Elegance and Innocence (27 page)

‘But I don’t wear hats,’ I protest. ‘No one wears hats any more!’

‘They do at Ascot,’ Colin says firmly. ‘You won’t even get in unless you have a hat on your head, so you might as well get over it. Now, be a darling and pass me that piece of sandpaper, will you?’

I bend down and riffle through the collection of tools, dirty rags, and toxic potions Colin’s using to strip the paint off the living-room door. I come across something rough and brown and hand it to him. ‘This is such a total bore!’ I sulk. ‘I don’t even know why I have to go to this stupid event anyway. Corporate entertaining is turning out to be incredibly dull!’

‘Well,’ Colin douses a toothbrush in turpentine and works it vigorously into the moulding, ‘you didn’t need to take the job at the Royal, did you? You could’ve always turned down the chance to make more money, work in a thrilling environment in one of the leading artistic institutions in the country and own even more fantastic pairs of shoes. No one’s twisting your arm. Utter mediocrity and a return to a life of ass-aching boredom is only a short phone call away.’

‘Fine, I get your point.’ I flounce into an armchair.

Colin looks up at me sternly. ‘Don’t you flounce at me, Missy. What’s got into you anyway? You should be pleased, excited! Most girls would be thrilled to be going to Ascot and getting paid for it!’

‘Most English girls,’ I correct him bitterly.

He frowns. ‘What has that got to do with anything?’

‘Everything! Oh God, you just don’t understand, do you!’ I bury my face in my hands dramatically.

Colin puts down the toothbrush and eyes me warily. ‘Ouise, is someone maybe just the tiniest bit pre-menstrual?’

‘No!’ I snap. ‘And don’t be so condescending!’

‘I think I’m doing pretty well,’ he counters. ‘Especially considering that I’m rooming with Dr Jekyll and Mrs Hyde. One minute you’re thrilled to bits to get the job of your dreams and the next you’re spitting flames because someone’s taking you to one of the most sought after social events of the year and all you have to do is shove a hat on your head! Quite frankly, you’ve been in a foul mood all week and if your period isn’t coming, you’d better have a pretty damned good excuse.’

We sit in silence, glowering at one another.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. Finally. ‘It’s just much … much harder than I thought.’ How can I explain it to him? ‘The trouble is, Col, I’m not English.’

‘I’ve got news for you, Louise. You never were.’

‘Ha ha. No, I’m serious. These girls, they’re like, how can I put it? Professionally English. Like the whole point of them is how English they are. For starters, they’ve all got names like Flora, Poppy, Hyacinth and Ginista. It’s like working in a herbaceous border. And this is just something they do to pass the time before they marry their city boyfriends. A job they got through Daddy, who either knows the artistic director or
is
the artistic director.’

‘Meeeeeeoooooooooow, Ouise! Put the claws away!’

‘It’s not that they’re not nice,’ I acquiesce, trying to control myself (and not succeeding). ‘They’re fine in a sort of inbred, mutant kind of way. It’s just that all we seem to do is entertain the fathers and mothers of their old school chums. For example: the head of Investment Banking at Goldman Sachs is Flora’s best friend’s Dad. They spend all evening talking about his son at Eton and her brother at Harrow. The next day he books a season box and donates a cheque that’s so large they’re obliged to engrave his name all over the building – I’m talking on
every
conceivable surface!’

‘And what, exactly, has this got to do with you?’

‘I can’t compete, Col! I just can’t compete! Plus,’ I add bitterly, ‘they’ve all got legs
and
tits, which is just too, too unfair!’

He smiles at me. ‘You’re jealous.’

‘Of course I’m jealous!’ I rage. ‘But I’m also out of my depth! I can’t do all this public school stuff. I’ve never been shooting, or to the races, or to Annabel’s or Tramps or had my picture in
Harpers & Queen
. No one’s ever invited me to their place in the country and I wouldn’t know what to do once I got there! I’m from Pittsburgh, for Christ’s sake! And now we’re going to Ascot to entertain clients from BP and Reuters I just know it’s going to be like a kind of living hell, with hats and rules and strange insider knowledge I know absolutely nothing about.’

