It all began on a warm, summer's afternoon at a rather sophisticated soiree in the leafy suburbs of Primrose Hill. A prosperous publisher, ever ready to celebrate yet another literary success, had invited a cross section of the arts world and a smattering of his posh neighbours, to sample his canapés and chilled white wines and partake in an afternoon of scintillating and witty conversation. They had descended in droves, the great and the good, all parading in their latest, chic, King's Road finery, spread in small knots across the sprawling garden.
The snatches of conversation was loud, upper class, self-centred and pure snobbery,
“Darling! How lovely to see you again, it seems ages since we had lunch at Henley!”
“...........Oh, we can't do Ascot or Wimbledon this year, we'll be in the Dordogne.”
“Charles can't come, poor thing's taken the boat to Jersey!”
Middle-aged matrons, resplendent in wide brimmed hats and summer dresses strolled among the crowds, anxiously seeking familiar faces to boast of their offspring's prowess at Oxbridge, Sandhurst and in the city. Agents rubbed shoulders with publisher against a backdrop of white coated waiters, striped marquees, plates of smoked salmon and flutes of Moet and Chandon, set among manicured lawns and neatly trimmed gardens as mellow Mozart oozed out of the PA system.
A young man, suitably attired in creased chinos, deck shoes and a sweater, casually draped around his shoulders, accidentally brushed the elbow of a passing beauty, causing her to spill her champagne. “I say, I'm most frightfully sorry, allow me to get you another.”
“Oh,” she replied, her initial irritation immediately quelled, “most kind.”
He was clearly attracted by her stunning good looks, her pretty yellow dress and by her stance which oozed confidence and elegance. He caught the eye of a passing waiter, beckoned him over and with great deftness, leaned forward and whisked another flute of champagne which he offered the young woman. “So sorry.” he repeated, with a flash of pearly white teeth, “Clumsy of me!”
She returned his smile. “Don't worry about it, no harm done,” she said, rather majestically and began to walk away.
“Can I get you some salmon mouse or perhaps a little quiche, I was on my way to the buffet?”
“No thank you,” she replied, with an air of finality and turned away.
“It's Charlotte isn't it? We met last year at the Blake's charity bash, I'm afraid I was a little tipsy!”
She stopped then and turned to him and frowned. “Blake's charity bash? I can't seem to recall… Do I know you?”
“Henry DeVille.” he offered. “You'll know my sister, Samantha, from boarding school I believe. She's now with the JP Morgan's in the city. Seems to spend most of her time across the pond. Usually comes back for Wimbledon. Tall, dark haired, perhaps...”
“Sorry, I'm not sure that I know her, was she at...”
“Roedean and Brasenose, tennis and fencing blue. Did well in her finals, she was friendly with Pru Hardwick and the Red Lion crowd, always hopping across the channel for the skiing or down to Cowes for regatta week. She said that you might be here today, asked me to pass on her...”
“No, I'm sorry, I was at Roedean but went up to Christ's. Maybe she was ahead of me at Roedean. It's a long time ago, I haven't been to a reunion in years and I wasn't in with the sporty crowd at Oxford. I was more into the academic and literary side of things. Are you in publishing?” she asked, with no great interest.
“Oh no,” he smiled, “Hedge funds and off shore trading. Much more fun, much more cut and thrust than stuffy old publishing houses. Only managed to scrape a 2/2 at Manchester, spent too much time on the sports field and in the pub I'm afraid. I've mellowed somewhat in recent years, settled down and have a nice pad over in Battersea. Perhaps you'd care to venture south of the river, we have some super eateries there you know!”
Maybe it was the whiff of money which grabbed her attention and she thawed, smiled, and said, “Oh, that's jolly kind of you, I don't often get the chance to explore the exotic wilds of Battersea,” and she took another sip of bubbly.
“Friday evening suit you? I could nip over and pick you up in the Morgan, put the top down if it's fine. We could go for a spin along the river down to Richmond or Windsor.”
“Oh, you don't waste any time on preliminaries do you? Not a shy, retiring type waiting patiently for the lady to drop her hankie. I don't know about Friday, I'll have to check my diary and give you a call.”
“Sure,” he said, reaching for his mobile phone. “Give me your number and I'll ring you later.”
“No thankyou,” she shot back, “I'll have your number and I'll do the phoning, at my convenience!”
