Out of the Blue (3 page)

It’s always fun watching Lily entering a room. You can almost
hear the clunk of jawbones hitting the floor. That’s what it was like tonight.
She’s so used to it, she claims never to notice, but it always makes me
smile.

“Darlings, I’m
so
sorry!” she
called out as she swept in on a cloud of Obsession, oblivious to the collective
male stares. “
So
sorry,” she reiterated as her
floor-length arctic fox slid from her shoulders and was quickly gathered up by
the
maitre d’
. “You see Gore’s in town—Vidal not
Al—so we had a quick drink at the Ritz, then I had to go down Cork Street where
there was this
tedious
private view…” She removed
her fur hat and I could see snowflakes on her shoulder-length, raven-black hair.
“And Chanel were launching their new scent,” she went on, “so of course I had to
show my face there…” She handed the waiter an assortment of exquisite little
bags. “But I only stayed ten minutes at Lord Linley’s Twelfth Night party
because I just wanted to be here with you.” I glanced at Mimi—she was
speechless.

“Happy anniversary, Faith, darling!” Lily exclaimed, handing me
a Tiffany bag. Inside, in a silk-lined presentation box, was a small cylinder
made of sterling silver.

“It’s a telescope,” I said wonderingly, holding it up to my
left eye. “Oh! No it isn’t, it’s a…ooh how
lovely
.”
As I rotated the end with my right hand, a thousand sequins—red and purple and
green—arranged themselves into dazzling patterns, like the fractals of a
Technicolor snowflake.

“How wonderful,” I murmured. “A kaleidoscope. I haven’t seen
one of these for years.”

“I couldn’t decide what to get you,” said Lily, “but I thought
this might be fun. It’s for Peter as well,” she added, giving him a feline
smile.

“Thank you, Lily,” he replied.

“What a fantastic present,” I said, hugging her. “Hey, great
outfit, too!” Today she was wearing a viridian green cashmere twin-set, a
knee-length gabardine skirt, and a pair of what I think were probably Jimmy Choo
snakeskin boots.

“The cashmere’s only Nicole Farhi,” she said. “But I’m getting
so
bored of Voyage. Jil Sander sent me the
skirt. Wasn’t that sweet? The cut’s so sharp it ought to be classed as an
offensive weapon. When I’ve finished with it, Faith, it’s yours.”

“Thanks, Lily,” I said ruefully. “But it wouldn’t go past my
knees.” Lily’s a size ten, and I’m a fourteen. She’s almost six foot—more in her
heels—and I’m only five foot four. Which is funny, because when we were nine we
were both exactly the same size. She used to have my cast-offs then, but now she
gives me hers. She used to be the one who was penniless, but now it’s me. Still,
we all make our choices in life, and as I say, I’m quite happy with mine.

The waiter poured Lily a glass of Chablis, and then he looked
at the large, Louis Vuitton carrier on her lap and said, “May I take that for
you, madam?”

“Oh, no thank you,” she replied, looking slightly furtive.
“This is my handbag, you see.”

“Really, madam?” he said suspiciously.

“Absolutely,” Lily shot back with a dazzling smile, her
refulgent teeth sparkling like frost against the rich, dark bronze of her skin.
“I always hang on to this one,” she explained. I knew why. She’s very naughty
like that. But then, as I say, Lily has always broken rules. As the waiter
retreated she put the bag under the table and quickly undid the zip. Then she
looked at me, grinned, and swiped the last bit of meat from my plate.

“Here, darling!” she whispered as her beautifully manicured
hand shot down below. “Auntie Faith wants you to have this.” We could hear
snuffling, snorty little sounds, followed by a tinny whine. Katie, Sarah and I
lifted the cloth and peered under the table where Lily’s Shih Tzu, Jennifer, had
just scoffed the last of my lamb. A pink tongue shot out and wrapped itself
around her furry little face; then she stared at us blankly with a pair of huge,
bulging, black eyes.

“What a sweet hairstyle,” said Sarah with a laugh. Jennifer’s
flowing locks had been gathered into a top knot and secured with a sparkling
clip.

“Oh yes, she’s
so
gorgeous,” Lily
replied with a sigh. “Isn’t she, Faith? Isn’t she just the prettiest little
thing in the world?”

