‘What will you wear?’ Jeannie Heath said, fretting. ‘So difficult with a girl of your age. A nice smart suit would do for me, but would it be too old for you?’
‘Allegra’s wearing a plain dress with a sparkly cardigan,’ Imogen said quickly, keen to stop her mother from buying something unsuitable and embarrassing. ‘So we should get something like that.’
‘Yes, yes … you show me,’ she said, relieved. ‘Will you need a hat?’
Imogen shook her head. ‘Allegra’s not wearing one. She’s got these cool bits of hair jewellery – you stud them in and they sit in your hair.’
‘Really? How strange. But she must know what’s acceptable …’
I feel caught between Allegra’s world and my own
, Imogen thought as they shopped.
I know more about it than Mummy does. She’s listening to me. She thinks Allegra knows how to do things, even though she’s only sixteen
. It was an odd feeling
and
, for the first time, she felt herself growing away from her parents and into a new and different world.
They bought her a blue and white floral dress, a blue pashmina to go with it, and some blue suede kitten heels. Imogen found a white feathered hairclip that she could use to clip back her long straight honey-brown hair.
‘Are you sure that’s suitable?’ asked her mother, frowning. ‘It doesn’t look much. Where did you say the reception was?’
‘It’s in a gentlemen’s club on Pall Mall.’
‘Really? That sounds grand. Perhaps you should wear a proper hat. There’s a nice one over there with a bit of white veil on it …’
Imogen reeled back in horror. ‘No way, Mummy, that’s not right at all. I’d look all wrong.’
Her mother surrendered. ‘All right, dear. I suppose you must know best.’
The night before the wedding they stayed in the McCorquodales’ house in South Kensington, but it was much less relaxed than the visit of five years before when they’d gone to Westfield for the first time. Allegra’s father was there and the whole household seemed tense and nervous, poised on the edge of some terrifying storm that never quite broke.
The girls ate their supper in the kitchen and then scurried upstairs to Allegra’s room, to watch the television and smoke out of the bedroom window.
‘Is it always this scary around your dad?’ Imogen asked, as they crammed shoulder to shoulder against the sill and blew streams of smoke out over the Kensington rooftops. Ivo Crachmore seemed a world removed from her own cosy, comfortable, affectionate father. Was this simply what earls were like?
Allegra nodded. ‘He’s a nightmare. He stalks around in a half fury all the time, and it only takes a little thing to set him off.’
‘What’s he like when he’s in a proper rage?’ Imogen asked, trying to imagine it. ‘Does he really roar?’
Allegra looked out over the chimneys and nodded. ‘That’s not the half of it.’ She glanced sideways at Imogen. ‘He lashes out as well.’
‘Really?’ Imogen was horrified. Ivo was a big man, with huge hands and powerful arms. She imagined he could pack a strong punch with them. Then she remembered hearing her mother say that Ivo had kicked Xander downstairs once. ‘But he doesn’t lash out at you, does he?’
‘Yes.’ Allegra’s face was stony. ‘He has done. But not for a while.’ Then she said quietly, ‘Sometimes I worry that I’m like him. That I’ve got his madness in me. After what happened …’
Imogen felt sick. ‘Of course you don’t! You didn’t do anything on purpose, it was an accident. You’re not mad.’
Allegra laughed with a hollow sound. ‘You’re wrong there. We’re all mad. Mum, Dad, Xander …’
‘Where is Xander?’ Imogen asked, wanting to stop Allegra thinking about the thing they must not mention.
‘Getting pissed with Tristan, I expect. He’s an usher, and they’re all staying over at a hotel close to the church, so they can make sure they get him there on time no matter what. Come on.’ Allegra stubbed out her fag. ‘Fancy a game of cards before bed? I’ve got some vodka I sneaked up from the drinks tray.’
The wedding the next day was beautiful. It passed by in a haze of excitement and interest for Imogen. She felt pretty and grown up in her dress, and relieved that it seemed to pass muster with Allegra, who pronounced it ‘brill’. Imogen
wished
in her heart that she had her friend’s natural panache – her plain dark pink dress looked so simple on the hanger and yet on her it had effortless style – but overall she was happy with how she’d scrubbed up. Her white feather clip was just right, even if it lacked the sparkle of Allegra’s magenta hair jewellery.
