Footloose In London

8

Footloose In London

July 15 Not. Maybe it was that bally answer-phone message of John’s continually assaulting my eardrums, but anyway in the weeks that followed I admit I let myself get carried away somewhat, but I really don’t think I did it on purpose. The episodes sort of just… happened.

THE EPISODE OF THE ELEGANT MR EAMES was first. It may be remembered that I had met this gentleman briefly in Paris: he was one of the investors found by Carter Bachelier for Oncle Albert. I had thought that if anything he was merely mildly amused by yours truly. It would never have happened if dashed Flossie hadn’t stood me up. He’d made a date for lunch at a place Uncle Flossie favoured. It would all have been okay if the genial uncle had come, too, but he didn’t.

    I duly trotted along (that was, le Jacques du Cousin Georges kindly took me in his taxi, firmly refusing remuneration), and was duly seated at a nice table. It was a very posh place, tho rather restrained in style, which is what Uncle Flossie, for all his geniality, prefers. He had been to Club Romney’s a couple of times with Clive Lamont, but confessed privily that he thought it was “damned garish” and he really drew the line at watered drinks. Which they are: I’ve seen Euan with my own eyes turning three full bottles of Teacher’s and one empty into four full bottles by transferring a good quarter of the full ones and topping the lot up with water. A practice not unknown, true, but hardly likely to recommend the place to such as the nunky in Q. This restaurant, by contrast, was so nicely elegant and up-market that one couldn’t possibly envisage anything like that happening within its chaste purlieus. Real table linen, kind of thing. Cushioned chairs. Everything toning. No glaring lights but not the sort of too-discreet lighting that prompts one to look round for the over-lipsticked mistresses, either. In fact there was nothing over-lipsticked in sight and that lady at the next table but one, with a very affluent-looking smooth gent indeed, was wearing a superbly cut suit from the House of Givenchy, no kidding.

    I had been there for some time and had given in and ordered an apéro, deciding it should just be a small sherry, this being Blighty and the restaurant being what it was, and the waiter, ascertaining I would care for it, had brought me a Tio Pepe, and the level in the glass had lowered considerably and I was beginning to feel very fed up with dashed Flossie, when my mobile rang. Frightfully sorry, Sister Bean, something (unspecified) had come up, couldn’t make it after all. Yes well. Knowing Flossie Nightingale it was probably a bimbo, or possibly he was about to get into the knickers of that junior lecturer that report said he’d been chasing all year, drat him, but there you were. Or rather there I was, stranded in a posh London restaurant with only a few pounds and some euros in my purse. Plus a debit card that would access the bank account that had had that money from Dad in it that I’d spent on clothes. Help! Well I’d have to pay for the drink and go, there was no way I could have afforded their prices. Not that Flossie could either, but it had been going to be on Uncle Flossie, apparently. There was sure to be a cover charge as well, ugh.

    I was resignedly finishing the Tio Pepe when a smooth light grey suit appeared at my elbow and a smooth upper-class voice said in an amused tone: “Do excuse me, but it is Mel LeBec, isn’t it? We met in Paris: Christopher Eames.”

    Yes well one couldn’t actually forget anything that smoothly good-looking, not to say superbly tailored.

    Not pointing out that my surname isn’t actually LeBec, I replied feebly: “Yes of course, Christopher.” Wondering if, in the case those few pounds in my purse should prove inadequate to cover a sit-down and Tio Pepe here, I could work up the intestinal fortitude, so to speak, to ask him for a loan and deciding I couldn’t, alas.

    He didn’t say anything so crass as “Stood up?” What he did say was: “May I join you, if you’re not expecting someone? I do hate lunching alone.”

    All I honestly thought at that moment was: Thank God! With his manners, he’d be sure to insist on paying for me! I didn’t consider for an instant that it was more than a very fleeting fancy on his side.

    So I said: “Yes, do join me. I was expecting an old friend but he can’t make it after all.”

    He nodded, smiled, and reached for a chair but suddenly the waiter was right there holding it for him. It was that sort of place.

    Well really after all the turbulent emotions, anxiety, annoyance then fury with dashed Flossie, and the horror of realising how broke I was and wondering if I was going to be utterly humiliated by not being able to afford the Tio Pepe, and then the huge relief of realising that Christopher Eames would pay for the lot— I was incapable of anything like choice, and let him order for both of us, since he knew the place well and was “rather fond of it.”

    Some sort of fillet steak dish with what the waiter called jus but was merely a reduced sauce, plus small turned potatoes and baby carrots with a trendy sprinkling of tiny green specks of something, but not too trendy, thank God. And the meat was excellent. No salad course, natch. He thought I might like their orange water ice, which they did rather well, but I had to admit that Tante Louise’s were the absolute last word in water ices, so he laughed and suggested their very pleasant crème caramel. Tho in winter—crinkling up the long, cool grey eyes in a way which I was jolly sure he knew was pretty irresistible—it was positively the only place to go for a jolly old traditional English plum pudding! I managed to smile in reply and agreed to the crème caramel. Which was very good, actually. Then he suggested cheese: their Stilton was excellent. Help, I’d forgotten completely that les Anglais had the cheese last!

