Elegance and Innocence (22 page)

We turn the television on and, as luck would have it, a huge costume drama is airing its first episode that night. We nestle into the enormous, sagging sofa together and settle down to an evening of heaving bosoms and bursting bustiers.

A heated debate ensues over whether or not the oppressed virgin should really have a fringe or not and we disagree violently about the sexiness of the leading man. (Is it possible to love a man whose hair is bigger than yours?
I think not but Ria believes it’s all a matter of proportion.) And we agree unequivocally that there are, in fact, only three extras in the whole series that the production team just dress in different clothes and force into the back of each shot.

When the evening’s over, I discover, much to my surprise, that I feel better and more refreshed than I have in a long time and yet we’ve done nothing, gone nowhere, said very little. I find myself eagerly looking forward to next Sunday and then the Sunday after that.

And very quickly Sundays become the most cherished day of the week.

Fast forward to a year later.

It’s Ria’s birthday. Colin and his new boyfriend, Andy, and I are taking her out to dinner. I’m wearing my red silk Joseph dress, and a matching cashmere cardigan. I’ve worn it a thousand times already this summer; it’s my ‘summer outfit’. But it’s so perfect, so beautifully cut, that I don’t mind if everyone’s seen it before.

Ria’s already waiting outside our favourite restaurant, Villandry, when I arrive. She, Andy and Colin are sipping champagne and chatting in the warm glow of the late afternoon sun. She’s holding a bouquet of flowers they gave her at work and she looks crisp and fresh in her white linen shirt and trousers. It’s not a big party, just the four of us, but her face is beaming as I get out of the cab and she’s so excited that when we sit down, she can hardly eat. I’ve
asked them to make a cake for her, which they bring out with coffee. It’s a solid, almost impenetrable block of pure chocolate with ‘Happy Birthday Ria’ written on it in pink icing and a single, slender candle. When we sing ‘Happy Birthday’, she turns bright red and starts to cry.

I’ve seen Ria a thousand times since I first met her. We know each other so well now that we can finish each other’s sentences. I hand her my gift. It’s a book about Barbara Hepworth that she’s been wanting for a long, long time.

And I know this. I know that she’s wanted this book. I know that she’ll order fish to start with and fish for her main course. I know she’ll only have one glass of champagne because she doesn’t really drink and that she’s been lusting after that crisp, white linen blouse she’s wearing for ages. I know what shoe size she wears, why she doesn’t like the Underground, and how anything, beautifully done, can make her cry.

She’s the real thing. A classic. A real black cashmere polo neck of a friend.

And after all, life’s too short for anything else.

R
Restaurants

The question, ‘Where are we going tonight?’ is never an idle one. It provides valuable information that will allow you to tailor your appearance to best suit the surroundings in which you find yourself over the course of the evening, and it is just as unthinkable for an elegant woman to arrive at a restaurant for dinner in the wrong attire as it would be for her to turn up an hour late
.

For example: if you are being treated to a glamorous evening in a fashionable bistro, prepare yourself for food that is really quite average but clientele that are sure to be wearing the very latest styles. You will feel most comfortable if you follow suit and choose something along the lines of a chic, little black dress, augmented with very fashionable, up-to-date accessories. If, however, your escort has selected a celebrated, well-established venue, then I would suggest you dress in whatever you own that’s conservative
,
luxurious, and perhaps even a little banal. By all means, fling a mink stole over your shoulders and deck yourself in diamonds – this is exactly what he would expect. And besides, your more
avant-garde,
stylish ensemble will most likely be wasted on the older, affluent clientele, who are really only there to eat
.

Never forget that when you are dressing for dinner, you are dressing not just for yourself, but also for the pleasure and comfort of the gentleman taking you. And when a man is spending a small fortune on an evening, he usually likes to be surrounded by lavish décor, delectable cuisine, and a companion who looks as if she blends in perfectly with both
.

And then it happens. Long after I’d left the fateful note, Oliver Wendt makes a rare and brief appearance in the lobby. I’m on my hands and knees counting programmes in one of the storage cupboards when I suddenly become aware of the smell of cigarette smoke behind me. I turn to find him staring down at me, lounging against the door frame and blowing a trail of hazy smoke rings into the dusty sunlight that filters in from the stained-glass window above the main door. He looks tanned and relaxed in his pale blue shirt and jeans.

