Life Swap (7 page)

Main Street was once filled with little boutiques, artisan shops, pretty cafés, but the chain stores have moved in, and now the women in town spend their days in Gap workout gear, much like women all over the rest of America.

Apart from the women in the League. They may occasionally wear Gap, but heaven forbid they should
wear it to one of their monthly meetings, which are rapidly turning into unofficial fashion shows.

Amber, bless her, was completely unaware of this in the beginning. In fact, if she remembers correctly – which she tries very hard not to do given how mortified she still feels about it – she turned up to one of the early meetings in jeans, a black zip-up fleece (there was a chill in the air) and flat loafers.

Not that she would ever have been seen dead in clothes like that in Manhattan, but Amber has always been something of a chameleon, and so unsure of who the real Amber is that she’ll morph herself into whoever she thinks she needs to be at any given moment.

And she had taken her cues from the women at pre-school, who she quickly realized were not the same crowd who got involved with the League. Admittedly there was some crossover, but the women from school turned out to be doing this for purely charitable reasons – because they wanted to do some good in the world and not because they cared what they looked like, and thus they were relegated to the out crowd in the League, easily spotted by their everyday school uniforms of fleeces, clogs and shapeless jeans.

But Amber hadn’t known this then, had indeed heard about the League from one of the women at school, and had slowly moved her more glamorous Manhattan clothes to the back of her wardrobe as she had tried to fit in with the other mums by wearing what they wore.

At that first League meeting Amber had climbed out of her car and turned as she was halfway down the
path towards the front door of the house at which the meeting was being held, because she had heard footsteps behind her.

Tip tap, tip tap, tip tap. A short blonde woman in tight flared suede pants, super-high super-pointed boots, a fringed tweed jacket with a mink collar, and the Luella bag – the very one that Amber had been lusting after for a few months now – was walking up the path.

And Amber, Amber who had battled her way out of her blue-collar background, who had been a successful lawyer, who had had to fight more than any woman she had known, had been overcome with shame and inadequacy.

She had felt like a failure in her fleece and loafers, her understated make-up, and she’d wanted to turn around and go home but it was too late.

She had stood at the back of the kitchen allowing the other women – most of whom knew one another – to mingle, while she attempted to make herself invisible, all the while taking mental notes about what to wear next time.

It seemed that tight trousers with high-heels were the thing, little fitted jackets, lots of fur. Perfect hair, perfect make-up, and a great bag. Admittedly not all the women looked quite like that, but even the ones who didn’t looked like they were trying. Even at her first meeting, from her vantage point by the Sub-zero, Amber could sense the social game-playing and the hierarchies that existed in the room.

On the other side of the island stood a woman Amber had heard called Suzy. Suzy was clearly one of the queen bees. She was head to toe in Gucci, bag to match, and was icily blonde, which, although clearly highlighted, made Amber sure that this woman would rather die than let her roots show.

The other women had buzzed around Suzy like little worker bees. All trying to attract her attention, all trying to get as close as possible.

‘Oh I love that suit,’ Amber had heard one girl say. ‘I was looking at it in Rakers last week but then I bought it in lilac instead. But it looks so great on you I’m going to have to go back and get it in black and white.’

Amber had allowed herself a secret smile, for of course she knew what the girl was saying: you’re not better than me even though you think you are. Even though you’re in Gucci I can afford it too. I’m just as good as you are.

‘God,’ whispered an English voice next to her. ‘Isn’t this awful?’

Amber had turned to see a woman dressed much like herself, the same lack of make-up, the same hair pulled back into a ponytail.

‘It is a little overwhelming,’ Amber had smiled. ‘I’m Amber.’

‘Nice to meet you, Amber. I’m Deborah. So let me guess. You’re new to town and everyone told you that you just had to join the League, because that’s where you make all your friends and it’s all for a great cause.’

Amber had laughed. ‘Pretty much. How about you?’

‘My husband, Spencer, and I moved over from London about a year ago, and I thought it was about time I saw what everyone was talking about, although looking at these women I’m not sure it’s for me.’ She’d sighed. ‘But then again it is for a good cause, and I do want to do something. I’m just never going to be one of these super-chic women,’ and she’d gestured down at herself.

