“Wagner sonatas?” echoes Elinor suspiciously.

“Erm… yes.” I clear my throat, trying to think how to get off the subject of accomplishments. “So! You must be very proud of Luke!”

I’m hoping this comment will trigger a happy speech from her lasting ten minutes. But Elinor simply looks at me silently, as though I’m speaking nonsense.

“With his… his company and everything,” I press on doggedly. “He’s such a success. And he seems very determined to make it in New York. In America.” Elinor gives me a patronizing smile.

“No one is anything till they make it in America.” She looks out of the window. “We’re here.”

Thank God for that.


To give Elinor her due, the beauty spa is absolutely amazing. The reception area is exactly like a Greek grotto, with pillars and soft music and a lovely scent of essential oils in the air. We go up to the reception desk, where a smart woman in black linen calls Elinor “Mrs. Sherman” very deferentially. They talk for a while in lowered voices, and the woman occasionally gives me a glance and nods her head, and I try to pretend not to be listening, looking at the price list for bath oils. Then abruptly Elinor turns away and ushers me to a seating area where there’s a jug of mint tea and a sign asking patrons to respect the tranquility of the spa and keep their voices down.

We sit in silence for a while — then a girl in a white uniform comes to collect me and takes me to a treatment room, where a robe and slippers are waiting, all wrapped in embossed cellophane. As I get changed, she’s busying herself at her counter of goodies, and I wonder pleasurably what I’ve got in store. Elinor insisted on paying for all my treatments herself, however much I tried to chip in — and apparently she selected the “top-to-toe grooming” treatment, whatever that is. I’m hoping it’ll include a nice relaxing aromatherapy massage — but as I sit down on the couch, I see a pot full of wax heating up.

I feel an unpleasant lurch in my tummy. I’ve never been that great at having my legs waxed. Which is not because I’m afraid of pain, but because—

Well, OK. It’s because I’m afraid of pain.

“So — does my treatment include waxing?” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.

“You’re booked in for a full waxing program,” says the beautician, looking up in surprise. “The ‘top-to-toe.’ Legs, arms, eyebrows, and Brazilian.”

Arms? Eyebrows? I can feel my throat tightening in fear. I haven’t been this scared since I had my jabs for Thailand.

“Brazilian?” I say in a scratchy voice. “What… what’s that?”

“It’s a form of bikini wax. A total wax.”

I stare at her, my mind working overtime. She can’t possibly mean—

“So if you’d like to lie down on the couch—”

“Wait!” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “When you say ‘total,’ do you mean…”

“Uh-huh.” The beautician smiles. “Then, if you wish, I can apply a small crystal tattoo to the… area. A love heart is quite popular. Or perhaps the initials of someone special?”

No. This can’t be real.

“So, if you could just lie back on the couch and relax—”

Relax? Relax?

She turns back to her pot of molten wax — and I feel a surge of pure terror.

“I’m not doing it,” I hear myself saying, and slither off the couch. “I’m not having it.”

“The tattoo?”

“Any of it.”

“Any of it?”

The beautician comes toward me, the wax pot in hand — and in panic I dodge behind the couch, clasping my robe defensively around me.

“But Mrs. Sherman has already prepaid for the entire treatment—”

“I don’t care what she’s paid for,” I say, backing away. “You can wax my legs. But not my arms. And definitely not… that other one. The crystal love heart one.”

The beautician looks worried.

“Mrs. Sherman is one of our most regular customers. She specifically requested the ‘top-to-toe wax’ for you.”

“She’ll never know!” I say desperately. “She’ll never know! I mean, she’s not exactly going to look, is she? She’s not going to ask her son if his initials are tattooed on his girlfriend’s…” I can’t bring myself to say area. “I mean, come on. Is she?”

I break off, and there’s a tense silence, broken only by the sound of tootling panpipes.

Then suddenly the beautician gives a snort of laughter. I catch her eye — and find myself starting to laugh, too, albeit slightly hysterically.

“You’re right,” says the beautician, sitting down and wiping her eyes. “You’re right. She’ll never know.”

“How about a compromise?” I say. “You do my legs and eyebrows and we keep quiet about the rest.”

“I could give you a massage instead,” says the beautician. “Use up the time.”

“There we are, then!” I say in relief. “Perfect!”

Feeling slightly drained, I lie down on the couch, and the beautician covers me up expertly with a towel.

