MARY LOVED THE SOCIAL WHIRL IN LONDON AND according to Wallis was soon ‘a hit’ with her friends. There was a cocktail party every evening at six, more often than not in the spacious drawing room at Bryanston Court, where Wallis herself mixed the KTs and served tiny sausages and little biscuits with caviar. There were a lot of Americans in their set: Wallis’s cousin Corinne and her husband George, who worked at the US Embassy; the three glamorous Vanderbilt girls, Thelma, Consuelo and Gloria; and the US air attaché Mike Scanlon and his wife Gladys. There were also some British friends of Ernest’s sister Maud, but they tended to be older and more staid.
One evening Wallis threw a dinner party for the American set, where she served Southern recipes from her and Mary’s youth: Maryland fried chicken and biscuits, pork cake, shrimp and corn pie. Conversation was about whether Judge Wilkerson would manage to pin tax evasion charges on Al Capone.
‘They have to find some way of getting him behind bars,’ Corinne insisted. ‘Did you see those photographs of the St Valentine’s Day massacre? We can’t live in a country where his gang can mow down seven men in broad daylight.’
‘The Eighteenth Amendment is responsible for the creation of gangsters like him,’ Mike Scanlon argued. ‘As soon as governments ban a popular substance like alcohol, they invite criminals to step in and even give them a veneer of respectability.’
‘It made criminals of us all,’ Wallis declared. ‘We each crossed a line when we took our first sip of illegal hooch, and who knows where it will end? Perhaps we will progress to more serious crimes – like exceeding the speed limit.’
‘As they say here in Britain, the law is an ass,’ Ernest commented. Two of the women gasped and he quickly corrected himself: ‘An ass as in a type of donkey, that is.’
Mary admired Wallis’s skill as she ensured everyone was engaged in conversation, asking questions about areas she knew they could discuss, and never permitting a lull. They moved on to talk of the Empire State Building, which had just opened in New York – ‘It’s breathtaking,’ Mary was able to report, ‘but I’m sure there are many collisions on the sidewalk as passers-by crane upwards at its soaring heights’ – and of hailstones the size of golf balls that had recently fallen in New Jersey, breaking hothouse windows and causing many sore heads.
‘No one wants to leave Wallis’s parties,’ Mike Scanlon whispered to Mary, ‘because they have so much pep in them.’
Ernest took a back seat, happy to let his wife be the centre of attention, and Mary gravitated towards him after the meal. In no time at all their old friendship had been re-established, as if she had never quarrelled with him back in New York. She enjoyed asking what books he had read recently, and questioning him on architectural sights she had spotted while gadding around in a taxicab with Wallis. It was clear he had never told Wallis what Mary had said about her, and she appreciated his discretion.
On the rare occasions when it was just the three of them at home for an evening, Mary watched Wallis and Ernest together. She loved them both dearly and wanted them to be happy, but she could sense Wallis was not in love. She liked Ernest – everyone did – but she wasn’t giddy the way she had been when she met Win; her eyes didn’t light up the way they had when she spoke of Felipe Espil. Did Ernest love her, or was he just swept away by her? She was great fun to be around, but Mary wasn’t convinced they had enough in common. Could Ernest see the vulnerability beneath the carapace, the part Mary thought made Wallis human and lovable?
On the morning of 1 June, Wallis came rushing into Mary’s bedroom with news. ‘The Prince of Wales is going to be at Consuelo and Benny’s later, so you’ll get a chance to meet him. Won’t you wear the green silk? It’s your most fetching gown. I’ll lend you my emerald necklace. And let’s get our hair done this afternoon.’
Mary laughed. ‘Anyone would think you were trying to match me with the poor man.’
‘Don’t you want to make a good impression? He is your childhood pin-up after all.’ Wallis seemed more effervescent than usual.
‘Fine, but before we go you’ll have to remind me how to curtsey and what to call him . . .’
The day was spent in a flurry of hair, nails, make-up and careful accessorising before they took a taxicab to Consuelo’s at six. Every guest was formally announced by a butler as they entered the room, a system Mary rather liked because it helped her to remember the names. It was half past six and she had almost finished her first drink when the butler announced: ‘His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, and Mrs Thelma Furness.’
Mary looked over and was startled to see how short the prince was: probably only five foot six or seven. He was wearing a loud houndstooth-check suit and had prominent bags under his eyes, nothing like the handsome blonde youth whose picture she used to kiss in magazines. Of course, he was thirty-seven years old and not a youth any more. Thelma was an exotic raven-haired beauty with a pretty laugh.
The Prince chatted first to a group near the door, but moved from one circle to the next every few minutes, making his way slowly around the room, cigarette in one hand and drink in the other. Mary smiled as she saw Wallis manoeuvre into position so that he would have to talk to her next. He greeted her warmly, seeming pleased to see her, and Wallis was clearly at her most animated, but Mary was not close enough to hear what they were discussing.
At one stage they both turned to look at her and Wallis beckoned. Mary approached, feeling a flutter of nerves, and dropped a curtsey of sorts.
‘It’s an honour to meet you, Your Royal Highness,’ she said, then she looked into his face and saw a turned-up nose and the saddest blue eyes she ever had encountered. It was a shock; not what she had expected at all. What did he have to be sad about?
For a moment they examined each other, then he said, ‘I hope you will enjoy your stay in London, Mrs Raffray. We do like welcoming American visitors.’
‘I’m already entranced by the history in every street; you have so much architecture,’ Mary gushed.
‘A wonderful setting to show off the beauty of you American women.’ The Prince smiled, looking at Wallis.
She replied in her best flirtatious style: ‘Why, sir, you are just a heartbreak to any woman because you flatter her but you can never marry her.’
He laughed at that, throwing his head back. ‘Mischievous as ever, Mrs Simpson. Keep up the good work.’
Mary was shocked. After the Prince had moved on to talk to the next group, she whispered in Wallis’s ear: ‘Bessiewallis Warfield Simpson, I do hope you are not trying to seduce that poor man.’
‘Good Lord, no!’ Wallis whispered back, wrinkling her nose.