Perfection Comes at a Price, page 10
“He dropped me at the beginning of October. He’s getting married in July. He must have been with Philippa while he was going out with me. That two-timer!”
“Not necessarily. He would have known her, yes. Don’t forget that they both belong to the same bridge club. But I am quite sure that he would not have done any courting before he had ended his relationship with you.”
“Still, he jumped pretty quickly from my bed into another.”
“Oh no. That’s not the case. I encouraged Beatrice to talk about her friend and the coming wedding. We women love to talk about romance. Apparently, the bride is head over heels in love with the groom, and is waiting impatiently for the marital embrace. The groom has been behaving properly, much to the frustration of the bride. Beatrice giggled as she was telling this to me. So, Katie, Eric did not jump from one bed into another.”
Yes, Katie could well believe that. She had begun to see that everything in Eric’s life had to take place according to accepted norms and in no other way. The only reason why Eric had started an early physical relationship with her, Katie, was because he had been so young. Nature drives the young strongly and at that time he had not yet matured into Mr Perfect! Bloody Perfection! Curse it!
The plans for the wedding were advancing at record speed. Lady Saunders had what seemed like a whole army of people dealing with the arrangements. It would be a grand society wedding. The religious ceremony would be at the Brompton Oratory. Philippa was a Catholic as were her Spanish family members. Sir Philip was an Anglican and thus Eric as an Anglican was well accepted, provided that the couple brought up their children as Catholics.
As for the wedding announcement in The Times, it had to be carefully worked out. Southall could not be mentioned. Eric and Sir Philip thought of a ruse. Eric’s mother’s grandmother came from a village in Lincolnshire called Sleaford, conveniently near to nothing. The announcement would mention that Mr and Mrs Flint of Sleaford, Lincolnshire, and that would solve the problem. Nobody would be the wiser.
“I hope this will work, said Eric, “We are forced to put that announcement in.”
“We are indeed force,” said Sir Philip, “and of course people are curious. But not to that extent. If there is any mention by anyone about the subject at the party, skim over it and change the subject.”
“I’m thinking more of the danger of someone from Southall seeing the announcement and then running to my parents.”
“But they already know about your engagement and they have met Philippa. On top of that, the announcement does not tell the where or the when of the coming nuptials. It only mentions that an engagement has taken place and there are no exact addresses, only Knightsbridge is mentioned. The word Sleaford is unlikely to worry them as your parents know that your mother’s mother came from there.”
Why not use the ruse, mused Sir Philip, he had seen so many times in his long life how people who craved for distinctions were involved with bogus titles, and bogus orders of chivalry complete with robes, ribbons, costumes and decorations to the point of folly. There was actually a huge market for such things. Oh vanity of vanities! The absence of the groom’s parents would be mentioned at the beginning of the dinner. They had been struck with a bad case of mumps and so were in quarantine.
Over two hundred people had been invited. Philippa’s parents were not sparing any expense. Eric was inviting three colleagues, Horace Grant, Malcolm McGregor and Cecil Pemberton. His best friend among the three was Horace who had been asked to be his best man. Philippa had been introduced to his friends some time ago and she got on well with them. All three thought that she was a wonderful woman and that Eric was lucky indeed. Quite a number of friends from their bridge club had also been invited. The main guest from Eric’s side was Mr Hargreaves. He and his wife were both so pleased to see how wonderfully Eric’s life had turned out. The old man felt a warm glow in his heart that he had succeeded in turning Eric’s life from misery into happiness and success. Eric knew that nobody would learn anything from Mr Hargreaves, who understood fully the fact that Eric wanted his past to be as dead and buried as possible and the shackles of Southall to fall away. He would not divulge anything untoward about Eric.
Because Philippa was half Spanish, a Spanish theme had been chosen for the occasion. There was going to be dancing. A Spanish group had been engaged with a particularly good guitarist. Philippa had been trained in flamenco since a child. Eric found that fascinating and at her instigation, had started to take lessons in it. With Philippa he was learning the sevillana as they would be opening the dancing with it. Philippa was most contented that her future husband was one of those rare men who liked to dance and was enthusiastic about it. Sir Philip did not like dancing, but he had learned the main dances and to please his wife twirled her as the occasion demanded. Philippa had also started to teach Eric Spanish so that he would get a feel for the country. This, because she often visited her Spanish relatives, who lived in Malaga. And as a married couple they would be going there together. Another thing that Philippa had instigated was driving lessons for Eric. He needed to have a driving licence. Philippa had been given only recently a smart orange-coloured MG sports car as a present from her father. She much preferred that Eric should be in the driving seat. So he laboured at getting yet another skill, and by April the precious licence had been obtained.
The wedding day, Saturday the 10th of July, 1971, was gloriously sunny. The ceremony was to start at noon but already at eight o’clock the make-up artist and the hairdresser had arrived there. Philippa had woken up just before seven, before the alarm went off. She felt very nervous. One of the guest-bedrooms had been turned into a beauty parlour. The make-up artist was like a magician. He turned Philippa into a beauty. By carefully plucking the underside of her thick eyebrows, he opened up her eyes to give prominence to her naturally long eyelashes. By a heavier use of the eye-liner he brought out the Spanish element in her eyes. A light-brown golden-sheen shadow gave allure without looking too artificial. A luminous foundation changed any sallowness in her skin, and a clever use of some pale rouge lessened the impact of her large nose. The lipstick was a pale rose colour, imitating a natural look. The results were breath-taking.
