It was the red dust and the baobab trees that greeted Kitty Moncrief’s tiny plane as it landed in Nairobi. The sun was setting over the African skyline and the night creatures were beginning to stir. One such creature was the delectable Lotte, who had come to meet her dearest friend. In the tin hut of an airport the two embraced in a fug of Chanel no. 5 and cool silk.
‘Oh darling, how lovely to see you,’ cried Lotte, gaily swinging her large bamboo and mother of pearl bag, ‘how was the flight?’
‘It was a little hairy at times but thank god for my trusty hip flask’ answered Kitty, patting the pocket of her oyster Schiaparelli silk jumpsuit. She has accesorised the outfit with oversized tortoiseshell glasses and natty little Hermes headscarf. Lotte was in a very fetching Azur blue dress with huge pockets. Diamond bands hung around her wrist in the most nonchalant fashion.
The two walked out arm in arm to the awaiting truck. ‘Sorry darling,’ whispered Lotte out of earshot of the burly driver in khaki overalls, ‘Daimlers simply won’t do out here. So much dirt and what not. Best to stick with something a little sturdier.’ The truck drove off into the darkening sky with the two women cackling mischievously in the back.
~
‘Well well well,’ said Kitty slowly as she surveyed the building in front of her. Far from the simple farmhouse that she had been anticipating, Lotte was obviously enjoying a rather more fanciful lifestyle. The entire compound was gated and had luscious gardens that belied the arid land beyond.
‘Yes, isn’t it just divine?’ crowed Lotte as she passed her friend a Fallen Angel cocktail, ‘wait until you see the swimming pool.‘ As the two walked towards the terrace, lit with large bamboo flambeaux, a handsome man dressed in a dapper linen evening suit approached. He was older by ten or so years and had a slicked moustache and piercing blue eyes.
‘Hello darling,‘ he said to Lotte as he took her arm and kissed her bejeweled neck. He extended his gaze towards Kitty and kissed her hand. Then he walked off towards the house humming some Cole Porter tune to himself.
Kitty and Lotte sat drinking their cocktails and staring at the myriad stars. After a while Kitty ventured, ‘tell me, dear, whatever happened to that man you married, Hugo?’ Hugo Burlington, sometime journalist, sometime banker. Terribly well off and charming in a way only an English man can be.
‘Oh yes, darling, do you know I had quite forgotten about Hugo. What a sweet man he was. He had a rather unfortunate run in with a lion one night and all that was left was his mustard cravat. Such a shame. I did then inherit his entire fortune, lucky me, much to the dismay of his silly family. Keeps me in champagne, which is so terribly hard to come by here.’
Kitty mulled this over whilst taking a sip of her cocktail. ‘So tell me dearest, who is that man? The one who greeted you at the door in such a familiar manner?’
‘Oh Wilhelm! Yes, he is my new husband! Met him in Nairobi a few months ago when I went to sort out the will. Isn’t he just dear? Does something with diamonds. Completely besotted with me. I suppose my surname now is Oppenheimer, to all intents and purposes.’
Kitty was rather put out that she had not been invited to the wedding. She had always imagined that she would have made a great bridesmaid in some gorgeous Vionnet creation. Playing second fiddle to the bride, of course. Lotte noticed her friend’s discontent and jumped up from the table over to the glass and crystal cabinet by the door. She walked back to the seats and passed Kitty a beautiful jet box, sleek and smooth.
Kitty undid the clasp and gasped as the box opened. Inside, on a bed of crimson velvet, lay a bracelet of diamonds and sapphires. Beautiful, emerald cut stones.
‘Just a little something darling,’ smiled Lotte. ‘Honestly, Wilhelm has so many contacts, he was so happy to be able to rustle it up for you.’ Kitty laughed as she slipped the jewellery onto her fine boned wrists. ‘Well dear, it is delightful. Thank you ever so much.’
‘I think this calls for champagne,’ said Lotte and she rang the little bell beside her. A few moments later an elderly gentleman entered the courtyard carrying a silver tray festooned with vintage Krug. He bowed momentarily as he placed the champagne down upon the table.
‘Thank you Lawrence’ said Lotte as the man retreated. She turned to her friend. ‘He used to work at the Savoy. Utter dipsomaniac. Complete thief, I am forever finding my diamonds in his quarters. Sadly for him he knows that if he ever tries to leave he would be devoured by the African wildlife. But what can you do, he makes such a good Gimlet.’
The rest of the night passed in a blur of gin and champagne and tiny little diamonds that might well have been stars.
~
The following morning Lawrence had prepared a breakfast of boiled ostrich eggs with caviar and Bloody Marys (for the vitamins, naturally). One they had eaten the ladies changed into their safari outfits and donned large sunglasses to keep out the already searing sun.