He grinned then, knowing that he had his foot in the door. Whilst it wasn't the type of response that he usually experienced, it wasn't a complete rejection either. What the builders might call a 'good basis for future development'. He would play her now, charm her, tenderly captivate her, coax her until she did begin to plead for his affections and offer herself to him. He enjoyed his reputation as a lady’s man, a south London Casanova, always looking for the quick fling, Saturday night and Sunday morning, love 'em and leave 'em. Somehow, steering Charlotte towards the upstairs presented a challenge. Unknown territory, posh totty, bit of class and in a different league. He would regale his mates in the local with his adventures and conquests of the ladies of Nob Hill. He could already hear their hooting.
“Perhaps we could take Friday off and take in the Turner Exhibition at the Tate. The reviews are encouraging and early ticket sales are said to be quite brisk. There's a lovely little French Bistro on Cavendish Street, perhaps...
“Are you into art?” she asked, with an edge of surprise.
He had read the art reviews only that morning in the Sunday paper and it had expanded his basic knowledge of art. “Not in a great depth, an enthusiastic amateur perhaps but I find the work of the Impressionists particularly ...”
“You are full of surprises, Mr DeVille, I would have bet money on you being a football or a boxing fan. You don't seem the sort to be an art lover.” She stood squarely before him as if she had taken a sudden interest in him.
“I'm a man of many interests Charlotte!” he replied, as if they were old friends. “Now, what about lunch on Friday and afterwards a trip to the Tate. Then there's a couple of jazz bands playing on the terrace of The King's Head, it’s a great atmosphere, just right to get into the weekend spirit.”
She paused, for what seemed an age, then looked him squarely in the eye and said, “No thanks, Mr DeVille. I think I would be wise to give you a rather wide berth. You're not a man of many interests and talents, you're a charlatan, a con-man, a wolf in wolf's clothing. I was somewhat intrigued by you at first and wondered how you could know about me. It only came to me a second ago, you were standing close to me when I was talking to the host earlier about Roedean, the Blake's charity bash, jazz and fine arts. You see, I remembered the whiff of your aftershave. It was not a polished or sophisticated chat-up line Mr DeVille and I'm sure that isn’t your real name. Your delivery was riddled with inaccuracies and enough social gaffs to warrant a mention in Tatler. I also read this morning’s papers about the French Bistro, the Turner exhibition and impressionists. Begone sir, back across the river, back to your grubby existence. I'm just amazed that you thought that you could just stroll in here and pull the wool over our eyes!” She glared at his intrusion into her protected sphere of society.
“Well,” he grinned, without a hint of embarrassment or apology, ”It's a good pitch and usually works a treat, I just fancied a bit of classy crumpet!” He turned a disappeared into the throng, looking for someone less alert.
The snatches of conversation was loud, upper class, self-centred and pure snobbery,
“Darling! How lovely to see you again, it seems ages since we had lunch at Henley!”
“...........Oh, we can't do Ascot or Wimbledon this year, we'll be in the Dordogne.”
“Charles can't come, poor thing's taken the boat to Jersey!”
Middle-aged matrons, resplendent in wide brimmed hats and summer dresses strolled among the crowds, anxiously seeking familiar faces to boast of their offspring's prowess at Oxbridge, Sandhurst and in the city. Agents rubbed shoulders with publisher against a backdrop of white coated waiters, striped marquees, plates of smoked salmon and flutes of Moet and Chandon, set among manicured lawns and neatly trimmed gardens as mellow Mozart oozed out of the PA system.
A young man, suitably attired in creased chinos, deck shoes and a sweater, casually draped around his shoulders, accidentally brushed the elbow of a passing beauty, causing her to spill her champagne. “I say, I'm most frightfully sorry, allow me to get you another.”
“Oh,” she replied, her initial irritation immediately quelled, “most kind.”
He was clearly attracted by her stunning good looks, her pretty yellow dress and by her stance which oozed confidence and elegance. He caught the eye of a passing waiter, beckoned him over and with great deftness, leaned forward and whisked another flute of champagne which he offered the young woman. “So sorry.” he repeated, with a flash of pearly white teeth, “Clumsy of me!”
She returned his smile. “Don't worry about it, no harm done,” she said, rather majestically and began to walk away.
“Can I get you some salmon mouse or perhaps a little quiche, I was on my way to the buffet?”
“No thank you,” she replied, with an air of finality and turned away.
“It's Charlotte isn't it? We met last year at the Blake's charity bash, I'm afraid I was a little tipsy!”
She stopped then and turned to him and frowned. “Blake's charity bash? I can't seem to recall… Do I know you?”
“Henry DeVille.” he offered. “You'll know my sister, Samantha, from boarding school I believe. She's now with the JP Morgan's in the city. Seems to spend most of her time across the pond. Usually comes back for Wimbledon. Tall, dark haired, perhaps...”
