Summer in Mayfair Read online

  Too young and too scruffy to be a customer, she went in anyway – partly to escape the heat momentarily but more because the dresses took her back to the days when her mother would let her play in her wardrobe while she dressed, when she would transform herself into the belle of any ball. The saleswoman immediately gave her a look that said, ‘You’re wasting my time.’ She had a tape measure draped around her shoulders and a spray of pins clamped in her teeth. Seeing that Esme was going nowhere, she took the pins out and asked, ‘Can I help you?’ like she was talking to a tradesman.

  ‘Not really. I just wanted to have a look,’ said Esme, putting the last of the invites on the counter so she could feel the delicate fabric of the dresses, artfully arranged around the hushed interior of the shop.

  ‘We are Belleville Sassoon. We are not open to the public, dear,’ said the woman coldly.

  Esme was already running her hands through the rails of silk.

  ‘This is a shop, isn’t it?’

  The woman huffed which Esme translated as ‘not for people like you’.

  ‘Well… but if one of our customers comes in…’

  ‘I’ll have to leave?’ finished Esme. ‘I only want to look. My mother shops here.’ She held up a bold paisley-patterned gown with blouson sleeves.

  The woman came forward to retrieve the dress but not before glancing and raising an eyebrow at the stack of envelopes that had slid out from Esme’s bag. Most of the invitations had titled names above their Westminster addresses.

  ‘Oh? And who is your mama? I know all our lovely customers,’ she said, her voice softening now.

  ‘Diana Munroe.’

  Instantly, the assistant went from suspicious to charm personified. ‘How silly of me! You look just like her! I haven’t seen her in an age. Is she well?’

  ‘Yes, she is, thank you.’ The fib rolled all too easily off her tongue.

  ‘I haven’t seen her in here for over a year now. I hope she hasn’t forgotten about us. I have some gorgeous pieces that would look divine on her.’

  ‘Ah, yes. She’s been travelling. With my father.’

  ‘Lucky girl. Tell her Miriam says hello,’ said Miriam.

  The shop was more of a showroom than a retail store. Esme saw now that all the clothes were samples that could be made to measure. There was one of each design. Quality not quantity.

  ‘What do you do if a lady isn’t a sample size and can’t fit into these?’

  She wanted Miriam to know that she wasn’t unaccustomed to expensive shopping.

  ‘Our ladies have a toile that can be adapted to any style. If they are new we take their measurements and make one up for them in calico. Our most faithful customers have their own dressmaker dummy in their exact size.’ She gave Esme the once over. ‘You could fit into the samples, though.’

  ‘I could?’

  Miriam looked furtively around the shop. ‘Seeing as we are having a bit of a lull, why don’t we try something on?’

  Nepotism talks and tempers change. Esme was no longer a face without provenance.

  ‘I can’t afford to buy anything,’ she said, strangely proud of being broke. There was a liberation in coming right out with it rather than covering and blustering – though had she confirmed the obvious a few minutes ago, she knew Miriam would have thrown her out. Instead, she was clearly still thinking of the vast sums her mother must have spent here on account.

  ‘Don’t be silly. It will be fun and Monsieur Sassoon will be delighted to see one of his creations on such a stunning young lady. Such a talented man.’

  Her large bosom swelled under her grey cashmere twinset that matched her chignon. She was elegant in a stylish governess kind of way. North of fifty-five and in good shape, her pencil skirt showed a firm bum and great calves. Lifting her horn-winged spectacles on her head she took a dress off the rail and walked it across the minimalist expanse of the showroom floor and hung it in a changing room.

  ‘Size 8,’ she said, holding the door open for Esme. ‘I’ll be right outside if you need anything.’

  The changing room wasn’t your usual abattoir with a skimpy modesty curtain and strip-lighting. Belleville Sassoon boasted an opulent chamber with a door that locked from the inside; more opium den than sartorial slaughterhouse. A chaise longue was pushed up against one wall, its aged red velvet glowed rather than shone like the cheap stuff used for modern upholstery. The mirror was framed in carved, gilded wood and two sultry fringed lanterns hung either side, their low voltage making the old look young and the young look old enough to be considering high-end fashion. A chiffon square was provided to protect the clothes from heavily made-up faces and a selection of nude heels in various sizes lined the skirting.

