her homemaking skills; talents she clearly felt Grace was lacking. Why should tonight be any different?
Mallory checked her lipstick in her compact mirror. ‘When’s Roger coming home anyway?’
‘In a week. Maybe sooner.’
‘He’s been away on business a long time. You must miss him.’
Grace said nothing.
‘When he’s home, you’ll forget all that nonsense. Now, have you got a belt you can wear?’ She rustled up behind her. ‘Really! Didn’t anyone explain to you that you’re meant to gain weight in the first few years of marriage? How am I meant to become the spoiling godmother if you don’t get down to the business of fattening up?’
Something changed in Grace’s eyes. Inhaling hard, she turned away. ‘I don’t think I have a belt,’ she said quietly, looking through the dresses hanging in her wardrobe.
Mallory stared at Grace’s slim back.
She’d obviously hit a nerve.
‘Here,’ Mallory reached across, tugging a cummerbund of black velvet from another evening gown. ‘This one will do just fine,’ she said, fitting it round Grace’s waist.
Grace looked small tonight, even younger than usual. She reminded Mallory of a little girl dressing up in her mother’s clothes. It was the hairstyle, so conservative and staid; it would’ve suited an older woman but on Grace it only accentuated her youth. It made her eyes look even larger than normal; they were a very clear grey-green colour, wide set and almond-shaped.
‘Do you think this is all right?’ Grace examined her reflection in the mirror, tense.
It wasn’t like Grace to care too much what others thought. Suddenly Mallory realized it was one of the things that secretly she’d admired about her friend, despite their constant sparring.
‘It’s perfect,’ she assured her. ‘Now let’s go or we shall miss the whole thing.’
Coming down the stairs, Grace paused to check the second post on the hall table.
‘Oh look!’ She held up an envelope. ‘I’ve got airmail! From France. How exciting!’ She tore it open. ‘Who do I know in France?’
‘Is it from your uncle?’ Mallory pulled her coat on.
‘No, he’s in America, lecturing.’ Grace unfolded the letter, began reading.
Mallory waited; tapped her foot impatiently. ‘We must go.’ She took out her car keys. ‘What is it anyway?’
‘This doesn’t make sense.’
‘Is it in French?’
‘No. No, it’s in English.’ Grace sat down on the hall chair. ‘There’s an aeroplane ticket.’
‘An aeroplane ticket? For where?’
‘To Paris.’ Grace looked up, handing her the letter. ‘This is a mistake. Some sort of very bizarre mistake.’
Mallory took it.
It was typed on the kind of heavy, good quality paper that signaled official correspondence. In the corner she noted the name and address of a law firm in central Paris: Frank, Levin et Beaumont.
Dear Mrs Munroe,
Please accept our sincere sympathies for your recent loss. Our firm is handling the estate of the deceased Madame Eva d’Orsey, and it is our duty to inform you that you are named as the chief beneficiary in her will. We request your presence at our offices at your earliest convenience, so that we may go through the details of your inheritance.
Again, we apologize for this intrusion on your time of grief and look forward to being of service to you in the near future.
Yours sincerely,
Edouard A. Tissot, Esquire
‘Oh!’ Mallory looked up. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea you’d recently lost someone, Grace.’
Grace’s face was unchanging. ‘Neither had I.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mallory, I’ve never met any Eva d’Orsey. I have no idea who this woman is.’
Vanessa Maxwell knew how to throw a party. It was her greatest contribution and would doubtless be her lasting legacy to those who had known, if not loved her, long after she was gone.
The first rule was that they were almost always held on the spur of the moment. Unlike some hostesses who sent out invitations a month in advance, Vanessa understood that the success of the entire venture depended upon the delicate relationship between anticipation and fulfilment; too long a wait between one and the other resulted only in indifference and boredom. And any event that didn’t demand the frantic re-juggling of previous commitments, a trail of white lies and the testing of long-held personal loyalties wasn’t worth attending.
Secondly, she was ruthless about whom she invited. She almost never returned an invitation with one of her own. In fact, she was famous for picking people she’d only just met, pairing them up in unlikely, possibly incendiary ways. She tossed elder statesmen next to starlets, seated royalty across from working-class playwrights; once she sent her chauffeur to the Florida Club only to return with an entire jazz ensemble plucked off stage and half a dozen dancers from an all-male burlesque review in Soho to ‘liven things up a bit’.
Lastly, her events were held in rooms far too small, far too bright. People rubbed up against one another, jostled for space, occasionally landed in one another’s laps. While any other hostess would lull her guests into a coma with soft lights and deep comfortable sofas, Vanessa demanded that everyone, regardless of age or position, wedge themselves into a cramped pub in Shepherd Market, around the slippery border of a public swimming pool or onto the balcony of a private club. People shouted to be heard, grabbed at the drinks floating by on silver trays, eavesdropped shamelessly on intimate conversations as they allowed their hands to wander, brushing up against the warm limbs of strangers.
There was an air of danger to her gatherings; the frisson of mischief. At her most famous dinner party she hired a sprinkling of actors to pose as staff and one as an unfortunate guest who was then dramatically poisoned during the first course. It was then up to the remaining guests to solve the mystery before the police arrived or they themselves were eliminated through one heinous end or another.
It was just this kind of daring enterprise that had catapulted her and, by default, her husband, businessman and tobacconist Phillip Maxwell, to the top of the London social scene.
Grace had never been invited to one of Vanessa’s parties before; to say they didn’t travel in the same circles was putting it kindly. Grace’s husband Roger knew Phillip Maxwell professionally and had known Vanessa before either of them were married. But Grace, coming from Oxford, was still an outsider.
Mallory, however, had been twice before; a distinction
