Lucinda led Amy around Knightsbridge with the awe-inspiring confidence of one of a hallowed breed who are met not with disdain but deference when patrolling the upper echelons of Sloane Street’s boutiques. There was a type of woman in this part of town whom one imagined wouldn’t be able to breathe outside this postal address; place her in an SW11 or an N6 and she’d be reaching for her inhaler, rasping in a bid for her self-respect. Swathed in camel color, with dashes of Hermes black leather, like some piebald horse, she walks with balletic steps the length of Walton Street before hailing a cab. Never known to speak or to eat.
They were on a scarf-finding mission. They strolled purposefully from the bitterly cold, early morning, sundrenched pavements into the silk-walled casements of luxury. Chanel, Farhi, Hamnett. It was curious being in with the right set in these terrifying shops. When Amy was at the publishing house she and another work-experience girl would escape most lunchtimes to meander around South Kensington. They developed a formula for being treated seriously in the shops. Turn waxen with glumness before entering and don’t smile. Appear uninterested at all times and express delight, loathing, and any greeting merely with your eyelashes. Thus a flicker denotes excitement, a plummeting of lashes disgust, and imploring eyelashes “I’m trying this on” (no pleases here, I’m afraid). They’d stoically wander between the rails in this fashion, suppressing all rapture. Once outside they’d curl over with laughter and I must have thats. There invariably followed the adage I’ve got to be rich, chanted so sincerely and with such desperation that Amy almost believed that if she closed her eyes tightly enough, the darkness would yield it. Rich boyfriends or checkbook fraud seemed more likely options, though.
And the scarves: the soft velvet and lace, rich chocolate chiffon, amethyst silk and dense satin. Amy fingered each in turn, draping some over her shoulder, veiling her mouth and nose with one so she looked like a Turkish Delight temptress or just inhaling the trace of perfume and opulence of the fabrics. Amy pondered but Lucinda knew.
“Fifteen of these and seven of those,” she instructed a willowy blonde in a pinstripe trouser suit who had previously just drifted like flotsam against the shop’s various objets d’art. The girl encased the spoils in tissue paper and a serious paper bag for them to carry away.
To reward a successful scarf purchase Lucinda took her to lunch in Daphne’s, following her doctrine of Never look an expense account in the mouth. The pair sat in the conservatory, the icy sunshine pouring through the windows, the occasional waft of basil or warm bread whetting their appetites. Lucinda was pale and ethereal and beautiful; she’d risen effortlessly in the fashion world partly because she was universally adored and partly because she could couple a Philip Treacy hat with a Saint Laurent suit in a way which women would lie down and die for. Amy thought she was the last word in glamour and was fast becoming her best friend. Lucinda loved Amy because she was witty and charming and ever so slightly gauche, and what a pleasure it was to have someone so fresh around in the airless, sometimes stale world of fashion. Lucinda was also stable and clever and the perfect mentor for a would-be heroine. Mutual appreciation was the name of the game. Amy was about the youngest person there and, if we’re being truthful, the most beautiful. She was naturally superseded in grooming by each and every woman in there (her nails harbored rare cultures, and possibly whole undiscovered tribes, beneath them), and her hair was more crap than coif, but still, thanks to a beauty routine which was one part witchcraft and two parts tap water, she managed to look fresher than the arugula salad and considerably more appetizing. That is, if the appreciative leers of the film moguls and all the fat-walleted (and, all too often, fat-bottomed) men lunching there were concerned. Some, probably the English, gave that coolly arrogant stare which said, “You may think I wouldn’t mind a bit of rumpy with you, young filly, but you’re sadly mistaken, I’m far too important to fancy you.” Then there were the obviously Latinate appraisals of unadulterated pleasure, and the terrified Americans, all PC paranoia: should they smile or would it clash with their Calvin Kleins, and what will his wife think and what would his therapist say? Amy smiled inwardly at her cornflake-packet guide to national character delineation and decided that it was not crass to generalize, in this instance. Serve them right, pervy bastards.
“So, has Luke called yet?” Lucinda ravished a roulé of goat cheese without injury to her lipstick.
“No, but I really wasn’t expecting him to, and I’m really not too bothered, y’know. It was just a kind of finishing off. Smoothing over. He’s not really my type.”
Lucinda smiled sympathetically, wholly believing Amy to be putting a brave face on her misery.
“Lucinda! I don’t care, honestly.”
“OK, sweetheart. Why don’t you come to a party with me tonight, get out your glad rags, and find yourself a bigger fish than Luke to fry? There’ll be tons of people there.”
Amy nodded weakly. She wanted a night to catch up with herself after a manic week at work but knew better than to offend Lucinda when she had her charity hat on. “Luce?” She looked up from a vinaigrette-laden frond of curly endive. Lettuce, let’s face it, endive, arugula, radicchio, bloody lettuce. Amy winced at the stupidity of her fellow diners, paying through the nose for vegetation. Still, as they rationalized it, at least they stayed slim.
“Luce, you do see, don’t you, why I’d rather just, y’know, sleep with these guys than go out with them. There’s so much more romance in the moment, in some bubble of perfection than ending up wearing jogging pants and stopping shaving my legs.”
Lucinda smiled with as much mother-earth compassion as a woman who dictates other women wear hipsters can muster.
“Darling, if you love someone, eventually it doesn’t matter that you’ve eaten garlic or have furry armpits, really, it becomes more than that.”
Amy squirmed with disgust. Q.E.D., she would stick to glossy unreality, faint hearts and all.
“That’s your trouble, darling, you want too much—you want a Ralph Lauren ad for a life, but those boys are all gay and babies vomit all the time. It’s not so pretty in reality.”