Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

They set out for the wandering garden. Bluey, having twisted her ankle, now used a wheeled walker to get around; its front legs were thrust through tennis balls, to let it glide. She had lost a good deal of weight and constantly drew her tongue — dried-out from incontinence meds — over chapped lips in a futile attempt to moisten them. She cleared her throat incessantly, as if to dislodge foodstuff caught within, because the Haldol prescribed to squelch her delusions affected the ability to swallow. But she still looked elegant, due to Winter’s heroic ministrations. She wore her favorite Bill Blass and as usual was scrupulously done up for the children’s visit.

The girl with straightened hair didn’t seem to register any of the sadder nuances that Bluey presented. The cousins had been to visit a number of times since their grandfather’s funeral, and Toulouse was, frankly, sickened by the caricature his relation had become. He hoped it to be a passing phase — he’d heard enough about Miss Hectare and her lord- and ladyships to last a lifetime. Lucy had flaunted the aquamarine ring “Amanda let me borrow” and couldn’t help but inform that it had cost five thousand quid and was designed by none other than the estimable Jade Jagger. He’d seen the charm bracelet she wore around her neck as well—*S*P*O*I*L*M*E*—and heard her prattle on about ludicrous chocolate boxes ringed in Chloé fringed denim that “Stella McCartney created at just four hundred apiece. They say Eat Me on the lid, and they’re giving all the proceeds to breast cancer! Isn’t that brilliant?” She’d exchanged her python Smythson for a fire-engine-red one with the snooty gold cover engravature:

LONDON

PARIS

MILAN

NEW YORK

She spoke wantonly of fashion, like a pathetic imitation of his mom — how her “completely knackered” clique all wore Chanel and Ghost and Uth and how she and Amanda went to a Moroccan-style wedding and a Hilton girl took her bloody blouse off and then they went to Paris (the city, not the girl) and sat behind Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Lopez watching models in nun’s habits and $70,000 dresses, throats fakely slashed, sashay through fifteenth-century churches on bloodred catwalks — oh, but the “shows” were great fun! Her highest aspiration was to spin records at parties. She said she was meeting lots of boys who thought she was older. They all wanted to “bonk” and she’d actually “snogged” with a twenty-seven-year-old broker at Billie Piper’s nineteenth birthday at the Papagaio.

“They’re all wankers, for the most part — poseurs. They come up to you straightaway and make their proposition. And you just stand there, gob-smacked. Amanda’s older, so she gets hit on more. They’re bleeding idiots! Poofs and poseurs! Tossers! Off their heads! They look you straight in the ‘porkpies’—that means ‘eyes.’ It’s Cockney-rhyming slang, haven’t you heard of that, Toulouse? It’s great fun. They look you in the porkpies, even the ones with rotten ‘boat races’—‘boat race’ means ‘face.’ And I thought English boys would be so … unaggressive! I was wrong , they are seemingly so un-English. Bounders! Oh, and Grandma!” She turned to Bluey, as if they were all on a talk show. “We went to the most amazing party at Badminton. Have you been? It’s where the duke of Beaufort lives. Lady Hectare’s brilliant friends with Bunter and Tracy — Bunter’s the duke’s son. And Bobby is so cute . He’s only twelve, but he’s an earl, the earl of Glamorgan or something. There were huge amounts of marquesses and marchionesses, viscounts and countesses and even a bishop — the bishop of Kensington, I think. The houses there. They are castles , they are manors , Stradella is shite! Stradella is naff! Oh, Toulouse! I forgot — there was a Spanish infanta there too! But we never met her. Oh, bollocks. We were too busy painting our faces and being wicked! The duke’s wife is a landscape artist, just like Aunt Trinnie. They have a nanny from New Zealand who so reminded me of Winter … and the marquess of Bath was there — Alex, I think he’s called — he’s friends with your mom. Oh! And do you know who showed up? The marquess of Went! Remember when we were at Leaf House with Edward and that old man showed us the maze? Well, that was his property — I mean, the marquess of Went. But the marquess of Bath is so cute , looks like a bloody wizard. And he’s witty! And he wears the most brilliant vests and ties — and lives at Longleat with the marchioness — they’re ‘trouble and strife’—that’s husband and wife. But Amanda said Lord Bath has lots of wives—‘wifelets,’ I think he calls them. He’s like a Mormon. Do they call that ‘polygamous’? Oh, Toulouse, he’s the most brilliant hippie! Longleat’s open to the public. It would be like having crowds troop through Olde CityWalk, but that’s the way they do it, because the upkeep is so expensive. They even have a zoo there, and bollocks if there isn’t a gorilla living on an island gob-smack in the middle of the lake … oh it’s posh and posh-totty. There are lions and tigers and rhinos and giraffes — and even a railway! Capability Brown did the landscaping, Trinnie told me all about her. Didn’t Trinnie tell you about Capability Brown? Capability did Sutton Place too, that’s the Hectares’. It’s in Surrey — Surrey with a bloody fringe on top! Capability Brown and Gertrude Jekyll … aren’t they the queerest, most brilliant names? Oh don’t make a face, Toulouse, you look like an arse. Anyway, the duke had this very fab party and ordered everyone to wear purple leather and suede. Well, maybe it wasn’t the duke’s party, maybe it was his son’s. And there was an entirely different brilliant gathering where the men wore tuxedos and went shooting . Foxes? Or maybe birds — I’m not sure. These people are super multitaskers! They’re brilliant! And there are ghosts in that house, Grandma — I say ‘house’ but it’s more like a small country —it’s like fifty thousand acres! Lauren Bush was there, and Madonna, and the prince of Bourbon too. (Amanda calls him the Prince of Scotch and Soda, but not to his face.) Everyone got bloody well off their heads and played polo and it started to rain cats and dogs and the duke had a helicopter hover over the wicket so it wouldn’t pour on the pitch. Oh, Toulouse, you have to meet the Dent-Brocklehursts! Then Henry did a little dance and it stopped pouring! It was brilliant. Jemma introduced me to George Harrison, of the Beatles? I had no idea who he was! Amanda said he was stabbed or something, and he looks a hundred years old. Got cancer, too. A gray, gray man. Amanda and I were in the kitchen and she said, ‘You’ve just met one of the Beatles,’ and I said, ‘Bob’s your uncle!’ When I go back next week, we’re going to a party at Gatcombe Park. And guess who’s having it: Zara Phillips! She’s Princess Anne’s daughter but doesn’t ‘wear’ a title, isn’t that so fab? Got a pierced tongue, Zara does — Amanda and I are thinking of getting ours pierced. But don’t you dare say anything to your mum, Toulouse, or I’ll be fit to—”

She couldn’t help but notice that her grandmother was now leaning on the walker with her elbows and reaching out with both arms — rather plaintively at that. Lucy regarded her with a slightly confused smile; thinking that she wished to be held, the young socialite put a stiff upper lip on it while she and Toulouse maneuvered the old woman from her encumbrance. Now free, they embraced — and Bluey began to scream. No ordinary outburst, but a high-pitched bone-rattling ululation that startled the girl and filled her with horror. (Winter later reported that it usually happened at night and was the cause of some wonderment, because once begun, the siren could last up to fourteen hours without relenting or even varying much in pitch. Even those who had seen their share of screamers were astonished at the suprahuman outpouring.)