    My expression must have given me away, because he said: “Oh, Lord! I’m so sorry, Mel: of course, you’d have the cheese before the pud in France, wouldn’t you?”

    “Yes,” I agreed faintly, feeling I’d made the most frightful faux pas.

    “That was a delightful Brie your relatives gave me at the Restaurant LeBec, and your aunt’s Poires pochées au vin were superb,” he said, smiling nicely. “Shall we just forget about cheese for today and settle for coffees? Would you care for a Cognac with them?”

    Well we’d only had a glass of a lightish Bordeaux with the meal, so I agreed. So shaken that I didn’t even pull myself together enough to remember my manners and tell him he must go ahead and have the cheese if he fancied it.

July 18 Not. Continuing straight on: Over the coffee and brandy he asked me nicely how I was getting on in London, so I found myself telling him all about the horrors of Club Romney’s décor and watered drinks. Explaining hurriedly that it was research on how not to do it for when Le Club opened. Thank God, he laughed. And said he must pop in some night: would they let him in if he wasn’t a member?

    Actually anyone could pay fifty quid at the door and become a member, but somehow I didn’t fancy telling up-market Christopher Eames that, so I just said it’d be okay if I left his name with the doorman, but he’d hate it.

    “Well,” he replied thoughtfully, rubbing his rather nice chin—his face is a longish oval, but not soppily so, very good bones—“I think I’d like to see how not to do it, too. Just to be aware of the way things should look at Le Club, y’know!”

    “Okay, then, I’ll tell Bert you might look in—that’s the doorman. Well, you’d only have to lay eyes on him, Christopher, for the expression ‘chucker-out’ to spring vividly to mind, but they call him the doorman.”

    “Very clear!” he said with a laugh. “That’s something to think about, isn’t it? Put something decent-looking on the door at Le Club?”

    “Absolutely. In a top hat!” I agreed eagerly.

    “You know, that’s not a bad idea. Says ‘tone’ from the word Go, eh? –Er, don’t look so suspicious, my dear girl, I’m serious! If I’m backing the place, I’d like it to be something one wouldn’t blush to be associated with.”

    I felt myself going red like an idiot. “Um yes, of course, Christopher. Sorry. Um, well from what Carter’s let slip I don’t think the American backers much care what sort of place it is so long as they get a return on their money, so, um… Sorry,” I muttered.

    “That’s quite all right!” he smiled. “One doesn’t want one’s name to be associated with anything tawdry, y’know.”

    “No,” I said, sagging a bit. “That’s exactly what Uncle Flossie said.”

    “Ah… Flossie?” he murmured.

    “Yes—sorry. He’s not my uncle, he’s a friend’s uncle, but I’ve known him ever since my brother started school over here—gosh, I must have been about eleven,” I realised. “His surname’s Nightingale so of course he got called Flossie at school.”

    “Good Lord: Sir Charles Nightingale, do you mean, my dear?”

    Er… I had a feeling that in his upper-class vernacular “my dear” in those precise tones meant I’d gone up several steps in his estimation, not to say in the social scale. Crumbs.

    “Yes, that’s right. His nephew’s a Flossie, too. Do you know him, then?”

    “Mm, known him for years. Play chess with him at the club sometimes. –As opposed to Le Club!” he ended with a laugh.

    “I see. Well he’s very interested in Le Club and has invested in it, too. –I didn’t know he played chess. He plays backgammon,” I added, not passing on Flossie’s titbit that at home he also played chemmy, which he invariably cheated at, “but his nephew says he’s very bad at it.”

    Christopher Eames at this positively grinned. “He’s very bad at chess, too, between you and me!”

    And we laughed together and take it for all in all I felt much more comfortable with him.

    So when he offered nicely to see me home I agreed. He grabbed a taxi without difficulty and we departed the swept-up restaurant in perfect harmony…

July 20 Not. I really thought, after he’d dropped me off at Mum’s building, that that was that. But gee, he turned up a couple of nights later at Club Romney’s. Rather late in the evening, so I was on the roulette table. He placed a few moderate bets, won a little and lost a little, and had two whiskies and sodas—dashed Euan’s specials, of course, so he certainly wasn’t drunk by the end of the evening and would have passed any breathalyser test ever devised by an earnest Mr Plod. And offered very nicely to see me home.

    Well Crumpy usually did that, but once he realised that I actually knew the chap and that he was one of Oncle Albert’s investors he was quite happy not to. So Christopher Eames and I got into a taxi together.

    “You weren’t wrong about the place’s décor—nor the drinks,” he said with a smile in his voice.

    “No,” I agreed. “And did you notice Bert?”

    “Hard to miss him! The archetypical bouncer, in fact!”

    “Yes. He used to be a wrestler. Not the faked-up sort, the real thing.”

    “Uh-huh. –They must be paying a fair amount in rent, it’s not a bad area.”

    “Yes, Crumpy says they are.”

    He then wanted to know who actually owned the place, so as Crumpy had been into all that I was able to give him chapter and verse. Rooney didn’t own the business, he was only the manager, it was owned by a private company comprising a small group of businessmen who also had quite a few small clubs in the north; this was their only venture south of Birmingham. The freehold of the building belonged to a huge property conglomerate who were only interested in having the rent paid regularly. They apparently vetted the lessees only to the extent of making sure they were solvent and unlikely to destroy the fabric of the structure.