Amber, who had already decided that she would be coming back except next time she would out-fabulous even Suzy in her choice of outfit, had shrugged. ‘I feel ridiculous standing here in these old clothes, but nobody told me you had to dress.’

‘You don’t,’ Deborah had said. ‘Unless of course you’re trying to prove something.’

‘Well I can tell you next time I’m going to make more of an effort.’

‘And I thought you looked so normal.’

Amber had laughed. ‘I may look normal on the outside, but inside there’s a desperate social climber itching to get out.’

‘You go, girl.’ Deborah had laughed too. ‘At least you’re honest about it.’

Amber had been joking. But not really. She did feel inadequate, and although she had the name Winslow (which, incidentally, she was tempted to shout from the rooftops: ‘By the way, all you snotty women who are ignoring me because I don’t look good enough in my fleece and loafers, I’m Amber Winslow. Yes, one of
those
Winslows. Oh now you’re interested. So sorry, I’m
busy with my new friend, Deborah, who’s not good enough for you either’), like most of the women who had stood around her in the kitchen that day, money was quite new to her.

And although she hadn’t understood the rules of that first Highfield League of Young Ladies meeting, she did understand how money could protect you, how clothes and jewellery could be used as armour, making you feel just as good as those around you, even while inside you knew you weren’t.

Amber knew exactly what her mother-in-law would have said if she were to have stepped into that house and seen those women. Her mother-in-law in her centuries-old cashmere sweaters and Ferragamo shoes, still quality despite being bought back when the family had money. Her mother-in-law with her ubiquitous string of pearls, her aristocratic grey/blonde hair scraped back in a soignée chignon, her mother-in-law who didn’t have to carry a bag that shouted Chanel, or a diamond ring that was so heavy she could barely lift her hand in order to prove that she had money, that she was good enough.

‘New money,’ Amber could hear her mother-in-law sniff dismissively. ‘How very
déclassé
,’ she would say, yet Amber knew that deep down Icy Winslow would be ever-so-slightly jealous. Not because she wanted to be déclassé, but because although she had the name and the prestige that went with the name, she didn’t have the money to go with it.

Amber had thought, when she first married Richard,
that with the name and the money to go with it, she would have everything in life. She would feel good enough for the first time in her life, would be able to hold her head up high no matter who she was with, would never have to feel inadequate again. But she had found that whatever she had, wherever she went, she brought herself with her, and there seemed to be no escaping the baggage that she had collected throughout her life.

Of course there were times when she felt good enough, but every time a League meeting approached Amber would start to feel
less than
, and so she started going to Rakers – the one designer store in town – once a month to ensure she had an outfit good enough for the meeting, one that would make her the envy of the rest of the girls.

She hasn’t admitted this to anyone. Not even Deborah who has become one of her closest friends, largely because Deborah is as real as she first appeared at that meeting, and she is the kindest, greatest friend that Amber has ever known.

But she can’t admit it, has trouble at times even admitting it to herself because it just feels so damn childish. There are times in these meetings when she knows they’ve all regressed back to high school.

Times when Suzy’s fallen out with Heidi, or Elizabeth and Patty have decided they think Jennifer is weird, or Nadine didn’t pull her weight when she chaired the Arts Festival.

Amber has tried to stay out of the bitchiness, but it’s
hard to avoid with groups of women, and anyway, she’s on a mission – the same mission she had when she was in high school: to be queen bee. Suzy Bartlow may be the current queen of the League, but Amber is quietly pulling her troops around her and preparing for a takeover. She has the name, she has the house, and thanks to Rakers she has the clothes. Now it’s just a matter of time.

‘Hi, Judy!’ Amber finds her sales assistant in Rakers and they kiss hello – one of the benefits of being a regular and high-spending customer at the most expensive store in town.

‘How are you, Amber! Don’t tell me it’s that time of the month already?’ Judy is in on her secret, knows that Amber comes in to buy an outfit just for the meeting, usually has already picked out a few choices that generally Amber will love, Judy now having worked with her long enough to be able to anticipate her likes and dislikes.

