Elegance and Innocence (29 page)

This list will be longer and more complicated if your hostess expects you to engage in any kind of sport. Naturally riding will require that you come prepared with riding boots and jodhpurs, tennis means you should be dressed in a clean, white skirt, shirt, and shoes, and, whatever you do, don’t forget to bring along your racquet, golf clubs, or any other equipment that’s necessary for a good game. You will not endear yourself to anyone if you’re forced to borrow bits and pieces of the appropriate attire from either the hostess or other house guests
.

So be warned and be prepared. Weekends away are the Waterloo of many a friendship. And you may ask yourself if it’s worth all the trouble. I’m not an outdoor woman myself but I’m always incredibly refreshed and pleased after a weekend away, if only because I realize how wonderful and easy living in town really is!

After Ascot, I acquire a reputation in the office as a sophisticate. I nickname Flora and Poppy the Flower People, and they in turn call me Shanghai Lil in honour of my veiled success.

‘It took more than one man to change my name to Shanghai Lil’, Poppy intones at me every morning as I stroll in, clutching my double café latte. I wink at her, force my voice down two octaves and sing the opening lines of ‘Falling in Love Again’ until it becomes too murderously low for me to continue. And bit by bit, we grow accustomed to each other, then to appreciate one another, and, finally to be friends. Despite our different backgrounds, I soon discover that my little Flower People have just as many secret vices as I do: Poppy’s sole ambition in life is to meet a man she can wear high heels next to, hopefully while seducing him at her weekly salsa class, while Flora harbours a dangerous obsession with old re-runs of
Dallas
. When we get bored (which is often), she regales us with stunning impersonations of Sue Ellen emerging from blackout, which Poppy claims are just a bit too realistic for comfort.

So it’s not a complete surprise when, one steaming Thursday afternoon in August, Poppy casually asks if I’d like to spend the weekend with her and Flora at her family’s country home in Berkshire.

‘Nothing fancy,’ she says. ‘But it will give us a chance to get some fresh air and it’s very relaxed down there. We can just laze about …’

The thought of escaping from London into the cool, green oasis of the English countryside is too intoxicating for words. I have visions of tea tables set up under a leafy canopy of chestnut trees, of hammocks swinging gently in the breeze, of dinner al fresco under the stars, accompanied only by a chorus of crickets, of girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes … essentially, I lose the plot.

‘That sounds amazing!’ I sigh.

‘Great!’ Poppy says. ‘We’ll go tomorrow night after work. Flora’s driving, so I’d suggest no solid food until we arrive …
if
we arrive! Really, Louise,’ she beams, ‘I’m so pleased you’re coming! It’s only a small house party.’

‘House party?’ I come to with a jolt. A weekend away is one thing; a house party is another animal altogether.

She sees the terror on my face. ‘But only small, teensy even,’ she assures me quickly. ‘Just my brother and his wife, Mum and Dad, my sister Lavender and her husband, who’s a terrible bore and a bit of a letch, so stay clear, my other brother Tarquin, who’s just been expelled from Eton so you’re not to mention anything to do with school, school friends, academic hopes for the future, gap years, books, uniforms, Prince William, rugby, or alcohol in front of my parents. As a matter of fact, best to shun him altogether. It’s what we’ll all be doing. It’s easier that way. Then there’s you, me, and Flora, Flora’s brother Eddie, who plays the
piano, my grandparents, my mother’s sister Hazel, my cousin Daisy, her friend Sacha, and possibly the Drews, who are friends of my aunt’s and are thinking about getting a divorce.’ She smiles brightly. ‘So no one, really. It will be
so
cool!’

‘Cool,’ I echo. ‘Really, really cool.’ But my heart sags like an empty, old Wellington boot.

I’ve never been good at staying at other people’s houses. Even when I was a kid, I was terrible at sleepovers. And what is a house party if not one great big adult sleepover? I panic if I can’t eat what I want, when I want, and I’m extremely bad-tempered about sharing bathroom facilities. Creeping around corridors in the middle of the night, listening at bathroom doors for any sign of life, trying to pee as quietly as you can in case the walls are paper thin, all send shivers down my spine. In addition, I’m terrified that I’ll be expected to participate in one of those country sports that requires years of training. And special clothes. Like riding, shooting, or golf. I can see everyone else in impeccable hunt gear flying over fences while I plod along on an aging mule half a mile behind them.