The big black family Bentley took them to the church. Selina looked as grand as a countess should in a navy blue silk suit, heels and a huge silk hat wreathed in feathers, though the grandeur really came from the amount of diamonds she was wearing: a huge brooch on one lapel, a bracelet on each wrist, earrings, and a pearl-and-diamond choker at her neck. Ivo looked every inch an earl in his morning coat, striped trousers and silk top hat, though Imogen felt a tremor of fear when she saw him. She tried to imagine him striking Allegra, but the idea was so awful she pushed it out of her mind.
The wedding was held in an ornate Gothic Revival church just behind Oxford Street, full of colour and glittering with gold. As they entered behind Lord and Lady Crachmore, a tall young man came up to them with a smile on his handsome face.
‘Aisle or window?’ he said in a loud whisper. ‘Emergency exits here, here and here. Lifebelts under the pews.’
‘Xander!’ cried Allegra, throwing her arms around him.
‘Careful,’ he said, kissing her cheek. ‘My hangover is a wondrous thing. One hard squeeze and you’ll have last night’s curry all over these lovely tiles.’
Is this Xander?
Imogen was amazed. Last time she’d seen him, he’d been her height, baby-faced and intent on dropping wet pebbles down the back of her T-shirt. Now he was at least a foot taller, and broad with it, and his face was a young man’s, with dark blue eyes sparkling under thick brows. He still had his mop of blond hair, just a shade or
two
darker than Allegra’s, but otherwise he was completely unlike the boy she remembered.
Oh my God, he’s gorgeous! How did that happen?
‘How’s Tristan?’ Allegra asked, taking an order of service.
Xander nodded to where their brother sat in the front pew, his shoulders bowed. ‘White. Shaking. With a rather revolting whiff of chicken madras and stale Cobra. But I think he’ll get through it. Hi, Imogen, how are you?’
‘Fine.’ She managed to smile at him, though she found it hard to meet his eyes and a flush began to creep up her neck.
What am I doing? I’m blushing! Talking to Xander! This is ridiculous
.
‘You look very nice,’ he said politely. ‘Now, I’d better get you two into a pew or I’m not going to be popular. We’ve got a queue forming and the bride’s due in ten minutes.’
The wedding was very High Church. Imogen found the whole thing spell-binding from the moment the bride came down the aisle to a swell of organ music, four tiny bridesmaids and pages in front of her. The service lasted an hour and a half, with a full Eucharistic Mass celebrated after the ceremony itself, but Imogen enjoyed every minute: the choir’s magnificent soaring voices as they sang Mozart’s Missa Brevis in C Major and the glorious anthems, the sight of the robed priest and countless servers in their white surplices, carrying candles and crosses, and the spicy aroma of rich incense burning in a silver censer.
Now this is a wedding!
she thought, delighted by the colour and spectacle of it all. She was used to plain Church of Scotland services and this was a delicious and unexpected sensual assault. And all the time she could see Xander, sitting at the end of the pew, and marvel at the way his profile had suddenly become as strong and perfect as it was possible for a profile to be …
‘And now,’ Allegra said, as they closed their orders of
service
and watched the happy couple parade back down the aisle, ‘the reception.’
Taxis took them down Regent’s Street to Piccadilly Circus and then Pall Mall where they disembarked in front of the great grey frontage of a gentlemen’s club. Inside they were directed up a small staircase and through into a great room with red silk-covered walls, enormous brass chandeliers, and vast portraits of kings, generals and noblemen.
‘Are we allowed one of these?’ Imogen whispered to Allegra as they went past one of the staff holding a tray of champagne.
‘Of course,’ Allegra said, helping herself to a glass. Imogen followed suit, feeling very sophisticated. So far, her only experience of alcohol was stolen vodka and cans of smuggled lager.
She sipped at the fizzing liquid.
It’s nice … I suppose
, she thought, as it sent bubbly tickles through her nose. She gazed around the guests: immaculate older women in their silks, satins and pearls, pretty young things in their tight, sparkly dresses and heels, and the men in their well-cut jackets and silk waistcoats, each with the obligatory undone button at the bottom.
Where’s Xander?
She couldn’t see him in the crush.
The girls ended up on the far side of the room where they could observe proceedings, sipping at their champagne as their heads went woozy.
‘Hello, my darling angel,’ said a jolly voice behind them.