“Oh, yes,” I lied, looking at Jennifer’s undershot jaw, her
crooked teeth, her bearded chin and flat little face. “Jennifer’s just…great,” I
added with a hypocritical smile. Again, some people might think that Jennifer’s
an unusual choice of name for a dog. In fact her full name is Jennifer Aniston.
This is because of her long, silky blond hair, and because she’s “worth it”. At
least I hope so, because Lily spends half her salary on that pooch. The Louis
Vuitton doggy bag, for example—that’s at least five hundred pounds’ worth. She’s
also got eight Gucci dog collars, five Chanel leads, two Burberry coats, three
Paul Smith bowls, and you should see her bed! It’s like an oriental tent,
complete with Chinese wall-hangings and a silk rug. The purpose of this,
apparently, is to remind Jennifer of her ancient origins in Imperial Peking.
Shih Tzus were temple dogs, and Lily worships hers. But between you and me,
Jennifer Aniston is simply not my type. She’s not Graham’s, either. He tends to
stare at her, slightly incredulously, as though he’s not entirely sure she’s a
dog.

“How’s magland?” I asked brightly, changing the subject.

“Fabulous,” Lily replied. “Here’s the February issue—look! It’s
just come in from the printers, I’m having them biked all over town.” The
magazine felt heavy in my hands, and shone under the spotlights like ice.
Moi!
it proclaimed on the masthead, above a photo of
Kate Moss. I glanced at the headlines: “Pees and Queues—Five Star Loos!”
“Prolier Than Thou—the REAL New Labour!” “It Girls—Just Lamé Ducks?” and
“Pulling Power—Our Top Ten Tweezers!”

“Hype springs eternal!” muttered Peter, rolling his eyes.

I gave him a discreet kick, then Sarah and I flicked through
the magazine, careful to admire, aloud, the wonderful photos, the features, and
the fashion. And the ads, of course. There were lots of those. Some of them, I
happen to know, cost thirty thousand pounds a page, which is more than I earn in
a year. There was one particular ad for an expensive face cream, with a photo of
a Persian kitten, and though I’m a doggy sort of person, I just couldn’t help
going, “Aaaaah!”

“That’s the ‘classical conditioning’ reflex, Mum,” said Katie
knowledgeably. “Extremely effective for selling. It works by establishing an
association between a product and a pleasant feeling. Stayman and Batra did a
fascinating study in 1991 which proved that emotional states affect consumer
choice.” As I say, she’s not like other girls. In the meantime Lily had been
rattling on about circulation and pagination and subscription rates and God
knows what. “We’ve got a hundred and twenty advertising pages,” she explained
happily, “and a hundred and thirty editorial. This is our biggest issue yet.
We’re on a roll.”

At the front was an article about dieting and a profile of
Sharon Stone. There was an extract from the new Ian McEwan novel, and the
society diary section, “I Spy”. There were pages on lotions and potions, and a
competition to win a car. Now, I love competitions. I do quite a lot of them,
though obviously I couldn’t enter this one because friends of the editor are
barred. But whenever I’ve got time I send off the forms. I actually won
something recently—I was really chuffed—a year’s supply of Finish rinse aid.
I’ve never won anything big though, but maybe one day I will.

By now, Mimi, who works at Radio 4, had plucked up her courage
and was talking to Lily about her career.

“Other women’s magazines have falling circulations,” Mimi said,
“but yours seems to be soaring.”

“It’s gone up by twenty per cent since I took over,” said Lily
triumphantly. “They’re all quaking in their Manolos at
Vogue!
”

“Would you like to come on
Woman’s
Hour?”
Mimi asked. “When I’m back from maternity leave? You’d be
talking about
Moi!
, of course, and about your
innovatory editing style. But I think the listeners would also like to know
about you—your background, and your convent days.” Lily snorted with
laughter.

“I wasn’t exactly a model pupil. Ask Faith!” I smiled and
nodded. It was true. But there are reasons for that. There are very good reasons
why Lily, though obviously gifted, was rather difficult at school. For a start,
she was just plucked from her home: it was done with the best of intentions, but
she was taken away and placed in an environment where she was bound to feel she
didn’t fit in. At eight, her exceptional brain was spotted by a teacher, who
told the local priest, who then contacted the bishop, who wrote to Reverend
Mother who agreed to take her on as a scholarship girl. And that was how Lily
left the Caribbean to be educated at St Bede’s.

“Lily was a brilliant pupil,” I said. “She wanted to be top in
everything, and she was!”

“Except good behavior,” Lily pointed out with a throaty laugh.
This was absolutely true. We had to go to confession every Saturday morning, and
she used to spend hours in there. I was convinced she must be making things up,
so I remember once telling her that inventing transgressions was, in itself, a
mortal sin.

“It’s a bit like wasting police time,” I explained, “so you
really shouldn’t fabricate sins.”

“I wasn’t fabricating anything,” she retorted, rolling her huge
brown eyes.

