It was the first night of the London season and Kitty and Lotte had been invited to a champagne dinner at Annabel’s nightclub in Chelsea. They had both been a little hesitant about accepting the invitation (‘such a vulgar place, darling’) but needs must. They couldn’t expect to live a champagne lifestyle without paying their dues - after the crash of ’29 everyone in London seemed to be in a bit of a tight fix.
As they descended into the subterranean basement their hearts sank at the sight of the braying, chinless wonders who quaffed champagne like oxygen. The Duke of Tewksbury stood with Sir Randolph of Pennyweather and they swayed together in inebriated unison. As a waiter passed the disheartened girls he proffered glasses of Ruinart Blanc de Blanc, which they accepted with almost indecent haste.
‘Oh darling, perhaps this was a terrible mistake’ whispered Kitty. She looked resplendent in a midnight blue gown of Hong Kong silk and her signature peacock brooch (made by the Maharajah of Pondicherry from his own personal vault of emeralds and diamonds). Lotte was equally stunning in a cream satin gown that she had borrowed from Marlene Dietrich and simply forgotten to return. Around her neck was a coil of diamonds.
‘It is so frightfully dull’ Lotte agreed in response to Kitty’s lament, ‘but now that father is in a bit of a pickle I need to think about finding a husband.’ As she spoke the pair turned towards Lord Dudley of Chalfont-Under-The-Water, who was throwing olives from his martini and trying to catch them in his mouth - failing miserably at every attempt and guffawing loudly. Next to him was Nicholas van Custard, who was so incredibly inbred that he could hardly see, let alone speak. His fat jowls wobbled as he spluttered with laughter at Lord Dudley’s tomfoolery. On a nearby burgundy chaise longue the Earl of Chichester snored loudly, a glass of port slipping precariously form his hand.
It was not just the blighted, soused elite of England that caused such malaise for Kitty and Lotte. They were also confronted with the sight of nigh on 200 paintings of puppies and kittens in various guises. Here were some labradors sitting in a basket of poppies; next to them a luckless kitten with a bowl of milk on its head. The sort of ill-executed nursery paintings that bring comfort to the swaddled banking heirs who would soon be running the country.
‘Let us sit for dinner my dear’ said Lotte and she took Kitty’s arm. The pair walked through the crowds of buck-toothed wonders and their aged mothers, who had been powdered and primped to within an inch of their lives. Kitty and Lotte were a positive breath of fresh air in a sea of mummified gentry. Lustful gazes followed them across the room as they walked through, leaving a trail of jasmine and lilies in their wake.
At the centre of the room the ladies found their table. They had been seated with a motley crew of socialites and minor royalty. To Lotte’s left was Pascal Strathclyde, a French/Scottish hybrid who had a penchant for shooting, shortbread and Persian valets.
‘Dull, dull, dull’ she crowed to Kitty, who herself had had the misfortune of being placed beside The Right Boring Augustus Kierney, whose family owned half of Cork but had never set foot there. He was preoccupied with spraying Kitty with breadcrumbs as he recounted family holidays in rural France.
‘I have an idea, dear’ whispered Kitty. ‘What we really ought to do, instead of wasting our time with these bores, is seek the ones who will be worth our while. You know, the diamond heirs or the champagne magnates.’ At this both girls turned towards the top table, where the snow-haired president of Ruinart sat holding court.
Ferdinand de Reims was indeed quite a catch if all the urban rumours were to be believed. He had married his first wife, Arlette, a mime artist, at the age of 19, much to the chagrin of his champagne-producing family. The pair had lived in Genoa in mild poverty for several years, and were soon parents to twin boys who they named Alphonse and Domenico. The boys were cherished by their parents and could not do wrong in their eyes. This, of course, led to innumerable incidents in their childhood, not least the occasion on which Phonso and Mimo, as they were known, nearly burnt down the Vatican.
When they boys were young Arlette had suddenly absconded one winter morning with a travelling soap salesman by the name of Roberto Buittoni. Ferdinand had been terribly distressed for about 3 days and then set up with a young Italian actress from Rome. That particular union lasted for 4 years until Ferdinand tired of melodramatic outbursts and weeping pleas, not to mention the flagrant infidelity. It was at this stage that he returned to champagne to discover that his father was on his deathbed and he would soon be the sole heir to an unimaginable empire.
Kitty and Lotte knew all of this as they walked over to Ferdinand’s table. With brazen confidence Lotte whispered into the ear of Margot von Ronson, ‘Dear, there has been a most dreadful mix up with the seating plan, I do believe that you are on table 5.’ Meanwhile Kitty asked the man to Ferdinand’s left if he would be a darling and fetch her a gimlet, as she was absolutely parched. In his absence she settled herself in his seat.