‘I guess you’d have to wear a tie at the Ritz,’ he ponders,
gazing reflectively at the slowly dissolving rings and flicking his ash into one of the battered brass urns with a practised flick of the wrist.

I swallow hard. Easy does it, girl. Cool and aloof. Cool and aloof.

‘I suppose so,’ I answer, arching an eyebrow. ‘That is, of course, if a person were actually going to the Ritz.’

I smile coyly.

He smiles coyly.

And then suddenly my hands begin to shake. I turn bright red and try to mask it by gripping the stack of programmes as tightly as possible. But somehow it only makes it worse. I’m possessed; my hands have a life all their own and I can only grin stupidly as the pile suddenly erupts and shoots across the foyer as if under some supernatural attack.

‘Shit!’ I say, as coolly and aloofly as possible, scrambling to pick them up. Oliver grins, places his cigarette carefully in the corner of his mouth, and stoops down to help me.

‘You really have a knack with inanimate objects,’ he observes.

‘I’m not normally this bad,’ I defend myself, furiously piling the programmes together. I wish I were dead. ‘There are times, believe it or not, when I’m downright graceful.’

‘Let’s hope Friday is one of those times,’ he replies, piling the programmes swiftly into a spare box.

I freeze.

‘Friday?’ I try to sound casual and nonplussed. Unfortunately,
my voice takes on a strange vibrato and it comes out more like Edith Evans delivering the famous handbag line in
The Importance of Being Earnest
. He appears not to notice.

After we finish stacking the programmes, he lifts up the box. ‘Where would you like them?’ he asks, ignoring my question.

‘Ahh …’ I’m having difficulty concentrating. ‘Ahh … here. Just here is fine.’

He looks at me. ‘Here,’ he repeats.

‘Yes, please, that would be great,’ I smile.

‘But you just took them from here.’

‘Oh! OK … Well, what about there then.’ I point wildly to a spot across the foyer. ‘Let’s take them over there!’

He hauls them over to the designated spot and puts them down.

‘Thank you so much! That’s terrific!’ I gush. I’ll have to wait until he leaves before I can move them back again.

‘You’re welcome.’ He draws hard on his cigarette.

We contemplate the box in silence for a moment.

‘So, Friday,’ he begins; now it’s his voice that sounds oddly Edith Evans. He shifts from one foot to the other. ‘I mean, that is, unless you have other plans.’

‘No.’ I stand numbly, trying my best not to throw up or fall down or destroy anything. ‘No.’ I pretend to be going
over my social diary in my head. ‘I guess I could do Friday.’

‘Right then. Shall I collect you?’ He makes it sound like a parcel.

‘No, no!’ I’m horrified at the thought of him seeing my home, especially my broom cupboard bedroom and Colin’s dubious collection of
objets d’art
. ‘Why don’t I meet you there.’

‘Seven o’clock?’

My mouth is dry. ‘Seven is fine,’ I croak.

‘Then I’ll see you there,’ he says, heading into the auditorium.

Suddenly I feel like the victim of a hit and run. ‘Yes, but where?’ I call after him.

He turns and grins. ‘Somewhere I’ve never been before, Louise. The Ritz.’

And then it’s all over. He’s gone. And there’s only an impossibly tidy box of programmes and a bit of fag ash left to confirm that he’s been there at all.

‘I guess you have to wear something pretty swell when you go to the Ritz,’ I chirrup to Colin when I arrive home that evening, eyes sparkling.

He’s dusting the flat, and in particular, his prized collection of china figurines. There they all are, carefully lined up on the dining table; the naughty shepherd and shepherdess, the leaping tiger, the emaciated Don Quixote tilting at a windmill. He looks up.

‘The Ritz! Well, I suppose, darling. Boys like me don’t get much past Walthamstow KFC on a good night out. And who,’ he adds, grinning slyly, ‘would be taking my little Americano to the Ritz?’

I skip gleefully into my room. ‘Oh no one. Only his name starts with an
O
and ends in
liver Wendt
!’

‘My lord, he
is
straight! Hallelujah! Oh Ouise! My own little Ouise!’ He clutches the dust rag he’s holding dramatically to his chest. ‘My little girl’s all growed up! Next thing I know you’ll be leaving me!’

‘Col, stop rehearsing for
Coronation Street
and come help me.’

‘I don’t know why I should,’ he sulks. ‘You never let me finish a scene.’