  ‘Do you need help with the zip, dear?’ Miriam said through the keyhole. Was she peeping?

  Esme had slipped the dress on but was struggling to do it up. Even undone Esme could tell it was expertly cut. It was as soft as butterfly wings with the colours of peacock feathers. She put on a pair of shoes and floated out of the changing room feeling like mutton dressed as lamb.

  Miriam gave a staged look of one who had seen a spirit and was having an attack of the vapours, fanning herself with a notebook.

  ‘Who is this vision of loveliness?’ she quizzed, her voice breathy as if in awe of what she was witnessing. In her hands, the zip slid up, smooth as molten wax.

  Esme was sure this was a reaction Miriam had practised over many years with hundreds of gullible patrons and would have been exactly the same had she been a seventy-year-old hunchback in a boiler suit.

  ‘A heavenly princess from paradise,’ said Esme, deciding to play along.

  Whilst it was gossamer soft and beautifully made, the dress was too long, and too old. She had disappeared beneath the overpowering pattern and become a walking waterfall of silk georgette.

  ‘I must summon Monsieur Sassoon from his atelier,’ squealed Miriam, suddenly a Frenchwoman speaking pidgin English. ‘Quelle surprise, he will have!’ She was now on tiptoes in her excitement.

  ‘Oh, please don’t bother him, Miriam. A maestro must not be distracted from his art. I’m sure he is far too busy creating his wondrous designs.’

  Lowering her heels, Miriam looked a little deflated.

  I’ve hurt her feelings, thought Esme. The poor woman clearly lives for her job, and worships the water Mr Sassoon walked on.

  ‘You can tell him all about it and thank him from me for making the world a more beautiful place with his creations.’

  Miriam rallied, ‘That’s exactly what I will tell him. He will be gracious as always when he receives such compliments.’ She smiled as if the compliment was for her. ‘But perhaps I might take a picture of you?’

  She was already pointing the camera at Esme with her finger poised and ready above the shutter-release button.

  ‘Pull your shoulders back, stomach in and put your weight on your back leg.’

  Draw, suck, step, click, clunk, whir.

  The Polaroid camera idly extricated its photograph and Miriam pinned it under her cashmere-clad armpit.

  ‘It processes more quickly if you warm it up. One of the many things I have learnt from Monsieur.’

  I’m sure, thought Esme. Bet he shits gold too – the woman’s sycophantic idolization now wearing thin. But she was anxious to see the photo. To see herself as others might; how she looked glammed up – albeit in the wrong dress. Had she changed since arriving in London? Would her budding confidence be evident? Would she look more cultivated? Even if she hadn’t changed on the outside yet, she could tell things were shifting within. She just hoped this was self-awareness and not self-obsession.

  Miriam checked the photograph, slowly peeling back the processing paper. Holding it at arm’s length, she let out a contented sigh.

  ‘Very lovely, Miss Munroe. I think we should take some more.’

  ‘May I have a look?’

  She hardly recognized herself; a skinny, self-assured blonde wearing an extortion
ately priced dress like she owned it. Before she had time to respond, Miriam had wheeled out a demi-rail with five or six more dresses for her to try on. More posing, more clicking, more Polaroids each as sophisticated as the last, more exclamations of approval from Monsieur’s disciple.

  When Esme finally emerged from the changing room back in her own clothes – which now felt shabbier than ever – Miriam was pulling down the grilles on the windows.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Esme, ‘is it five thirty already?’

  ‘Indeed it is. And I believe these are still yours?’ Miriam held up the bag of invites.

  ‘Shit.’

  The manageress’s eyebrow rose.

  ‘I have to run but thank you so much. It’s been such fun.’

  But Miriam was already putting on her coat and didn’t give her a second glance.