He squeezes my knee. ‘Louise, that’s why these girls are so useful in that profession; their upbringing and education guarantees that they have a certain number of connections. But they hired you for a reason. I suggest that you keep your eyes on your own paper. You’re too old for this kind of bullshit. Plus, my dear, I hate to be the one to tell you, but it’s really rather unattractive.’ He looks at me significantly. ‘Now, why don’t you do me a favour and clean up that awful mess you made in the kitchen. Andy’s coming round later and I don’t want him thinking I live in a tip.’

And with that, he goes back to his toothbrush and turpentine.

Two days later, I’m languishing at my desk, picking soggy tomatoes out of my calorie controlled BLT sandwich and attempting half-heartedly to jazz up my standard corporate begging letter without sounding too pathetic, when Poppy lurches over, all five foot ten inches of her, and invites me to join her for a session of hat shopping. A tangled assortment of arms and legs, she resembles an embarrassed giraffe as she tosses her long fringe out of her eyes and smiles at me shyly.

‘I have absolutely
nothing
I can wear!’ She slouches against my desk, pulling at the cuffs of her blouse in a vain attempt to make them cover her wrists. ‘I mean I have this really poxy hat from my sister’s wedding last year but she insisted it had to be lilac.’

Suddenly there’s a shriek from behind the felt partition that separates the desks. ‘
Nooooooo!
’ Flora’s neat little blond bobbed head appears. ‘You
so
didn’t tell me that Lavender was married!’

‘Tell you!’ Poppy rolls her eyes. ‘Flora, you were
there
!’

‘Oh!’ She’s shocked to hear it. ‘Did I give them silver place-card holders in the shape of pigs?’

‘Pineapples,’ Poppy corrects her.

‘I gave them pineapples? That’s not like me.’ She frowns, chewing vigorously on the end of her pen. ‘Who did I go with?’

‘Flora! You are such a cadet! Went to boarding school at, like, three,’ she whispers to me behind her hand. ‘You gave them silver
pineapple
place-card holders from Smythson’s and you went with Jeremy Bourne-Houthwaite. Remember, you were practically engaged to him once.’

The light goes on in Flora’s pale blue eyes. ‘Oh! Lippy Houthwaite! Of course!’ And they both start giggling uncontrollably.

‘Lippy Houthwaite?’ I’m not certain I really want to know.

‘I’m telling you, Louise, he had the most
enormous
lips,’ Flora explains. ‘I mean, kissing him was like being attacked by a Labrador. I’ve never been so damp in all my life!’

And they giggle even harder until Poppy begins to choke. I pat her on the back.

‘So, if you gals are going shopping, I
soooo
need to come with you,’ Flora pleads.

‘Fine, where shall we go?’ I ask.

‘Locks,’ they chirp in unison and then shout ‘Snap!’ at each other, falling into hysterics again and pounding their feet into the floor.

Any minute now, I think, I’m definitely going to have an out of body experience.

‘Lock’s in St James’s Street,’ Poppy explains. ‘It’s
the
place to go for a good, proper hat.’ She eyes me sternly, which, I must say, is odd coming from Poppy; she and any form of gravitas are not natural partners. ‘You don’t want a
fancy
hat, do you?’ (She says ‘fancy’ the way that football thugs say the word ‘poof’.)

‘Well, no …’ I hesitate, secretly thinking that a fancy hat is exactly what I want; the fanciest, most stunning hat money can buy.

‘No, you want a
proper
hat!’ Flora nods her pale head with surprising vigour. ‘A proper English hat!’ she adds significantly, like a Mason dropping a code word into casual conversation. There it is – the E word. I give way immediately.

‘Oh yes! Absolutely!’ I agree, overwhelmed by the strange feeling that any moment they might launch into an impromptu version of ‘Rule Britannia’ and I don’t know the words. I smile and they smile back at me. (This is my latest defence mechanism for dealing with anything that
goes completely over my head. It also means I spend most of my day grinning like an idiot.)

I’m not quite sure what they mean by ‘proper’ or ‘English’, but it’s clearly the opposite of ‘fancy’, which, for reasons I’m too foreign to understand, is definitely beyond the pale. If I can just survive this latest shopping excursion, I’m bound to be initiated into some of the most elusive elements of the English upper class social code.

‘No fancy hats for me!’ I cry gaily. And perhaps just a little prematurely.

It’s not until later on that afternoon, when I come face to face with Flora and Poppy’s idea of a proper English hat, that I begin to regret my earlier enthusiasm. They’re all the size of small planets.

‘Here, try this one,’ Flora says, jamming a colossal pink candy floss confection on my head. It slides down below my eyebrows and when it comes to a stop, the enormous brim sags listlessly over my shoulders.

