The Finishing Touches (14 page)

I’d have preferred some time to think about this, maybe even write some key phrases on little management consultant cards, but I had no choice. I leaped in before he could get on his high horse.

“I know! It’s out of date—but that’s the whole point. Let’s bring it
up
to date! I’ve been thinking about new lessons, new approaches. We really can make the Academy appeal to normal, everyday girls, as well as the usual upmarket clientele,” I said, my “confident” grin turned a bit manic round the edges. Fake it till you make it, I reminded myself. “I’ve had a brilliant idea to revolutionize it into the twenty-first century!”

“After
one
day?” Mark abandoned the wryness and stared at me with naked cynicism. “Either you really are the most genius business brain since the man who bottled water or you’re mad.”

“No, I just know what
I’d
like to have been told at eighteen!” I insisted. “You’re right about social rules being outdated and snobbish—we should be tailoring everything to what girls need to know
now
. Take my best friend, for instance—Liv’s twenty-six, but she thinks cash machines print the money from inside and she can’t dump a man without getting engaged to him first, because she only knows how to break off an engagement, not call a halt after three dates. She’s
desperate
for someone to tell her how to deal with the small stuff. How to get an upgrade on a plane. How to get a date. How to play poker.”

I could see from Mark’s dubious expression that I was losing him, so I played my financial trump card. “It’s got a much broader appeal, for a start. Think of all the girls out there who’d love to have their lives sorted out in ten easy lessons! We wouldn’t even need to hire new staff. And short courses mean higher turnover, quicker cash flow.”

“Go on,” he said, folding his arms and looking at me expectantly.

That was about as far as I’d got with Liv the previous evening. I swallowed and tried to look as if I wasn’t just making it up as I went along. But there was something encouraging in Mark’s expression. His dark eyebrows weren’t quite as tightly clenched as they had been a moment ago. And, I reminded myself, he was a proper, qualified financial expert. If
he
bought this idea, he could sell it to Miss Thorne, and I wouldn’t risk making a fool of myself.

“Well, I hadn’t got as far as planning lessons,” I admitted, “but it wouldn’t take us long to brainstorm a timetable. What have we got to lose? We could try it for a week or two, to see if it would work, then, when we have this meeting with Lord Phillimore, we can offer him this solution as well as the sale option. Come on, you’ve got to stay open until the end of this term, just to deliver what the girls have already paid for.”

Two weeks. That ought to give me enough time to meet Nell and snoop around, I reckoned.

Mark sat down at the desk and steepled his hands so he could rest his chin on them and stare at me. His brown eyes were sharp, even through his glasses. He didn’t mince his words. “And you think the girls won’t mind getting an entirely different set of lessons from the ones their parents signed them up for?”

“Do they even know what they were signed up for?” I
bluffed. “Is there anything in that prospectus that actually confirms lesson plans?”

“No,” said Mark. “And you’re presupposing that they’ve read it.”

We looked at each other, and I tried to make my face as hard to read as his. I don’t think I managed. I was too eager.

“Come on. ‘The Secrets of Life, in Six Weeks: Everything a Smart Girl Needs to Know, from Toxic Exes to Spanx.’ How easy would that be to market?”

“And you’re the woman to teach this brave new syllabus?” Mark tipped his head to one side. “Because I don’t see Miss McGregor teaching a Toxic Ex class. And I don’t even know what Spanx are.”

I blushed. “Well, I’m not saying I know
everything
. But I’ve been independent since I left school, and I’ve learned some useful life lessons when it comes to relationships. And I can find experts for the rest. We can hire them by the hour, instead of keeping them on the payroll.”

Mark pressed his lips together and nodded. “And, of course, you are a business owner,” he added. “You can maybe drill some sense into them about budgets and the boring side of life.”

I blinked, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Mark carried on looking at me, but now there was a sort of gleam beneath the stern banking expression.

“Miss Thorne won’t like this,” he said, but he didn’t sound disappointed. Far from it, in fact.

