Pants on Fire (34 page)

“So does the Queen Mother,” I told him. “Maybe you should black your teeth out and go as her. You'd look lovely in mauve. I definitely don't think you should go as the young Margaret. Those 50s dresses are so unflattering to the more mature figure. Go as Mustique Margaret. Much more glamour.”

“Perfect! I've already got the kaftan . . .” and he disappeared off to the workroom, coming back moments later in a pale-blue swirly print mu mu, with matching turban, sunglasses and some badly applied coral lipstick. More shrieking. Trudy put Antony's crown on top of the turban.

“Bring me black men!” cried Antony. “Bring me gin! Off with their heads!”

The lights suddenly flickered.

“Hello Lee!” we all shouted together. They flickered again.

“I've got a more lateral idea,” said Trudy, who I knew couldn't have borne to have gone to the ball as anyone unfashionable. “Let's go as a royal flush. The jack, queen, king and ace of hearts. You could have someone as Jack Nicholson for the jack . . .”

“Someone as Antony,” I said. “For the quee—”

He threw a piece of bread at me.

“Someone as Martin Luther King,” said Trudy. “And then . . . Martina Navratilova.”

“Since when has there been a dyke card?” said Debbie, who was now wearing one of Antony's enormous hats.

“Tennis
ace
, stupid.”

“Short skirt, Debbie . . .” said Antony.

“Antony, you could go as Prince Edward,” I said. “Everyone says he's gay . . . Oh no! Scrap that, I'm not going as that awful Sophie Rhys Jones . . . Is she the Fiona Clarke of England?” I asked Debbie.

“Got it in one.”

“Maybe I can borrow one of her polyester suits for my costume . . .”

“It would be too big in the tits,” said Debbie. “Although come to think of it, she does look like a cheaper version of you.”

“Oh, thanks a bunch,” I said, realising it was true. Well, I could see there was some physical resemblance. We were both fair-skinned blondes.

“I suppose I could go as the Duke of Windsor,” said Antony, now busy tying a headscarf under Betty's chin, “but I don't really see you as Wallis, darling,” he said to me. “You're too obviously a woman.”

Shriek. Shriek. Flicker. Flicker.

“I've got a good idea for you, Betts,” said Debbie. “You can go as Zara Phillips because you've already got the pierced tongue.”

“That's a great idea,” said Antony. “And we'll get your father to come on a horse and ride around being rude to everyone. He'd be a marvellous Mark Phillips.”

“Yeah, and you can be Princess Anne,” said Debbie.

“It would almost be worth it, to be married to your father for a night,” sighed Antony.

I was trying to think of something horrible enough to suggest for Plonker, but Antony beat me to it.

“Plonker Pollock could go as King Dong—after the porn star—from what all you girls have told me,” he said gleefully. Then he put the Three Degrees on the stereo because they're Prince Charles's favourite singers, and that was the end of any remotely sensible conversation because we all started dancing.

“Just another quiet night in,” said Antony, sashaying past with his crown on. And as he came back past me he gave me one of his disconcerting kisses right on the lips and whispered in my ear: “We're going to be the king and queen of the Cointreau Ball. My Pussy and I . . .”

Chapter Twenty

At last the big day arrived. The limo was picking us up at seven p.m., but Antony made me go to his place at ten in the morning, because he wanted us to spend the whole day together getting ready. He had his Polaroid camera set up, so that we could take pictures of ourselves to make sure we looked perfect, the way Bianca Jagger used to before going off to Studio 54. We were going to start with a Turkish bath in his steamroom and then he'd arrange for people to come and give us a massage, manicure and pedicure, followed by a light lunch, a nap and then hair and make-up. Trudy, Betty, Debbie and her date were coming over for drinks and we would all go on in our limos together.

Antony had finished our dresses at three in the morning. Mine was a long bias-cut oyster satin column with a low draped back. His was sleeveless white duchess satin, cut straight across the neck and slightly waisted. We'd decided to go as a tribute to Carolyn Besette Kennedy and Jackie Kennedy. My hair was the right length and colour and just needed to be straightened into perfect sleekness and then put loosely up.