They stand back in admiration.

‘That is stunning!’ Poppy gasps. ‘Simply stunning!’

I try to position myself in front of the mirror so that I can see the whole thing but only manage to knock over a pile of foldable Panamas some two feet away with my incredible brim.

‘It seems a little large,’ I point out.

‘Large!’ Flora frowns. ‘But that’s the whole point!’

‘A big brim makes your hips look smaller,’ Poppy
explains. ‘
And
,’ she whispers conspiratorially, ‘you don’t have to fix your hair.’

‘And if it’s mammoth,’ Flora adds brightly, ‘you don’t even need make-up!’

‘I see.’ Hat as one stop dressing.

And then they try on a couple of equally daunting head meringues and I notice that, even when we’re standing brim to brim, there’s a good three feet between our bodies. Then I get it. Like hedgerows and newspapers on the tube, these hats are primarily there to protect one’s privacy – just another manifestation of that impenetrable English reserve.

I’m far more attracted to a small collection in the corner: trim, chic little creations to be worn at a jaunty angle by a confident woman. Brilliant jewel colours: emerald green, sapphire blue, ruby red, are decorated with feathers, curling in bold shapes around the head.

‘What about these?’ I venture.

Poppy wrinkles her nose at me. ‘A bit fancy, don’t you think?’

Flora reaches over and picks one up. ‘That’s going to do absolutely nothing for your hips.’

‘I like them.’ (What is it with English women and their hips?) In a fit of defiance, I try one on.

To be honest, it looks a bit silly. Even I can see that. The emerald feather that had seemed so striking on the white, hairless mannequin sprouts like some bizarre growth from the back of my head. It dangles eerily over one eye
with a razor sharp point that threatens to stab anyone who comes too close. No matter where I put it, it retains the same sculptural rigidity, making me look more like an amateur performance artist than a sophisticated
femme fatale
.

Poppy curls her lip. Flora narrows her eyes.

‘Quite frankly, it just tries too hard,’ Poppy says.

‘She’s right,’ Flora agrees.

And then she delivers the
coup de grâce
. ‘It looks a bit
common
.’

There can be no insult more scathing than the accusation of being common. Even I, puppy dog exile from the home of the free, land of the brave, shudder inwardly at the finality of this sentence. And of course there are few things considered more common among the English upper classes than something that tries too hard. After all, effort itself is working class. Shamefaced, I whisk the hat off and the subject’s dropped.

Poppy and Flora make their selections in a matter of minutes, deciding only between huge hats and obscenely huge hats, while I linger listlessly.

‘Coming back to the office?’ Poppy asks, while Flora flags down a cab. (They’re unable to walk and carry their hatboxes at the same time.)

‘I, ah … I think I’ll just have a peek at Fortnum’s,’ I stall. As I watch them lumber merrily into their cab and head towards Piccadilly, I’m more disappointed than ever.

I wander up to Fortnum’s. On the first floor they have
a hat department rather like the one at Lock’s, and once again, I try to make a selection from one of the wide-brimmed varieties. I’m peering sheepishly out from underneath a particularly vile pastel creation when I hear a voice behind me exclaim, ‘My dear, with all due respect, that really isn’t you.’

I turn around to face a very elegantly dressed, diminutive older woman. She has on a cream cashmere coat, draped over a classic, ivory Chanel suit and is carrying an alligator Kelly bag. She smiles at me and her remarkable blue eyes sparkle mischievously.

‘It is none of my business, of course,’ she says, in a very refined Austrian accent. ‘However, I hate to see such folly in one so young. I must say,’ she continues, ‘it is rare to see someone of your age even looking at hats. I was of the impression that they were considered
très passé
.’

‘I’m going to Ascot,’ I explain, removing the offensive article from my head. ‘I need a hat and the girls I’m going with are all wearing these. I’m not quite sure of what’s expected, of what’s … best.’

‘I see,’ she nods. ‘You are American?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ I confess, as if it were my guilty secret.

She pulls herself up to her full height (which puts her at about five foot). ‘Those sorts of hats are good on English women; they are tall and don’t like to attend to their hair properly. I would suggest that you wear something a little chicer, smaller. Something perhaps with a veil.’ She turns
and hands me a small navy cloche with a dramatic loosely woven veil attached to the brim. ‘Something like this.’