Where Have All the Boys Gone?(85)

“Fear not!” trilled Olivia, who was still angrily twiddling with the useless little shaving light above the basin mirror. She turned around. “I’m far too young to be your fairy godmother, but look over there.” She fluttered her hands towards her large Louis Vuitton travelling case. Olivia saw no conflict between wanting to bring peace to the world and rapaciously stripping it of its resources to supply herself with luxury goods.

Louise leaped to it. Inside, beautifully folded and wrapped in tissue paper, were several slinky, diaphanous dresses, in delicate, pastel jewel colours.

“What’s this?” asked Louise, breathlessly pulling out a twenties-influenced pale mauve creation, all layers of different coloured chiffon.

“Oh, I’m repping London Fashion Week,” said Olivia, carelessly. “So, suddenly I’m everyone’s best friend, blah blah blah, yes Stella, I’ll call you back once you take that miserable look off your face, etc. etc.”

“NO!” said Louise, pulling out another one. It was a soft gold colour, with a high waist covered in sequins, and a stiff skirt with petticoats underneath it.

“Yes,” said Olivia. “Thank God you two have been eating nothing else but those greasy sausages. You’re going to die at forty-five, but, on the bright side, you are going to fit into these dresses.”

“Eeek.” Louise couldn’t help it, she was squeaking with happiness. “Thanks Olivia!”

“Thank Gharani Strok,” said Olivia. “And you’re going to have to be very VERY careful. No eating, drinking, moving about, sitting down, dancing, that kind of thing. I know what you’re both paid, and, to be honest, you shouldn’t even be allowed to be standing in the same room as these dresses.”

Katie moved towards the bed. There, underneath the first two, was a deep cherry-red satin dress. She pulled it out of its tissue wrapping. It had a deep sloping boat neck, a tight waist, and a full skirt. She looked at Olivia mutely, who waved her hands at her.

“Oh yes, I thought that might go with your dark hair. Try it on.”

It fitted as though it had been made for her. Katie nearly went crazy trying to see it in sections in the tiny basin mirror.

“That is definitely yours,” said Louise admiringly. “It is absolutely gorgeous.”

Katie swirled around a little more, then did a couple of her new Scottish dance steps.

“Ooh, fancy,” said Louise, who was struggling into the gold dress, which set off her new London blonde highlights expertly.

“There’s going to be proper dancing,” said Katie. “It’s pronounced kayleigh, like that Marillion song, but it’s spelt differently.”

“Fantastic!” said Olivia.

“What—you can dance it?” said Louise suspiciously.

Katie felt a little jealous.

“’Course,” said Olivia. “You keep forgetting I’m posh really. We did it at school.”

So, between them, Katie and Olivia taught Louise some steps, causing Mrs. McClockerty to bang several times on the floor with a broom handle, until the phone in Katie’s room started ringing off the hook again and she was sidelined, double answering questions about champagne, napkins, paparazzi, fairy lights, and sheeting.

“WELL?” SAID LOUISE.

At 7:30, they were all set to go, planning to dump the Punto on site and hope it didn’t sink into the muddy quicksand.

“I think we’re fine,” said Katie. “Although I wouldn’t stand too close to the fairy lights. They sent a fire officer around, but then they gave him a bottle of whisky, so, you know, better safe than sorry.”

“Oh God,” said Olivia. “OK. Do your best with your frocks,” she looked at them both. “But, you both look gorgeous. Proper city knock-outs. We’d get into Pangea without a second glance with these on.”

“If we wanted to whore for dubious gentlemen,” said Louise. “Thanks, Ol.”

“Not at all. I can probably even figure out some kind of a tax write-off when you get trifle all down them. So, country-bound Cinders—enjoy yourselves.”

The Punto didn’t quite turn into a pumpkin, though Katie feared for it for a second or two on particularly muddy patches, and driving with heels didn’t help matters much either. Even Olivia was impressed as they drove down Kennedy’s drive towards the hall. In the twilight, with the dark clouds, it looked stern and imposing, the crenellated roof outlined starkly against the sky, and the countless mullioned windows. Katie was straining to see how it had turned out. All of the windows were lit up, even though nobody was allowed upstairs, because the walls were damp. Kennedy had got someone to put candles in every one (“it’s too wet for anything to start a fire, for sure”), so even this early in the evening, the huge house was blazing with light.

“Ooh!” said Louise. “A proper castle! It’s so romantic!”

“Until we get to the bunfight that’s the auction,” said Katie. “Then it’s all going to get really tacky and depressing.”

But even she couldn’t quite hide her excitement as they swept around the side of the building. Behind the house was a long line of cars disgorging glamorous-looking occupants. There were a fair number of dinner suits, but on the whole, the men were in kilts; a myriad of different colours. She’d been expecting them, of course, she supposed, but she’d also thought they might look a bit stupid. They didn’t look stupid at all, they looked wonderful, and it was fantastic to see the men moving around so unselfconsciously.