She wasn’t quite sure what she expected Romily’s parents’ house to look like, though she’d assumed it would be lavish. Nonetheless, she was still taken aback by the luxury of the huge white-painted house on the avenue Foch. Iron gates to a grand courtyard opened automatically as they approached. The Mercedes entered and pulled around a fountain with water gushing from the mouths of marble dolphins before coming to a halt before an enormous, ornately carved front door. The driver let the girls out and then brought Allegra’s luggage – a rather tatty looking rucksack – to the door. It immediately opened and a butler stood there, waiting for them to enter.
‘Leave it here,’ Romily said casually as Allegra went to pick up her rucksack. ‘It’ll be sent up.’
‘Where’s the car going?’ she asked as the driver returned to the Mercedes and began to turn it smoothly around towards the gates they had entered by.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Romily vaguely. ‘It goes off somewhere – to a garage nearby, I suppose. We ask for it when we need it and it comes back. Come on, let’s go in.’
They walked into a huge, ornate, marble-floored entrance hall. A table stood in the middle, dominated by the largest vase of white roses Allegra had ever seen. A vast crystal chandelier was centred upon it on the ceiling above, and all the cornices and panel-mouldings were gilt-covered. It was very different from the faint shabbiness and undeniable gloom of Foughton Castle, which was well lived in and draughty: this was all light and gold and sparkling richness.
Beyond the entrance hall stood a maid in a demure grey uniform. Romily greeted her in rapid French and the maid nodded before disappearing down a long corridor.
‘So this is your home,’ Allegra said, looking around.
Romily nodded. ‘One of them.’
Romily really was in a whole different league. Allegra smiled. She herself was used to large rooms in grand houses, but there was something about the extreme luxury surrounding them that felt wholly unfamiliar. This place, with its polished marble floor, perfectly matching eighteenth-century gilt mirrors and carefully placed works of art, all clearly of museum standard, had a sheen that was quite unlike any of the houses Allegra knew.
‘This way!’ called Romily, and they went down a long hallway, carpeted in thick pale wool, to a drawing room laid out with exquisite taste and absolutely perfectly tidy, as though it had been prepared for a glamorous
World of Interiors
photo shoot. There was masses of pretty antique furniture: pairs of Louis XIV gilt chairs upholstered in pale grey silk; sofas with carved lion’s-claw feet, delicately gilded; matching cabinets with wonderful marquetry; beautiful lowboys with great crystal lamps on them; and more vast glass vases containing masses of white lilies.
‘It’s lovely!’ Allegra murmured. Enormous grey silk curtains swathed every one of the six huge windows. ‘Look at those!’
‘Mmm. The glass is bullet-proof,’ Romily remarked, frowning. ‘I thought Mama would be here.’
At that moment, from another set of doors, a tall slim figure glided in. Allegra saw at once that this must be Romily’s mother. This was where Romily got her perfect olive skin from, and those large dark eyes. She was dressed in a stylish silk dress and high heels, her dark hair carefully styled into a chignon and her make-up fresh, a necklace of big, gleaming pearls at her neck. She seemed lost in thought as she came into the room then looked up and saw the girls, coming to a halt as if surprised.
‘Oh, Romily, you’re back! And this must be your friend,
Lady
Allegra.’ Romily’s mother came towards her, smiling. She appraised Allegra with one swift glance and, although her expression didn’t change, except perhaps by the merest lifting of one of her eyebrows, Allegra sensed that the older woman was a little startled by her.
Suddenly shy, and rather overcome by the formality of the occasion, she murmured, ‘How do you do, madame?’
Madame de Lisle immediately leant forward and touched her cheek to Allegra’s, first the left, then the right, then the left again. ‘Welcome, my dear. I’m delighted you are going to stay with us. Now, Romily, I can see your friend needs to refresh herself. Then perhaps some tea here? Shall we say thirty minutes?’ Her English was perfect and almost unaccented. Madame de Lisle gave them both another kind smile. ‘Do excuse me. I shall see you in half an hour.’
‘I don’t think she thought much of me,’ Allegra said, looking down at her jeans, plimsolls and tatty T-shirt as she followed Romily to her bedroom.
‘Don’t be silly,’ her friend replied. ‘Mama is a bit old-fashioned – I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without make-up and her hair done – but she understands that our generation is different.’