‘It will be brilliant,’ Poppy enthuses. ‘
And
we can play charades!’

Life can be so cruel.

‘What can I do?’ I duck down behind the felt partition and whisper into the phone to Colin. ‘I already said yes!’

‘Sweetie, you go, of course. Honestly, don’t be so silly. The whole trick of it is just to be prepared.’

‘Col, you don’t understand!’ I hiss. ‘I’m not good at communal living. It took me months just to get used to you and Ria!’

He sighs. ‘Fine. Tonight when you get home, we’ll go over it all and I’ll help you pack, all right? But no backing out! Truth is, with Ria at her sister’s this weekend, Andy and I can finally have the house to ourselves – he’s already gone to Marks and Spencer’s and I get to choose which videos we’re watching.’

‘OK, OK. It’s a deal,’ I agree. Nice to know that at least one of us has a love life.

When I arrive home that night, Colin greets me at the door with an ice-cold glass of Chablis.

‘Oh, you angel!’ I collapse gratefully onto the couch. ‘How did you know?’

‘I always know,’ he grins, settling down next to me. ‘Now look, I hope you don’t mind but I borrowed your fashion book, Madame Thingy, just to have a look through. And I’ve come up with a few ideas. Here’s what I think you’re going to need, as a kind of bare minimum.’ And he hands me several pages of A4 paper.

I look at him. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

He smiles. ‘Have another sip and try to keep an open mind, will you?’

The list is thoughtfully divided into ‘style sections’:

For travelling down:

1 pair jeans – not too tatty

1 simple cashmere pullover

1 plain white tee-shirt (+ 2 spare)

1 pair loafer-style driving shoes

‘I won’t actually be driving, Col.’

‘It’s just a suggestion. Want some crisps?’

‘Yes, please.’

He disappears into the kitchen.

For Country Walks:

1 pair Wellington boots

1 Barbour or Barbour style coat

Previous jeans, new tee, cashmere jumper

‘This is impossible! I don’t have a pair of Wellingtons, let alone a cashmere jumper. And Barbour jackets stink to high heaven!’

‘When in Rome, Ouise. Plain or cheese and onion?’

‘Cheese and onion, please.’ I return to the list, which I’m beginning to hate.

For Town and Evening:

1 casual linen dress (for going into town)

1 simple jersey evening sheath for formal meals

‘A simple jersey evening sheath? Have you ever
seen
a simple jersey evening sheath? I haven’t.’ This is getting grim. ‘Col, you don’t actually think they’re going to dress for dinner … do you?’

He emerges with a bowl of crisps and hands them to me. ‘Well, you never know.’

For Bed:

1 pair mid-weight pyjamas and matching robe Slippers

Clean and matching bra and knickers – just in case someone walks in on you by accident

‘Col!’

‘It could happen to anyone, Louise.’ He stretches out his long legs and pops a crisp in his mouth.

Sport:

Tennis whites, tennis shoes and racquet

Riding boots (can borrow)

Bathing suit

I put the list down, my head reeling.

‘This is just too much! I can’t just go out and buy a tennis outfit or riding boots or even Wellingtons. I mean, surely they’ll let me off the hook if I don’t have all this gear …’

He stares at me. An unyielding silence settles between us.

I try a different tack. ‘There must be other people in the party who aren’t going riding, or shooting, or whatever they do in the country. A special outfit to walk in? I just don’t get that. I mean, not everyone’s robe is going to match their pyjamas, not everyone is going to spend tonight bleaching their knickers just in case the lock on the bathroom door doesn’t work. I can’t be the only one!’

He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Look, you asked for my help. Here it is. I can’t help it if that’s what people wear in the country, can I? You’re welcome to go down there with nothing but a fresh pair of knickers but what if they do dress for dinner, huh? What are you going to do then?’

I’m just about to tell him when Ria lets herself in the front door.

‘What’s all this about?’ She throws herself down on the sofa next to me and helps herself to some crisps.

I sigh heavily. ‘I’ve been invited by Poppy for a weekend at her country house and it turns out it’s a whole house party full of strangers and I’m not sure what to take or what I need and Colin’s trying to help me …’

She takes a sip of my wine. ‘Well, I just hope you’ve got a pair of Wellingtons.’

Shit.

