them, quickly got back to work.
Outside, the paparazzi were alight in a frenzy of flashes and shouts while Binky posed up a storm, pushing her visible hip bones forward whilst Miles slinked his arm coolly around her waist. Despite his sunglasses, it was clear that Miles bore the expression of someone watching daytime television in their pants: bored and non-committal.
Amy was excited at the thought that this might get the event – and the charity – coverage. It was exactly what it needed. And there was more to come. Justice Harper, dressed in a dazzling red Elie Saab creation, was just one of the several celebrities who reignited the excitement of the photographers. There were even some fans gathered at the entrance, presumably alerted by social media of the event.
Inside, Amy felt like everything was under control. The waiting staff had been duly briefed and were circulating delicious looking canapés to the well-heeled guests. Amy spotted several politicians and a couple of celebrities in the crowd, ticking them off her mental guest list.
Amy turned as she heard a flurry of activity by the doors to the room only to see a stunning blond at the centre of it. She floated into the room, completely untroubled by the bustle and commotion around her. Kitty Hijinx. Tick.
Dressed in a sparkling silver dress that clung to her every perfect curve, Giselle now glided over and planted two air kisses around her. 'This is simply fabulous,' she breathed, her eyes twinkling to match her ensemble.
Harry finally arrived at 7:15, kissing her on the cheek as he swiped a drink from a passing tray. At the same moment, Freddie appeared by her side.
Standing between the two men, Amy couldn’t help wondering what a therapist would make of this moment. 'It is your past meeting your present,' she imagined a Freudian like character complete with Austrian accent saying to her as she lay on a leather sofa. Distracted by this thought, it was several seconds before she managed to say anything.
'You ok?' Freddie asked, putting a hand on her shoulder. Amy had to look up to see his face as, even in her very high heels she was so much shorter than him.
'Fine,' she breathed, plastering on a smile. Here we go, she thought, as she said, 'Freddie, meet my husband, Harry. Harry, this is my uni friend, Freddie, he’s been working with me on the event.' She felt Freddie’s hand leave her shoulder.
'Nice to meet you mate,' Freddie said. 'Amy’s being a bit modest though, she’s really pulled this together. I think all I’ve done is forced her to choose between a million different options.' He laughed as he extended his hand to Harry.
Harry paused for a second, his eyes lingering on Freddie's face. It was an almost pitying look; one that said that he didn’t rate this man as anything important. He was nothing to him. It took so long for him to extend his hand that Amy was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t going to, but at the last second, he did.
'Good to meet you, Freddie,' Harry said, somehow pronouncing Freddie’s name in a way that implied it wasn’t a real or proper name.
At that moment, Lucy came over, bouncing delightedly as she spotted Freddie. 'Fred!' She barreled into him and he enclosed her in a massive bear hug.
'Look at you,' he said. 'There’s nothing left of you!'
'Bless you, Freddie O’Connor, you know how to make a girl feel good,' Lucy struck an exaggerated pin up pose and they all laughed. All except Harry, who was sipping his drink and looking around the room with disinterested nonchalance. His silence eclipsed the noise around them, cutting through the laughter and Amy tensed in response. She could tell he didn’t like Freddie, suspected his intentions. She wanted to reassure him, but this was hardly the time.
Freddie checked his watch and Amy spotted Esther approaching with Jemima. The work experience girl looked thrilled to be there, yet at ease in a pretty black dress.
'I think it’s time we start,' Freddie said, causing Amy to gape at him.
'Good luck darling.' Harry said and kissed her on the forehand. 'Knock ‘em dead.'
She went to find Jinny, who she knew was a bit nervous now about giving her speech about the charity.
'Everyone here looks so… well put together,' she had whispered to Amy earlier that evening. 'Are they really going to want to hear from me?'
But Amy had assured her that she was talking about something so important and valuable, anybody would want to know about it and reminded her that her speech could help secure more donations. At that moment, Jinny was chatting to a very animated Lady Fenella.
'If you’d like to go to the stage,' Amy offered, putting her hand on Jinny’s shoulder and pointing her in the right direction. She then meandered through a sea of rustling dresses, soft suits and chattering faces to Andrea, waiting silently for her mother-in-law to notice her and extract herself from her conversation.
'We’re ready to start.'
'Is the food ready to go once the presentation is finished?' Andrea asked as if reading from a checklist as they walked towards the stage.
'Yes.'
'And our guest speaker is here?'
'Yes.'
After introducing Andrea and Jinny, Amy took her place by the side of the stage as the crowd was called to their tables and began sitting down. The lights eventually dimmed and an expectant silence fell over the room.
Standing before the crowd looking composed and commanding, Andrea began. Her voice rang out loud and clear through the speakers.
'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this, the 30th annual London Ladies' Dinner. The London Ladies or 'the Society' as so many call us,' she paused for a small giggle from the crowd, 'is steeped in tradition. A London Lady is a woman of grace, of dignity, from the country’s finest families. I am proud to be one of you.' A shower of applause followed. 'I am proud to be part of an organisation that not only attracts the very best, but does the very best of deeds. Philanthropy is at the centre of our activities and this year we are supporting an eminently worthwhile cause, The Children’s Fund. Here to tell you all about it is Jinny Evergreen.' Looking over at Jinny with the kind of magnanimity usually reserved for theological figures at the top of mountains and clapping her on as she stood, Andrea had done her part with aplomb.