    “I see. –I think I’m right in saying that your uncle’s company owns Le Club’s building outright?”

    “Yes; it’s a family company: they bought the place not long after the War, when half the street was a bomb site. Oncle Albert thinks it was just a stray bomb, there are no docks or important infrastructure anywhere near."

    “I see. It’s rather a nice building, isn’t it?” he said, I could hear he was smiling again.

    Er… Oldish stone building… Traditional-looking, so to speak. Like very large parts of London, never mind the shiny oddities like the Gherkin and the Great Pointed Shiny Mistake, as Egg calls the Shard.

    “Um, I suppose so,” I said weakly.

    He chuckled. “Not into architecture, Mel?”

    “Not really. It was a bit of a trial visiting my old friends a few years back and being shown the Oxford colleges. Well I mean, Paris is full of old stone buildings, too.”

    “Of course,” he agreed smoothly. “Seen the Tower of London?”

    “Yes—ages ago.”

    “And?” he said with a laugh in his voice.

    “Well, it’s all been done up, hasn’t it? Very spick-and-span.”

    He agreed it was, very nicely, not a hint of superiority about him, so I found myself telling him that my little brother had been terrified of the ravens.

    Christopher wasn’t surprised: he found them fairly terrifying himself. So he asked me a bit about my little brother and since I’d inadvertently used the nickname, had to hear all about the Junior Drones, expressing envy that they’d managed to find compatible companions at School. His own schooldays had been “a frightful bore from beginning to end.” Well naturally I asked him where he’d gone and, er, yes, quite. But when I told him about the Junior Drones’ gear and that the proper use of Old School Ties was as belts for cream bags, he laughed like anything and agreed that of course it was! So not too much of the jolly old School Spirit had rubbed off on him, never mind that accent.

    By this time we’d reached Mum’s building and he got out with me. I fumbled in my evening bag—or rather, one of Mum’s evening bags, a dinky little effort in black suede with a large diamanté clip on it—and eventually found the key.

    “Do let me,” he murmured, gently taking it off me.

    Well okay, I’m the sort of person that tends to turn keys the wrong way, as my siblings and the male members of the Junior Drones have all discovered with a mixture of annoyance and superiority (both, mixed, from all of them, that is).

    But just as he was about to insert the key in the lock the door opened and Mr Prosser said: “Oh, good, there are you, Mel. There’s a parcel come for yer mum, not sure what to do wiv it.”

    “She’s in Guadeloupe, Mr Prosser,” I said, going in.

    “I know. Well will them TV people see she gets it if I forward it? I mean, she said not to bother forwarding any letters but I dunno about a parcel.”

    “On their form so far the telly lot wouldn’t remember their own names if they didn’t have them on those plastic ID things they all wear round their necks, so I wouldn't bother, Mr Prosser. Um, it doesn’t say ‘Perishable’ or anything like that, does it?”

    “No. Just the address label—see?”

    He held out the brown-paper-swathed article in Q., and I took it and peered. “Oh yes. Can you read that postmark?”

    “Nope,” he replied without looking.

    “Nor me. I suppose it’s safe to open it, it won’t be a bomb from someone who’s been driven mad by her ruddy telly appearances, she never gives out her address.”

    “Right. Um, wouldn’t be from ’er brother, would it?”

    “Uncle Jimmy? Dunno. I think he’s still in Portugal.” I peered again but without result: all the ink of the sufficiently complex set of smudges they seem to put on parcels these days instead of nice bright paper stamps that the younger generation can collect was illegible.

    “You better open it in case it’s urgent,” he decided.

    Yes well it didn’t say “URGENT” on it, but okay, I agreed to take it up.

    “Let me carry it, Mel,” said Christopher nicely.

    “Don’t bother, sir, I’ll take it up for the young lady,” said the gallant Mr Prosser quickly, instantly promoting me in order to put unknown gents in their place.

    Christopher looked at him in some amusement. “It’s perfectly all right, I’m not a predator, I’m merely seeing the young lady home.”

    Oops! “He’s a friend, Mr Prosser,” I said quickly. “He’s doing some business with Oncle Albert—you know, with the clubs.”

    Mr Prosser stood his ground, looking pugnacious. “Dare say.”

    Oh, help. The quicker we got out of it the better. “I’d be grateful if you would bring it up, Christopher—and do you want to pay off the taxi?”

    “Certainly,” he said smoothly, ducking out.

    In his wake my staunch defender hissed angrily: “I ’ope you know whatcha doin’! ’E’s twice your age an’ snooty wiv it!”

    I sighed. “He’s perfectly okay. He’s the one who gave me a lovely lunch the other day when dashed Flossie stood me up.”

    “Aw—’im. All right, then,” he conceded. With that he stood back, arms crossed, and watched as Christopher returned, took the parcel off me, and we got into the lift.

    “Sorry. He’s a grandfather,” I said limply as we went up.

    “So I would suppose!” he gasped, breaking down in laughter.

