Elegance and Innocence (28 page)

I put it on. Instantly, I’m perfectly aloof. The veil intervenes between myself and the outside world, creating a superior modesty that is at once seductive and impenetrable. And incredibly chic.

She smiles triumphantly. ‘Now, you see! That’s much better.’

I can’t take my eyes off myself, I look so film star-ish. But still I hesitate. ‘It’s just, well, the other girls won’t be wearing this sort of thing,’ I falter. ‘It might be a little out of place, a little too …’

She raises her hand to stop me. ‘As I said, it is none of my business. But in my experience, it is best not to try too hard to be like the English. Being English is, after all, a club not even the English can get into. And they will not respect you for it’.

And with that she turns and disappears among the women’s lingerie, vanishing completely somewhere between the cashmere bathrobes and the Egyptian cotton nightdresses.

Suddenly, I panic – the only voice of sanity I’ve encountered all day is disappearing. ‘Wait!’ I call out and run after her.

Almost instantly I find myself face to face with what appears to be a transvestite member of the senior sales staff. (I say transvestite because she’s built like a linebacker for
the New Zealand All Blacks squeezed into an outsized polyester suit.)

Folding her enormous hands across her chest, she glares at me. ‘And would Madame like to
buy
the hat?’ she demands significantly, raising a single, omnipotent hairy eyebrow.

I reach for my head and as my hand lands on the navy cloche, my heart sinks.

‘Oh! I’m sorry! I didn’t realize …’ I stammer, feeling my face flush. I smile in what I imagine must be a winning fashion. ‘I was just … just looking for someone and I forgot I had this on my head and … and I …’

It isn’t working. She’s looking at me like I’m a criminal. I’m beginning to feel like a criminal.

I giggle stupidly. ‘Oh, really! You can’t honestly imagine that I meant to …’ (How can I put this?) ‘to …
abduct
the hat!’

She stares at me unblinkingly and exhales in a kind of snorting fashion reminiscent of a bull just before it charges.

I try a different tack.

I whip the hat off of my head and thrust it at her defiantly. (When in doubt, act like a spoilt child.) ‘Here!’ I roll my eyes and do my best to seem indignant and superior. ‘Here is your hat! Now, I am sorry but I really must go!’

And just as I’m about to flounce past her and hurl myself headlong down the steps in a frantic, suicidal bid for freedom, my little Austrian friend re-emerges.

‘So. Are you taking it?’ she asks, oblivious to the embarrassment of my current situation. ‘It is really quite the best one.’

I’m about to respond, when I notice that something is happening to the sales woman. She blushes and flounders. ‘Lady Castle!’ Her monstrous eyebrow shoots up to her hairline. ‘I do apologize … a simple misunderstanding, I’m sure … I mean … what a pleasure it is to see you!’

Lady Castle nods in her direction, otherwise ignoring her. ‘It is the best one, don’t you agree?’

‘Oh, yes …’ She’s desperate to appear accommodating. ‘It’s undeniably a very sophisticated … a very … uh, unique design …’ I watch as my former foe melts to a jelly on the floor.

‘Lady Castle, I want to thank you so much for helping me to make a selection.’ I pluck the hat back triumphantly. ‘Your advice has been invaluable.’

‘It is no trouble at all,’ she assures me. ‘I have a great deal of experience in these things. I have found a hat with a veil very useful in the past. It’s flattering and a little mysterious. That sets one apart.’

‘Well, that’s just it,’ I confide. ‘I already feel set apart – a little too set apart in fact. What I was trying to do was to fit in.’

She shakes her head vigorously. ‘Fitting in is for school-girls. Being different is not a crime, my dear, but an asset.’

I shrug my shoulders and smile wryly. ‘I’m not so sure.’

Lady Castle looks appalled. ‘But of course it is! You are an individual! A woman with a past, a history. No one can take that away from you!’

I’m intrigued. She speaks so passionately, with such assurance that, once again, I’m flooded with the feeling that I don’t want to let her go.

‘Would you allow me to buy you a cup of tea?’ I offer, sounding, even to myself, like an archaic figure from a P.G. Wodehouse novel.

