Elegance and Innocence (24 page)

I want to say, ‘Not all my tastes are refined,’ but I sip my Chablis instead. And then I spot Ria’s diminutive figure scurrying past us, glaring at me significantly. The Cavalry has arrived!

I jump up. ‘Will you excuse me a moment?’

‘Ah, sure … are you all right?’

‘Oh, yes! Absolutely! It is a little warm in here after all. So I will check my coat.’ I smile and speed off to the Ladies where Ria’s leaning against the sink, trying to catch her breath.

‘Sorry, I ran all the way from the gallery,’ she gasps, fanning her face with her hand. ‘He’s a bit of all right, isn’t he? How’s it going?’

‘Uh, OK. Fine. I think. Truth is, I don’t know.’

‘Hum, maybe you just need to relax. OK, let’s see the damage,’ she sighs.

I open my coat, feeling very much like a flasher on a
Sunday afternoon jaunt. She shudders and seems to deflate inwardly for a second, then rallies and looks me sternly in the eye. ‘I just want you to know I have never done this before and I will never, I repeat,
never
do this again. Right,’ she continues grimly, ‘there’s only one thing for it; we’ll have to swap. Get your kit off.’

And she begins to undress. The ancient cloakroom attendant is completely unfazed by this bizarre transaction. Ria’s come straight from work. My heart sinks at the austerity of the black Sonia Nuttal skirt and fitted gabardine top she’s wearing. But then again, she’s none too thrilled by the home-made micro mini I hand her and flatly refuses to wear it under any circumstances. ‘If I die in a car accident, I’d rather people found me wearing nothing but my underwear,’ she says, slipping it into her handbag.

Three minutes later, I’m magically transformed from Sweet Charity into a real life Tiffany woman. The skirt, which seemed so stark in its simplicity, drapes across the moving figure with stunning fluidity. And the fitted top’s bateau neckline frames my creamy pale shoulders in a subtly sexy way.

Ria regards me uncertainly. ‘Here.’ She hands me a tissue. ‘Rub off your lipstick. Hurry!’ Then she carefully removes the gold, glitter eye shadow from my lids.

‘My face looks chalky and washed out,’ I protest.

‘Hush!’ She pulls out a soft crimson lipstick and paints on a sweet red mouth. To my surprise, I actually look
younger. Then she wets her hands and begins to smooth down my hair. I watch in horror as she undoes in thirty seconds what’s taken forty-five minutes of blow drying to achieve. But as she flattens my hair into a sleek little bob, it occurs to me I look more confident without my rigidly coiffed mane.

‘Now, what else?’ She eyes me carefully. ‘This has to go.’ And she strips me of my sparkling necklace and earrings, slipping her own Georg Jensen silver cuff on my wrist instead.

‘There!’ Standing back to admire her handiwork, she pulls her overcoat around her. ‘You’re a woman. Not a Barbie doll. Let that be a lesson to you. Now get out there or he’ll think you’re a drug addict.’

I hug her and force a twenty into her hand for the cab ride home. ‘Ria, I can’t thank you enough, you’re so kind, so amazing. You’ve worked miracles!’

She pushes me towards the door. ‘No one else but you, Louise. And remember, we must never,
ever
speak of this again.’

At last, almost an hour after I arrived, I’m finally able to check my coat. As the decaying attendant hands me the tag, she leans forward and whispers, ‘Now that’s a real friend.’

I sashay forth in my chic reincarnation and sit down once again next to the would-be man of my dreams. Only, something strange happens, something unexpected. Clothes
make the woman and Ria’s clothes certainly transformed me. I feel more vulnerable. More exposed. No big hairdo, no sexual trimmings, no cartoon make-up mask to hide behind.

Oliver seems different too. He’s ordered another Heineken in my absence and he’s smoking a cigarette, playing with his lighter.

‘You look stunning. I’m glad you decided to take off your coat.’ He smiles and it occurs to me that he’s proud to be seen with me. However, his next question catches me off guard. ‘May I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’

‘Are you married?’

There you have it; proof that gravity does pull harder at the Ritz.

‘Yes.’ I feel awkward and detached – like the gig is up; I’ve been found out posing as a young, single woman. ‘We’re getting a divorce. Right now we’re separated.’

He looks at me intently. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing happened.’ I don’t really want to go down this avenue. ‘We didn’t get on.’

