“The women in this city wear the nicest coats,” she says, sitting on the edge of the bed and removing her shoes.
Should she mention the picture? It’s just sitting there, unnoticed, a short arm’s length away. Should she somehow point it out to her mother? Explain that she’s had it framed for her, and that she intends to give it to her as a gift for traveling all this way? She draws in a breath to say something, but at the last moment she stops herself: something about drawing Donna’s attention to the picture seems tacky, self-serving, like when Paul used to tell Eloise the price of the Christmas presents he’d bought her before she even had the chance to open them. No, she’ll stay silent. She’ll let Donna discover it on her own.
“Have you heard from your father yet?” her mother asks, suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
“Has he RSVPed? Is he coming?”
Eloise says, “I … I did,” and reaches down to straighten out the corners of the bed. “I got it last week. He’ll be there.”
“A month late RSVPing,” Donna says, bitterly. “Quelle surprise.”
What is wrong with me? Eloise thinks, stopping just short of apologizing to her mother. Why do I feel so guilty? Surely her mother knew that Henrique would end up being at the wedding; he is, after all, her father. Still, Eloise feels like she’s somehow failed her mother, like she’s exposed her to an inevitable and obvious truth.
“The bathroom’s en suite,” she announces, loudly, to keep herself from fidgeting. “You’ll find soap, shampoo, conditioner, a hair dryer—really, anything you might need, I think—in the bathroom. And if there’s something that’s not in there, just ask Anka, and she’ll get it for you.” She’s babbling. She sounds like a concierge.
“Oh, I’m fine, sweetheart.” Her mother lays back onto the bed, her legs still dangling over its edge. Eloise sits next to her and rubs her knee.
“You must be exhausted. Did you get any sleep?”
“Oh, you know me and red-eyes.”
“Why don’t you take a nap? We haven’t got anything until meeting Alice and Paul this evening.”
“And Mark,” Donna says, sitting up.
“Mark?”
“Paul’s boyfriend.”
“Of course,” Eloise feigns. “I don’t know how I forgot about Mark.” She stumbles through what she wants to say next, without appearing as though the only thing she cares about is her own wedding. “You two are speaking again, aren’t you?”
“I’ve never been not-speaking to Mark.”
Eloise says, “No. I meant Paul.”
“Oh.” Donna sighs. “Well, he called me about a month ago to tell me that he was coming, so I suppose that’s a start?”
“It is!” Eloise feigns a smile: she’s imagining her brother. She’s imagining a scene. “Did you talk about … about Bill?”
“No,” Donna says. “And we won’t. He doesn’t need to know about all that.”
“I just think it’s so unfair to you, Maman. You were doing him a favor. You were protecting him, for God’s sake, and this is the thanks you get.”
Donna smiles. She looks exhausted, Eloise thinks, and old. She reaches over and pushes a strand of hair out of Eloise’s eyes. “Are jeans okay for tonight?”
“Black pants, maybe, if you’ve got them?”
Donna pulls her hand away. Her cheeks flush. “I, uh, I didn’t know that I needed…”
Eloise gives her mother’s knee a squeeze. Discreetly, she checks the clock on the room’s east wall: no time for Harrods. “Jeans are fine.”
“You’re sure it’s fine if I rest a bit?”
“Maman. J’insiste. I’ll be out in the living room. If you need anything, just call for Anka.”
“Or you?” Donna says.
Eloise nods. “Or me.” She kisses her mother’s forehead. “I’m so glad you’re here, Mummy.”
She swings by the kitchen and asks Anka to make her a cortado. In the living room she sits on the sofa and, on the coffee table in front of her, finds the copy of today’s Daily Mail. Leaning forward, she flips to the hatchet job on “shallow charities” (we’ve met teaspoons with more depth!). She scans the two-page spread, past the scathing write-ups on the Kids Wish Network and the Victims of Alienating, Inconsiderate, and Narcissistic Parents Foundation (VAIN), until she locates a bloodred box topped with bold white letters that read MISSION: GREED. Reading through the article, she’s momentarily put at ease. It’s a lot of what she was expecting: a list of how many minor royals had been in attendance (seven) at the last gala; a few sentences balking at the cost of a table (fifty thousand pounds); some shallow puzzling over the necessity of the Eiffel Tower–shaped chocolate fountain, despite the evening’s very obvious fin-de-siècle theme. A bit farther down, though, something does strike her: a disproportionate amount of page space dedicated to the cost of the centerpieces that graced the tables (a thousand pounds each). “Curious,” the reporter, some hack called Rupert Gregory, writes, “that an organization dedicated to helping children sniff should squander eighty thousand pounds on gardenias and lisianthuses.”
Her first thought is: the centerpieces really were lovely. Her second one is: fuck him. She wiggles her BlackBerry out of her jeans and opens a new message to Bee:
Just saw the DM story, she types. Need you to draft response. Don’t deny cost of flowers, but counter w/ number of surgeries funded in sub-Saharan Africa last year. Highlight places that people associate with starving, malnourishment, genocide, etc. Also—call Rachel O’Donnell, does gossip at The Sun. Tell her we’ve got a tip about possible Rupert Gregory drug problem. Anonymous source who’s close to him. Ping me when you’ve done both.
Thirty seconds later, her BlackBerry buzzes with a new e-mail from Bee. Is that true about Rupert Gregory?
Eloise rolls her eyes and types, That’s not the point.
*
“But, Daniella, I called thirty minutes ago, and you said the table would be ready.”
Eloise can barely hear herself speak: the Friday night regulars at Dean Street Townhouse have already settled in, their voices competing and blending together into a constant roar. She only ever comes here for lunch or cocktails—she’d forgotten how loud it could get during dinner. Maybe she should have made reservations somewhere else.
Daniella flips her hair and pouts.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Lafarge. I honestly thought the table would be ready by then. It’s just that another large group is seated at the banquette you’ve requested, and they’re just now enjoying their desserts.”
Eloise feels her shoulders slump, and she corrects her posture. “Daniella, I’m in here literally three times a week for lunch.”
“I know, and I really wish there was something else I could do.”
A drunk Londoner in a suit passes between Eloise and the ma?tre d’s station, and she rears back so the beer sloshing over the rim of his pint glass won’t splash down the front of her blouse.
“There’s not another table or anything?” Eloise asks.
Daniella looks at her iPad. “Let me see,” she says, clicking her jaw. “You’re six, right?”
“That’s right. I’d changed it at the last minute from seven. Ollie couldn’t get out of work.”