She accepts my invitation without a moment’s hesitation, as if it’s only natural that she should be invited to tea by a total stranger that she’s just met in the hat department of one of the better department stores. This remarkable self-assurance is exactly the quality I feel I lack. And, so, after I’ve bought my hat we go downstairs to the splendour of Fortnum’s tea room, where Lady Castle promptly and unapologetically orders a full afternoon tea, complete with toasted tea cakes and scones.

I watch and listen in complete fascination as she recounts her history in England, while effortlessly negotiating the business of serving tea with all the ease of one for whom it is a daily habit.

‘The English are wonderful people. I adore them,’ she says, adding a slice of lemon to her tea. ‘If it weren’t for the English, I wouldn’t be alive. It’s as simple as that. During the War, I was sent from Austria when I was just a child. My mother put me on a train and I left. The only one to
make it out alive. The only one,’ she repeats softly. ‘I do not know why I should be so lucky, only that I am. The English are my family now.’ She carefully presses the lemon against the side of her china cup with her teaspoon. ‘But like most families, it is not always easy.’

‘But you are a Lady now,’ I point out emphatically. ‘Surely that makes all the difference.’

Again she looks surprised. ‘But, my dear, I always
was
a lady! Even when I was a scrawny, immigrant child who couldn’t speak a word of English! I did not need to wait for a Lord to ask me to marry him before I became a Lady!’

‘But what I mean,’ I struggle to put it into words, ‘what I mean is, now that you are a Lady, you’re one of them … you’re not an outsider any more.’

‘Outside, inside … you make too much of this thing.’ She takes a sip of Darjeeling, her sharp eyes never leaving my face. ‘What people respond to, what is such a mistake, is not that you are different, but that you are
ashamed
that you are different.’

She smiles and pops another fruit tart on her plate. ‘These pastries! Really, they are too good! I shall have to fast this evening to make up for it. Do things with style, Louise. Your own style. And believe me, no one will care where you come from.’

Back at the office, the hat is more of a miss than a hit with the girls.

‘It’s ever so serious.’ Flora turns it over in her hands like it’s a bomb.

‘Yes, it’s certainly very adult,’ Poppy agrees. ‘You’re a braver man than I,’ she adds, handing it back to me quickly.

I put it back into its box, undaunted.

‘Cup of tea, anyone?’ I offer.

‘Oh yes please!’ they chorus, ecstatic in the way only the English can be about tea.

That night, as I manoeuvre the hat box in place on top of my wardrobe, I’m struck by the persistent feeling that I’ve met Lady Castle somewhere before. I sit down on the edge of my bed and concentrate. Who does she remind me of?

Then suddenly, it comes to me. I open my wardrobe and unearth my volume of
Elegance
. Flicking it open, I browse through the gems of timeless advice. Lady Castle reminds me of Madame Dariaux and I realize with a twinge how much I’ve been missing her. She’d become real to me and even when I resented the unfailing accuracy of her wisdom, she never let me down. I’ve been foolish to exile her and now carefully dust the book down and return it to its place of pride on my bedside table.

When the big day arrives, I discover that Lady Castle is right. I pair the hat with a very simply cut navy raw silk dress and matching jacket; the hat is, of course, the star of the show. Sure enough, amidst a sea of three-foot brims,
I’m distinguished and aloof. And I have the additional bonus of being able to slip easily through the crowd, which is undoubtedly more elegant. The veil itself has the most surprising effect. It bestows upon me an instant status that’s beyond anything I could have predicted. Men are incredibly solicitous, fascinated by it, and women intrigued. And as I walk towards Flora and Poppy across the Royal Enclosure, I see Flora’s jaw drop, even from beneath the formidable brim of her candy-floss creation.

‘Oh Louise!’ she cries, clutching at my arm forlornly. ‘You look exactly the way I would’ve liked to if only I could!’

And for the first time, I see them in a completely different light. They seem strangely vulnerable amidst the daunting crush of morning suits and designer dresses; small and young with only their huge hats to protect them. And I think of Lady Castle’s words: inside, outside, it makes no difference.

It’s a long, thrilling, and exhausting day. The weather, so often grey and dismal in early June, turns out to be stunning and the clients genuinely appear to be having a good time. It’s almost four o’clock before I can slip away for a few moments’ peace on my own. I’m strolling slowly through the crowd, wondering if I dare to place a bet, when I catch sight of a familiar face.

‘Hello!’ I say. It’s the young man who’d given me the ticket on the opera house steps, only this time he’s dressed in full morning suit.