    When we reached Mum’s floor he said nicely: “Er—I don’t really have to come in, y’know, Mel. I’m afraid I was—er—trailing my coat to annoy that poor fellow.”

    “I know. I was just trying to shut him up, really, but come in anyway if you’d like to.”

    “I’d like to very much,” he murmured.

    Yes, well.

    So we went in and he put the parcel down on one of the traditional 1930s Queen Anne rosewood side tables the flat’s full of and idly glancing at the label, murmured: “Er… Fullarton-Browne?”

    “What? Oh—yes. Um, my surname isn’t really LeBec, that’s my French grandmother’s maiden name.”

    “So Lady Patrizia’s your mother?”

    “Y— Oh. Do you know her?” I asked glumly.

    “We have met, yes,” he said noncommittally.

    Help. I looked at him numbly. Surely he had more taste than ever to have been one of Mum’s, even in his youth?

    “It was at Ascot, I think. Mm, must have been: unspeakable hats were definitely in there. I—er—I think she was with an Arab chap.”

    “Probably Prince Youseff,” I said with a sigh. “It was on-again off-again for quite a while. But then that telly thing she did in the Near East came out and he realised she hadn’t worn anything modest and when he tackled her about it she just laughed and told him that one doesn’t have one’s hair done in order to cover it up with a silly scarf because of some peasant superstition, and he dropped her like a hot potato and said the series would be banned in his country.”

    “Oh, Lor’,” said the sophisticated Mr Eames numbly. “Er—shall we sit down?”

    “Oh—yes, of course! Sorry, Christopher! Would you like a drink? There’s some Cognac.” –Not adding that it was courtesy of Clive Lamont, after finding out how denuded Mum’s drinks cupboard was.

    So we sat down and had Cognacs and he asked me some more about the family and somehow I found myself telling him all about Grannie and the family feud and Oncle Patrice supplying the wine to the Restaurant LeBec sub rosa, as it were, the smoothly sophisticated Christopher Eames laughing like anything, and one thing sort of led to another…

    Just as well I didn’t have to get up early in the morning for work.

    It turned out he’s the sort of really nice chappie who doesn’t mind giving one breakfast in bed after another round, so to speak. Jolly good! In fact jolly good all round. Well I knew he was the sort of chap that knows all about women, two minutes in his company would have assured any female with hormones of that, but really, not only half a dozen medals for bed, half a dozen more for the breakfast! Bliss!

July 24 Not. Continuing: When I eventually had my shower and staggered into the sitting-room in my dressing-gown I found him idly looking out of the window.

    “Nice area, this,” he said with a smile. “Quite a pleasant view.”

    Er… yet more oldish stone buildings. Oh well, he was undoubtedly the expert in that as in quite a few other things, so I merely agreed nicely.

    Incidentally, the parcel contained an obviously used pair of lady’s shoes and an obviously freshly laundered bright orange lacy bra plus a rather indiscreet not to say verging on indecent note, so thank goodness I hadn’t opened it in front of him!

    “What does he do?” asked the Egg with a frown, a couple of days later. –Crumpy’s big mouth had not failed to purvey the latest, sigh.

    I put my nose in the air. “He’s a gentleman of prayvate means.”

    “Don’t give me that, Sister Bean,” he said heavily. “What?”

    “Uh… Does the expression ‘Commodities Market’ convey anything to you?”

    “Yes, it certainly does. So he’s a dashed broker?”

    “No. He plays the Commodities Market, if that makes sense.”

    The Egg sighed. “Don’t play dumb, it’s not your thing. Bit of a gambler, is he?”

    “Not judging by the very moderate bets he made at Club Romney’s, Egg, no. Um, it’s mostly metals—not just gold, he said—but he also does a bit in grain and I think he said coffee and cocoa but I don’t quite see how one could.”

    “The beans, Sister Bean,” he said heavily. “Coffee beans and cocoa beans—cacao, strictly speaking. They didn’t teach you anything factual at dashed Merrifield, did they?”

    “No,” I agreed. “Anyway that’s what he does. And he’s a decent chap: he was very interested to hear about the Junior Drones and thought you were all very lucky to have met up: he didn’t know anyone compatible at his school. And he loved the bit about the Old School Tie belts! And what’s more, he said he‘d take me to the opera, so that’s something else they didn’t teach us about at Merrifield that you can stop having a go at me over!” –Not really meaning to have said that last, it just came out, bother.

    Poor Egg looked at me in bewilderment. “Having a— Opera? What are you on about, old thing?”

    By now, as might be imagined, I was pretty well puce. “Don’t pretend you don’t know, Egg Ovenden! That time at John’s cottage when he had his broken leg! The pair of you had a nice little peer group about me being a musical illiterate!”

    “Uh—I don’t remember— Look, if I said anything like that, all I can say is I’m sorry!”

    Oh dear. It gradually began to penetrate the jolly old bonce, cranium or brain-box, past the puce, so to speak, that he really didn’t have a clue what I was on about.

    “Um, I overheard you,” I muttered.

    He just looked at me limply.

    “Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with Christopher Eames!” I said quickly.

