in here, it is a place for everyone to enjoy themselves.” We coaxed our way in and pushed on to the bar—where whom did we find on their working night out but some eagle-eyed executives with the Daily Mail. We stood there shoulder to shoulder with them—ordered a round of orange juice, drank it down—and still they didn't cotton on.
Going out, we stopped traffic in Berkeley Square—we were having a wild time now—and headed back to the Palace near two o'clock in the morning. Knowing that Andrew was due home from his own little revelry, we told the duty police to get out of the way—and then we closed the gates. As it turned out, Andrew had just phoned from his car in advance of his arrival. When he saw the shut gates, he properly took it as something was very wrong. He flicked on his car locks, rammed the Jaguar into reverse, and screeched out around the Wedding Cake. He thought he was being set up.
It was about then that I wondered if we had gone a bit too far.
The morning after found me at breakfast with Mrs. Runcie, the wife of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was to marry us. I could hardly see straight; I just barely made it through. (I do adore the Runcies; they've both been of such great support to me.)
Later I confessed our hen night to the Queen, and she thought it was reasonably amusing. We had got away with it clean—I'd been as naughty as I could be, and still I was adored by all. They were playing flush into my complex. I was wonderfully, extravagantly, madly brilliant. I could shoot a stag and hook a trout, and dance to Swan Lake in my wellies for good measure. I could do no wrong.
—SARAH FERGUSON, THE DUCHESS OF YORK
Fergie and Di giggling shamelessly.
The Bobby Sock Belles
We thought we were the cool crowd. Let's face it, we were. It was a Thursday night after our so-called sorority meeting of the Fidelity Sisterhood, where we met to pledge our undying love to God, country, each other, and never to wear white shoes after August. Our uniform: angora sweaters (chilly, since wed been taught to store them tissue-wrapped in the freezer), little scarves knotted at the neck, and suede loafers or saddle shoes with bobby socks. We felt like the chosen few, and quite literally were, since the all-powerful Big Sisters determined membership by voting you in or, God forbid, out. In addition to member selection, the Big Sisters were sworn to teach us ladies' etiquette and life's finer points, such as the distinction between summer and winter jewelry and that the best way to get a guy was to play hard to get and wear pearls.
After the meeting, as if to release energy, we cruised. Sarah Jo's pale yellow ’58 Buick was packed with ponytails, pink sweaters, and wild anticipation. We sat six abreast in the back seat, with room to spare. As we rolled past the entrance of a Victorian building dl lit up, we knew by the stickers on the cars out front that we had come upon a gold mine. They were the convertibles of the U.S. naval cadets who were attending a dance. Quick assessment told us this was nirvana, because, after all, we were the chosen ones, and the girls inside were just girls. A battle plan was formed.
Since these were bona fide men of twenty-three and twenty-four, and not to be approached by the inexperienced, Peggy and I became self-appointed delegates to enter the dance and ask for help. Our credentials were impeccable—we had both dated midshipmen and flight instructors at the naval base, and we knew the difference between A-4s, T-28s, and T-33s (various aircraft, for the uninitiated). We elected two others to bend down over our car's dirty tires and let the air out. It worked! We scored big time with Paul Newman and Robert Redford look-alikes (recall the movie An Officer and a Gentleman, and you get the picture) who came out to rescue us ladies in distress.
The angora-clad Fidelity Sisterhood.
I started seeing the Paul look-alike, and Peggy dated his friend, which made for great double-dating as we shared the secret of our caper between us, with the guys never suspecting. Two years later, I was invited to meet Paul's family, who lived in what looked for all the world like the plantation Tara, making me Scarlett O'Hara…or so I thought. There I learned that shorts were not acceptable attire at certain times of day and that Southern mansion dwellers have buzzers in the floor to step on when the servant is to bring in the next course of salty ham. It was during one of those elegant dinners that my juvenile behavior blew up in my face as I regaled my audience with the details of how I met Paul, in the silent aftermath of my tale, I sat uncomfortably with the realization that they did not find our trickery amusing. My Scarlett aspirations were completely checked shortly thereafter, when he became engaged to the admiral's daughter.
—RAE RUTH RHODES-ECKLUND
“Every time I think I know my friends,
they surprise me.
They are full of secrets I will never know.”
—Vivi Abbott Walker, in
The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, by Rebecca Wells
Alegra aNd I
Alegra and I were freshman roommates at University of California, Santa Cruz, better known at that time as Uncle Charlie's Summer Camp. Studying was almost unheard of when there was coffee to drink, music to crank, and gossip to share. The two of us were as different as we were the same; she had grown up among the Northern California redwoods, and I had fled the thick air of Los Angeles as fast as I could when I found out places like Santa Cruz existed.
Like soul sisters, we filled our days with easy conversation and comfortable silences. Some people said we looked alike, an observation I took as a high compliment since Alegra was many things I only hoped to be, and beautiful was one of them.
Today, like any other Saturday afternoon, we had our books spread in front of us in our tiny shared room with a view of the trees, made misty and damp by the recent storms. Alegra sat with her back to her bed; I was curled up on my bed, reading the same sentence about “basic” genetics three or four times. Halfway down my seventh page (7 of the 157 I was supposed to finish), I sighed and dropped my head to the pillow. From the way Alegra was softly singing the words to “Sugar Magnolia,” I could tell she wasn't absorbing much either. It had been raining for days, weeks, and we were halfway to stir-crazy.
I closed my book and watched Alegra. She caught me, laughed quietly, marked her page.
“All I want to do is go outside,” she said mournfully.
“I know. I just can't concentrate.”
“We should just go out into the field now, even though it's raining,” she said, alluding to the large grassy field at the bottom of the hill where we lived. It was less than a quarter-mile away, but it felt like acres of land stood between us and our usual sun spot.
“Yeah, whatever, girl,” I replied. “You go get soaked. What I don't need on top of everything is to be sick right now.”
“You won't get sick. Let's go. Now. Let's run,” I could tell she was serious. I started to consider it. I was reaching for my shoes when she said, “Naked.”
the full molly
Merry