  Esme closed the door behind her, deflated that her vanity had allowed her to be distracted from the task Bill had given her. He had said he wanted all the invites delivered before dinner and she had no idea how she was going to manage in time. She looked in the bag and tried to count how many were left, panic rising.

  ‘Twice in one day. What are the chances of that?’

  A grinning Rosa stood before her laden with shopping bags from Partridge’s, the exclusive delicatessen on Sloane Street.

  ‘Are you all right? You look like you’ve had a shock,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, Rosa, I don’t know where the time went and I’ve got all these invitations to deliver but I’m not sure where any of the houses are.’ She felt embarrassed – like she was a schoolgirl again, panicking about being late with her homework.

  ‘Let me have a look.’ Rosa put down her shopping and pushed her hands into the small of her back, stretching before rifling through the envelopes. ‘Quite a few of these addresses are on my way home. I can take most of them for you.’

  ‘Oh Rosa, would you?’ Something about Rosa’s offer made her feel less of a failure and her embarrassment turned to gratitude.

  ‘Of course. Just make sure you come and visit me again soon.’

  Esme hugged her. ‘I will, I promise I’ll come very soon.’

  She hugged her again and helped to load her up with the carrier bags including her own and watched the small woman set off at a brisk pace.

  ‘Thank you, Rosa. You’ve saved my life,’ she shouted after her. In reply Rosa lifted the bags in her right hand.

  It was people like Rosa and Mrs Bee that kept the world turning, thought Esme. Not people like her getting stuck on posting a few invitations, or Miriam and her frocks that probably cost more than Rosa’s annual salary. Thinking of Mrs Bee, she suddenly longed for her mothering ways. Deciding that if she couldn’t have Mrs Bee with her, the next best thing would be to make her proud, and not get fired. She picked up the few remaining invitations that hadn’t been on Rosa’s route home. If she could either be like Miriam or like Rosa, she knew who she’d choose. She set off into the summer’s evening.

  Chapter Seven

  Art had always been Esme’s escape – paintings took her to a place where she didn’t feel lonely. At Cartwright Fine Art, she was living and breathing art on a daily basis but her loneliness still seemed to taint everything. Work, eat (sometimes), sleep, repeat. The days played out with little variety. She knew she was fortunate on many counts with a job and place to live, but she felt alone. Suki was yet to ask her out and to be fair, Esme hadn’t exactly encouraged an invitation. But if things carried on like this, she would have to park her ambitions for an alternative social life, get over her fear of rejection and make the most of the one person – Sloane Ranger or not – with whom she was able to pursue a friendship.

  Esme didn’t want to admit that she was lonely. She could make jokes about it, of course. She had written to her sister and told Sophia that she was spending all of her days and nights working and that she hadn’t left the office in days because she was chained to her desk because Bill was a hysterical slave driver. It all sounded very funny on paper. But she didn’t want to divulge the true depths of her loneliness, or admit that she felt more and more alienated each passing day and she wasn’t sure how to fix it.

  She wanted to be less scared, less anxious, and be the best she could at her job but still have a social life. Right now, she felt like she was vanishing into the madness of pre-preview nerves. She longed to meet all kinds of different people, perhaps even to wake up in a stranger’s bed once or twice just to see if it felt good to feel nothing. More than anything she wanted a group of friends that felt like a tribe, a bona fide family. She wanted to go from one place to the next constantly and have her weekends feel like one long epic day.

  When Javier popped by the gallery at lunchtime, he told her to stop complaining and call Cece.

  ‘But she said she would call me.’

  ‘Are you still a little girl, Esme?’

  No, she wasn’t and she knew she sounded like a petulant child.

  ‘I’m too embarrassed,’ she admitted.

  It was true. She had thought about asking him for Cece’s number but didn’t want to appear desperate, to make the first move. She knew she was being pathetic and behaving like a teenager with a crush but building friendships didn’t come naturally to her. She often felt intimidated by new people, especially if they were cool like Cece.

  ‘She really liked you, Esme. Said you seemed like you had a story to tell,’ he said and wrote on a bit of paper which he handed to her. ‘Call her. She’ll still be at home.’