When the truck eventually stopped at the safari range Kitty and Lotte eyed the other couples who were to join them on their tour. These seemed to comprise mainly overstuffed, middle aged men straining in their dun shirts and ridiculous shorts, their red faces already slick with sweat. The women were invariably thin and wan and looked very uncomfortable with the men and the guns.
‘Oh darling isn’t it a shame that they feel obliged to wear linen.’ whispered Kitty to her friend, ‘it really is the most unbecoming fabric and makes one look like a used handkerchief.’ Lotte giggled at this and swept away a marauding fly with her giant ostrich plumed fan. Our ladies were, comme d’habitude, the belles of the ball. Lotte, avant garde as ever in wide flared trousers in a bright burnt orange and a gorgeous turquoise shirt handmade for her in China. Her hair was in a turban and pinned through with peacock feathers. Kitty was dressed in a white cotton Dior dress bedecked with large poppies and cornflowers. She twirled an antique parasol in one hand. Around her neck was a lapis lazuli crucifix, a gift from a one time lover in Rome with close links to the Vatican.
Once assembled the party were directed to awaiting cars to take them across the plains in search of the big kill. Kitty and Lotte were driven by a dreamy-eyed youth who couldn’t quite believe his luck. He tried in vain to make conversation, pointing out he giraffes and zebras but the ladies were more interested in the champagne that Lawrence had so thoughtfully packed for them.
After some time the pack of cars regrouped near a small waterhole offering blessed shade. As soon as the trucks had stopped the accompanying house boys unpacked wicker baskets and laid out vast rugs and ottomans. Lunch was cold meats, lobster and pineapples, served sweet and ice cold. Champagne lubricated the group and before long a rather paunchy fellow with sizeable moustache approached them. Kitty and Lotte could not help notice that all the other women looked over at them with envy.
‘Ernest’ said the man, in an easy American drawl, by way of introduction. He set himself down beside the women with a confidence that bordered on affront. Never easily won over by the men who pursued them, Kitty and Lotte were nonetheless intrigued by the charismatic stranger.
‘And what brings you to Kenya, Ernest?’ asked Lotte by way of introduction. The man smiled out over the plains.
‘The game The hunt. The wild.‘ was his rather succinct reply. He uncorked a bottle of Romanee Conti and offered the ladies a glass, which they could not refuse especially as the cheeses and figs were being brought forth from the hampers. ‘I find champagne a little girly after a while.’ Ernest explained.
It turned out that Ernest was quite the hunter, brooding with unconcealed machismo. The fishing in Florida, the wilderness of America, the lions and other big cats of Africa. It seemed that no living creature was safe from his gun. And no women was safe from his alcohol-loosened tongue. The man could talk. Whether it was the sun or the red wine or the stories he told, before long the ladies were enthralled.
The more Ernest spoke the more he drank and soon his speech was blurred and he was having trouble focusing. Kitty and Lotte matched him drink for drink but thanks to their gloriously decadent upbringing in London they remained a model of control. Soon the rest of the party had continued with their quest to bag a bloodied lion’s head, something, incidentally, that Kitty and Lotte found utterly repulsive. It was one thing to hunt, quite another to kill their prey so unfairly.
Ernest speech continued unheeded in the background. Kitty and Lotte did wonder if they were even required in this overinflated monologue.
‘I do find, dear girl’ whispered Lotte to her companion, ‘that his tales are rather outlandish. I mean really, cub reporter, ambulance driver, bull fighting. Suggesting he might join all that trouble brewing in Spain. Methinks dear Ernest may protest too much.’ Kitty agreed hurriedly, spilling a drop of the wine on her dress.
‘I know! And all that nonsense about being a novelist! He would just go on and on. Not a patch on dear Evelyn I reckon.’ Kitty recalled her distant cousin, who was quite the toast of London.
A sudden, ominous roar bellowed very close. The two stopped talking instantly and reached with seasoned speed for their rifles. Anticipating a male lion, they were terribly relieved to see that it was, in fact, just Ernest fast asleep at their feet.
‘Oh dear, it seems poor Ernest is a little under the weather,’ mused Lotte as tttshe regarded the clearly inebriated American. He lay in an ungainly sprawl on the picnic rug, an unsightly dribble falling down his chin. His continued snores were loud enough to frighten off any beasts curious enough to approach.
‘Silly thing, what was he thinking?’ asked Lotte, ‘perhaps he is not used to the heat here.’ The ladies called for their driver who was only too happy to help and before long Ernest had been dispatched to his hotel and the ladies were on the veranda drinking negronis in the setting sun.
And because they were, after all, ladies, and because it amused them so, Kitty and Lotte never told a soul that there were the only two known women ever to drink Ernest Hemingway under the table.
THE END
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