Bergdorf Blondes (25 page)

A couple of miles on Dave pulled up in front of a stile. A footpath wiggled away from it up a little hill. Absolutely no mention of a farm. The only sign of life was a herd of sheep grazing in the meadow.

“Farm’s up there,” said Dave, nodding his head in the direction of the hill. “Five hundred yards.”

“Eew,” I said. Dave obviously had no idea about Jimmy Choos. You can walk five yards in them, not five hundred.

“A’right?”

“Sure,” I said reluctantly, slipping down from the tractor seat. “Thanks.”

Dave drove off, and I clambered over the stile. As I dropped over the other side, there was a squelching sound. I looked down. My darling shoes had a rim of black, peaty mush around the edge of the soles. That’s the thing Americans don’t realize about England. Even on a hot day, there are invisible bogs everywhere. It’s like the place looks really cute, but in reality it’s a minefield for shoes. The fact is it’s a lot more like
Wuthering Heights
there than
Emma
most of the time.
God
, I thought as I puffed up the hill,
I take it back, I really do, about how the English countryside is bet
ter than the du Cap. It isn’t
. I never wanted to set foot in it again.

At the top I came to a wooden gate and a fork in the path. Below me a river snaked its way through a little valley speckled with copses and woolly clusters of sheep. In the distance to the right I could make out barns and farm outbuildings. To my left a large house sat nestled in a green stretch of parkland. Swyre Castle, I thought. The adjoining farm must be part of the estate. I have to say, the place was totally giving
Gos-ford Park
. I mean, it was way better than I remembered it as a kid. Of course, it doesn’t look much like a castle at all, it looks like a regular mansion, but that’s the thing about England. No one just calls their house a house, it has to be hall, park, palace, castle. I think they do it to confuse foreigners.

Swyre Castle was so pretty, I could
almost
imagine losing my country-house phobia over it. Built of honey-colored stone, it’s one of those immaculate eighteenth-century Palladian English houses—you know, the ones that look like a perfect giant doll’s house, only with two large wings attached. In the distance I could make out a lake and formal gardens. You know what? For the few minutes I stood gazing at the castle, I could almost sympathize with the Brown Signers. (There’s still a ton of them in New York and Paris, it’s just now they mainly pose as fashion designers for Louis Vuitton. It’s really good cover.)

Mom and Dad must have been wondering where I was by now. I looked back at the farm buildings again. They looked a little nearer than the castle, but for a girl like me, if it’s a choice between a muddy farmyard and a castle, I’ll always take the castle. Despite the fact that Mom had bored me about the place for twenty years, I guess I was still curious. I could ask to use the phone there and, while I was waiting for Dad to pick me up, have a sneak peak. No one had to know I was me, I mean in that I didn’t have to let on that I was the daughter of the neighbor with the dodgy Chippendales from all that time ago.

I turned and walked down the little dirt track toward the castle. Maybe I’ll bump into the Little Earl, I thought. I didn’t care anymore. He was probably balding and wore those awful bright pink cords and polka dot socks so beloved of the toff crowd. The path soon joined the gravel drive, and I crunched my way up it, navigating a cattle grid on the way (
très
difficult in Jimmy Choos, but doable, in case you were wondering). The grounds were gorgeous. God I totally worship English parks by Capability Brown, don’t you?

When I reached the main entrance of the house I noticed a coat of arms painted above it in gold and blue. That’s the thing about the British upper classes. Just in case you aren’t intimidated enough already, they go and do the coat of arms thing just to really
freak you out. No wonder no one in England has any self-esteem. I grabbed the gargoyle-shaped iron knocker and rapped nervously on the front door.

I stood there for a few minutes with the gargoyle glaring at me. No one came. Maybe no one was home. There were no cars in the driveway, though that didn’t mean anything—Brits obsessively hide their cars in stable blocks and barns, even the really nice ones like Audis, so as not to be accused of either a) marring the view or b) showing off. I knocked again, louder this time. Still, no one came.

I couldn’t deal with the idea of walking over to the farm now. As usual, my Jimmy Choos had completely cut off the blood supply to my feet and I could barely feel them anymore. I grabbed the door handle and turned it. I wasn’t surprised when it opened. Toffs always leave the front door unlocked, like they’re living on Cape Cod or something.