Any hope of sexual frisson drifts away. An uncomfortable cloud of seriousness descends. ‘And what do you want from me?’ he demands.

And to this day, I will always shudder when I think of my response.

I look at him, sitting in the Ritz, sucking on a cigarette,
and I think of all the times I’ve wandered around the empty theatre, hoping I’d run into him, imagining he felt the same way.

‘To play,’ I say. It sounds plaintive, so I smile and try to make it seem cute, sexy and enticing. ‘You know, like when you were a kid – just to play, have fun.’

He’s looking at me very seriously, not at all like a kid having fun.

‘I see,’ he says at last and leans back in his chair again.

I’m an actress. I’ve auditioned for the role of mistress but the director remains unconvinced.

‘I was with someone for seven years,’ he begins.

I feel as if I’m falling, very quickly, from a great height. This is not the conversation I imagined during all those months of obsession. Apparently we’re not about to embark on a romantic, sparkling, magical evening. We’re going to talk about the exes instead.

‘We almost got married.’ He taps a packet of Marlboro Reds against the table. ‘Mind if I smoke?’

I shake my head ‘no’. After all, he’s already started.

‘She was pregnant. And lost the baby.’ He motions to the waiter. ‘Want another drink?’

I stare at my untouched glass of Chablis. ‘No. Thank you.’

‘Another Heineken,’ he orders. ‘And a whisky chaser.’ The waiter nods and vanishes once more.

‘Her name was Angela. She was amazing.’

And suddenly it’s all over.

Before it’s even begun.

He smokes and drinks and tells me about how accomplished Angela was, of her courage and poise. He shows me the lighter she bought him one year for Christmas and makes me feel how heavy it is to hold. He talks about how difficult it is to pay two mortgages – she still lives in the house they once shared, while he moved out to a tiny studio flat not far away. And how she criticized his drinking; told him he was an alcoholic but he’s sure it’s just a phase.

I smile and nod my head and play with the Georg Jensen cuff on my wrist. And in the golden light of the music-filled lobby in the world’s greatest hotel, impeccably dressed, beautifully coiffed, and ten pounds lighter than I’ve ever been, I finally realize I’m not going to get what I want. I’m not going to be saved by a thrilling, all consuming relationship with Oliver Wendt. And even looking like the Tiffany woman can’t protect me from all the gross realities that loom before me. I’ve left my husband and it’s too late to scuttle back. I’ll go home tonight and wake up tomorrow and there will be nothing there to distract me.

I’m alone. I’ve lived in absolute terror of just this moment and here it is – as cool and detached as a note scribbled in an appointment diary.

Friday, March 18th, 8:21 pm – you discover you are alone
.

Really
.

Thing is, what happens at 8:22?

And for the first time, perhaps, since I’ve laid eyes on him, I have a real look at Oliver Wendt. He has a paunch. There are heavy, dark circles under his eyes. He’s chain smoking and ordering another drink. But most of all, he’s sitting with a beautiful woman, talking about someone who left him four years ago.

I have to smile.

Friday, March 18th, 8:22 pm – you discover you’re better off
.

Really
.

I think this is what’s known as a moment of clarity. My grandmother used to comfort my widowed aunt by saying, ‘Better to go alone than to be badly accompanied.’ That always used to frighten me. But tonight, it starts to make perfect sense.

After a while I stand up, put my hand out and thank Oliver for agreeing so kindly to meet me.

‘But I thought …’ he stammers, rising, ‘I thought that we might actually have dinner together – get to know one another.’

‘You’re still in love with Angela,’ I remind him.

He seems genuinely shocked to hear it. ‘No, I’m not! I’m sure I’m not. I mean, I’ll always love her, of course …’

‘Besides which,’ I interrupt him, ‘I think that on this occasion, I’d rather dine alone.’

And as he stands, swaying slightly in front of me, I realize he’s drunk.

‘I made a mistake,’ he says, blinking. ‘I … I’ve fucked up, haven’t I?’

I don’t know what to do or say. He seems pathetic, baffled and out of his depth.

‘Would you like a cab?’ I ask him quietly.

‘Yes, yes, I guess that’s the thing to do,’ he mumbles, searching in vain for a coat he didn’t bring, unable to look me in the eye.

We walk outside into the bracing cold and the doorman waves down a black cab and opens the door for him. He stands in front of me for a moment, wavering, and then suddenly demands hoarsely, ‘Kiss me.’

