She only leaves us at the stroke of 4 p.m., to go and have tea with Lady Antonia on the veranda.
When the door closes behind her, we three let out a sigh of relief.
“How beautiful indeed,” says Cécile, quite unconvincingly, as she looks at the items chosen by my mother-in-law. “I doubt I would ever wear them, not even if my life depended on it, but they’re beautiful.”
“Too much powder pink for you, eh?” I tease her.
“And peach pink, and dusty rose, and lilac…” my mother says, spreading out the blouses. My mother is always wrapped in brightly coloured Middle Eastern kaftans, all these pastel colours are definitely not for her.
“I wouldn’t wear anything myself.” I look around, rather unsatisfied. “Apart from this satin underskirt, which would be terrific with a nice washed denim bustier.”
“Yes, it’s just too bad it has all that jersey on it,” says Cécile, throwing the skirt aside.
“This blouse isn’t that bad, either. If you remove the lace from the collar, this semi-transparent chiffon would look very sexy with a black bra underneath.”
I look at all the clothes selected by Delphina, which are lying on the floor, and I start thinking. Idea! My event, my rules.
“Good, ladies. Delphina wants to see these dresses on the catwalk and auction them? So be it! However, I will need your help, your silence and many pairs of scissors.”
I describe my plan to them and we decide how to transform each garment, until we linger on the last one.
“What about this?” Asks Cécile.
“That corpse, you mean?” Asks my mother, observing a fluffy chinchilla fur.
“Do we really have to include that in the show?” I ask, hoping for a no and a pat on my shoulder.
“Naturally! This is the fur worn by the great-grandmother of Lady Whatshername when she met the Tsarina Alexandra Romanoff!” Replies Cécile, imitating Delphina’s high pitched voice.
I look at her unhappily. “Let’s put it aside, perhaps we’ll come up with something later.”
44
Ashford’s Version
As with any event on the charity calendar, everybody’s here. Missing any of these evenings could result in being branded with the dishonourable label of stingy or selfish. In fact, it’s rather the contrary: everyone is ready to put their hands in their pockets to win the title of ‘most generous soul of the season’; however, there are those who must be forgiven for boring evenings or unpleasant dinners.
My mother sits at the Union Jack Charity table and she’s carefully ensuring that every single participant stumps up the bare minimum to be considered socially acceptable.
It might seem ridiculous to many, but the tension is tangible. In particular, the families which have been in competition for ages fight to the last pound to defend their honour.
The fashion show is much appreciated by the ladies of a certain age, because they have a chance to show off in the clothes they wore on some renowned occasion.
It’s less pleasant for the male audience, though, because they have to watch the ladies in question, whose bodies are as sensual as sacks of potatoes and move up and down the catwalk with the gracefulness of a small earthquake.
“Every single year I swear it’s my last time and I won’t be back, then God knows why, the following year comes and I find myself here with a chequebook in my hand. I have to find a way to break this vicious circle,” Harring complains, swallowing one glass after another of non-vintage champagne –this being a charity evening, we can’t toast to health with very expensive bottles, or it would be like slapping poverty in the face.
“You’re telling me? With my mother on the committee, my place is reserved for life. I’ve even been thinking of joining the army again, just to get out of it.”
“She dragged Jemma in this too, right?”
“It was inevitable. Every lady in high society must contribute to the management of events. And, by the way, Jemma isn’t just involved, she organised this one. See my mother over there? She’s trying to avoid a panic attack. To be honest, I feel very relaxed and confident. Jemma couldn’t possibly mess it up. This show is so dull that I could handle it myself: dress the old ladies in their clothes, tuck them in with a little help from Vaseline and safety pins, play the same old soporificValiumcompilation from 1982 andbam! You send them out on the catwalk one after the other, hoping that their dentures and femur prostheses aren’t dislodged by their agitated hip swinging.”
“Poor grannies, let them enjoy their last blaze of glory.”
They lower the lights in the hall and turn on a spotlight which illuminates the catwalk.
The music starts:Valiumcompilation, as expected.