“The way we have to sell it is that it’s really not so far from what the Academy was meant to be about in the first place—preparing women for life. It’s just a different sort of life these days.”

“Oh, I couldn’t agree more,” he said.

Mark stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it, thoughtfully. “Sounds like you’ve already written the press release. OK, I don’t see why you shouldn’t give this a go. It can’t be any more disastrous than what’s going on now. But”—he looked up and the guarded expression had slipped; I saw genuine concern in his eyes, though the rest of his rugged face was still stern—“the bottom line for me is that Pelham Phillimore is a decent chap who’s been good to me, and it’s my duty as bursar, even a very part-time one, to look out for his best interest. I know you’ve got experience in turning failing businesses around, so I’m happy to defer to you in that respect, but I’ve got to think of him.”

“I know,” I said fervently. “Me too.”

We stared at each other for a moment, like co-conspirators, and I was convinced he was going to say, “Fine! But let’s drop the consultant routine.” He didn’t, though. He just turned his letter knife round and round.

“Why don’t you put something down on paper tonight, and we’ll go and see the Thorne tomorrow morning,” he suggested. “She can hardly say no, if we both suggest it’s in the Academy’s best interests. It’s only for a fortnight, after all.”

I couldn’t stop myself grinning. “Brilliant. Thanks! But,” I added, “shouldn’t you be at work? Are you taking time off for all this?”

“Annual leave,” he replied, going back to his post. “I’m going away this weekend. Racing the car.”

“Oh, really?” I began, but then the phone on his desk rang, and he pulled a quick apologetic grimace and answered it.

“Mark Montgomery,” he said in a brisk, businesslike tone quite different from the one he’d just been using. I pretended I wasn’t listening, but secretly I was ticking off another box. I liked a man with a businesslike phone manner.

I leaned back on the desk again and watched him concentrate on the call, turning a pen round and round in his fingers. OK, so Mark wasn’t a conventional fox, like Jamie, but charm wasn’t all about sexy eyes and great clothes and flirty conversation and knowing where the hottest new restaurants were before they opened…

Mark’s face collapsed and he squeezed his nose. “Paulette, you can’t possibly know that the caller is dodgy just from the way he pronounces his name. There are
lots
of reasons why he might be breathing heavily. Well, a cold, perhaps? Or a medical condition?”

He scribbled something on the back of an envelope and shoved it across the desk at me.

I noticed with some curiosity that Mark’s nails were much rougher than those of the City boys I knew, and he had oil under two cuticles.

He’d written
COURSE ON PHONE MANNERS
in very neat capital letters, underlined twice, and as I read it, he widened his eyes and drew a spiral on the side of his head.

I nodded, and wrote
COFFEE?
underneath it.

Mark gave me the thumbs-up, and I went downstairs to find some, feeling about 100 percent more positive about everything.

Liv texted me as I was cycling
back across Chelsea Bridge:
Don’t forget Jamie taking us out for dinner!!!!

As if I could forget. I’d raced through my to-do list at the Academy—speak to Miss McGregor; teach Paulette to put a caller on hold, not share her frank observations in an impromptu conference call, etc.—so I could be back at Liv’s in time for a shower, two outfit changes, and a serious session with my hair dryer. Dinners with Jamie needed a lot of preparation in order to achieve that critical “this old thing?” effect.

The front door was ajar as I walked in, and to my horror, I could hear the sounds of an O’Hare sibling squabble in full effect. There were people in the next postcode who could hear it.

“Don’t need
any
help from
you
!” Liv was insisting at the top of her lungs. “Coming here, patronizing me like that! Betsy and I are managing fine…”

Jamie retorted something I didn’t catch, to which Liv roared, “Jaaaaaamie, that is so out of order!”

If Liv’s besotted older man fan club ever saw her rowing with Jamie, I thought, they’d wonder how the Face of the Upper East Side could have the Voice of
EastEnders.

