‘Tamra, I – errr . . .’ Veronica said nervously.
‘Ah, she’s just letting off steam,’ Lady Margaret said, sitting back in the white-painted wrought-iron chair and crossing one leg over the other, ankle to knee. ‘Let her
have her head.’
Lady Margaret, as always, was wearing trousers. Even for the recent royal wedding of Prince Hugo to Chloe Rose, which Lady Margaret had naturally attended, having been the best friend of
Hugo’s mother, Princess Belinda, she had worn an ankle-length printed silk divided skirt, wide-cut enough to swish around her ankles, with a tailored jacket and matching navy top hat. It was
the perfect compromise: Lady Margaret had been able to tell herself that the culotte-like design meant that she was really in trousers, and if anyone at Westminster Abbey had noticed that the folds
of her ‘skirt’ divided a little suspiciously, Lady Margaret had paid enough lip service to the conventions that nobody was brave enough to tell her that she needed to go home and
change.
Had she not been a Duke’s daughter, and godmother to the future King, matters would have been different, but what would be absolutely taboo for commoners was just about permissible for an
aristocrat who had always been known to be on the eccentric side. And though King Stephen and Queen Alexandra were sticklers for protocol, certain events leading up to the wedding involving them,
Lady Margaret and some other key players meant that neither the King nor the Queen would have dreamt of going
mano a mano
with Lady Margaret over what she chose to wear to Prince
Hugo’s wedding.
Many jokes had been made in the
gratin
of London society – the highest echelons – about Tamra and Lady Margaret’s close friendship, as Lady Margaret’s sexual
preferences were entirely Sapphic. Lady Margaret had warned Tamra that if they closed down the bar of every party they attended, roaring with laughter at each other’s jokes, assumptions would
inevitably be made, but Tamra had shrugged that off with magnificent disdain.
‘Hell,
I’m
not the one husband-hunting!’ she had said. ‘And no one’s going to turn down Brianna Jade just ’cause they think her mom’s
rug-munching the daughter of a Duke, are they?’
‘If
only
!’ Lady Margaret had grumbled wistfully, clinking glasses with her friend.
Tamra was perfectly well aware that Lady Margaret was a little in love with her, and had made it perfectly clear to her friend that nothing would ever transpire on that score; but Lady Margaret
was much too sophisticated for that clarification to make any difference to the friendship, and had been more than happy to recommend the very discreet and very expensive escort agency from which
Tamra had hired Bruno and Oliver. Their sexual needs very well taken care of by Diane’s young ladies and gentlemen, Tamra and Lady Margaret were free to run riot at the best parties London
had to offer. Lady Margaret also ensured that Tamra was invited to all the house parties that her set threw in the countryside – not the stuffy formal shooting or hunting ones, but the chic,
gay-friendly, urban-weekenders, where guests drank expertly mixed martinis, played poker for high stakes, watched the latest films in home-cinema rooms, and neither Labradors nor small children
ever made appearances.
Now, Tamra’s eyes, dark and full of resolve, met her friend’s over the rim of her champagne glass as she took a long sip of the de-bubbled Cristal and set the glass firmly down on
the glass table which grew out of the glass terrace beneath it, as did the chairs. It was an extraordinary piece of design, conceived by Michael Devine, the most fashionable garden designer in
London. Money had been no object, and Devine had really let himself run wild. Beneath the terrace was a tropical aquarium, providing guests with fascinating glimpses of the shoal of Convict Cichlid
fish, which were genetically engineered in Taipei to glow blue in the dark. Devine had pointed out to the owner that the reflections from the sheet of glass by night meant that one could catch the
occasional glimpse of other guests’ underwear from time to time, depending on the lighting, angle and whether they were wearing any.
Always a useful diversion if there happens to be a
lull in conversation,
he had drawled.
Dramatic as the terrace was, with the fish beneath and the spreading, Dali-esque table and chairs extruding from it, the focal point of the garden was a fifteen-metre-tall Niwaki
‘cloud-pruned’ tree, handcrafted entirely out of glass by Venetian glass-blowers, which towered at its centre. The branches and leaves were suffused with thousands of tiny lights which
provided warm ambient lighting over and around the dining terrace. The only living plants in the garden were a perfectly manicured circular lawn beyond the dining terrace – hand-trimmed with
scissors on a daily basis to maintain its pristine condition – and behind that, a forest of Niwaki
Cryptomeria japonica
, several hundred years old, sited at the far end of the garden
to create a private space for quiet contemplation.