“So, does Mrs. Sherman have a son, then?” she says, smoothing back my hair.

“Yes.” I look up, taken aback. “Has she never even mentioned him?”

“Not that I recall. And she’s been coming here for years…” The beautician shrugs. “I guess I always assumed she didn’t have any children.”

“Oh right,” I say, and lie back down, trying not to give away my surprise.


When I emerge an hour and a half later, I feel fantastic. I’ve got brand-new eyebrows, smooth legs, and a glow all over from the most wonderful aromatherapy massage.

Elinor is waiting for me in reception, and as I come toward her, she runs her eyes appraisingly up and down my body. For a horrible moment I think she’s going to ask me to roll up my sleeves to check the smoothness of my arms — but all she says is, “Your eyebrows look a lot better.” Then she turns and walks out, and I hurry after her.

As we get back into the car, I ask, “Where are we having lunch?”

“Nina Heywood is holding a small informal charity lunch for Ugandan famine relief,” she replies, examining one of her immaculate nails. “She holds events like this nearly every month. Do you know the Heywoods? Or the van Gelders?”

Of course I don’t bloody know them.

“No,” I hear myself saying. “But I know the Websters.”

“The Websters?” She raises her arched eyebrows. “The Newport Websters?”

“The Oxshott Websters. Janice and Martin.” I give her an innocent look. “Do you know them?”

“No,” says Elinor, giving me a frosty look. “I don’t believe I do.”

For the rest of the journey we travel in silence. Then suddenly the car is stopping and we’re getting out, and walking into the grandest, most enormous lobby I’ve ever seen, with a doorman in uniform and mirrors everywhere. We go up what seems like a zillion floors in a gilded lift with a man in a peaked cap, and into an apartment. And I have never seen anything like it.

The place is absolutely enormous, with a marble floor and a double staircase and a grand piano on a platform. The pale silk walls are decorated with enormous gold-framed paintings, and on pedestals around the room there are cascading flower arrangements like I’ve never seen before. Pin-thin women in expensive clothes are talking animatedly to one another, a smaller number of well-dressed men are listening politely, there are waitresses handing out champagne, and a girl in a flowing dress is playing the harp.

And this is a small charity lunch?

Our hostess Mrs. Heywood is a tiny woman in pink, who is about to shake hands with me when she’s distracted by the arrival of a woman in a bejeweled turban. Elinor introduces me to a Mrs. Parker, a Mr. Wunsch, and a Miss Kutomi, then drifts away, and I make conversation as best I can, even though everyone seems to assume I must be a close friend of Prince William.

“Tell me,” says Mrs. Parker urgently. “How is that poor young man bearing up after his… great loss?” she whispers.

“That boy has a natural nobility,” says Mr. Wunsch fiercely. “Young people today could learn a lot from him. Tell me, is it the army he’s headed for?”

“He… he hasn’t mentioned it,” I say helplessly. “Would you excuse me.”

I escape to the bathroom — and that’s just as huge and sumptuous as the rest of the apartment, with racks of luxury soaps and bottles of free perfume, and a comfy chair to sit in. I kind of wish I could stay there all day, actually. But I don’t dare linger too long in case Elinor comes looking for me. So with a final squirt of Eternity, I force myself to get up and go back into the throng, where waiters are moving quietly around, murmuring, “Lunch will be served now.”

As everyone moves toward a set of grand double doors I look around for Elinor but I can’t see her. There’s an old lady in black lace sitting on a chair near to me, and she begins to stand up with the aid of a walking stick.

“Let me help,” I say, hurrying forward as her grip falters. “Shall I hold your champagne glass?”

“Thank you, my dear!” The lady smiles at me as I take her arm, and we walk slowly together into the palatial dining room. People are pulling out chairs and sitting down at circular tables, and waiters are hurrying round with bread rolls.

“Margaret,” says Mrs. Heywood, coming forward and holding out her hands to the old lady. “There you are. Now let me find your seat…”

“This young lady was assisting me,” says the old lady as she lowers herself onto a chair, and I smile modestly at Mrs. Heywood.

“Thank you, dear,” she says absently. “Now, could you take my glass too, please… and bring some water to our table?”

“Of course!” I say with a friendly smile. “No problem.”

“And I’ll have a gin and tonic,” adds an elderly man nearby, swiveling in his chair.