Milly caught her breath. Why was her mother always like this? No Hello, darling. It’s lovely to see you. I haven’t set eyes on you since Christmas. How are you?
Agatha pulled at her arm. ‘Hurry up.’
‘Why? What’s happening?
‘I’ve managed to get you a ticket for Lady Verity’s charity drinks party,’ Agatha told her irritably. ‘They’re absolute gold dust, you know.’
‘Can’t Pearl go?’
Her mother sighed impatiently. ‘Don’t be silly, Millicent. Pearl is already going.’
Milly swallowed hard. The thought of going to Lady Verity’s (whoever she was) was scary to say the least. She felt so unprepared. She glanced back at her father for reassurance but he was having another coughing fit.
‘Well, come on then,’ Agatha snapped tetchily. ‘There’s no time to lose.’
Milly was dragged to the bathroom to have a quick wash. When she emerged, a woman who had been summoned from the village hairdressing salon was waiting to set her hair. Madam Irene wore far too much make-up and spoke with a fake French accent laced with the odd bit of Hampshire intonation. She also exuded a slight whiff of perspiration every time she lifted her arms. To be summoned to Muntham Court was clearly a great honour for her, and she positively gushed whenever Milly’s mother appeared.
‘I don’t expect miracles, Madam Irene,’ Agatha said, drawing hard on her cigarette as Milly sat in front of the mirror, ‘but do your best.’
Milly was subjected to Mervin wave clips and a curling iron to get the effect her mother and stylist desired. While she was under the dryer, Madam Irene gave her a manicure and painted her nails.
Agatha, who had barely spoken to her daughter since she’d arrived home, sat with them, drink in hand, telling Madam Irene all about Pearl’s coming out. It was all news to Milly.
‘What was it like being in Buckingham Palace?’ Madam Irene asked breathlessly.
‘Och . . .’ Agatha breathed. ‘I can’t tell you what an honour . . .’
Milly switched off. She’d just caught sight of an evening gown laid out across her mother’s bed, reflected in the mirror. Who did that belong to? It was a dusty lemon (not a very flattering colour) and it seemed to have an inordinate number of frills. A light dawned somewhere in her head and Milly’s heart sank. Surely her mother wasn’t expecting her to wear that, was she? It was hideous. Like something out of the Edwardian age. No, of course not. That must be Pearl’s gown. Milly relaxed. Yes, that was it. The dress was for Pearl. Milly suddenly frowned. Where was Pearl?
‘Can you imagine,’ Agatha was gushing, ‘fifty girls floating across the ballroom floor, all dressed in white.’ She paused for effect. ‘Each of them had three Prince of Wales feathers on her head.’
Madam Irene clasped her hand to her bosom and sighed. ‘Wonderful,’ she agreed. ‘Wonderful.’
Milly rolled her eyes.
‘Of course,’ her mother went on, ‘my other daughter was among the very first debutantes to be presented to King Edward VIII.’
‘Such a handsome man.’
‘Do you really think so?’ said Agatha, sipping her whisky. ‘I thought him rather ill-mannered. As a matter of fact, he left the proceedings halfway through. Told the other girls to consider themselves “presented” because he wanted to play golf with that American woman.’
‘Mrs Simpson.’
‘Wallis Simpson,’ Agatha sneered. ‘I ask you, what sort of name is that?’
There was an awkward silence, then Madam Irene said, ‘Me and my sister went up to London for King George’s coronation.’
Agatha arched an eyebrow.
Madam Irene’s face shone with excitement. ‘Oh madam, you should have seen the procession . . . people came from all the dominions, and the gold state coach, it was magnificent.’
‘We gave that a miss, of course,’ Agatha said, haughtily. ‘In a crowd like that, you could be rubbing shoulders with God knows who.’
For just a second, Madam Irene’s cheeks flamed, but she said nothing. Eventually, the hairdresser patted Milly’s hair one last time and stepped back admiringly. Milly swallowed hard. She’d never seen herself looking like this before and, quite frankly, she felt slightly ridiculous.
‘Time to get dressed,’ said Agatha, reaching for the overblown creation on the bed.
Milly’s heart sank. ‘Oh Mother,’ she cried, ‘I can’t possibly . . .’
Agatha spun around and their eyes met. Milly had thought about wriggling out of it by saying the dress was too good for her, or that Pearl would look lovely in it, but by the look on her mother’s face, she knew she was already defeated. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said feebly, ‘but it’s not really . . . me.’
‘Nonsense,’ said her mother. ‘I think it’s perfect.’
With the zip done up, the two women ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ contentedly. Milly was lavishly sprayed with her mother’s perfume and taken downstairs for her father’s approval. Charles was at his desk writing something, which he hastily squirrelled away into a drawer as they walked into the room. Agatha pretended not to notice. He told Milly how beautiful she looked but she wasn’t convinced. Her father was just being kind. She looked like an overgrown Christmas fairy.
To complete her ensemble, Milly was taken back out into the hall and given an old pair of scuffed and creased shoes belonging to Pearl.
‘Nobody will notice them under that long dress,’ her mother said determinedly as she whipped Milly’s glasses from her nose, ‘and you won’t need those.’
‘But I can’t see without them,’ Milly protested.
‘Nonsense,’ her mother snapped. ‘No man will give you a second glance with those awful things on.’
‘But . . .’ Milly began again as she reached out for her glasses.
Her mother snatched them up again. ‘Do that again and I’ll break them in half, Millicent.’ And Milly knew she meant it.
The door to the morning room was still open, and Charles was sitting at his desk with that same envelope in front of him. As his daughter came to say goodbye, he pushed the envelope into the drawer once again. Milly hardly noticed, but Agatha’s sharp eye saw that it was marked ‘Last Will and Testament’.
