office sent her a copy of the draft press release for her approval. She approved. At 9.20 Richard rang.
‘It’s gone.’ She could hear that he was in the car. ‘I’m saying to anyone who asks that it’s a private matter and I’m not giving any interviews.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Municipal swimming baths. I’m opening them. Followed by a diving display and races between first-year swimmers of all ages. Followed by lunch with the Mayor.’
‘Wow! Rock on.’
He laughed. ‘You?’
‘About to tell the evil dentist and his cohorts that when they see the papers at lunch-time, yes, it’s me.’
‘Good luck.’
‘They won’t care,’ said Bella, surprised.
But she was wrong. After she’d sent a brief email round the system, she was astonished by the messages of good-will she got in reply. The hygienists bought her a Groucho Marx mask, complete with glasses and cigar, for getting out of buildings unnoticed. Everyone seemed to be pleased for her. Bella was touched.
Janet, once she grasped that Bella had not been winding her up after all, was uncontrollable. She phoned continually, wanting details, strategies. When could they meet him? When could she tell the Golf Club ladies?
‘Ma, we’ve just told the world. The Golf Club ladies will know.’
‘But they’ll ask me about him. What can I say?’
Bella controlled a flicker of alarm. ‘As little as possible. Just say you haven’t met him yet but I’m bringing him to meet you and Kevin before Christmas.’
‘They’ll want to know if you’re getting engaged …’
They would want to know, Bella noticed. Not Janet.
‘There’s no question of that,’ she said firmly. ‘And you can tell them I said so.’
12
‘… and then Meeting Them’ – Girl About Town
In the end, Richard’s office and the Queen’s negotiated a late supper that very evening, after she had returned from a recital given by a prize-winning string quartet at the Royal College of Music.
The prospect flung Bella into an uncharacteristic panic. ‘What do I wear?’ she wailed.
Lottie was astonished. She had never heard her friend in such a stew. Without ever appearing to be much interested in clothes, Bella had acquired her own style over the years and usually carried it off with a certain flair.
‘What’s the fuss about? You’re the coolest woman I know,’ Lottie told her now.
But at the prospect of meeting her boyfriend’s mother for the first time, Bella had lost all self-confidence. Bad advance publicity didn’t help. Nor did the Royal sniffiness which she had decided was a cast-iron certainty
‘Calm down,’ said Lottie. ‘Let’s both take the afternoon off, for a start.’ She told work that she needed to take some time at home to work through ideas for a campaign, and left the office early.
‘Well, it’s true,’ she said defiantly, when Bella raised an eyebrow. ‘I just didn’t say it was a campaign we were going to be paid for. Now let’s go through your wardrobe and mine.’
Lottie was a chameleon, with a wide range of clients and an even wider range of friends. She had three wardrobes. Bella only had one and she couldn’t think of a single item that would be suitable.
Bella tried on every single dress in Lottie’s wardrobe from an irregular black and white print – ‘Ascot,’ said Lottie fondly; ‘Makes me look like a Dalmatian,’ said Bella, not even bothering to do up the zip at the back—to a classic Little Scarlet Dress – ‘Very little. Much too scarlet,’ said Bella with regret.
Eventually they could not see Lottie’s bed for the tumble of silks and chiffons and jersey and …
‘It’s hopeless,’ said Bella, nearly in tears. ‘I’m just not comfortable in your clothes. And the only thing that I have that’s remotely formal is the ghastly suit my mother bought me.’
‘Go and put it on,’ urged Lottie. ‘It might be better than you think.
But when Bella came back, she gave a low whistle and shook her head. ‘Holy cow! Pure Stepford Wife. Get it off, get it off … I can’t bear to look at it.’
They went and sat glumly on the end of Bella’s bed, inspecting her clothes.
‘Of course,’ said Lottie thoughtfully, after a while, ‘it doesn’t have to be a dress. I mean, this is an informal supper, right? We’re not talking tiara and orders. You’ve always got the Ginger Rogers Cocktail Look.’
In a trip round Greenwich Market one Sunday, Bella had discovered a vintage pair of very wide-legged black silk trousers. They looked dreadful on the stall, but she had been certain they had promise. After a little love and attention, they had