I’m afraid Lily wasn’t what you’d call popular. She could be
very sharp, for example, and the girls feared her razor tongue. When we were
sixteen, Sister St Joseph gave us a career talk and she looked at Dinah Shaw,
who was terribly dim, and said, “Dinah, what are
you
going to be when you leave St Bede’s?” And Lily shouted, “Twenty-five!”

But if, as I say, Lily was naughty, it was because of all the
appalling snobbery and spite. Venetia Smedley was the worst. She came from the
Channel Islands and was known as the Jersey Cow. At breakfast one morning—I’ll
never forget it—Venetia announced, in a very loud voice, “My parents are off to
St Kitts next week. They always stay at the Four Winds in Banana Bay. Isn’t that
a coincidence, Lily? Perhaps your mother will be cleaning their room.” Lily just
looked at her, lowered her spoon and said, “Yes, Venetia. Perhaps she will.” But
a few months later she exacted a dreadful revenge. Venetia had had bridgework,
having fallen off her pony two years before. She was very embarrassed about this
and would never let anyone see her cleaning her teeth. Lily made some toffee; it
was unbelievably sticky because—I only learned this afterwards—she’d adulterated
it with glue. Then she offered some to Venetia, and the look of triumph on
Lily’s face when Venetia’s three false teeth came out… ‘Oh, I’m
so
sorry, Venetia,” she said sweetly. “I forgot that
you wore dentures.” Afterwards, I found her in the grounds, rocking with
laughter. And she looked at me gleefully and whispered, “Vengeance is mine,
saith the Lord. I will repay!” And she did.

She’s still calling in her debts to this day.

“I had Camilla Fanshawe on the phone this morning,” she said to
me with a snicker as she spooned up her guacamole. “She’s marrying some squitty
banker and she was begging me, Faith,
begging
me to
cover her wedding in “I Spy”. But she was only saying that because Letty
Brocklebank got hers into
Tatler
. And Camilla was
practically blubbing and saying how she always liked me
so
much at school and how she
knew
I’d
be a success because I was
so
clever, and what about
it? Old school tie and all that? And I let her go on and on and then I said,
very sweetly, ‘Well I’m
terribly
sorry, Camilla—I’m
afraid we don’t cover small, provincial weddings in
Moi!
’”

Yes, Lily’s had the last laugh, all right. She’s outsmarted
them all—in every way. Intellectually, of course, though that was easy
enough—but she outsmarted them socially, too. Her mind was like a radar, and she
quickly cracked the code. Her table manners changed, her deportment improved and
within two years her voice was transformed. Gone was her rich, Caribbean
inflection and in its place was cut glass. Peter says she has “irritable vowel
syndrome”, but, as I say, he’s not really a fan.

Mimi, clearly fascinated by Lily, was asking us about St
Bede’s. So we explained that there was Mass every morning, benediction on
Wednesdays, the rosary on Thursdays, confession on Saturdays, and sung Latin
Mass on Sundays.

“Was there time for any lessons with all that?” Mike
enquired.

“Oh yes,” I said tipsily, “and Lily was jolly good at them! She
got twelve ‘O’ levels, four A-grade A levels, and an exhibition to Cambridge at
seventeen.”

“What about sports?”

“We had hockey and netball.”

“I was
useless
,” said Lily with a
laugh. “All that running and jumping—such a bore—I really couldn’t be fagged. I
was no good at music, either,” she giggled. I kept quiet; it was perfectly true.
In fact she had a voice like a corncrake and standing next to her during “Faith
of Our Fathers” was not a musically rewarding experience. “As for dancing,” she
went on. “I was
appalling
at that! I had two left
feet—I still have.”

“There was lots of drama,” I went on enthusiastically. “It was
great. Especially the annual school play…” Suddenly I saw the smile slide off
Lily’s face and she gave me a censuring stare. And then I remembered. Drama’s a
sore point. We don’t talk about that. You see, Lily wasn’t very good at acting,
and without sounding conceited, I was. The awful thing was that she loved it,
but she was always so over the top. I mean, she couldn’t even make the sign of
the cross without looking as though she was directing traffic. So acting was not
her forté and this spoiled our friendship for a while. When we were in the Lower
Sixth, Reverend Mother was casting the school play. She decided to do
Othello
and, as the only non-white girl at St Bede’s,
Lily presumed the title role would be hers. She prepared hard for the part, and
I helped her to go through her lines. But when, after auditions, the list went
up, the lead had gone not to Lily, but to me. She didn’t take it well, I’m
afraid. In fact she stormed into Reverend Mother’s office—I was there at the
time—and shouted, “It’s because I’m
black
, isn’t
it?”