‘I know! Can you believe it? Do you have any ideas?’

‘I do. I’ve already been through the new collections and I pulled some things out for you. There are some wonderful Michael Kors pants, a jacket from Escada and some Cavalli tops that may be a bit dressy but they’re absolutely stunning.’

‘And you’re sure no one else has bought them?’

Judy nods. ‘I’ve checked the computer. Nobody else has them.’ Yet another benefit of an upmarket store in a small town is that everyone knows everyone, and
because most of the women in the League buy their clothes at Rakers (although Suzy has recently started going to the city, which Amber is going to have to start doing herself very soon), the women can ask the staff to ensure that no one else has bought the same thing, thereby avoiding the humiliation of turning up to a meeting or, far worse, an event, in the same outfit as another committee member.

Amber tries on the trousers – perfect, and gasps as she puts on one of the Cavalli blouses. Judy was absolutely right. It is on the dressy side, a light gauzy chiffon with a loose tie at the neck, but somehow teamed with the tweedy trousers it looks perfect, and Judy nods in approval when Amber comes out of the fitting room.

‘And,’ Judy lowers her voice, ‘it’s the only one we got in so you’ll definitely stand out in the crowd.’

‘I love it.’ Amber breathes in, admiring herself as she turns and examines herself from every angle in the mirror. ‘It’s perfect.’

Judy disappears for a couple of minutes then re-emerges holding a pair of high satin pumps with a crocodile toe. ‘These just came in from Prada. Aren’t they
darling
? And wouldn’t they be perfect?’

‘Oh God,’ Amber groans. ‘Richard’s going to kill me.’

‘Rubbish,’ Judy snaps, used to comments like this from her wealthiest customers, and frankly she never knows why they complain, given the amount they spend so regularly and so unthinkingly. ‘We’ll put it on the house account as usual, and by the time the bill comes at the end of the year he won’t even think about it.’

‘Okay,’ Amber grins. ‘Judy, you’re amazing. Thank you!’

‘It’s my pleasure,’ Judy smiles, and given how much and how regularly Amber spends, of course it is.

Amber throws her Rakers bags into the back of her Toyota Sequoia and shudders with pleasure as she anticipates the meeting next week. Next week, for the first time, it’s at her house, and Amber has already phoned the caterers and ordered tiny, delicious French pastries, exquisite fruit tarts, mini éclairs stuffed with fresh cream.

She has bought a selection of the finest teas in the world, has stocked the fridge in the butler’s pantry with every soda imaginable, determined that hers will be the meeting that everyone will remember.

Of course some of the girls have been to her house, and her only regret is that the influence of Amberley Jacks will not be seen for a few more weeks – why does it take so long to order a sofa, for heaven’s sake, and why is their painter fully booked for another month? – but in the meantime Amber knows the girls will be studying the noticeboard in her kitchen, and so she has pinned the letter from Amberley Jacks slap bang in the middle of it, just to be sure they all know.

Amber only knows this because Deborah told her that everyone was talking about the meeting two months ago when Heidi had an invitation on her noticeboard to Elyse’s daughter’s birthday party, and Patty had seen it and been upset because Patty’s son
and Elyse’s daughter occasionally had playdates, but Patty’s son hadn’t been invited. Patty in fact didn’t even know Elyse was having a birthday party because Elyse had decided she had gone off Patty and didn’t want to invite her, and had told all her friends not to tell Patty about it.

And who would have thought that Heidi would be so stupid as to keep the invitation on the noticeboard when she was holding the meeting at her house, and everyone knows that everyone else studies the notice-board in the kitchen, just to make sure they’re not missing out on anything.

So now nobody’s talking to Heidi either, who has no idea what she’s done wrong, and the phones are buzzing around Highfield about this latest brouhaha, although, as Deborah said, it will all be forgotten about in a week and then something new will blow up. ‘We are, after all, back in high school again,’ she said with a roll of her eyes, and Amber laughed.

Amber drives off along Route 1, turning the radio on and singing along to a Billy Joel classic, feeling great as she pictures herself in her new outfit, three inches taller and ten pounds thinner, because after all, isn’t that what fantasies are for?