    “Uh—well, I suppose any chap who’d take you to the opera…”

    This conversation, or confrontation, had been taking place outside Alysse’s aunty’s place in Egg’s car, that is, his mum’s very ordinary little runabout that she’d passed on to him and he’d let their local garage chap do up. Shiny black with huge lightning bolts in red and yellow all along its sides. Carrie-Ann had hurried out just in time to overhear the last bit.

    “Is this Mel’s new chap?” she asked, getting in.

    “Yes,” replied the Egg shortly.

    “Then I think you can stop worrying, Egg!” she said cheerfully. “He must be okay if he wants to take her to the opera!”

    Which kind of settled it, thank goodness. Really, Egg has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility! I do know what I’m doing!

    Er—more or less. Enough not to take up with the wrong sort of chap entirely, for Heaven’s sake!

July 26 Not. Well I did try to ring John but got the usual “Not here at the moment, sorry. Email me—” So in spite of Christopher cheering me up considerably there was still that disgruntled feeling lurking somewhere in the background of the jolly old consciousness. Crumpy and Egg had both tried to tell me he wouldn’t be doing anything dangerous, his job was largely analysis, but as they knew as few facts as I did, that did not go over well.

    So as June approached and various persons began to ask me eagerly if I’d like to go to the Derby with them the idea had sort of been implanted, as it were. Alongside the idea that I was dashed well going to enjoy myself and John Raice could get choked. So to speak.

THE SLIGHTLY UNFORTUNATE EPISODE OF THE DERBY then followed. Which it would not have done if Oncle Fernand hadn’t rung me in a tizz. A certain M. de Beaupré, an extremely important contact, being a major wine shipper, had expressed great interest on learning that his niece knew an English racehorse trainer, and he would so like to go to the Derby but he, Oncle F., couldn’t possibly get away and Michael had refused utterly to help, he didn’t know what was wrong with the boy, his exams must be over by now or would be by then, et tout et tout.

    Well I didn’t say that what was wrong with Bean was merely that altho he was very keen on the vineyards, he knew perfectly well that if he went back to work for Oncle Fernand Grannie would get her hooks into him and he’d never be able to call his soul his own. And that he was fed up with Oncle Fernand behaving like a jellyfish and always giving in to the old hag.

    I pointed out that Mr Ovenden didn’t have a horse running in the big race this year but that made no difference, so okay, fine, Oncle Fernand, I’d— Hein? Very well, I’d meet the chap and see him safely to his hotel, but I couldn’t see a posh Frenchman trundling out to Epsom with the general public to view the race free from “The Hill”.

    Non, non, he already had tickets for the Royal Enclosure! Er, think he meant the Queen’s Stand, more properly the Queen Elizabeth II Stand, there, but close enough. The thought did arise, who had the chap been planning to go with, if he had tickets, plural, but I didn’t voice it. Yes, okay, Oncle Fernand—no, I knew there was a dress code, don’t worry! No whats? Oh—fascinators. No risk of that, the things are dashed silly. Hats in Mum’s wardrobe? Er, yes, probably. Yes, I’d meet this M. de Beaupré, I just said so! And wear something appropriate? Oh: to meet the chap! Fine. And I at last managed to hang up.

    Well naturally after that sort of harangue from an ageing relative one’s first impulse is to wear something dashed well inappropriate: the Junior Drones gear did spring to mind, yes. But I refrained. And duly turned up at St Pancras to meet the train.

    … Crumbs. I must say I’d been envisaging your jolly, red-faced, stout wine shipper type, but M. de Beaupré was nothing like that. Tall, slim, silver-haired, très BCBG; thank goodness I hadn’t worn the Junior Drones gear!

    The hotel he had chosen was a smallish, oldish and extremely discreet-looking one, with no glitz about it, the lobby fully carpeted and softly illuminated, with a scattering of sofas, armchairs, and low tables, occupied at the moment we went in by a scattering of what looked suspiciously like retired generals and their ultra-respectable wives, help. Genteelly sipping appropriate pre-lunch liquid refreshers—well here the jolly old LeBec hawk-eye came into operation, and I’m pretty sure the drinks were sherry, G&T, and in the case of two expensively but depressingly dressed ladies in depressing hats, Pimmses. (Is that the plural? Frightful English ready-made cocktailish stuff.) With fruit salad decorating the glasses. The ladylike gent at the reception desk was horrifically polite and helpful and there was a—well I’m not sure if one calls them bellboys in England, but one of them to take the luggage, and up we went in the deliciously old-fashioned, darkly-panelled lift with a liftman, a figured Axminster carpet, no kidding, and a padded red leather seat! Had I not been overawed by the general ambience not to say the company, I would have been tempted to film it for posterity. Or at least for the Junior Drones’ delectation.

    Naturally I saw M. de Beaupré into his room and made sure it was okay—anything that discreetly expensive, subfusc and in short, BCBG, had to be, actually—and, obeying Oncle Fernand’s detailed instructions, suggested lunch after he’d freshened up after his journey.

    Not pointing out it had only taken two and a half hours, he agreed nicely, so I went downstairs to that tasteful lobby to wait for him and, just to see if they really were, ordered a Pimms… Crumbs. Yes. Putrid. Oh well! I ate the fruit salad, anyway.