While they were still bickering (about what? I couldn’t quite make it out even though my ears were twisting round like radar dishes), I pushed my cycle helmet off and stared frantically into the hall mirror, trying to do what damage control I could. My hair was flat on the top of my head and frizzy underneath—I knew from experience that my industrial-strength serum wore off in about five minutes, at which point I’d look like something from the more exotic Toy classes at the Crufts dog show. Added to that, my nose had gone red with cold and my freckles were showing through my end-of-the-day makeup.

Oh, God, I thought. After my puffy face at the memorial service, I’d wanted to make a better impression this time round. I’d planned the perfect outfit and everything, and now he was going to think I’d turned into a troll.

I yanked at my hair with a comb and wondered if I had time to sneak upstairs and down again before they reached the yelling stage, but before I could even get my red lipstick twisted up, the kitchen door flew open and Liv rushed out, followed by Jamie.

“I will
show
you the bloody stupid bloody note he left me—oh, Bets, you’re back,” said Liv, pulling up short. Jamie pulled up behind her, nearly knocking her over. Together, they made a ridiculously attractive jumble of long legs and high cheekbones. Genetics, I thought, was all right for some.

“Hey, Betsy!” said Jamie with a smile that lit up his handsome face. “Lovely to see you again so soon!”

“Hargh,” I said, as my brain went blank.

Jamie pushed Liv out of the way—he was the only man
who didn’t treat her like a china doll—and opened his arms, clasping me in a big hug.

“You did a great job at that memorial,” he went on as my nose went into his shoulder. “I didn’t have time to tell you properly.” Behind him, I could see Liv pulling a “yeah, yeah” face, but I wasn’t really concentrating. I was wallowing in Jamie’s sexy, expensive cologne—a sort of limey, fresh smell—and his soft green shirt and the skin on the side of his neck, of which I had a great view. I could see where he’d had his hair cut recently, because there was a tiny line of paler skin next to the winter tan.

“How’s things up in Edinburgh? Has Fiona opened a London branch?” he said, holding me at arm’s length now and giving my outfit an approving once-over. “You look really smart!”

“This? Oh, it’s just a sale bargain,” I heard myself mumble. “Hobbs, seventy percent off.” What was he talking about? Apart from the fact that I’d just cycled across town and was on the rumpled side of disheveled, my A-line skirt was creased like a concertina and I’d got meringue on my shirt from where Clemmy’s pastry bag had exploded under fierce pressure. “Huge discount.”

“Well, it looks very Miss Moneypenny,” said Jamie with an appreciative look, and my insides turned to water. I tried to think of something offhand but flirtatious to say, like the hundreds of glossy-shinned socialites he hung out with would.

“Mmnngh,” I said instead.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Liv tossed her head so hard she flicked hair in my eyes as well as her own. “It’s
Betsy!
There’s no need to go into chat-up mode! She’s just come back from Halfmoon Street, like I told you—I told you, didn’t I, that she’s pretending to be a management consultant? I
did
, Jamie, you weren’t listening, as usual. That’s why she looks like that.”

I nodded geekily.

Jamie nodded too, expecting me to elaborate. He smiled encouragingly, showing his lovely white teeth and the dimple on his chin.

“It’s…” I struggled to put the bizarre last few days into words that would make sense. “It’s…complicated.”

Liv looked between me and Jamie and obviously interpreted my inability to speak as weariness. “She’s had a long day at work, Jamie; she doesn’t want to talk about it now, can’t you see that? Betsy, there’s been a change of plan—again.” She shot a disparaging glance at her brother. “Some
ex
of Jamie’s has opened a bar down the road, so we’re going to try that out, if that’s OK with you.”

My spirits sank. Jamie seemed to know every blond woman in London, all of whom he claimed to be “great friends with,” which Liv and I privately agreed was a euphemism for two-night stands upwards. Plus, I hadn’t brought the outfit for a trendy night out, even if I did have the energy.

“She’s not an
ex
,” said Jamie patiently, checking his phone. “She’s an old friend, called Kirstie, and I said I’d call in and support her new project. Is that so awful? I’m a professional event planner; I need to know about new venues. Whereas you just research them on an amateur basis. With your team of
exes
. Sorry, dinner dates.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?” demanded Liv.