  The office was empty and, taking a deep breath, Esme dialled the number. It answered immediately.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Cece. It’s Esme. We met the other night with Javier.’

  ‘Esme! So pleased you rang. I lost your number and haven’t got around to asking Javs for it again. How you doing?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Busy.’ Shit. Why did she say that?

  ‘Don’t I know it.’ Cece laughed. ‘Listen. What are you up to tomorrow arvo? I’m going to Camden Market. Why don’t you come?’

  There was no way Bill would let her off early unless he was going away for the weekend and wanted to miss the Friday rush hour. But she couldn’t say no.

  ‘That sounds great. I’d love to.’

  She’d work it out and surely Bill owed her a favour after all the overtime she’d done.

  ‘Fantastic. Shall we meet at the Tube station at, say, one?’

  ‘Sure. See you tomorrow.’

  Esme replaced the receiver, realizing she had no idea how long it would take her to get to Camden Market. She hadn’t asked, not wanting to sound like a total idiot. Suki might know. Bill definitely would but she was too scared to ask him. But she was excited. She had been saved from eternal isolation.

  ‘Suki?’

  Suki was at her desk shovelling what smelt like a tuna and sweetcorn sandwich in her mouth.

  ‘That smells foul.’

  Suki smiled, her mouth full. She raised a hand, sped up her chewing and swallowed.

  ‘You have no idea how delicious this is,’ she said, wiping her mouth. ‘Want a bite?’

  ‘No, Suki, it reeks.’

  ‘Your loss,’ she said, taking another huge bite.

  Esme spotted a tube of Smarties on Suki’s desk and reached for one but Suki slapped her hand on the packet.

  ‘No pudding until you’ve eaten your main course,’ said Suki, between mouthfuls.

  ‘You’re so mean,’ said Esme, ignoring her and sliding her finger into the packet of sweets. She prayed for an orange one.

  ‘How far is Camden Market?’

  ‘It’s North London somewhere. Not my scene. A sort of hippy dippy place,’ said Suki, giving a peace sign. ‘Bill will know.’

  She shouted to Bill, who was somewhere out back. Esme wasn’t ready to have her Friday truancy revealed yet. She needed to plan a strategy.

  ‘Bill! Esme wants to know about Camden Market,’ Suki yelled.

  Bill appeared looking flustered.
‘Why on earth do you want to know about Camden?’

  ‘I was thinking of going.’

  Not wanting to let on about Cece, that was all she could think of to say.

  ‘Dirty, full of stoners and punk rockers. Not the kind of place your parents would want you to go.’

  Perfect, thought Esme, but she would have to think of a plausible lie to get off at lunchtime the next day.

  ‘Sounds awful,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll give it a miss. Just as well I asked you.’ She turned back to her work hoping an excuse would come to her.

  With diplomatic handling and a long day of intense servitude, the girls had calmed Bill down to Gale Force 3 by the time five o’clock came. Esme was used to walking on eggshells at home, but she was exhausted and gratefully accepted Suki’s offer to go for a drink. She tried to be casual, but inside she was fizzing. Two invitations to go out places. To see people and finally get to know London beyond Bill’s domain.

  ‘A bunch of us are meeting at The Antelope, you should come too. We need it after all those histrionics,’ Suki said, putting on her lipstick. ‘I love Bill but sometimes I want to murder him. All that fuss over nothing yesterday.’

  ‘He’s probably nervous. And at least we’re organized,’ reasoned Esme. ‘But yes. A vat of wine would go down well.’

  Esme was particularly pleased by Suki’s invitation, as she’d wondered if she resented her being at the gallery. Suki had managed perfectly well before her arrival and could easily be put out by Bill treating Esme as his new protégée. She hoped this invitation meant Suki had decided they were a team rather than rivals.

  The pub was in Chelsea and just round the corner from one of the invitations Esme had dropped off. She could hear the braying voices of the drinkers from the street and a crowd of pinstripe and pearls greeted her inside. Suki took her by the hand and introduced her to a few of her friends then disappeared to the bar.