    On reappearing M. de Beaupré murmured, tactfully in French tho I now knew his English was excellent, better than mine really, in that it completely lacked the slang, that the food here was adequate but not exciting and he really didn’t fancy English roast lamb at lunchtime. Was there anywhere I could recommend?

    Help. Well that place where I’d had that first lunch with C. Eames would certainly have fitted the bill but it did have a certain Great Snag, so to speak, didn’t it? I mean, rather blush-making to roll up to a place frequented by one older gent on another older gent’s arm. Well M. de Beaupré was visibly several years the elder, but… Mm.

    So I rang Oncle Fifi. Of course, mon chéri! He had some lovely sole today, just with a little beurre noir, hein? Was the gentleman I was with (I hadn’t mentioned any gent, oops, he obviously had me down pat) English? –French? Ah! Then certainly a salad, and there was an excellent Camembert, or if the gentleman didn’t care for that after fish, perhaps a Brie? And today Marianne had done your Tante Louise’s recipe for a glace à l’orange! M. de Beaupré agreed that that all sounded excellent, so off we went.

    M. de Beaupré approved of the lunch, phew! He’d chosen a rather flinty Chablis with the fish. It tasted very familiar but of course I’m no expert. …Okay, Oncle Fifi revealed smilingly that it came from a vineyard not so very far from the Château LeBec, monsieur. Yes, M. de Beaupré knew it well. Oh—of course. Wine shipper: he would. Luckily he was too polite to ask who was Oncle Fifi’s supplier: the Chablis had undoubtedly travelled a very devious route indeed, starting with those quid pro quos between Oncle Patrice and the owner of the vineyard in Q., and continuing with those dittos between Oncle P. and Oncle Albert… As to whether it had ever paid English import duty—well, that lorry of Eugène’s did cross La Manche not infrequently…

    In short, it was a truly delightful lunch. And what with M. de Beaupré’s excellent manners and Oncle Fifi being able to chat about wines in between seeing to other favoured customers and supervising the kitchen, all went swimmingly.

July 29 Not. Continuing: I was of course free for the rest of the afternoon, so M. de Beaupré suggested we take a taxi: he had a fancy to see what they’d done to the old Battersea Power Station. Er… I had a strong feeling that that project had been undertaken by the sort of architect roundly condemned by young Jason Prosser, but okay, why not? So Oncle Fifi called up le Jacques du Cousin Georges, and off we went…

    Yes well. The suave older gent’s sad conclusion was that it wasn’t what he remembered from the old days.

    I sympathised, mentioning that odd glass triangular Thing they'd put in the courtyard of the Louvre, and he shuddered and laughed, so then I revealed that Egg’s brilliant name for the Shard was “the Great Pointed Shiny Mistake” and at that he gave a positive shout of laughter and said it was perfect! Good, I thought so. And we got back into the taxi and Jacques/Jack drove us back to the nice, restfully tasteful hotel, where we sat in the lobby and, since neither of us fancied a pot of English tea, and the sun, as M. de Beaupré declared in a brilliant use of the English vernac., was well over the yardarm, had cocktails. Had I ever tried a Gimlet? No? He thought I’d like it.

    … Ooh, yum! –Just gin with English Rose’s Lime Juice, shaken on ice? Good gracious! So I had a couple, then felt brave enough to ask him in a low voice what that lady over there was drinking. It seemed to be in a Martini glass but instead of an olive on a stick it had a small onion! Smilingly he explained, tactfully in French, that that was a Gibson, and it was merely a Martini—gin and vermouth—the onion being the touch that changed the name. Crumbs.

    “Bizarre,” I concluded numbly, in the same language.

    He laughed and agreed, and added that his name was Étienne. What with the lunch and the cocktails and the fact that we were getting on so well I replied happily: “I’m Mel, Étienne.” Well I mean, it would have been rude not to.

    After which, as I had to get home and change before work, he insisted on not only seeing me into a taxi—the hotel had a discreetly garbed man with, no kidding, a top hat, who officiated, help, shades of Christopher, perhaps he knew the place—as I say, not only putting me into the vehicle in Q., but also in paying for it. –Handing the driver a fifty. Oddly enough the man didn’t say it was too much, and off we went.

    As he let me out he said: “That would of been yer uncle, love, would it?”

    To which I returned: “I thought you London taxi drivers were models of discretion?”

    Unfortunately he had the last word, replying: “Oh, I won’t tell nobody, ducks! Cheerio!” And he pulled out, insouciantly cutting in front of a van and, ulp, a Bentley as he did so.

    My cheeks were very red. Why do other people get treated as little ladies by persons such as taxi drivers, waiters in down-market cafés, and so forth, while I never do? Well bother!

    At some point during the day I had sort of planned to try John’s number before I went to work, but for some reason or other I didn’t.

    For the Derby Epsom was all crowds, excitement, fashions, the hats ranging from almost smart to tremendously silly, the dresses ditto. Étienne de Beaupré seemed to know his way around, so why he’d needed me… Er, arm candy? Tho as I was substituting for Oncle Fernand this seemed dubious, to say the least! There were lots of races as well as The Big Race, of course, and we had great fun picking the most unlikely names to have a few jolly old sovs. on, duly losing every time, but that was, as Étienne pointed out, half the fun! In between times dire-hat spotting, in which I was a trifle at a disadvantage, being shorter, but never mind, it was Derby Day!