There they are, the words I’d dreamt of. I feel myself go numb inside. And automatically, without thinking, I tilt my cheek towards him. He blinks, obviously shocked by my reading of this request, but he kisses it anyway, brushing his dry lips against my skin. Then he falls into the cab and the doorman slams the door shut. I watch as it lurches away into the darkness.

I walk slowly back inside. This isn’t at all what I’d planned. What do I do now? I stand alone in the centre of the lobby. Should I just get my coat and leave?

What would a woman of substance do in a case like this?

The
maitre d
’ smiles as I approach. ‘Good evening, Madam.’

‘Good evening.’

‘Table for one?’ he asks, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

‘Yes, please,’ I say. ‘Table for one.’

T
Tan

Although I sincerely hope that I don’t need to warn you about the dangers of over sunning yourself and ruining your complexion, I hardly imagine my own advice will dissuade you, especially if you are intent upon spending your summer holidays looking like a burnt piece of toast. There used to be a time when a deep tan was absolutely essential upon returning from holiday to excite the envy of all of one’s poor friends who were condemned to spend their summer months in the city. But modern travel means that nowadays everyone has access to sunny climes and a tanned complexion is in no way unique or exclusive. So really, what is the point?

While a lightly sun-tanned complexion creates an agreeable impression of health, an overcooked epidermis is very ageing and even inelegant upon one’s return to the city at the end of the summer. In order to be attractive, a deep tan requires the open air, very décolleté necklines, and bright, clear colours (particularly blue, yellow, and white). The rather neutral shades of town apparel often make a sun-tanned bathing beauty look more like an anaemic African and there’s nothing even remotely elegant about that!

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she’s finally ready to move on.

The débâcle with Oliver Wendt helped. But now, two weeks later, my Decree Nisi has arrived in the post, as stark and impersonal as a gas bill. The message is more than clear. I’m single – not just waiting for someone to return my phone call – but completely unattached to anyone in any way, either by old, lingering ties or by any shred of hope for the future. And, now that the focus is firmly on me and my life, it’s become clear that my time at the Phoenix Theatre Company is drawing to a close too.

Once this job was a haven. I started out as an usher, working weekends for extra pocket money when I first got married. Now I was one of two rotating box office managers (or rather, Deputy Head of Sales, as they liked to call it). I can’t deny that if things had worked out a little differently with Mr Wendt, I might still be happily compiling sales reports with a ridiculous grin on my face, but now that the thought of bumping into him in the hallway fails to fill me
with delight, I’m forced to concentrate on the job in hand. And the job in hand is dull.

‘I’m thinking of making a career move,’ I say to Colin one lunchtime.

‘Oh?’ He picks at his lunch. ‘Fireman or policeman?’

‘Well, there’s a position going in the development department of the Royal Opera House.’ I hesitate. ‘Actually, I applied for it a while ago. And I’ve got an interview next week.’

I wait anxiously for his response; after all, we’ve been working together for years. But he just sighs wearily. ‘Sounds perfect, Ouise. Let me know how you get on.’

He pushes the same forkful of leftover fish pie from one side of his plate to another. Something is definitely wrong. I expected him to be disappointed or excited but nothing prepared me for his complete and utter disinterest. ‘Col, I can’t help noticing that you seem a bit distracted today. Are you all right?’ I ask.

He shakes his head sadly. ‘Nothing for it, I’m afraid.’

‘Nothing for what?’ I persist.

He looks up at me with the most wayward, hopeless expression I’ve ever seen. ‘Oldest story in the book, Ouise. I’m in love.’

I laugh with relief. ‘But that’s wonderful! You should be over the moon! Right?’

He pushes his plate away and looks more despondent
than ever. ‘Yeah, right. Thing is, he doesn’t even know I exist. To him, I’m just some filthy old queen.’

I have visions of a seventeen-year-old still shambling about in his school uniform. ‘How old is he?’

‘Twenty-three,’ he confirms, with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner repeating his sentence.

‘But that’s fine, darling. What’s wrong with that? You frightened me. I thought for a moment you’d been loitering by the school gates.’

He shakes his head again. ‘You don’t understand, Louise. This boy’s an Adonis; an absolute god. The only way a boy like that’s ever going to look at me twice is if I’m a rich sugar daddy. And let’s face it, three Armani tee-shirts, a flat in Streatham and a monthly bus pass do not a sugar daddy make.’