Ferdinand was bemused to suddenly find himself in the company of such beguiling creatures.
‘To what do I owe this particular pleasure?’ he asked Lotte as he smoothly poured her a glass of champagne. His dulcet voice sent shivers down her bare spine and she gazed back into his coffee-coloured eyes.
‘We just thought you liked frightfully bored old chap, truth be hold’ interrupted Kitty, brandishing an oyster, ‘didn’t we Lotte?’
Lotte nodded coquettishly, all the while holding Ferdinand’s gaze. She felt quite positively besotted with this man, and she was sure it had nothing to do with the Dom Ruinart Rose that she was drinking or the vast fortune he was in possession of. Ferdinand, in turn, thought that Lotte might just be the ticket after all the high histrionics of his former paramours. It was evident that he did not read the social diary of The Times or he might have reconsidered.
The evening wore on with more oysters and pheasants and sorbets and gin and all manner of delightful things. Just after midnight Ferdinand announced that he simply must go dancing and would Kitty and Lotte join him?
‘Of course darling’ exclaimed Lotte delightedly, grabbing Kitty’s weary arm before she had a chance to refuse. Kitty had been a little less fortunate in her quest and had resorted to playing poker with the drunken buffoons around her. Still, she had won near on 5 thousand pounds which would keep her in ermine and kid skin gloves until the spring.
‘Oh if we must dear’ she sighed, ‘I do find it so terribly hard to turn down a foxtrot.’
So it was that they found themselves in a cab speeding towards some clandestine venue. It was not until they were all happily ensconced that Kitty and Lotte realised that there was a fourth member of their party.
‘Ladies, it is my pleasure to introduce you to my dear friend and business partner, Maxime Gevrey-Chambertin. He owns the Ritz’ Thus introduced, Maxime kissed the hands of both the ladies and smiled a seductive French smile.
‘What treats you have here!’ he said to Ferdinand, who had the courtesy to wince. Maxime looked lasciviously at Kitty and proffered his his hip flask of absinthe, eyebrows raised quizzically. Oh Lordy, thought Kitty, this is all rather too much.
The group arrived at The Deuce club and were immediately led to the ballroom. As Ferdinand and Lotte danced, Maxime proffered champagne and amusing anecdotes to Kitty.
‘My family were once in the wine industry, yes. We own five chateaux in total, and some villas too but I can never remember quite how many. Of course when my wife and I divorced she was granted some of the property but what a small price to pay!’
Kitty smiled politely and then asked the passing waiter for a double Glenmorangie straight up. She was getting rather bored of all these divorced men who expected her to think them frightfully avant garde. It was all rather dull.
‘And now you have the Ritz?’ she asked as pleasantly as she could muster.
‘Ah yes,’ enthused Maxime, ‘just a little hobby of mine. My real passion is for truffles. I own the best truffling pigs in Alba, make an absolute fortune!’ He laughed again, and placed his hand on Kitty’s silk-adorned knee, waiting for her to fall, simpering, under his spell.
Kitty Moncrief was not one to fall under the spell of just any man, certainly not one who was so evidently in love with himself above all else. She took a sip of her whiskey, removed Maxime’s hand and smiled her most ravishing smile.
‘Well that is just as well then, I should think. The Ritz is such a vulgar little place. All that gold leaf and marble. Positively horrid. Now please do excuse me, I simply have to dance’
With that she got up and sashayed across the dance floor, where Ernest Mulvanney, a dear old friend of her brother, was waiting eagerly to dance with her.
~
On a bright and fresh May morning Kitty Moncrief stood on the steps of Chelsea registry office. She wore a cerise dress adorned with poppies and little white gloves with pearl buttons. Her new ermine bolero kept her warm from the latent spring chill. In her hands Kitty held pink roses and peonies.
Just behind her stepped out Lottie Bonnington and Kitty smiled at her friend, who had never looked so beautiful. One passing cyclist clearly thought so too and very nearly collided with the no. 72 bus to Parson’s Green.
Lotte wore a gown of duchesse satin in a deep, golden shade of cream. A tulle underskirt whispered as she walked and she wore silk Givenchy shoes on her foot. A floor length hand-stitched lace veil was held in place by an enormous diamond tiara that had once belonged to Queen Victoria (quite how it came into Lotte’s possession was something that only Lotte and Kitty knew).
‘Well darling, that was simply marvellous,’ said Kitty as she turned to her friend, ‘I have to say that I very nearly cried.‘
‘So did I dear’ agreed Lotte, ‘but then I remembered that we are honeymooning in Portofino and then I couldn’t stop smiling.’
‘So what shall we do now?’ asked Kitty. Lotte turned to her new husband and smiled.
‘Champagne for everyone!’
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