Literally jammy. I’m sitting at a table in Claridge’s, surveying a plate of pastries and croissants with apricot jam. Opposite me is a girl called Susie Jackson. I’ve met her quite a few times now, and I’m telling her about our upcoming exhibition, which is of fans from the nineteenth century.
I work for a very small charity called Willoughby House. It’s been owned by the Kendrick family for years, and is a Georgian townhouse in Marylebone, stuffed full of art and treasures and – slightly bizarrely – harpsichords. Sir Walter Kendrick had a fascination for them, and he began a collection in 1894. He also loved ceremonial swords and his wife loved miniatures. In fact, basically the whole family was a load of compulsive hoarders. Except we don’t call their stuff a ‘hoard’. We call it a ‘priceless collection of artwork and artefacts of national and historical interest’, and put on exhibitions and talks and little concerts.
It suits me perfectly because my background is history of art. I studied the subject at university and I’m never happier than when I’m surrounded by things that are beautiful or historically significant, or both, which is the case for many of the pieces at Willoughby House. (There are also a fair number of pieces which are ugly and totally irrelevant to history, but we keep them on display because they have sentimental significance. Which in Mrs Kendrick’s world counts for far more.)
Before Willoughby House, I worked for a prestigious auction house, helping to put catalogues together, but I was based in a totally separate building from the actual auctions and I never saw or touched any of the pieces. It was a pretty drab job, to be honest. So I leapt at the chance to work for a smaller outfit, to be more hands on, and also gain experience in a development role. Development means raising money, only we don’t put it like that. The very word ‘money’ gives Mrs Kendrick a pained look, along with the words ‘toilet’ and ‘website’. Mrs Kendrick has a very distinct ‘Way’ of doing things and after six years working at Willoughby House, I’ve learned her rules perfectly. Don’t use the word ‘money’. Don’t call people by their first names. Don’t shake collecting tins at people. Don’t make speeches asking for funds. Instead: build relationships.
That’s what I’m doing today. I’m building a relationship with Susie, who works for a large charitable trust, the Wilson–Cross Foundation, whose remit is to support culture and the arts. (When I say ‘large’ I mean about £275 million and they give a chunk away every year.) I’m gently reeling her into the Willoughby House world. Mrs Kendrick is all about being subtle and playing the long game. She positively forbids us from asking for donations at first. Her argument is: the longer you’ve known the patron, the more they’ll give, when the time comes.
Our secret dream is another Mrs Pritchett-Williams. She’s the legend of Willoughby House. She came to every event, for ten years. She drank the champagne, ate the canapés, listened to the talks and never gave us a penny.
Then, when she died, it turned out she’d left the house five hundred thousand pounds. Half a million!
‘Have some more coffee.’ I smile at Susie. ‘So, here’s your invitation to the launch of our antique fan exhibition, Fabulous Fans. I do hope you can make it!’
‘It looks amazing.’ Susie nods, her mouth full of croissant. She’s in her late twenties, I’d say, and always has some amazing new pair of shoes on. ‘Only there’s a thing on at the V & A that night that I’ve been invited to.’
‘Oh, really?’ My smile doesn’t waver, although inside I’m seething. There’s always a bloody thing on at the bloody V & A. And half our patrons are V & A supporters, too; in fact, more than half, probably. We spend our whole life changing our events calendar so as not to clash. ‘What’s that?’ I add lightly. ‘I hadn’t heard about it.’
‘Some textiles exhibition thing. I think they’re giving away scarves to all the guests,’ she adds, her gaze shooting sharply to me. ‘Like a goody bag thing.’
Scarves? Damn. OK, think, quick.
‘Oh, didn’t I mention?’ I say casually. ‘We’re giving away a wonderful gift for supporters at our launch. It’s actually … a handbag.’
Her head pops up. ‘A handbag?’
‘Inspired by the exhibition, of course,’ I add, lying through my teeth. ‘They’re rather beautiful.’
Where I’m going to find thirty handbags which look like they were inspired by an exhibition of antique fans, God only knows. But I do not want to lose Susie Jackson to the V & A, let alone all our other patrons.
I can see Susie mentally weighing her options. Scarf from the V & A versus handbag from Willoughby House. A handbag’s got to win. Surely?
‘Well, I might be able to fit it in,’ she allows.
‘Great!’ I beam at her. ‘I’ll put you down as an acceptance. It’ll be a lovely evening.’
I ask for the bill and finish my croissant, allocating this meeting a ‘B plus’ in my mind. When I get back to the office I’ll write my report, and tell Mrs Kendrick about the clash. And find thirty appropriate handbags to give away.
Maybe I’ll try the V & A shop.
‘So!’ says Susie with a weird, sudden brightness as the bill arrives. ‘How are your children? I haven’t heard about them for ages. Have you got a photo? Can I see?’
‘Oh,’ I say, a bit surprised. ‘They’re fine, thanks.’
I glance down the bill and hand my card to the waiter.
‘It must be so cute, having twins!’ Susie is babbling. ‘I’d love to have twins – you know, one day. Of course I’d have to find a man first …’
I’m half listening to her and trying to find a picture of the girls on my phone, but something’s bugging me … And suddenly I have it. How much was that bill? I mean, I know this is Claridge’s, but even so …
‘Could I see that bill again?’ I say to the waiter. I take it back and read down the list.
Coffee. Yes.
Pastries. Obviously.
Coffee gateau costing fifty pounds? What?
‘Oh,’ says Susie in a weird voice. ‘Oh. I meant to … um …’
I slowly lift my head. She’s staring at me defiantly, her cheeks getting pinker and pinker. But I still don’t understand what’s going on, until another waiter approaches, holding a huge patisserie box tied up with ribbons and hands it to Susie.
‘Your cake, madam.’
I stare at it, speechless.
No way.
She’s ordered herself a cake and put it on our bill? At bloody Claridge’s?
The nerve. The absolute, copper-bottomed nerve. That’s why she started babbling: she was trying to distract me from looking at the bill. And it nearly worked.
My smile is still fixed on my face. I feel slightly surreal. But I don’t hesitate for a moment. Six years of working for Mrs Kendrick has taught me exactly how to proceed. I punch in my PIN and beam at Susie as the waiter gives me the receipt.
‘It was so lovely to catch up with you,’ I say as charmingly as I can. ‘And we’ll see you at the launch of Fabulous Fans, then.’
‘Right.’ Susie looks discomfited. She eyes the cake, then looks up warily. ‘So, about this cake … they put it on your bill, I don’t know why!’ She gives an unconvincing stab at laughter.
‘But of course!’ I say, as though astonished she’s even bringing it up; as though buying fifty-quid coffee cakes for people is what we do all the time. ‘I wouldn’t hear of anything else! It’s absolutely our treat. Enjoy it.’
As I head out of Claridge’s, I’m seething with fury. We’re a charity! A bloody charity! But as I arrive back at Willoughby House, twenty minutes later, I’ve simmered down. I can almost see the funny side. And the plus is that Susie definitely owes us one now.