“Not really,” said Jamie, but then, unable to stop himself, he looked up from his mobile. “Any weddings coming up this month that I ought to know about? Now Dad’s probably not going to be available to give you away, I suppose I’ll be the one marching you down the aisle.”

Liv put her hands on her hips and looked at me for support. “See? He’s been back in this house about ten minutes and already he’s winding me up. For your information,
Jamie,
I’m having a complete man detox for the foreseeable. Dad’s really
dumped me in it, and from now on I am totally learning how to do without a man. Betsy’s going to teach me how to cope. I don’t need
you
patronizing me about how I…how I pay my whatsits.”

Jamie turned to me. “What can I say? Apart from good luck, Betsy. If Liv wants to join you and me in the big bad real world of work, then who am I to stop her?”

Liv started to make noises about the nature of Jamie’s “work,” but I was too delighted by the way he’d bracketed us together. “You’ll let me take you out tonight, won’t you? At least let me do that,” he went on, still looking at me in his “no one else in the room” manner. “Before Liv starts her ‘I Will Survive’ routine?”

“That’s fair enough,” I said, pretending to be stern. “But you have to let us choose the wine. And talk to us about mortgages over dinner.”

“Deal,” he said, then checked his watch. “Listen, we could go now, if you want—have a drink before we eat? Or do you want to get changed? Not that you don’t look great as you are,” he added quickly.

I opened my mouth to say something, but Liv had grabbed me anyway and was pulling me toward the door.

“Oh, give it a rest, this is us you’re talking to, not Tabitha Hotsy-Totsy-Plotsy,” said Liv, dragging me toward the stairs. “Give us five minutes. Make yourself at home—but don’t take that as permission to go through my bills, all right?”

“In five minutes? You must be joking,” retorted Jamie, and this time it was me pulling Liv upstairs before the squabble could kick off again.

One of the advantages of temporarily sharing Liv’s house was that I also got to share her wardrobe, which was epic and ran
into two rooms, not including her accessories cupboard and makeup trunk. Though she was a good four inches taller than me, she tended to wear her clothes on the short side—skirts and dresses only; she “didn’t do” trousers—so it balanced out well enough, given that my legs didn’t require as much showcasing as hers.

Liv dressed me up almost absentmindedly at the same time as she changed her own outfit. “Here, wear this; it’ll bring out your eyes,” she said, rustling through the rails and throwing garments at me. “Honestly, Jamie! He is doing my head in. I think it’s the most sick-making version of Mr. Social Chameleon I’ve seen so far. And I say that,” she added, pausing only to tweak the dress I’d tugged over my head so the neckline went from eye-watering to eye-catching, “as someone who remembers his eco-warrior phase. When he had the dreadlocks and only drank organic vodka.”

“What do you mean?” I pulled out the only jewelry I had—my gold bee necklace—and added some more serum to my restraightened hair. I didn’t see any point in trying to compete with Liv; I’d given that up years ago.

“Oh, he’s flown back to bail me out, apparently, but he’s only saying that because he’s furious with Dad. Although you know what Dad and Jamie are like—if they weren’t so identical they might actually get on.” Liv pulled her hair into a bun, stuck a gold prong-thing in it, and added some nude gloss to her full lips. In her loose shirt and massive statement necklace, she looked like she’d just slouched out of David Bailey’s studio in 1968. “Not just that, though—when he wasn’t giving me a hard time about my
financial dyslexia
, as he kept calling it, he was going on about changing his life and settling down, and how Dad skipping off has been a wake-up call for him.” She turned round. “Settling down! The man who keeps a toothbrush in his laptop bag.”

“Blimey,” I said. I couldn’t imagine Jamie with a Labrador and a baby carriage. “Won’t there be a lot of disappointed
ladeez
out there?”

