Даниэла Стил - All That Glitters

She left the hotel, unpacked her bags, and was settled in when she started work at Time . Her boss was a woman in her late thirties, Leslie Thomas. She gave Coco a stack of filing to do, and a long list of calls to make on her first day of work. Coco was off and running and had a good first day. Everyone was pleasant and polite to her. They introduced themselves as soon as they saw her, and by the end of the week, she knew who they were and what they did. She was, as John Campbell had described the job to her, the office jack-of-all-trades. She did everything from changing the occasional light bulb to making dinner reservations for her superiors. Leslie gave her some small captions to edit on her second day there, to gauge her creativity and writing skills. Coco was above all willing, grateful for the job, and thrilled to be there. She was honest about the fact that the internship was her first real job, at twenty-two. She didn’t pretend to know things she didn’t, which Leslie liked about her. She was hardworking and sincere, and eager to learn.

“Where are you staying?” Leslie asked her. Coco had already figured out that her boss’s accent was upper class. There was a definite distinction between social levels in England, and someone had whispered to her that Leslie’s father was in the House of Lords, which meant that she came from a distinguished family, but not necessarily that she had money, and she had said that she lived in East London, which was comfortable and respectable, but not fancy.

Leslie was attractive, single, and had no children, and had mentioned to Coco that she was divorced. She was thirty-eight and had no boyfriend at the moment.

“I found something in Chelsea,” Coco answered, referring to where she lived, without saying it was a house, even though very small. It was more like a dollhouse, but had everything she needed, and was perfect for her. But the neighborhood made it clear that Coco wasn’t poor or struggling.

“I’m giving a party on Saturday night, if you’d like to come. Most people leave town on the weekend, if they can, but the weather has been so beastly, I’m hoping enough people will be here.”

It had been raining nonstop since Coco arrived. She didn’t care. She had so much to discover about her job and the people she worked with that the weather hadn’t bothered her so far, although it might after a while. It had been blazing hot and sunny in New York, and was perfect August weather the last time she went to the Hamptons with Sam. It felt more like winter in London. She’d worn a light wool coat to work every day. She thanked Leslie for the invitation and jotted down the address. “Nothing fancy,” Leslie added, “jeans and a nice top are fine,” which was more or less the same dress code as with her friends in New York, although not at the restaurants where she’d gone with Ed, where she had to wear a nice dress and high heels. But he was older, and moved in a different crowd. His wife was known to be one of the best dressed women in New York, which set a standard Coco couldn’t match. But she had youth and her natural beauty on her side, which Ed preferred.

By the end of her first week at Time, Coco was starting to feel comfortable and confident in her job. She and Sam had FaceTimed several times, she showed him around her tiny house. He was impressed. The rooms were small, but it had a cozy atmosphere with a sense of history to it, and there was a fireplace in every room. Central heating had been added a century after it was built, and it had been modernized since. She told Sam she was going to a party on Saturday night. It sounded like fun to him, and he was happy for her. He had a date with Tamar Weiss that night himself. He’d been out with her a couple of times since Coco left.

When the day came for the party, it was still pouring. Coco wore a black sweater and jeans, and high heels. She had her long dark hair loose down her back, and she wore a heavy raincoat. She ran to find a cab on the street nearest her house.

By the time she got to Leslie’s apartment in East London, about forty people were already there. They were a good-looking group of young people, mostly in their thirties, and Coco guessed that she might be the youngest person there. Everyone greeted her warmly when Leslie introduced her and Coco said she was freshly arrived from New York. They asked where she had been working before, and she explained that she was officially still a student at Columbia, but had gotten the job through the Time bureau in New York.

“They must have been desperate to get rid of you, or thought you were fantastic to send you to us,” a handsome blond man in his early thirties teased her. His name was Nigel Halsey-Smythe. He was very handsome and seemed intrigued by Coco. He was obviously taken by how beautiful she was. “I’m a younger son,” he rapidly explained with a grin, as he handed her a glass of wine after introducing himself. “In our system here that means a fancy name and no money. My older brother got it all, so he’s got the family seat in Sussex, the estate, and the title, and I’m left to eke out a living. I sell advertising upstairs at Time . We’re paid mostly on commission, which means that if we go to dinner, you’ll have to pay. Although you probably make less than I do, so we’ll have to go to parties at art galleries with champagne and free hors d’oeuvres.” He was funny and she was touched by his honesty about his situation. In the British system, younger sons often had no money. The eldest brother got everything, while everyone else had to struggle and got nothing. As they talked, she learned that he had gone to Eton, the best boys’ boarding school in England, and Cambridge, one of the finest universities. He also mentioned that he was thirty-three years old. He said he’d never been married, although his older brother had been married twice. “Younger sons are not in high demand,” he said, pretending to be mournful, and they both laughed. He introduced her to a dozen other people. There was a plentiful buffet with Indian food, and she noticed that the caterer was pouring good French champagne. The assembled group, which grew in size rapidly, was an interesting mix of aristocrats, working-class people, mostly from the magazine, and a number of foreigners, including a group of Italians and two very pretty French girls who worked for British Vogue and looked like models themselves. They had a cluster of men around them at all times. Coco felt like a bumpkin compared to them. Nigel saw to it that she met nearly everyone, and they settled in a corner on a couch with some others to talk.

“So how long are you here for?” he asked her. He had made her the focus of his attention for the evening so far, and went through the buffet line with her. He seemed mesmerized. They were balancing their plates on their knees, as Leslie continued to greet new arrivals. A waiter from the caterer relieved guests of their dripping raincoats and umbrellas in the front hall. It all felt very British to Coco, and she wished that she could FaceTime Sam so he could see the scene. It was a whole different atmosphere from their student milieu in New York. This was much more sophisticated and international than what she was used to in her college life, and she was grateful to have Nigel at her side. He gave her the lowdown on everyone, and he seemed to know them all. Whose father was a lord, who had a title, who was a nobody, who had a fantastic job, or a fabulous country house and gave house parties where people killed to be invited. How aristocratic their families were was very important to him, but he didn’t act like a snob. He just liked knowing about everyone and was curious about Coco.

“Great manor house, terrific food, no central heating, and no money, like most of us,” he described one couple. “The roof is going to cave in on them one of these days. The place leaks like a sieve,” he said of one of the houses where the owners gave the best parties, according to him. “Do you ride?” Coco nodded, slightly in awe of all of them, but surprisingly comfortable with him. She liked his openness and lack of pretension, and his good looks had caught her attention when she walked in. She’d noticed him staring at her until he walked over to meet her. She was flattered by his attention, and his description of people’s circumstances made her laugh. “So, what does your father do? Banker, lawyer, head of some vast American corporation, Wall Street genius, famous artist, or a mere mortal?” He was constantly playful, but interested in all the details to place where she fit into his world. Leslie seemed to have a very eclectic group of friends. Coco could tell that one was just as likely to meet someone with a title as a photographer with a heavy Cockney accent in her living room. It was fascinating. Nigel seemed to fit into the upper echelon of the scale, despite being a younger son, as he so easily confessed. He didn’t have the title or the money, but he clearly had the blue blood and noble heritage.