    We’d been in good time, so were able to toddle off and have a spot of lunch, jolly good! One had to have the right tickets, natch, to qualify for the swept-up dining-room, but we did, and sat down and began Name spotting. He recognised a lot more than I did but possibly I won, in that good old Uncle Flossie, complete with something over-lipsticked and horribly hatted on the arm, spotted me and came over to us all smiles. “So you did come, Mel! Good Lord, Étienne de Beaupré, isn’t it? How’s the wine business, old chap? I say, that was a jolly fine…” Château Margaux, I think, tho somewhat lost in the mists of a super lunch, super fizz, super company and just generally a day that was turning out to be the absolute jolly old feline’s nightwear, so to speak.

    (The bimbo under the hat didn’t utter but that, according to Flossie’s reports, was pretty well par for the course with Uncle Flossie. Tho she did manage to look with jealous loathing at my outfit, hah, hah. Well my rather delightful hat was one of Mum’s but nobody needed to know that, did they? And the silk suit was straight from Paris, France, courtesy of dear old Pierre Durand. And had hitherto appeared only at a very swish gallery showing.)

July 31 Not. Continuing: So we joined forces and after the last drops of more fizz, on the genial uncle, wandered down to check out the odds, and lo! There was Egg, on the wrong side of the fence separating the posh lot from the rest, and unlike our two gents not in a spiffing grey topper and morning suit, but new-looking jeans and a lightweight anorak in the green and white which are the Ovenden Stables’ corporate colours.

    “What-ho, Mel! Sight for sore eyes!” he greeted me with a laugh. “How are you, Uncle Flossie? Having a good day?” –Uncle Flossie is actually his uncle, the Egg and Flossie of course being cousins.

    He agreed he was, tho the dashed nags couldn’t take the credit for it—hearty laugh. And made introductions.

    Oops, the Egg then slightly put the hind hoof in the old oesophagus, so to speak, saying nicely to Étienne: “Uncle Flossie showing you the ropes, is he, sir?”

    I must admit I was rather disconcerted, the more so as the gallant gent then took my arm in a slightly over-possessive manner, and replied cheerfully: “Non, non, Mel is looking after me while I am in England!”

    “Oh—I see,” our respected Hon. Chairman, Junior Drones, said limply.

    “Étienne is a business acquaintance of Oncle Fernand’s: he’s a wine shipper, Egg,” I explained quickly, “and he asked me to look after him.”

    “That’s it, yes!” beamed Uncle Flossie, possibly feeling a certain something in the air. “Ian got many running today, dear lad?”

    “A couple, yes. Golden Mallow earlier—hope you didn’t have anything on him, the creature can’t work up any speed at the finish. Dad did try to warn the owner but he insisted—kudos of having a horse running today, y’see.”

    Étienne laughed. “What a pity we didn’t know that, n’est-ce pas, Mel? We liked the name, so we each had ten pounds on him.”

    “Oops, big mistake, sir,” replied the Egg nicely.

    Er, should one explain at this juncture that it hadn’t actually been my ten smackeroos chucked away? Er… Better not, on the whole.

    So I just said: “Yes, we’ve been happily picking losers on the strength of their names all day!”

    “So’ve we!” agreed Uncle Flossie. “Ian entered anything in the next, Alan?”

    Before Egg could reply there was a laugh from behind him and a slim, shortish, very good-looking chap in an Ovenden Stables anorak and silk breeches emerged from the crowd, saying: “Yes, Red Rupert, but I wouldn’t put my shirt on him, if I was you, Sir Charles!”

    Grinning, Uncle Flossie returned: “You riding him, Devon?” to which the reply was: “Yes, for my sins.”

    Oh, good grief! No wonder he looked familiar! Devon Holmes!

    “So is Red Rupert another of Red Racer’s and Red Rambler’s brothers?” I asked weakly.

    “Half-brother, yes,” the jockey returned, looking at me with undisguised interest. “Haven’t we met?”

    “Yes: you remember Mel Fullarton-Browne, Devon,” said Egg heavily.

    “Oh, good Lord! Of course! Early promise more than fulfilled, Mel!” the dashed fellow produced, the interest becoming even less disguised. Yes, well: he was a known lady-killer. When not falling off horses.

    So I returned: “Oh yes: when I was staying at John Raice’s cottage the time he had his broken leg, you came to visit him and recommended the man you’d gone to after you’d fallen off a horse and broken yours.”

    “Mm, blasted Red Rambler,” he agreed ruefully.

    “He didn’t fall off, tho, Mel, my dear!” put in the jovial uncle with a chuckle. “Jockeys never fall off: the horse threw him!”

    At which there was general laughter, thank goodness. Well I always had recognised, tho I was very young at the time, that Devon Holmes was pretty much The Bally Limit.

