As we drive away, I can’t help surreptitiously staring at Elinor. Now I’m close up I realize she’s older than I first thought, probably in her fifties. And although she looks wonderful, it’s a bit as though that glamorous photo has been left out in the sun and lost its color — and then been painted over with makeup. Her lashes are heavy with mascara and her hair is shiny with lacquer and her nails are so heavily varnished, they could be red porcelain. She’s so completely… done. Groomed in a way I know I could never be, however many people went to work on me.
I mean, I’m looking quite nice today, I think. In fact, I’m looking really sharp. There was a spread in American Vogue on how black and white is the look at the moment, so I’ve teamed a black pencil skirt with a white shirt I found in the sample sale the other day, and black shoes with fantastic high heels. And I’ve shaded my eyes just like Mona showed me. I was really pleased with myself this morning. But now, as Elinor surveys me, I’m suddenly aware that one of my nails is very slightly chipped, and my shoe has got a tiny smear on the side — and oh God, is that a thread hanging down from my skirt? Should I quickly try to pull it off?
Casually, I put my hand down on my lap to cover up the loose thread. Maybe she didn’t see. It’s not that obvious, is it?
But Elinor is silently reaching into her bag, and a moment later she hands me a pair of small silver tortoiseshell-handled scissors.
“Oh… er, thanks,” I say awkwardly. I snip the offending thread, and hand back the scissors, feeling like a schoolchild. “That always happens,” I add, and give a nervous little giggle. “I look in the mirror in the morning and I think I look fine, but then the minute I get out of the house…”
Great, now I’m gabbling. Slow down, Becky.
“The English are incapable of good grooming,” says Elinor. “Unless it’s a horse.”
The corners of her lips move a couple of millimeters up into a smile — although the rest of her face is static — and I burst into sycophantic laughter.
“That’s really good! My flatmate loves horses. But I mean, you’re English, aren’t you? And you look absolutely… immaculate!”
I’m really pleased I’ve managed to throw in a little compliment, but Elinor’s smile abruptly disappears. She gives me a blank stare and suddenly I can see where Luke gets that impassive scary expression from.
“I’m a naturalized American citizen.”
“Oh right,” I say. “Well, I suppose you’ve been here for a while. But I mean, in your heart, aren’t you still… wouldn’t you say you’re a… I mean, Luke’s very English…”
“I have lived in New York for the majority of my adult life,” says Elinor coldly. “Any attachment of mine to Britain has long disappeared. The place is twenty years out of date.”
“Right.” I nod fervently, trying to look as though I understand completely. God, this is hard work. I feel like I’m being observed under a microscope. Why couldn’t Luke have come? Or why couldn’t she have rescheduled? I mean, doesn’t she want to see him?
“Rebecca, who colors your hair?” says Elinor abruptly.
“It’s… it’s my own,” I say, nervously touching a strand.
“Meione,” she echoes suspiciously. “I don’t know the name. At which salon does she work?”
For a moment I’m completely silenced.
“Erm… well,” I flounder at last. “Actually… I… I’m not sure you’ll have heard of it. It’s very… tiny.”
“Well, I think you should change colorist,” says Elinor. “It’s a very unsubtle shade.”
“Right!” I say hurriedly. “Absolutely.”
“Guinevere von Landlenburg swears by Julien on Bond Street. Do you know Guinevere von Landlenburg?”
I hesitate thoughtfully, as though going through a mental address book. As though checking all the many, many Guineveres I know.
“Um… no,” I say at last. “I don’t think I do.”
“They have a house in South Hampton.” She takes out a compact and checks her reflection. “We spent some time there last year with the de Bonnevilles.”
I stiffen. The de Bonnevilles. As in Sacha de Bonneville. As in Luke’s old girlfriend.
Luke never told me they were friends of the family.
OK, I’m not going to stress. Just because Elinor is tactless enough to mention Sacha’s family. It’s not as though she’s actually mentioned her—
“Sacha is such an accomplished girl,” says Elinor, snapping her compact shut. “Have you ever seen her water-ski?”
“No.”
“Or play polo?”
“No,” I say morosely. “I haven’t.”
Suddenly Elinor is rapping imperiously on the glass panel behind the driver.
“You took that corner too fast!” she says. “I won’t tell you again, I don’t wish to be rocked in my seat. So, Rebecca,” she says, sitting back in her seat and giving me a dissatisfied glance. “What are your own hobbies?”
“Uhm…” I open my mouth and close it again. My mind’s gone completely blank. Come on, I must have some hobbies. What do I do at the weekends? What do I do to relax?
“Well, I…”
This is completely ridiculous. There must be things in my life other than shopping.
“Well, obviously, I enjoy… socializing with friends,” I begin hesitantly. “And also the… the study of fashion through the um… medium of magazines…”
“Are you a sportswoman?” says Elinor, eyeing me coldly. “Do you hunt?”
“Erm… no. But… I’ve recently taken up fencing!” I add in sudden inspiration. I’ve got the outfit, haven’t I? “And I’ve played the piano since I was six.”
Completely true. No need to mention that I gave up when I was nine.
“Indeed,” says Elinor, and gives a wintry smile. “Sacha is also very musical. She gave a recital of Beethoven piano sonatas in London last year. Did you go to it?”
Bloody Sacha. With her bloody water-skiing and bloody sonatas.
“No,” I say defiantly. “But I… I gave one myself, as it happens. Of… of Wagner sonatas.”
“Wagner sonatas?” echoes Elinor suspiciously.
“Erm… yes.” I clear my throat, trying to think how to get off the subject of accomplishments. “So! You must be very proud of Luke!”
I’m hoping this comment will trigger a happy speech from her lasting ten minutes. But Elinor simply looks at me silently, as though I’m speaking nonsense.
“With his… his company and everything,” I press on doggedly. “He’s such a success. And he seems very determined to make it in New York. In America.” Elinor gives me a patronizing smile.
“No one is anything till they make it in America.” She looks out of the window. “We’re here.”
Thank God for that.
To give Elinor her due, the beauty spa is absolutely amazing. The reception area is exactly like a Greek grotto, with pillars and soft music and a lovely scent of essential oils in the air. We go up to the reception desk, where a smart woman in black linen calls Elinor “Mrs. Sherman” very deferentially. They talk for a while in lowered voices, and the woman occasionally gives me a glance and nods her head, and I try to pretend not to be listening, looking at the price list for bath oils. Then abruptly Elinor turns away and ushers me to a seating area where there’s a jug of mint tea and a sign asking patrons to respect the tranquility of the spa and keep their voices down.
We sit in silence for a while — then a girl in a white uniform comes to collect me and takes me to a treatment room, where a robe and slippers are waiting, all wrapped in embossed cellophane. As I get changed, she’s busying herself at her counter of goodies, and I wonder pleasurably what I’ve got in store. Elinor insisted on paying for all my treatments herself, however much I tried to chip in — and apparently she selected the “top-to-toe grooming” treatment, whatever that is. I’m hoping it’ll include a nice relaxing aromatherapy massage — but as I sit down on the couch, I see a pot full of wax heating up.