“Sorry, I'm not sure that I know her, was she at...”
“Roedean and Brasenose, tennis and fencing blue. Did well in her finals, she was friendly with Pru Hardwick and the Red Lion crowd, always hopping across the channel for the skiing or down to Cowes for regatta week. She said that you might be here today, asked me to pass on her...”
“No, I'm sorry, I was at Roedean but went up to Christ's. Maybe she was ahead of me at Roedean. It's a long time ago, I haven't been to a reunion in years and I wasn't in with the sporty crowd at Oxford. I was more into the academic and literary side of things. Are you in publishing?” she asked, with no great interest.
“Oh no,” he smiled, “Hedge funds and off shore trading. Much more fun, much more cut and thrust than stuffy old publishing houses. Only managed to scrape a 2/2 at Manchester, spent too much time on the sports field and in the pub I'm afraid. I've mellowed somewhat in recent years, settled down and have a nice pad over in Battersea. Perhaps you'd care to venture south of the river, we have some super eateries there you know!”
Maybe it was the whiff of money which grabbed her attention and she thawed, smiled, and said, “Oh, that's jolly kind of you, I don't often get the chance to explore the exotic wilds of Battersea,” and she took another sip of bubbly.
“Friday evening suit you? I could nip over and pick you up in the Morgan, put the top down if it's fine. We could go for a spin along the river down to Richmond or Windsor.”
“Oh, you don't waste any time on preliminaries do you? Not a shy, retiring type waiting patiently for the lady to drop her hankie. I don't know about Friday, I'll have to check my diary and give you a call.”
“Sure,” he said, reaching for his mobile phone. “Give me your number and I'll ring you later.”
“No thankyou,” she shot back, “I'll have your number and I'll do the phoning, at my convenience!”
He grinned then, knowing that he had his foot in the door. Whilst it wasn't the type of response that he usually experienced, it wasn't a complete rejection either. What the builders might call a 'good basis for future development'. He would play her now, charm her, tenderly captivate her, coax her until she did begin to plead for his affections and offer herself to him. He enjoyed his reputation as a lady’s man, a south London Casanova, always looking for the quick fling, Saturday night and Sunday morning, love 'em and leave 'em. Somehow, steering Charlotte towards the upstairs presented a challenge. Unknown territory, posh totty, bit of class and in a different league. He would regale his mates in the local with his adventures and conquests of the ladies of Nob Hill. He could already hear their hooting.
“Perhaps we could take Friday off and take in the Turner Exhibition at the Tate. The reviews are encouraging and early ticket sales are said to be quite brisk. There's a lovely little French Bistro on Cavendish Street, perhaps...
“Are you into art?” she asked, with an edge of surprise.
He had read the art reviews only that morning in the Sunday paper and it had expanded his basic knowledge of art. “Not in a great depth, an enthusiastic amateur perhaps but I find the work of the Impressionists particularly ...”
“You are full of surprises, Mr DeVille, I would have bet money on you being a football or a boxing fan. You don't seem the sort to be an art lover.” She stood squarely before him as if she had taken a sudden interest in him.
“I'm a man of many interests Charlotte!” he replied, as if they were old friends. “Now, what about lunch on Friday and afterwards a trip to the Tate. Then there's a couple of jazz bands playing on the terrace of The King's Head, it’s a great atmosphere, just right to get into the weekend spirit.”
She paused, for what seemed an age, then looked him squarely in the eye and said, “No thanks, Mr DeVille. I think I would be wise to give you a rather wide berth. You're not a man of many interests and talents, you're a charlatan, a con-man, a wolf in wolf's clothing. I was somewhat intrigued by you at first and wondered how you could know about me. It only came to me a second ago, you were standing close to me when I was talking to the host earlier about Roedean, the Blake's charity bash, jazz and fine arts. You see, I remembered the whiff of your aftershave. It was not a polished or sophisticated chat-up line Mr DeVille and I'm sure that isn’t your real name. Your delivery was riddled with inaccuracies and enough social gaffs to warrant a mention in Tatler. I also read this morning’s papers about the French Bistro, the Turner exhibition and impressionists. Begone sir, back across the river, back to your grubby existence. I'm just amazed that you thought that you could just stroll in here and pull the wool over our eyes!” She glared at his intrusion into her protected sphere of society.
“Well,” he grinned, without a hint of embarrassment or apology, ”It's a good pitch and usually works a treat, I just fancied a bit of classy crumpet!” He turned a disappeared into the throng, looking for someone less alert.