I walked into a cavernous hall. The room was thick with moldings and cornicing. I felt like I was inside a wedding cake. God, I thought, keeping this place clean would drive Martha Stewart out of her mind with worry.

“Hello?” I called out. “Anyone home?”

While I waited I kicked off my shoes. The stone floor felt deliciously cool against my swollen feet. The only sound was the sharp tick of a gold clock above the fireplace. No one appeared. I guess the house was
so large and must have had so many entrances and exits that, even if anyone was home, the Swyres wouldn’t necessarily know who was coming in and out. It must be a bit like living on the Syrian border, only with less terrorists.

Maybe I could find a phone by myself. And get a private tour. I opened a paneled door to the left of the hall into an ornate dining room. The walls were lined with family portraits. The faces, porcelain white, loomed like ghosts, they were so pale. They really needed a fake bake. Sometimes I wonder how those girls survived the deprivations of the eighteenth century. I mean, how did women cope without Bobbi Brown bronzer and Lancôme’s Juicy Tubes for lips in twelve shades? The only sign that I wasn’t in 1760 was the overhead projector and screen at one end of the room—this must have been the “conference center.”

I was getting sidetracked. I needed to find a telephone. I went back into the hall. A red cord was hung across the staircase with a sign reading PRIVATE on it, I guess to keep the conference people out. You know me. If I see a velvet rope I have to be on the right side of it. I slipped underneath and zipped up the stairs. Maybe there would be a study up there with a phone.

On the landing I was faced with a long corridor of doors. I opened the first one. Inside was a four-poster bed draped with fringed Chinese silks. I snuck inside.
Hidden behind the bed’s drapes was a small painting of a flower-strewn maiden. It looked exactly like the Fragonards in the Frick. It was probably real, I thought. Sleeping under your Old Master is exactly the sort of thing a rich British Lord would do.

The last room along the passage was a grand library. I slipped inside. There was bound to be a telephone in here, I thought. I wanted to get home now. The back wall was lined with shelves of leather-bound books, and a huge marble fireplace at one end had an Italian landscape painting hanging above it. Underneath was a little gold tag reading
Canaletto
. I don’t get it, I really don’t. English people go on and on about how over the top Americans are, when all along they’re secretly living like they’re at the Bella-gio in Las Vegas or something.

At the other end of the room a grand piano was covered in old black-and-white family photographs, and a large walnut desk was piled high with papers. I could see an old-fashioned black telephone peeking out from under the mess. I walked over to the desk and picked up the phone.

As I dialed Mom and Dad’s number, a little oval-shaped gold pillbox on a side table caught my eye. An English battle scene was painted on the enameled top in tiny detail. I picked it up, examining the jeweled clasp. The table was covered with at least a dozen other little jeweled pots and ornaments. I’m telling
you, British people have the best tchotchkes, no argument. The phone rang and rang. Why wasn’t anyone picking up?

“Can I help you?” said an English voice from behind me.

I jumped and dropped the receiver. A stooped old man stepped before me. His face was so riven with lines he looked more antiquated than anything in the house. He was wearing a shabby black jacket and pinstriped pants. It’s good to know there are some people J. Crew will never reach. I didn’t want him to see the little box in my hand. I slipped it into my pocket. I could put it back later.

“Oh, hello,” I gasped breathlessly. “Who are you?”

“I’m butler to the Swyre family. What exactly are you doing?” He looked me up and down suspiciously, staring disapprovingly at my filthy bare feet.

“Gosh, well, my car’s broken down in the lane and I was looking for a telephone,” I said, nervously picking up the receiver from the floor. “My mom and dad live at The Old Rectory.”

“I must inform Lord Swyre. Wait here,” he said and swiftly exited the room.

As he shut the door, I heard a key turn in the lock. My god, he thought I was stealing or something. I grabbed the phone and dialed home again. This time someone picked up on the first ring.

“Mom?” I said.

“
Hey boo!
How are ya, dude?”

“Julie?” I asked.

“It’s so cute being in the British countryside but the English people I met in London are real scary. Those people have no idea who Barbara Walters is or anything. Can you imagine, I’m at your folks’ place?”