Later that evening, I unearth my sky-blue nylon overnight bag and plop it on the bed. I bought it in LA airport
some time in the eighties when I’d stocked up on too many plastic flip-flops to fit into my suitcase. It sags open in all its garish glory, like a soiled, battered mouth, covered in airline stickers and boarding tags. I strip off the excess tags but it still looks cheap and ridiculously bright. I’m distinctly uninspired.

Next I open my wardrobe and consider what I own that might actually be suitable. A pair of flared Diesel jeans, a cropped Morgan cardigan, a leather shift dress that makes more noise when I move than a military demonstration in Red Square.

Then I remember that Colin had consulted my old friend, Madame Dariaux when making his list. Sitting on the bed, I open to ‘W’ and read her advice.

‘
Be warned and be prepared
.’

My heart sinks. Colin is right after all.

And as I sit there, holding my book, I begin to wonder if I will ever graduate from Madame Dariaux’s tutelage. Just when I think I’ve got it sussed, some new, unexpected dilemma comes careering along. Part of me longs to chuck a few pairs of clean pants into my blue nylon bag and be done with it. And yet I can’t. I’ve come too far. If I’ve learnt one thing, it’s that being elegant is just a matter of being willing to make an extra effort and enter into the spirit of things – of life – with enthusiasm and grace. And after all, if this is how people dress for a weekend away, then it’s not going to kill me to give it a try.

I knock on Ria’s door.

‘Yep?’

I poke my head round the corner. ‘Do you know anyone who has a pair of Wellingtons I could borrow?’

She smiles. ‘I think my sister has a pair. I’ll see what I can do.’

Come Friday afternoon, after a day of frantic bargaining and begging, I’ve finally managed to pack a reasonable sized bag (that’s using the word reasonable liberally). I’m pretty well prepared for just about every occasion, except for tennis, which I’ve resolved to solve by posing as a fascinated bystander. Although I’ll never be accused of demonstrating the height of casual country chic, I can console myself that at least my pyjama tops match my pyjama bottoms, and I’ve managed to pack a dress that shouldn’t crease too badly and both an outdoor and an indoor pair of shoes. As a matter of fact, I’m inwardly congratulating myself on how well I’ve done, taking everything in my stride, when Flora pulls up outside the office in her aging sunshine yellow Beetle convertible and toots the horn.

‘She’s here!’ Poppy’s whole face shines with joy as she leans out of the office window and waves. And then I suddenly remember the one thing I’ve forgotten.

‘Shit! Shit, shit, shit! I can’t believe it!’

‘What is it?’ Poppy says, rushing to turn off her computer and set the answering machine.

‘Listen, I’ve forgotten to get a gift for your mum and dad.’ I grab my wallet from my massive cherry-red straw handbag and race towards the door. ‘Be an angel and pop my bag in the boot for me. I won’t be a minute, I swear! Tell Flora to wait!’ And I run down the steps towards the staff exit.

One of the brilliant things about working at the Royal Opera House is that you’re right in the centre of Covent Garden. It takes me just fifteen minutes to pop into Penhaligon’s, buy a gift-wrapped box set of scented candles and tear back to the car where Flora and Poppy are waiting.

‘Ready?’ Flora’s revving her engine and slipping on her pink plastic shades.

‘Ready!’ I shout, throwing myself into the back seat.

The car lurches forward, barely missing a
Big Issue
seller and we’re off, speeding out of London, racing towards a greener, pleasanter land in the dappled light of the warm evening sun.

Somewhere between Oxford and Reading we turn off the main road and fall, like Alice in Wonderland, into the surreal, impenetrable rabbit warren of secondary roads that weave across the countryside, hugging the hedgerows as they twist from one bizarrely named enclave to another. Three Mile Cross, Rotherfield Peppard, Nettlebed, Russell’s Water, Gallowstree Common – the names are not so much destinations as roads not taken in a mystical, magical journey worthy of J.R.R.Tolkien or C.S. Lewis. We pass Tutts
Clump, narrowly escape Rotten Row and are headed towards a fate known as Sheffield’s Bottom when Flora takes a sharp right. We skid off the road and onto a paved driveway that extends for a quarter of a mile through parkland bordered on either side by an avenue of ancient chestnut trees. As we near the house, the parkland gives way to a rolling green carpet of immaculately manicured lawn and there, sprawled before us is Poppy’s family home – a huge Queen Anne house of red brick and leaded glass windows, complete with two narrow turrets and a set of snarling gargoyles poised above the solid oak door.