‘Hello!’ he beams back. ‘What happened, did you get the job?’

‘Yes, yes I did, and I just wanted to thank you so much for giving me that ticket. I can’t tell you how amazing it was!’ The crowd presses around us, pulling us in opposite directions as the bells sound.

‘Look, I’ve got to quickly place this bet for my grandfather before the next race,’ he shouts over the noise of the throng. ‘Fancy a drink?’

‘I can’t,’ I shout back, just as the bells sound again. ‘I’ve got to get back in a minute. Run or you’ll miss your chance!’

He pulls away, fighting his way to the shortest queue, but before I lose sight of him completely he turns and yells across the betting hall, ‘By the way, you look absolutely incredible!’ Which results in a flurry of good natured ‘Hear, hears’ from some of the gentlemen around him.

He stands grinning at me and a moment later, melts into the crowd.

My whole body’s tingling, and as I make my way back to the Royal Enclosure, there’s a definite spring in my step.

Ascot is a feast of fashion statements, some disastrous, others delightful. However, despite the vast variety, I’m surprised to see very few women wearing hats with veils. As a matter of fact, Lady Castle is wearing the only other one I spot all day. It’s a small silver-grey pillbox with a stunning swathe of black net falling across the face. Just
below, her perfectly drawn matte red lips smile playfully and she gives me the slightest hint of a wink.

‘I am really quite impressed!’ She takes my arm as I approach. ‘
You
look like a lady – these others may
be
ladies but you look like one. A real Wallis Simpson! Horrible woman, of course, but so beautifully dressed, you cannot imagine! Now,’ she steers me towards her box, ‘you must allow me to introduce you to some people. I have a feeling you might find them interesting.’ She swings me around to face a small, squat, red-faced man who’s holding his glass of champagne as if it’s a beer mug. ‘This is Fredrick Von Hassel, Louise. Mr Von Hassel has a passion for early music.’

He thrusts a swollen pink paw at me, which I shake.

‘Fredrick collects Caravaggio’s,’ Lady Castle continues. ‘I understand that the Royal Opera is mounting a new production of
Orfeo
. Is that correct?’

Before I have a chance to speak, Mr Von Hassel is away.

‘Nobody stages Monteverdi correctly!’ he barks. ‘They are always trying to make “a statement”. To update the story. It is a great tale of love and death!’ he shouts, his face growing redder by the second. ‘I cannot stand to see these productions! I object to them! I really object!’

Here is a moment when a veil really comes in handy. I blink. I smile. I take the liberty of brushing some of Mr Von Hassel’s spittle off my lapel and then quietly say, ‘That’s such a shame. Especially as Caravaggio is the inspiration
behind the design of our new production and I would love to have your opinion of it.’

I think it’s the exaggerated glamour of the veil that gives me the courage to turn away. Bold gestures as well as lingering silences come more easily behind a wall of mesh.

He’s by my side in an instant.

‘Caravaggio?’ he stammers. ‘Please, I am most eager to hear more!’

The Von Hassel productions of early music are really one of the highlights of the winter season each year. They’re thoughtful, intimate, and beautifully produced. More often than not, they’re completely sold out months in advance. So book early.

And you might want to ask for seats in the Castle box.

W
Weekends

After five days of gradual asphyxiation in town, an ever increasing number of city dwellers escape to the country for the weekend to fill their lungs with forty-eight hours’ worth of fresh air. As a result, an entire industry has been built around this desire for pastoral leisure, and never before have so many sports clothes been sold
.

However it’s important to note that forty-eight hours in a country house require almost the same number of clothes as a holiday abroad and, if one is to be a pleasant and social guest, not one of the items in your overnight case will be optional
.

These will include an attractive suit of the sporty variety, either of tweed or linen in the summer for travelling down, sensible, flat-heeled shoes, a sturdy pair of boots for walking, a pretty silk dressing-gown – never sheer or revealing in any way for breakfast, a pair of trousers with a matching fitted shirt, a warm
sweater or cardigan, a long evening dress for formal suppers or a shorter, more casual one for evenings en famille, a lightweight cotton dress and matching sandals for exploring the countryside, a pair of mannish silk pyjamas, and above all, a hot-water bottle in a soft cover, some of your favourite soap and a secret supply of biscuits. (It is impossible to know when and if you will ever be fed!)