“Depends what he terms ‘settling down.’ I wouldn’t put it past him to have found a religion where he could keep a fully stocked harem just off Kings Road.” Liv added a final swipe of blush to my face, almost in passing, and cheekbones sprang out of nowhere. “I think it’s all an act. He perked up and started being his usual self the moment you arrived, you notice.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?” I asked, transfixed by my reflection in her ornate boudoir mirror. Liv’s hours loitering in the Harvey Nichols cosmetics hall hadn’t been in vain. I normally only went for red lips and jet-black eyelashes, but now I was beginning to think I should invest in blush.

“I don’t know,” said Liv glumly. “But just brace yourself for a smug-arse lecture about how turning thirty changes your perspective on everything. I’ve had about as much as I can take from a man who spends more on novelty martinis than I do on the mortgage.”

There was no sign of the lecture over the first round of drinks we had at Kirstie’s new bar, though—or the second, which was brought over by Kirstie herself, who was as gorgeous and giggly and “thrilled to see you, darling” as I thought she’d be.

I looked on, rather enviously. I knew the good old rules for navigating parties as if I knew everyone, but I’d never quite have that bare-shouldered flirtiness that women like Kirstie had with men like Jamie. It wasn’t the same as Liv’s easy, sweet nature—it was a specifically targeted, men-only charm beam, and Liv and I might as well have been invisible.

“Definitely an ex,” muttered Liv in my ear as Kirstie tousled his hair slightly more than affectionately. I wouldn’t have
minded tousling it myself—Jamie’s hair was a dirtier blond than Liv’s, but it had a very touchable softness to it, even though it didn’t fall so far into his eyes as it used to.

He spotted Liv’s tense expression and finished up his chat quickly. “So,” he said to me as Kirstie wiggled away, his business card in her pocket, “what’s this about curtseying lessons?”

We ate olives and bread while I told Jamie about the piles of yellowing place cards I’d found pre-prepared for a test on seating four Royal Families and the Dalai Lama, and the catwalk left over from the sixties.

“Divinity and Anastasia have been using it to choreograph their acceptance speeches for when they win
American Idol
,” I told them. “I found them up there with a karaoke machine, weeping into microphones and thanking their mothers. Not doing any singing, mind you. They’re getting someone else to do that for them, apparently. Miss McGregor’s popping Advil like M&M’s.”

“But tell him about your new plans,” Liv prompted as our appetizers arrived on strange black plates. “That’s the really amazing part. The part that
I’m going to be helping with,
” she added, waving her fork at Jamie, against all Academy rules. “My ignorance is going to be their gain, or something.”

“So it’s a three-year course now, is it?” Jamie inquired.

I reeled off my ideas before they could start squabbling again, with Liv chipping in whenever I paused for breath. Jamie seemed impressed, especially by Tiptoeing Through Modern Social Minefields.

“I can’t believe there isn’t something like this already—it’s a great idea!” he said. “If you want someone to come in and give the bloke’s point of view, I’m happy to do that. Explain the mysteries of life from the poor, misunderstood male perspective.”

“
Oh
my God,” moaned Liv, but Jamie ignored her.

“How to break it off without destroying his ego,” he suggested. “What a guy means when he says—”

“The sexy blonde wearing your dressing gown is just a friend?” Liv interrupted. “And/or his sister?”

“He values your friendship too much to start a relationship?” I added.

“You remind him of his mother, ‘in a good way’?” Liv was only just warming up, I could tell. “Or ‘in a bad way’?”

“He suddenly switches from thinking marriage is the devil’s own community service to hustling the next woman he dates down the aisle?” I said.

Jamie held up his hands. “Give me a break! I said I’d do a lesson, not explain every reason you two have ever been dumped. But, since you’re asking,” he went on, holding up his fingers to mark off the questions, “in order, one, she usually
is
a friend; two, girls who make you laugh and don’t play mind games are a rare and precious thing; three, all men marry their mothers eventually, I’m sorry to say; and four…” He stopped and looked self-conscious for a split second. “Four, sometimes you just feel like moving the party back home instead of going out every night to find it, OK? And sometimes you meet someone you don’t want to risk losing to another guy. You’ve got to move in quickly—it’s only you women who like to spin things out.”