Her hair was parted in the middle and was put up in a bun, to accentuate her Southern looks. It fell in soft waves, not having been pulled tight but to give a frame to her face. The style held the intricately made antique comb made of mother-of-pearl to which the veil was attached.
The dress was in flamenco style, with flounces at the sleeves and three layers of flounces in the skirt. It was a creation of white lace with a flower motif. With it came an underskirt of several layers in very pale-purple silk. The idea was that when dancing, there would be an effect of a seductive colour which would swish from time to time. Philippa’s mother had had that idea. The shoes were white Flamenco ones. The end result was stunning.
Philippa was superstitious enough to want to have “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue”. The dress was new, for “old” she wore a garter-belt in purple which she had had for some time and which had been bought with seduction in mind. She borrowed from her mother a tiny enamel brooch which was mainly white but which had a small blue enamel ribbon at the bottom. This she attached to one shoulder. For jewellery she wore an antique diamond bracelet, given to her by her father.
When Eric saw his bride advance towards him, he was bowled over. His bride was everything he could want. It was sweet to see how she could not help herself from hurrying towards Eric with an excited smile on her lips.
“Decorum, Philippa,” whispered her father.
“Oh come on, Daddy,” whispered Philippa, dragging her father faster.
It was clear to the whole church that the bride couldn’t get quickly enough to the groom, she was hurtling at speed. Amused and indulgent smiles were seen. Love was definitely in the air. It felt like an eternity to her till finally she reached Eric, who gave his bride one of his foxy grins, as Sir Philip handed her over. Happiness reigned supreme.
Chapter 17
The young couple had hardly got back from their honeymoon when Eric had the news that he was being posted to Paris in November. They started to prepare themselves in earnest. Eric was sent to the tailor. The obligatory black tie, white tie and morning coat were ordered plus four other suits and a sports jacket and trousers. For Philippa, among other things, a black mourning outfit in case a period of court mourning should be announced. Like most young couples, they made the mistake of procuring a fancy dinner set and glasses for twelve. After their second posting, and after a number of breakages, they got pretty, but cheap crockery and glass. Like everybody, they learned as they went along. They would be provided with a central flat with three bedrooms, all furnished.
To go by train or by plane, that was the question.
“I’d favour the train,” said Eric, “because it would make more of the journey itself. We would have a first class compartment, and I hear that the food in those trains to Paris is super. What do you think?”
“What a good idea. I’ve always liked train travel. From the practical point of view, it allows us to have a fair amount of luggage.”
So, the train journey was decided. They were greeted at the Gare du Nord by a colleague of Eric’s who had also invited them to dinner that evening, together with two other couples from the Embassy.
Parisian life suited them both down to the ground. Philippa had been there before on several occasions with her parents, so she was a good guide for Eric. She spoke fluent French, having been tutored in that language from childhood on. On their very first Sunday Eric had wanted them to go to Notre Dame. It had fulfilled all his expectations. After the service they had wandered around a bit as the weather was sunny, and then they had gone to a small, cosy restaurant. They had not been disappointed, the food had been a joy to the palate.
On their second week, the officer in charge of the furnishings had come along with the inventory. Everything was counted and noted. The condition of all items was carefully described, so that at the end of their stay they would only be responsible for what they themselves might have damaged. It was a good system.
When Eric had got to the Embassy, he was introduced to the Ambassador. Later Philippa would also be introduced. Eric didn’t show it but he was on tenterhooks. However, the Ambassador was a pleasant and friendly man, so Eric sighed with relief. As to the Councillor, with whom he would have more contact, it was rather the reverse. A short man with thick glasses. Eric sensed that the man had not taken to his type, so he prepared himself mentally to be particularly deferential to him and walk on eggshells as needed. He would see to it that the man would have nothing to complain about, Eric knew that he could pull his own weight. Later in the office it would soon become apparent how difficult the Councillor was. His secretary was a nervous wreck. The poor woman often had red eyes which she blamed on hay-fever, but no-one was fooled by that.
Already on his second week at work Eric had witnessed a painful scene. Miss Wilson, the Councillor’s secretary, had been explaining to Eric some points that he ought to know.
“Miss Wilson,” the Councillor’s voice was heard to boom. Then a red, livid face appeared, “you are here to work, not to spend time in prattling to newcomers. Your work is more than haphazard. You forgot to book that restaurant. I was embarrassed in front of my guest, the Chief of the Police. There was no table, and we had to find elsewhere to dine. Now get to your desk, I must dictate a letter of apology. And make sure it does not have a single mistake.”
Miss Wilson burst into tears.
“Miss Wilson, stop snivelling and get on with the job,” growled the Councillor, after which the livid red face disappeared into its lair.