“We're going as real royalty,” said Antony, as he showed me the completed gowns. “People so gorgeous they had the status of royalty thrust upon them—so much smarter than just being born into it, don't you think?” He was purring with excitement.

I smiled at him. I did adore Antony, but he was so intelligent, so talented, so well-read, I found it hard to believe that this was really the sum of his endeavours. His knowledge of fashion history was encyclopaedic. He could date any garment to within five years—practically to the week, for anything later than 1920. And through his endless research into fashion and women of style, he was better versed in the social history of the twentieth century than anyone I knew. He might present himself as the silliest of fluff bunnies, but really he was an academic.

“You love all this, don't you Dolores?”

“Born to it, darling,” he said. “I've been playing dress-ups since I was old enough to stand up by myself in front of a mirror. Nothing is more satisfying for me than the preparations for a grand costume ball.”

We made ourselves comfortable on the hot rocks in the steamroom. I'd kept my knickers on, but Antony told me not to be such a prude and was marching around stark naked. I kept my eyes resolutely above his waist level and my towel to hand.

Every now and then he would spring up and turn on the shower—a huge thing the size of a dustbin lid in the middle of the ceiling—on cold. There was no escaping it, so the easiest thing was just to throw yourself underneath its full freezing blast, rather than being caught by chilly spray.

“Ooh, look at your nipples, Pussy,” said Antony, tweaking them. “You could hang things off them.”

“Stop it! Get off!” I shrieked, folding my arms across my breasts. “My nipples are private.”

“Well, they won't be private for long in that dress I've made you. It's always freezing at the Cointreau Ball. And I don't suppose they're private to that hideous Jasper O'Connor either.”

“They are now,” I said.

“Really?” Antony's face lit up. “Have you given him the flick?” He turned the shower off and resumed his impression of a lizard lying on a hot rock.

“Yes, by mutual agreement.” I really didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to hear the glee in Antony's voice and I didn't want to think about Jasper. I still felt uncomfortable about it.

“That's excellent news. I told you your association with him was beginning to lower your stock in this town.”

“Well, maybe my share price will go up again now,” I said sarcastically.

“Yes, with rumours of a new merger . . .” Antony chuckled wickedly.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of pleasant physical sensations. The first champagne cork was popped at five, when the make-up artist and hairdresser arrived, which I thought showed remarkable restraint on Antony's part.

“Pacing is everything tonight,” he said. “There will be unlimited amounts of grog from the moment we arrive, and it's essential not to peak too soon. First there's the early cocktails and milling, checking out what everyone's wearing and making sure the judges get a good look at us, then dinner, which is civilised jokey chat and lots of wine and table-hopping. Then a bit more milling and chatting, and you only want to be peaking when we hit the dance floor, which we will not leave until three a.m. when they throw us out. Then you can go on to an after party—they usually arrange one somewhere—but I warn you, they're always a let-down after the magical atmosphere of the venue. Much better to come back here with a select group of fashionable people.”

After a whole day of preparations, suddenly we were ready. Although I'd watched him have his nails and make-up done, I still hadn't really been able to picture Antony in a dress. He was as camp as they come, but there was something fundamentally masculine about him—maybe it was his Spanish blood. He had very black hair all over his arms, chest and legs and now I'd seen him stark bollock naked, I knew he had a nuggety male body too. Not a gym-pumped overdone pin-up boy body, but a man's body. Lived-in looking. Nice.

But when he put that wig on he was Jackie Kennedy.

“Wow!” was all I could say. “You look amazing.”

He walked differently. All his movements were more delicate. In fact, he was being almost unbearably gracious. Antony was totally in character. I was still in my bathrobe and a tiny little G-string he'd provided for me (the only underwear he would permit under my House of Maybury gown).

“Come along, Pussy dear, go and get your dress on. The others will be here soon.”

I went into his atelier (as he had taken to calling it) and stepped into the slippery silk. It felt like mercury next to my skin, so cool and smooth. I looked in the mirror. Even I was impressed. I actually looked quite like her.

