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Tess pulled up in a cab outside Charles’s apartment on East Seventy–First Street, the first floor of a brownstone on one of the best streets in the Upper East Side ‘grid’. Tess pressed the doorbell, smoothing down her blue Marc Jacobs tea dress. It was a few seasons old – which she felt sure Charles would notice – but it was the most appropriate thing she had in her wardrobe.
‘Oh, just delightful darling,’ smiled Charles as he took her coat, hanging it on a pair of antlers in the narrow hallway. ‘It dismays me how woefully eroded the art of dressing for tea has become, but you and I obviously sing from the same hymn sheet.’
Charles had certainly made the effort himself for their little tête–à–tête. A starched white shirt, crisp navy suit, an extravagant crimson cravat, and patent shoes, while his grey hair had been combed into submission, carefully parted and brushed severely over to one side. He looked as if he was heading out for Martinis with Dorothy Parker at the Algonquin.
Even by Manhattan standards, Charles’s apartment was tiny, but it was perfectly formed. He ushered her through to his bijou duck–egg–blue living room.
‘Sit sit,’ he said, shooing her towards an elegant chair upholstered in grey damask.
‘Would you like tea?’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Tess, trying to make herself comfortable on the exquisite yet spindly furniture. Charles put a finger up against his smooth cheek – Tess was convinced he’d had a face–lift since Brooke and David’s engagement party – and pouted dramatically.
‘Now, let me see,’ he said, surveying Tess like an art dealer eyeing a potential acquisition. ‘I have fifty–three varieties of tea. For you, my dear, I am going to suggest a Ceylon Silver Leaf. Subtle yet strong. May I suggest you take it with the tiniest twist of lemon?’
Tess could only grin. Charles disappeared into a tiny galley kitchen and returned with a rattling silver tray laden with two miniature teapots. A small round antique table had already been beautifully set with polished cutlery and a cake–stand stacked with perfect triangles of cucumber sandwiches and sugar–dusted madeleines.
‘Darling, I hope you don't mind me saying how much you have bloomed since you first arrived in New York,’ gushed Charles, pouring the tea. ‘Look at you! You could pass for a Park Lane Princess. That’s what they call the young girls around here, apparently. I find it rather vulgar myself; most of them are as near to being a princess as I am to being a Chinaman. Still, they are beautifully groomed, which you can’t often say about English girls. I never think as a breed you quite make the best of yourselves. But you, my dear, have truly risen to the challenge. You do our diminishing empire proud.’
Tess giggled behind a hand. Charles was an eccentric, a one–off, like Quentin Crisp or a quirky character in a Jane Austen novel. He had the plummiest accent Tess had ever heard, although, if the rumours were true, he had not a drop of blue blood in him, having come across to America in the Fif
ties and milked the life out of his minor English public school background. Tess thought he was wonderful, and wished she’d come to see him sooner.
‘I have to say this is a bit of a surprise, Charles,’ said Tess, taking a sip of the delicate tea.
‘Yes, I know I’ve been a little low–key of late,’ he nodded. ‘I imagine you’ve been wondering why I’ve not been at any of the dinners and parties all year. Well, I can now reveal my secret,’ he said dramatically, dabbing his lips with a napkin and rising. ‘And, as you’ll see, I’ve been very busy.’
He walked over to the bookcase, pulled out a thick volume and put it in front of Tess.
It had a shiny navy jacket that said ‘Simply Divine’ in huge pink Art Deco lettering. Underneath, in smaller type, were the words Charles Devine – the whole story.
‘My memoir, darling. It’s been exhausting.’
‘I can image,’ said Tess, picking it up. It was like a brick.
Charles sighed. ‘I always thought that writing my memoir would be easy, but when you’ve led a life as rich and full as I have, the sheer volume of material becomes both a blessing and a curse. I’ve had to be so selective. Do I put in the wonderful little anecdote about choosing emeralds with Babe Paley, or having dinner with the Shah? How does one choose?’
‘It looks as if you’ve written about both,’ said Tess, noting that the book was seven hundred pages long. ‘I can’t wait to read it. Who’s publishing it?’
Her host’s lips moved into a tight, unsmiling line. ‘Bloody agents and publishers. These days it appears that they are only interested in autobiographies written – and I use that word loosely – by nineteen–year–old pop stars with nothing to document except one hit record and a drug habit. Entirely indicative of what’s wrong with society today, if you ask me: a world run by teeny–boppers for teeny–boppers.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tess sympathetically. Charles nodded sadly.
‘Entre nous, I’ve been very disappointed, but you can’t let these things defeat you, can you?’ he asked, brightening. ‘So, as you can see, I’ve self–published. Come this way, darling.’
He led her into the bedroom that contained one single bed, exquisitely dressed in white linens, a wardrobe, and a bedside table. Every other inch of floor space was taken up by piles of Simply Divine, stacked floor to ceiling. There must have been at least five hundred copies, reckoned Tess, perhaps a thousand.
‘How can I help, Charles?’ she asked as they returned to the sitting room. He wagged his finger at her and smiled.
‘Sharp as a tack, as they say over here,’ he said, ‘I knew we would be friends. Yes, you can help poor old Charles in his hour of need. I feel sure there’s a huge market for my memoirs, but first I have to create buzz. If I can make this book hot, then the big publishers will come knocking. Do you know that John Grisham self–published originally? He sold his books from the boot of his car. Not that I would ever compare myself to John Grisham,’ he said tartly. ‘Plus I never travel by car.’
‘And I suppose this is where I come in,’ observed Tess, taking a cucumber sandwich.
‘Darling, you’ve acquired a glorious reputation as a top–notch publicist – nothing like these brash harridans you see around New York. You have class, my dear. You’d be perfect.’
Tess nodded thoughtfully. She didn’t doubt that his memoirs would be fascinating, not to say scurrilous and possibly libellous. And she had not forgotten Brooke and David’s engagement party, when Charles had been one of the few people who had spoken to her as an equal. On top of that, she liked him a lot and would love to see him succeed. But right now, she simply didn’t have the time.
‘Charles, you know I would love to help and I can try and give you some advice, but I do have my work cut out with the Asgills. The wedding and everything … ’