Imogen turned to see a small man with a pair of sparkling blue eyes in a lightly tanned face. His grey hair was combed into a careful bouffant, and his clothes were immediately noticeable for their beautiful cut and unusual style. In a room full of discreet dark-striped trousers, this man was wearing houndstooth-check bags, and under his morning coat was a
vivid
violet waistcoat and a shocking pink silk tie, with a matching handkerchief spilling from his breast pocket.
‘Uncle David!’ Allegra darted into his arms and gave him a fierce hug.
‘My favourite niece. How are you?’ He released her and looked at her hard, while sweeping a low, elegant bow. ‘Your
ladyship
. You’ve moved up a rung in
Burke’s
now, haven’t you, darling? Daughter of an earl, no less. Up you go on the precedence scale, while we boys get nothing.’
‘Serves you right for being a younger son,’ she retorted, smiling.
‘All is made equal by that word “younger”,’ sighed David. ‘Only a year younger, but better than any title, as far as I’m concerned. Now, who is this delicious rosebud?’
‘I’m Imogen,’ she said.
‘Of course you are. Imogen, the delightful heroine of
Cymbeline
. If you have half her spirit, you’ll be doing very well. Did you enjoy the wedding, girls? I’m rather cross with the bride, even if she was wearing her grandmother’s wedding dress, which I think is terrifically stylish and
very
brave. But August is a terribly unfashionable time for a wedding … what on earth was she thinking? We’ve all had to make the trek back into town when anyone decent was safely in the country weeks ago. Quite appalling.’
Allegra rolled her eyes and laughed. ‘You must know what you’re going on about, but we don’t.’
‘The young of today!’ he sighed. ‘So depressing. Never mind, you’re pretty enough to get away with your dreadful ignorance.’ He stared a little closer at Allegra as though seeing her for the first time. ‘You know, you really are turning into rather a little swan, aren’t you? Both you and Xander seem to have got the best of the McCorquodale looks, and the fresh blood from your mother’s side has given you a charm the others don’t have, even Miranda. I thought
you
were a funny, gawky-looking little girl, but now I can see what you’ll look like as a woman. You’re going to be rather stunning. An asset to us all, my darling.’
Allegra didn’t say anything but sipped at her champagne self-consciously and looked away.
Imogen gazed at David, entranced by his flamboyant style and funny, jokey way of talking, as though everything were an amusing game. It was typical of Allegra, of course, to have such an entertaining uncle. This was the man her friend had told her about – the one with the nightclub, who knew all the famous people.
‘Now, you two, tell me all about yourselves. I heard there was rather a scandal at your school this summer, Allegra. Some poor girl killing herself. Do tell all.’
Imogen gasped as her friend’s face flamed scarlet.
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Allegra said, sounding cool enough, though her burning cheeks seemed to tell a different story.
David stared at her for a moment and then said lightly, ‘Well, there’s always someone who takes life too seriously, isn’t there? A shame, but there it is. I’m glad that I’m fundamentally a
happy
soul. I see beauty and rejoice. I see ugliness, and shudder, and think how lucky I am to be able to live the way I want. I don’t have to face those low, nasty aspects of life that blight the existence of so many. I can indulge myself in all the things that make life worth living: art, music, antiques, intelligent and cultivated friends. And good food, of course. Speaking of which …’ He eyed a tray of canapés: rolls of white bread stuffed with khaki-coloured asparagus spears. ‘Aren’t they
nasty?
I would never allow such things in Colette’s.’ He pulled a disgusted face and then sighed. ‘I offered young Elspeth the club to have her reception in but her parents had their heart set on this frightful old place. As stuffy as a grandmother’s mattress.
The
Brigadier’s been a member since birth, apparently. Such a duffer.’
Imogen was relieved that he had so gracefully changed the subject. ‘Allegra told me you have your own club,’ she said, emboldened by champagne. ‘Is that Colette’s?’
Allegra had recovered from her discomfort. ‘Yes, Uncle David, when are we going to be allowed to visit?’
‘Mmm.’ David’s eyes twinkled at her. ‘How much do you know about it?’
‘Just that you started it ages ago, and lots of famous people go there.’
‘Well, that’s true, I suppose. But they’re all just chums to me, you see. That’s what the club is all about – a lovely place to meet my friends. That was what I wanted and couldn’t find, so I decided to open it myself. It’s been rather successful, even if I do say so myself.’