    Carrie Ann then caused a welcome distraction by emerging from the crowd, rather breathless, to report that Devon had shown her which bookie to bet with and she’d put her bet on. Devon was looking particularly bland, so no bets, hah, hah, as to just whose money had also been put on. And we all plunged into a discussion of the odds, ill-informed in my case, and finally decided that no-one was about to bet on Red Rupert, as Devon resignedly went off to get into its colours, but in the Derby itself we were all rather keen on the romantically named Desert Crown, especially since Egg explained that its trainer was the man who’d trained the legendary Shergar! Rather fortunately Étienne and Uncle Flossie had both heard of this equine god and were duly impressed. Egg had to go off to help with the saddling, so the rest of us had a look at the odds the bookies were offering, the gents deciding that an extra flutter on the really oddly named Hoo Ya Mal at 150 to 1 couldn’t hurt! Er—prudently both ways, eh? And as Uncle Flossie then put large amounts on the two nags for the bimbo, who’d remained speechless throughout, tho giggling a lot and eyeing up both Devon and Egg, I was able not to blush when Étienne insisted on putting “something” on for me.

    And we returned to the stands, the excitement mounting as the time for the Derby grew near, race glasses were trained on the paddock, and the jockeys mounted…

    … And they were off!

    Well it’s History now, isn’t it? But at the time it was so thrilling! We all shouted our heads off, even the très BCBG Étienne and the inarticulate bimbo, and darling Desert Crown won, exciting enough, but when we realised that Hoo Ya Mal at 150 to 1 had burst out of the pack and was making a run for it, we just about exploded with excitement. Of course having been unable to get clear earlier its run was left a bit late, but my gosh it was a terrific effort! …And we realised shakily, looking at one another with bulging eyes, that at those ENORMOUS odds, even at only placing second, by backing the wonderful equine both ways on the spur of the moment we’d won… Well no-one was capable of doing the arithmetic but as Uncle Flossie said numbly: “Bloody Hell.”

    Well quite!

    Added to which Étienne had put a thou’ for me on Desert Crown, as it turned out, which at five to one… I insisted absolutely on at least giving him his stakes back, tho he tried to refuse laughingly, but gosh. I ended up rolling in it.

    So we had to celebrate in an appropriate bar crammed with other well-dressed persons dazedly celebrating, if it had been on Hoo Ya Mal, and just celebrating if it had been on Desert Crown, and drowning ’em if it hadn’t. Yes, champagne did seem appropriate, mon cher Flossie, Étienne agreed. So we had it. Cheers! Santé! A la tienne, cher Étienne!

    Some time later Uncle Flossie steered us all in a wobbly but determined way out to the Bentley and, thank God, he had a driver today, so we fell into it and were borne Londonwards. The trip remains a blur, probably just as well, as I was between two rather over-stimulated gents, the bimbo having elected to go in the front, claiming car-sickness if travelling in the backs of cars. –In a Bentley? Oh well, all the more for me! Um, that didn’t come out quite right…

August 3 Not. Continuing: Eventually Étienne and I were decanted (one feels it’s the jolly old appropriate expresh.) at his hotel, with the earnest reminder that Uncle Flossie would pick us up for dinner later. Help, he obviously imagined I was with Étienne, so to speak.

    “I think he thinks I’m with you,” I said feebly.

    “One could arrange that,” he murmured, smiling.

    Sad to report, I—or the champagne—gave a loud giggle at this and went very pink, tho managing to utter: “Yes, but I really want to change before dinner.”

    “Of course. So one rings for le Jacques du Cousin Georges, hein?” he said with a nice laugh.

    Well it wasn’t far but on Derby Day in London? But yes, I thought I’d better. “Two twos,” I reported to Étienne. Oops, didn’t understand that piece of the vernac. “Very soon,” I translated.

    As we both found that very hard to believe we remained comfortably where we were, sitting rather close together on a sofa in the lobby surrounded by retired generals and things happily or miserably knocking it back depending on whether they’d won or lost. Eugh, perhaps coffee might be wise, Mel? The hotel’s was quite acceptable. So we had coffee. Admittedly by the time Jack turned up the gent’s hand was warmly clasping my thigh, and I was rather flushed, but I don’t think the retired generals and things noticed. Not at that hour on Derby Day.

    And a truly delightful evening was had by all, Uncle Flossie’s choice of venue being a very posh hotel which served the sort of food he approves of and did not have a telly chef in charge of its kitchen, phew!—and did have a rather nice ballroom where they always had a do on Derby night. Super! And the gents both turned out to be lovely dancers and there was no horrid unmusical pop music. Perfect!

    So funnily enough Étienne and I ended up back at his hotel in the small hours. I would like to come up, yes thank you, Étienne.

    And the rest, as they say, is history. And jolly nice history too, if a trifle blurred—well I had been on the champers since um, never mind. The din-dins, light but delish., had helped to sop it up and how many times in one’s life does one win well over six thousand smackeroos on the most famous race in the racing calendar? Or, come to that, discover that a très BCBG Frenchman of well over fifty knows pretty well everything about women that there is to know. And is jolly keen into the bargain! Without benefit of any little blue pills, thanks.

    Well I admit I did feel next day rather like the archetypal bimbo with The Older Admirer, but never mind, he was a lovely person with delightfully charming manners, and given the champagne, the winners, and the fact that lovely gents in their lovely toppers and morning suits are completely irresistible, any girl can be forgiven a little backsliding on Derby Day!

Next chapter:

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