Philippa was fascinated by the elegance of the French women. They really knew how to dress themselves. During their stay in Paris, her wardrobe would grow quite considerably. To ease their life they shared a maid with another couple from the Embassy. She came to them on Wednesdays and Fridays. The days had been carefully planned by Eric. When they gave dinner parties, which they did about once a month, it would be only during week days. Week-ends were sacrosanct for family life, for the French as much as for themselves. So they gave dinners either on a Tuesday or on a Thursday, so that the maid would be there to clear everything up the next day.
Once a month Philippa took part in the big coffee morning given by the Ambassador’s wife for the Embassy ladies. She herself gave a small coffee morning for her French acquaintances once a month. With cocktails and receptions, they went out around twice a week.
It was really Eric’s skills at bridge that got them into different layers of Parisian society. That had to be carefully planned as well.
“Philippa, when we play against a French couple, depending who they are and what they are like, I suggest that we don’t go for the kill every time. I’ll steer the game. I’m pretty good at it, as you know. If I make some bad moves, like a bad opening lead, it will be with a reason. If I forget to count that a last trump is out, it will be with a reason.”
“I think that is a good policy. I have gathered that our role here is to kow-tow to the French and please them.”
“You’ve got it in a nut-shell,” grinned Eric.
They had noticed that the Parisians tended to be a bit snooty and here was Eric, only a humble Third Secretary. His skills at charming the ladies played its own role. At parties the women tended to gravitate towards him like homing pigeons. If there was a gaggle of ladies with one man in the centre, it was usually Eric. The women found it fascinating that here was an Englishman who had just as much charm as any Frenchman.
Philippa looked on benignly. Eric had the habit of their having a little night-cap together when they got home from any function. Then he would set himself to really charm his wife. He flirted with her as if she was a young girl. Philippa often wondered how long it would last. She needn’t have worried. He was to continue that pattern all through their marriage. She would often watch her sleeping husband and thank her lucky stars that he had chosen her.
He was most unpredictable.
“Philippa, this Friday I have booked us a table at the famous Moulin Rouge.”
“Good heavens! I’m astonished. I’m not sure that it is respectable.”
“Sure it is respectable. The Parisians pride themselves on the Moulin Rouge. I’m sure we will be most impressed.”
“No doubt you will be impressed. What I gather about it is that it is full of naked ladies.”
“Sure they will be there. That is the whole point. But it will be done in a very elegant way, believe you me.”
Philippa had been somewhat apprehensive, but once they were there, she could but agree that the program had been exceptionally good. And the women had performed in such an elegant way that their scanty clothing had not mattered. In fact it had been a necessary part of the performance.
Chapter 18
At the Embassy, a lot of work was being caused by the lingering negotiations about Britain joining the European Economic community. The French were being very negative about it. In June Britain began new negotiations for EEC membership in Luxembourg. One rather satisfying thing for Eric had been that, during the first receptions they had attended, the French expressed incredulous admiration of the British expulsion in September of 90 Russian diplomats for spying. The year 1971 would be remembered forever. At the Paris cocktails and receptions, the amazed buzz still filled the air like champagne bubbles.
“That will teach the French, among others, that we are not just a piffling inefficient nation,” Eric had said with feeling.
Finally, in 1972, the French approved of the enlargement of the EEC to include UK, Denmark, Ireland and Norway.
As regarded themselves, they were glad to be on a posting away from the UK where unemployment had reached a million, and a three-day working week had been declared by the Prime Minister, Edward Heath. To take their thoughts away from it all, Eric bought the new novel by Frederick Forsyth called “The Day of the Jackal”. The last best seller that he had bought had been Germaine Greer’s book “The Female Eunuch”, which had made his hackles rise.
The couple had no major quarrels, Eric saw to that. He could not bear the thought of any shouting matches, no, he had had an ample sufficiency of those in his childhood. There were only occasional tiffs.
“Eric, I’ve seen a heavenly two-piece in one of the fashion houses.”
“Oh no. Not again. We really can’t afford anything this month.”
“But we are not short in any way, my love.”
“I am more than aware that we are not short,” grumbled Eric, “but I do feel that we must try to live within my income. We already owe such a lot of gratitude to your parents. I am not a sponger, Philippa.”
“I know that. I’ll squeeze into something else.”
“Please don’t. I seriously mean it. We could have had an income from the house if we had been allowed to let it out, but your parents were dead against the idea.”
“Father was quite allergic to that suggestion. And so was mother. We actually could not go against them. Also, mother gets so much joy out of going there once a fortnight to run the taps, settle the lighting and so on. She feels like the queen bee presiding over the cleaning team every two months.”
“Don’t I just know. It’s over the top.”
“No, it isn’t. We are all a family. We pull together in everything. Don’t take that pleasure away from them.”
Eric, again, could but capitulate gracefully.
Sometimes they had disagreements about politics. Philippa’s Spanish family were rabidly pro Franco. That man could do no wrong. Eric saw it differently.
“I wish you’d be a bit more positive about Franco,” said Philippa somewhat petulantly, “Spain would have been nowhere without him.”