Behind a sheath of black glass trellis, a veil of water flowed continuously down the opaque glass walls of the garden. Fibre optics running through the trellis gently glowed blue in the evening,
to tone in perfectly with the flickering Cichlids. This was why Tamra preferred the bathroom overlooking the garden; sometimes she sat in its window seat in the evenings, sipping a drink and
contemplatively watching the fish circle dreamily in their huge aquarium, their soft blue echoing the lights of the fountain, muted by the black glass. Right now, however, was not the time for
contemplation, but for action, and she didn’t glance down at the fish, but kept her gaze as steady as if her eyes were twin black barrels of a double-barrelled shotgun aimed at the face of
her publicist.
‘We need to know our enemy,’ Tamra said decisively, ‘strategize, and take her down. What do you know about Milly Gamble?’
Despite Tamra’s intimidating stare, Veronica was prepared for this: she rattled off Milly’s CV to date, covering all her career highlights as well as the ethical jewellery line.
Tamra greeted every role that Milly had played with theatrical snorts of derision; Lady Margaret watched the spectacle with great enjoyment.
‘Honestly, who
is
she anyway?’ Tamra snorted at the end of Veronica’s short summary, tossing back her glorious rose-gold hair, picking up her Dior
‘Demoiselle’ hand-painted sunglasses from the table and sliding them onto the bridge of her perfect nose. ‘How could the wedding of some little actress who’s never had a
lead part
possibly
trump my daughter marrying an
Earl
, for Christ’s sake? Who
is
Milly Gamble in this world?’
It was Lady Margaret’s turn to snort. This was a line from
The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills
, a reality show to which they were both addicted. Tamra had introduced Lady
Margaret to all of the various
Real Housewives
franchises, with Beverly Hills and New York their favourites. They had a regular night where Lady Margaret would come round to watch the
latest episode, downloaded from the internet. Tamra set up a whole row of lines and shots, and they would snort and sink them according to a complicated scoring system they had evolved.
‘Rather, my dear, you should be asking who her fiancé is,’ Lady Margaret said, leaning forward to ring the silver bell on the table. ‘
That
’s the really
interesting point here.’
‘What do you mean?’
Behind the big lenses of the sunglasses, Tamra’s eyes narrowed in concentration. The huge French doors of the living room stood open, and Marta, Tamra’s housekeeper, came through
them, dressed in her pale grey uniform with white apron. Without a word needing to be said, she refilled her mistress’s and Veronica’s champagne from the cooler on the table, then
picked up Lady Margaret’s empty glass, taking it to the living room bar to be refilled.
Lady Margaret’s attractive weatherbeaten face – as a true English aristocrat, she scorned the use of any sunblocks or moisturizing regime more elaborate than Pond’s cold cream
morning and night – creased into a smile of pure self-satisfaction as she said: ‘Tarquin Ormond, Milly’s fiancé, is—’
‘He’s the lead singer of Ormond and Co,’ Veronica interrupted eagerly, keen to show that she was earning the very large monthly retainer Tamra paid her. ‘It’s sort
of folky pop music. They win lots of awards—’
‘He’s
Edmund’s second cousin
.’ Lady Margaret overrode her effortlessly; a Duke’s daughter who rode to hounds had no difficulty drowning out a mere hired
publicist. ‘Which opens up a
lot
of possibilities, doesn’t it?’
Tamra’s head snapped round like a snake about to strike.
‘But Tarquin doesn’t have a title, does he?’ she said acutely. ‘Edmund’s way higher value!’
‘In our world, of course,’ Lady Margaret said. ‘But Tarquin’s really quite famous now, I think. And
Style
’s a very different animal from
Tatler
,
which is really the
gratin
’s in-house journal. No question that Edmund and Brianna Jade would absolutely take priority if it came to
that
cover. Hmn. Oh, thank
you.’
She took the fresh tumbler of Hendrick’s gin and tonic from Marta, ice cubes tinkling against the paper-thin slice of Meyer lemon, tiny triangles cut into its rind to release more of the
fragrant oil, and sipped her drink with great satisfaction.
‘But if Edmund has higher social status, which clearly he does, then we really need to hammer that home,’ Tamra said.