Allegra thought that Romily now seemed more like her mother than her old Westfield self: her friend had always taken her personal grooming seriously, but she’d been prepared to scrape her dark hair back with an elastic band if that was all there was to hand, and hadn’t minded being as grungy as the rest of them when there was a craze for baggy black cardigans and tight, ripped jeans. That Romily seemed a million miles away from this hyper-feminine creature, with her barely-there but perfect make-up and immaculate hair.
They passed four Vincent de Lisle canvases, a series from his period of experimenting with bright primary colours. Allegra tried not to stare, but seeing famous paintings that
she’d
seen countless times in poster shops and on cards actually in front of her was rather strange.
Romily went on: ‘Perhaps she thought that as you’re an English lady, you might be a bit more … oh, I don’t know … a bit more … turned out.’
‘I’ve only just got off a train from London,’ Allegra said defensively.
‘Don’t worry, she’s not criticising you or anything. Really.’ They stopped at a pair of double doors with polished brass handles. ‘These are my rooms.’ She pushed them open and led the way into a small, bright and pretty sitting room, furnished with two cosy sofas and an armchair, an escritoire, bookcases, and some occasional chairs and tables. ‘Through here is my bedroom …’ She opened another door and they went into a very girly boudoir, with a carved, silver-painted four-poster bed hung with pale blue organza bed curtains. A French antique mirror with an ornate ivory-coloured frame hung above the fireplace, and by the window was a silver dressing table with interesting-looking little pots and bottles on it. ‘Over there is my bathroom, but come and see my favourite room …’ She opened a door to the left of the bed and there was a large dressing room, lined with shelves and rails. Inside, another grey-uniformed maid was folding a cream cashmere jumper. She jumped when she saw the girls, cast her eyes down and murmured apologetically.
‘
Non, non, Estelle, ça va. Continuez, s’il vous plaît. Nous visitons seulement pour un instant, c’est tout
.’ Romily turned to Allegra. ‘Estelle looks after my clothes.’
‘Really?’ She laughed. ‘Your own personal wardrobe mistress?’
Romily looked a little hurt. ‘Not exactly. She looks after Mama’s clothes as well.’
‘But that’s all she does? Just looks after clothes?’
‘Of course! It takes up a great deal of her time. All these clothes – they can’t just be put in the washing machine, you know! They have to be properly cared for and stored. And the couture … well, you understand, that has to be very carefully looked after. Not all my gowns are haute couture, of course, but most are designer and still need special attention. And look …’ Romily went to a rail of dresses, each swathed in a muslin robe tightly tied at the neck of the hanger with a pink silk ribbon. Dangling from the ribbon was a large paper label with handwriting on it. Lifting up a label, she said, ‘Now, this is a Versace gown that I bought last year. I wore it to a party at Vaux-le-Vicomte given by the President. You see – here it says when the dress was worn and the accessories I put with it. So I won’t make the mistake of wearing it to a similar party in the same way.’
Allegra looked at her friend with a new respect. ‘I knew you were organised, Rom, but this is something else.’
‘I expect you’re laughing at me …’
‘No, no! It’s just so grown up. You know me, piles of clothes everywhere. The cleaner has a sort through once in a while, when it looks as though I might drown in my own stuff, but I’ve never dreamed anyone could be this sorted. Wow, look at these amazing clothes!’ Allegra gazed at the rows of dresses. Even if the most precious and expensive were under muslin and not to be seen, what was on show was still dazzling, with luxurious fabrics, shimmering colours and intricate embroidery and beading. Everything else was also meticulously organised and categorised. On one shelf were pastel-coloured silk, wool and cashmere tops: pale pink vests with matching cardigans; scoop neck, V-neck, buttoned and plain in white, ivory and cream. There were lots and lots of black trousers and skirts, rows of flat shoes and boots of softest leather, with high heels – plain, bejewelled, silk, satin,
suede
, even chainmail – displayed on shelves behind. There was a rack full of jeans in different coloured denims, cuts and stages of distress. Coats and jackets, from full-length dark city coats to sporty little trenches and light summer linen jackets, filled another rail. There were shelves with rows of handbags, from neat little pocket purses to big squashy leather bags in rainbow colours, and of course several of the quilted Chanel 2.55 on gilt chains, in white, grey, red and classic black.
‘I knew you were keen on clothes, Rom, but bloody hell!’ Allegra said. She laughed again. ‘I’m still kind of surprised by this. It must take up all your time, just deciding what to wear and when.’