What about our argument? And Julie’s secret romance?

“You came for my dad’s party?” I asked, amazed.

“Well, I didn’t
only
come for the party. You’re never gonna believe it. I came for a wedding-dress fitting! With Alexander McQueen
himself
. Then your mom called and persuaded me to come to your dad’s freaking party.”

“You’re getting married? Who to?”

“Henry Hartnett. You’ll never guess what happened. He took me for a Bellini after the book club, and we’ve been together ever since. I’ve dropped all the other boyfriends, even Todd, poor thing. Henry’s so cute and so rich, it’s beyond—he’s Hartnett Steel but he’s real shy about it. He thinks I’m the funniest thing ever. You’ve no idea how much we’ve got in common. Where the hell are you? We’re all waiting. By the way, I’m talking to you again. I totally forgive you for everything.”

I’ll say this for Julie. She can be amazingly graceful about her friends’ misdemeanors, considering how spoiled she is. That’s the sweet thing about her.
Her ADD is so bad she’s physically incapable of holding a grudge longer than a few days.

“Congratulations! Tell Dad I’m at the castle and he needs to come and get me.”

“You’re at that place next door? Oh god, I’m so jealous. Is the interior decoration awesome? Or is it totally icky like Buckingham Palace? I heard the royal family has the worst taste.”

“Julie! Just get Dad here. My car’s conked out and I broke in here to make a phone call and now they think I’m robbing them.”

“Have they got Delft china everywhere and footmen?”

“Julie!”

“Okay dude, whatever. I’ll tell him. By the way, the wedding’s next summer—June 14. You have to be my maid of honor.”

I put the phone down. Julie was engaged? With a wedding date? Don’t engaged people know that it’s bad enough for the unengaged among us, without them
immediately
announcing a wedding just to really pile on the agony? This was all very sudden. I hoped she was doing the right thing. I went over to the locked door and twisted hopelessly at the handle. Eventually I gave up and sat on the little tapestried ottoman by the door. I tensed and put my ear to the keyhole. I could only make out a few words from the butler: “…says her car’s broken down…looks like a gypsy…terrible dirty clothes, probably one of
those battered single mothers from the Refuge…not even shoes on her feet…”

I looked down at my grimy clothes and my filthy bare feet. It was sad, really. I mean, I was quite glamorous once. Liz Hurley would never let herself go like this during one trip to the countryside.

“…she must have broken in…I’ve called the police. I’m sorry, sir.”

The police? I started rapping at the door.

“Hey! Let me out!” I yelled.

After a couple of minutes a key turned in the lock. Honestly, I swear you are not going to believe what happened next. It’s like Michael Jackson denying he’s had plastic surgery or something. In walks the butler and—I promise I am not making this up—Charlie Dunlain strolls in right behind him. That’s the thing about one-night stands, you think you want to see them again but when you do it’s always icky beyond belief, particularly if the last time you spoke to them properly they had their head in the same place Chad did all that time ago. What made it even ickier was that Charlie still looked really, really cute. He was in his LA uniform of beaten-up cords and a T-shirt. My blood sugar dropped three miles, I’m sure. I felt like I was having an attack of hypoglycemia or something. When Charlie saw me, he looked as shocked as I was.

“What the hell happened to your clothes?” he said.

For a moment I was speechless. Every time I saw
Charlie I was somehow at a disadvantage. And what on earth was he doing at the Swyres’? I had never felt so foolish in my life. But this time I was irate.

“What would you care?” I retorted. “Disappearing off like that and not even saying good-bye. You obviously have no manners at all.”

“You know the young lady?” asked the butler.

“Yeah, I do,” said Charlie, never taking his eyes off me.

I looked away. I mean, I felt like I was going to melt, or cry, I wasn’t sure which. Just to really confuse things I also found myself wondering if they have Overnight Kits in Britain. There was a tense silence, interrupted by the butler asking, “Can I offer your friend a sherry?”

“Actually, I’d
adore
a Bellini,” I said optimistically.

“She’ll have a cup of tea,” said Charlie.

I don’t want to get all analytical or anything, but the fact is people never change. Charlie was as fervently opposed to Bellinis now as ever.