Jackie swished in behind me.

“You look charming,” he said. “Absolutely charming. Jack would have been so proud.” He wiped a mock tear from the corner of his eye. “So sad, so terribly sad.”

“Jack would have been hitting on her, Jackie darling, so get over yourself,” said a voice behind us. It was Princess Grace of Monaco. A dazzling young Princess Grace, resplendent in a pale blue strapless satin gown, with long white gloves, rubies and diamonds at her neck and in a tiara.

“Oh, Your Highness,” said Antony, dropping into a deep curtsey before Debbie. “You look so gorgeous, but oh those awful Grimaldi jewels. Rubies and diamonds, so unlucky. Blood on bandages, you know.”

I just stared. Debbie was Princess Grace. She looked so like her. The same perfect nose, the blue eyes, the blonde hair.

“Are the rest of your benighted family, here, Your Highness?” asked Antony.

Debbie gestured back towards the main room with her head.

“You look wonderful, Georgie,” she said. “Really beautiful. We're going to find a fabulous man for you tonight, now that you've finally seen the light and dumped that deadbeat . . . Antony rang and told me while you were having your nap,” she added.

Debbie's date—some French guy she'd dredged up—made an excellent young Rainier. Trudy was an elegant Princess Caroline in a Chanel-style black evening dress and Betty was a hilarious, if somewhat overweight, Princess Stephanie. He was wearing a badge saying “I'm Stephie, fly me” on the shoulder of his electric blue dress.

We had champagne and toasted each other, then the buzzer rang to announce the limousines. We were off.

 

 

The journey took about thirty minutes and we got out at an old factory in the middle of some wasteland. Well, that's what it was on the outside. Inside it resembled Versailles. Or the Winter Palace. Or Marienberg. Or Sleeping Beauty's castle. There was a swagged ceiling festooned with enormous chandeliers. The walls were covered in huge gold mirrors and periwigged courtiers held candelabras to guide our way.

We entered on a red carpet where a page in silk stockings, a frock coat and a powdered wig asked our names, so we could be announced.

“Mrs. John F. Kennedy and Mrs. John Kennedy Junior,” said the Master of Ceremonies.

“Their Royal Highnesses Prince Rainier and Princess Grace of Monaco.”

“Her Royal Highness Princess Caroline of Monaco and Princess Stephanie of Potts Point.”

“Oberon, King of the Fairies and his Queen, Titania.” We were thrilled to see Michael and Cordelia. She was wearing the same outfit she'd worn to her party and looked glorious again.

“The King, Mr. Elvis Presley.”

“Thank God I didn't do that,” said Trudy. I've seen about five already.”

“Her Royal Highness Princess Margaret.” Antony nudged me when a kaftaned Princess walked in with a handsome black guy on her arm.

“His Majesty King Henry VIII and Queens Catherine, Anne, Jane, Anne, Catherine and Catherine.” The wives were all men and they looked amazing.

“Her Majesty the Red Queen.” It was Danny Green, taking photographs as he made his entrance.

“The Duchess of York.”

“That's funny,” said Betty. Fergie was a man in a perfect replica of the appalling blue and white check milkmaid outfit the Duchess had worn early in her royal career.

Antony rolled his eyes. He'd already told me he couldn't understand people who went to the party looking unattractive.

“Her Royal Highess the Princess of Wales.”

“Part of a continuing series,” groaned Antony. “People are
so
obvious.”

“His Most Perfect Majesty, the Sun King.”

Hello Plonker.

“His ego really is out of control, isn't it?” said Antony.

“The Duke and Duchess of Cornwall.”

Antony roared. It was two of his friends, Joanna and Mary, as a very good post-abdication Charles and Camilla. Charles was in a gardening outfit talking to a trug of flowers, Camilla had her hunting coat on. They were followed by:

“His Majesty King William.” Who was Ingrid.

“Hysterical,” said Antony. “They wouldn't tell me what they were doing. Very good. Very good. Well, we can forget the prize, Pussy darling, the competition is just too tough this year, but at least we know we look beautiful.”