A moment later he pokes his head round the door to find me tossing everything I own out of my wardrobe onto the bed.

‘So, what are you going to wear?’ I can feel him examining my room. The Post-its are gone now, but that’s not the only thing troubling him. ‘Lord, don’t you
ever
dust?’ he despairs, his eye falling on my overcrowded bedside table. Shaking his head, he perches on the edge of the bed and starts wiping my perfume bottles with an air of quiet resignation. It’s Colin’s curse that he’s unable to pass by any surface without inspecting it for dust.

‘I just don’t know,’ I fret. ‘I have nothing … absolutely nothing!’ I chuck another pile onto the bed.

‘I have an idea. When you’re done throwing everything, we can put it all back arranged in colour-coded sections. Look,’ he smiles, holding his handiwork up to the light. ‘Now, just look at that and tell me it doesn’t look better! You can even read the name on it now,
Amarige
.’

‘Colin! You’re not paying attention to a word I’m saying! I don’t have a thing to wear!’

‘Don’t be such a silly moo, of course you do!’ He flicks his cloth over the lampshade in a single, absent minded gesture. ‘But I can tell right now we’re going to need a cup of good strong tea before we can make any real progress. Oh Ouise!’ He shakes his head in disbelief as I throw another blouse onto the bed. ‘I don’t know how a girl like you can still be using wire hangers! One would think you were raised by a pack of gypsies.’ And with that, he disappears into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

A few minutes later he’s back with two ‘doubles’, as he calls them, which are like espressos, only with tea; a speciality of his achieved by cramming a whole handful of P G Tips into a very small tea pot and allowing it to brew until the colour of tar. He claims it’s how the British won the war, which brings troops of twitching, sweaty caffeine junkies to mind.

‘Now,’ he settles onto the only available corner of the bed left. ‘Let’s proceed logically. Option number one, please.’

‘Well, there’s this.’ I hold up a tweed suit. ‘With this
little top,’ I add, pointing to a black lace button down shirt.

‘Hummmmmm.’ He purses his lips and taps them with his forefinger. ‘Very mixed messages. Very “I’m a prude, oops! No I’m not,” if you get my drift. Kinda “Do I, don’t I”. A little bit, “Why, Miss Jones, you’re beautiful!” And just a touch “Oooooh, matron!” Which, personally, I like. Only thing is, they don’t seem to match.’

‘All right. What about this one?’ I hold up a black evening dress.

‘Louise, it’s got a bow on it. How can a woman in her thirties own anything with a bow on it?’

‘I thought it made me look young,’ I protest weakly.

‘Young is one thing; infantile is another.’ He waves it away.

‘OK, fine. There’s always my Pucci look skirt and halter neck.’ I hold them up. He dismisses them as well.

‘Ouise, that look is soooooo dead.’

‘What can I do?’ I sink into a dejected mass on the floor.

‘Whatever happened to that little black dress of yours? You know the one.’

I shake my head. ‘The Karen Millen. I ripped a seam dancing at Mink Bikini and never had it repaired.’

‘Well, what would Madame What’s Her Knickers say in a case like this?’

I look at him. ‘Col! You’re the last person I would expect to send me back to Madame Dariaux!’

‘Well, angel, you don’t
have
to be completely psychotic
about it – you could just read it and take the advice with a pinch of salt like a normal person.’

I stick my tongue out at him. ‘I don’t think so.’

He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Then there’s really nothing for it. You’re going to have to borrow something from Ria.’

‘Ria! You must be joking!’ I try to laugh, but a hollow choking sound comes out instead. Colin blinks at me unmoved.

‘Face facts, Ouise. It’s a class joint and you, I’m sorry to say, ain’t got no class clothes. No offence, sweetie, you’re cute and sexy, but when we’re talking about a £200 evening, we need Audrey Hepburn not Barbara Windsor. And,’ he goes on, raising a hand to silence me, ‘no matter what you think of our tiny dictator, you must admit, she’s always beautifully dressed.’

‘She wears
old people clothes
!’ I shout, trying very hard to resist the urge to pitch my tea at his head.

‘Ahhaa! But that’s just where you’re wrong, my little bargain basement friend! Ria wears classics and the Ritz is a classic kind of place. Your aim is to blend into your surroundings, angel. Blend and become, blend and become … repeat after me. Ouise,’ his look is stern, ‘trust me on this. I’m an old queen, I know what I’m talking about.’