‘That’s a very good point,’ Veronica agreed, sipping her own champagne and reaching out for one of the miniature freshly made canapés which Marta had also placed on the
table, tiny blinis topped with sour cream and tea-smoked salmon, quails’ eggs dusted with pink salt, little bresaola packets filled with a dollop of low-fat crème fraiche, tied with
chive bows, for Tamra.
‘This really makes me want to throw a bridal sh—’ Tamra went on, but Lady Margaret raised her voice imperiously to silence Tamra, slicing a hand through the air to cut her
off.
‘You can
not
have a bridal shower in Britain!’ she said. ‘I’ve
told
you, Tamra! It’s unspeakably vulgar to host a party and require people to bring
presents! Really, the mere
thought
makes me shudder with horror.’
‘Some brides in the States have multiple ones,’ Tamra said, unable to avoid grinning at Lady Margaret’s reaction. ‘With different themes and different lists.’
‘
Lists
,’ Lady Margaret muttered in disgust. ‘As if that should
ever
be pluralized in this context.’
‘We do these huge bridal showers in the States,’ Tamra told Veronica. ‘Way more elaborate than you guys have over here. You play games like making the bride a dress out of
toilet paper, or you get someone in to teach you flower arranging or cupcake making – those were pretty popular in West Palm Beach. They have lingerie showers too, all sorts of themes, and
then you have to bring a gift according to the theme. One girl Brianna Jade knew, Megan, had four different showers – a garden one, a lingerie one, a wine-tasting weekend in Napa and an
English tea one.’
Veronica was staring at her, totally appalled: even Lady Margaret was goggling at Tamra now, not having heard this information before.
‘And you’re supposed to bring presents to
all
of them?’ Veronica asked.
‘Oh, at the minimum!’ Tamra was thoroughly enjoying herself now. ‘Megan’s mom and dad were super-rich, so they paid for everything, even the Napa weekend on a private
plane. But, you know, in return for that they expected gifts that cost three hundred dollars a pop, minimum. Each time.’
‘And that’s instead of the bridal present?’ Veronica asked.
‘Hah!’ Tamra tossed back some Cristal. ‘You’re kidding me, right? Being a bridesmaid or a groomsman is a huge money pit. You pay for your dress, your hotel, plus your
flight to the wedding if you don’t live close by. And if you have a destination wedding in Hawaii or the Caribbean, say, that’s a ton of money right there for everyone. Plus, often
you’re expected to fly for the bachelor or bachelorette night – which isn’t ever a night, it’s a whole weekend, and then you have to plan and host those completely, treat
the bride and groom for everything. For the whole weekend. Oh, and “dress” means the whole outfit – shoes, jewellery, accessories. The bride usually pays for hair and make-up,
though often they book the topnotch stylist for themselves and get some low-level trainee for the bridesmaids. That happens a
lot
. Not just to save money, but to make sure they look
better. And then there’s the rehearsal dinner – the groom’s family’s supposed to pay for that, but I’ve heard of people asking for contributions from guests for that
as well.’
She looked from Veronica to Lady Margaret, relishing their stunned expressions; she did enjoy shocking the Brits with information about American cultural habits that they found outrageous.
‘What?’ she said, drinking more champagne. ‘You never saw
Bridezillas
?’
‘Clearly I have to,’ Lady Margaret said, awed. ‘This sounds like an absolute hoot! Tell me, if people have a – what did you call it, a “destination wedding”
– are they expected to give a gift as well as hauling themselves to Hawaii or the Caribbean?’
‘Sometimes,’ Tamra said with a wide, beautiful smile, ‘they’re asked to contribute to the bride and groom’s travel expenses as a gift.’
‘Oh my
God
!’ Veronica shook her head in disbelief. ‘So, basically, they’re getting married just to squeeze as much money from their family and friends as they
possibly can?’
‘Exactly. It’s all about the money – well, and about being the centre of attention,’ Tamra said. ‘Megan was beyond obnoxious. She kept holding up hoops to make her
poor bridesmaids jump higher and higher. Luckily BJ was just second-tier – because,’ she added with an even more beautiful smile, ‘Megan didn’t want my gorgeous girl
anywhere near her in the wedding photos. Her daddy bought Megan a new nose and a personal trainer, but you can’t buy what Nature gave my girl.’