Page 12 of The Gathering Storm

‘Because he’s difficult and stubborn and rude?’

‘His father was all those things. They rather expect it of a monarch. No, what they can’t stand is the absence of any sense of duty. Obstinacy without a purpose. I must say,’ he added, ‘that with all her faults, Wally gets more out of him than anyone else. If she were allowed to stay in the background and pull his strings, we might get a better king for it.’

‘But this talk of marriage has got to stop,’ Emma said firmly.

‘Obviously. Eddie will say something to HM when the opportunity arises, for what good that will do. Everything goes in one ear and out the other – there being so little in between to stop it. But it’s going to complicate things considerably if Simpson goes ahead with the divorce and Wally becomes available. Our best defence will be gone.’ He glanced at the clock on the overmantel. ‘Talking of being gone, I must get dressed. Are you in for dinner tonight?’

‘I am – are you?’

‘I shall make a point of it. Isn’t it wonderful that court mourning means there are no heavy engagements? We can have a comfortable coze together – and I’d like to go over your plans for Macklin Street with you. I’ve had a very clever idea for how to arrange the kitchen, bathroom and coal bunker. Come, dogs!’

And he was gone in a swirl of colour.

As it happened, Kitsy Brownlow chucked at the last moment, so Emma lunched with Mipsy Oglander alone. Mipsy was another Baltimore Belle and had known Wally Simpson all her life, but she seemed not to have heard the latest story – at least, she never mentioned it, and Mipsy was in the habit of mentioning everything – so Emma avoided the subject altogether and talked, when she could get a word in, only about Macklin Street. Mipsy seemed quite receptive, and Emma was quite hopeful of getting a commitment from her, when Mipsy suddenly noticed the time and exclaimed that she had a ‘facial’ appointment and would have to dash.

Emma said lunch was on her (it never hurt to impose a small obligation) and was waiting for the bill to arrive when her name was called in a loud, harsh voice, and Mrs Simpson came striding towards her, trailing restaurant staff like a magnet trailing pins. ‘Emma, just the person I wanted to see!’ she exclaimed. She snapped her fingers without looking and one of the waiters darted in to pull out a chair for her. ‘Bring me a ham omelette and a salad. And a glass of seltzer. No, make it a glass of champagne,’ she said. ‘Put it on Lady Westerham’s check.’ She met Emma’s eye, raised an eyebrow, and said, ‘I left my pocket-book at the flat. I figured a friend could sock a girl a lunch once in a while.’

Emma nodded assent to the waiter and he went away. Mrs Simpson loosened her fur, emitting a waft of expensive perfume, and said, ‘I’m beat. David’s been taking me over Buckingham Palace all morning.’ Her hard eyes raked Emma as she spoke, cataloguing her looks and her clothes. Emma knew herself pretty in a fresh-faced, curly-haired way, and young for her years – she had just turned forty. Wally had never had beauty, making up for it with style and vivacity, but she looked her age. There were diamonds at her ears and wrists, and her small, close hat was secured by an amusing diamond arrow, but despite their sparkle, Emma thought she looked tired, and not at all well, her skin pouchy and a bad colour. Her red lipstick only emphasised her pallor.

‘You’re not lunching alone?’ Wally demanded.

‘I’ve just finished,’ said Emma. ‘Mipsy was here – she had to dash away.’

‘Oh, Mipsy. Haven’t seen her in a while,’ Wally said dismissively, and reverted to her own affairs. ‘Buckingham Palace is simply ghastly. It’s a mausoleum. Dusty crimson velvet, gloomy old paintings and heavy furniture. David and I agreed there’s nothing worth saving. We’re going to strip everything out and do it up from top to bottom. Light colours, modern furniture, bright drapes, new carpets, everything. Open the place up and blow some fresh air through it. And here’s the thing,’ She leaned forward slightly. ‘I’d like to offer you the job.’

Emma was shocked, not so much that Wally had no taste for Victorian interiors, but at her use of the word ‘I’ in that sentence. She thought for an instant of what Kit would say. ‘It’s kind of you to ask me,’ she said, ‘but—’

‘Now, Emma, at least think about it before you say no. I liked what you did with Veronica’s house. Very fresh. And didn’t you do the Talbot-Manners place as well? You have just the sort of light, modern touch we want. And this will be a major, major project.’

Now Emma laughed. ‘I don’t want a major, major project, thank you. I haven’t time.’

‘Your name would be associated with the interior, right down through history, like all those Nashes and Adamses and Scotts. It would absolutely make you!’

‘I don’t want to be made. I’m quite happy – and very busy – with my Weston Trust buildings.’

Wally sat back, her interest lost where she could not prevail. ‘Oh, yes, your flats for the lower classes. You should talk to David about that. He’s very keen on welfare for the poor.’

‘Weston Trust flats are not for the poor, they’re for decent working people: clerks, teachers, nurses, people like that.’

Wally wasn’t listening. ‘And, frankly, he needs something to keep him busy. He’s all too inclined to lounge about, smoking too much and complaining he’s bored. I’ll get Elsie Mendl to do Buckingham Palace, if you’re really not interested. She’ll jump at it.’

‘You’ll ruffle a lot of feathers if you change things too much.’

‘I intend to ruffle feathers! They need ruffling. All those old palace servants and officials, they’re like stuffed dummies. Everything has to be done the same way it’s been done since 1066 or the sky will fall. David’s not going to be that sort of king. We’re going to drag this whole show into the twentieth century. Can you imagine,’ she said, leaning forward, ‘they insist that lunch be served at one p.m., whether anyone wants it or not? And why? Because it’s always been served at one p.m..’ She sat back, and the waiters seized the opportunity to put her lunch before her. She picked up the champagne glass, but put it down again untasted as she went on speaking. ‘I told them, you need to figure out who’s in charge around here. If the King wants luncheon at two p.m., that’s when it’s served. And if he wants a sandwich at eleven p.m. or scrambled eggs at four in the morning, the kitchen’s got to be damn well ready to rustle it up. They should remember who pays their wages.’ She changed tack. ‘He hardly eats anything as it is. He’ll eat a lettuce leaf and five grapes and say he’s done. I do my best to tempt his appetite when we’re at home, but of course I can’t always be there.’

She picked up her fork and broke a small piece off the edge of the omelette, speared it, then put the fork down again.

‘You don’t seem to be eating much yourself,’ Emma remarked.

‘It’s my insides playing up again,’ Wally sighed. ‘All this conflict is hell on my ulcers. I’m sick of palace officials saying such and such can’t be done because it’s never been done that way. And looking at me like I’m something the cat dragged in.’

‘People don’t like change,’ Emma said mildly. ‘They like to know where they stand.’

‘They’ll be standing in the dole queue if they don’t shape up,’ she said. ‘I told Alec Hardinge, “The King wants people around him with fresh ideas. If you’re going to be his private secretary you’re going to have to change the way you think.” He’s only forty-two, you know, Hardinge. You’d think he was eighty-two! They should ask themselves,’ she went on pointedly, ‘why the King gets on better with Americans than with his own people. It’s because we’re not hide-bound. We’re not afraid of change. We embrace the future.’ She paused for breath, and actually ate the corner of her omelette.

‘I understand Ernest had dinner with David last night,’ Emma said tentatively.

Wally looked up. ‘How do you know about it?’