Romily looked a little stung. ‘Perhaps it does. But, you know, it is very time-consuming, looking one’s best. It’s what women must do, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ Allegra gave her friend a quizzical look. Then a panicked expression crossed her face. ‘God, I bet everyone we meet will be dressed like you! Did you say we were having a dinner party tonight?’
Romily nodded, frowning.
‘But I’ve brought hardly anything smart! I’ve got a navy skirt and a white top in my rucksack, but that’s it.’
‘In your rucksack? Oh, shit, they’ll be in a state. Go and get them, we’ll give them to Estelle to iron.’
‘I don’t know if ironing them will be enough. They’re not up to anything in here.’ Allegra waved her hand at the wardrobe.
‘In that case, we will just have to dress you up from my clothes,’ Romily said. She smiled and her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘I’ll enjoy that, actually. It’ll be just like at school. And we’re still more or less the same size – you’re only a few centimetres taller than me. I’m sure we can kit you out for dinner.’ She turned to the maid who was standing quietly at
the
entrance to the dressing room and told her what was required. The maid nodded and went quietly away.
‘I wasn’t that bad at French at school, but I didn’t understand a word of that,’ Allegra said.
‘I just asked her to get your good clothes from your bag and iron them. You can have a shower in my bathroom and freshen up, then put them on for tea with Mama. Now come on.’ Romily chivvied her friend out of the dressing room and towards the bathroom. ‘We’ve only got twenty minutes or so. Hurry up.’
Standing under a stream of hot water and feeling her travel weariness melt away, Allegra revelled in the sense of luxury. At Foughton, hot water was available only in the early mornings or the evenings: daytime baths were unheard of, unless you liked them icy cold. Here it was like a grand hotel where steaming water was always at hand. The towels were white, thick and luscious. She wrapped herself in a giant one, feeling cosseted and happy.
Emerging into Romily’s room, she saw her best clothes already lying on the bed, more crisp and pristine than she’d ever seen them before, along with fresh underwear and her flat ballet slippers. Whatever Estelle had done to her clothes had virtually transformed them. Allegra put them on quickly and brushed out her hair. Romily came in from the next-door sitting room.
‘That’s much better!’ She inspected her friend’s face. ‘No make-up?’
‘I only brought a mascara and a lip gloss. They’re in my rucker.’
Romily shook her head and rolled her eyes. ‘Honestly, Allegra! You’re hopeless. You’re lucky you’re so naturally pretty that you hardly need anything. But let me put some of mine on you.’
A couple of deft swipes of mascara over Allegra’s lashes, a quick brush of powder over her nose and a coating of pale pink lipstick were enough to give her the requisite polish, and then it was time to make their way back to the drawing room for tea.
It was some time since she’d been anywhere quite so formal, Allegra decided, as she perched on a gilt-legged sofa in the de Lisles’ drawing room. Opposite her, Madame de Lisle, every inch of her polished and groomed, sipped delicately from a china cup. A porcelain cake-stand on the marble-topped low table contained miniature pastries: éclairs, strawberry tarts, millefeuilles and tiny cream-filled
réligieuses
, as well as little sandwiches: slivers of duck breast with caramelised onion marmalade on rye bread, smoked salmon and shredded cucumber in soft white mini-rolls. Allegra eyed them hungrily, but neither of the other women touched the plate and she couldn’t quite bring herself to be the first.
‘Is the tea to your taste, Lady Allegra?’ Madame de Lisle asked. ‘I requested Earl Grey so you’d feel at home, but I’m afraid my housekeeper isn’t very familiar with making tea in the English fashion.’
‘It’s great, thanks,’ Allegra said cheerfully. ‘I usually drink builder’s tea, to be honest, but this is fine. And, please, just call me Allegra.’
‘Mmm.’ Madame de Lisle nodded at her with a puzzled smile. ‘I’ve not heard of builders. Do they have it in Harrods?’
‘Oh – I just mean ordinary tea. PG Tips or something.’
Madame de Lisle still looked blank.
Romily cut in, ‘It’s fine, Mama. Now, who’s coming tonight?’
‘Just some close friends. We’ll only be fifteen at dinner,
nothing
too formal. Mariette has just returned from her latest face lift in Switzerland. She’s been hiding out in the country while everything healed and now, word is, she is looking amazing! Like a thirty year old again. I can’t wait to see it. Her surgeon is apparently miraculous and, you know, it’s never too early to start putting the right names in your little book for when the time comes.’ Athina de Lisle had become quite animated.