A Night In With Grace Kelly

‘I used to be an actress,’ I say, before adding, swiftly, ‘well, just an extra, really. But I was working on a show at Pinewood a couple of years ago when I first moved into my old flat, and a – uh – friend of mine who worked there too had an arrangement with the guy who ran the props warehouse. Anything they didn’t really want any more was fair game to take away.’

‘And nobody else wanted this?’ Elvira puts her Birkin down on one of the sofa’s cushions and runs a hand over the blowsy apricot-coloured fabric. ‘God, people are such idiots. This is a stunning piece!’

‘El, honey, you can’t be serious.’ Ben lets out a short bark of laughter. ‘This old heap of junk?’

‘Don’t be such a philistine. This must have so much history, I’m sure, if it was at Pinewood all those years.’

I can feel myself redden. We may be getting along the best we’ve ever managed, me and Elvira – practically besties ourselves, now, in comparison to our usual strained relations – but I don’t think we’re anywhere close to a situation where I might confide in her the full extent of my Chesterfield’s ‘history’.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘I don’t know about that.’

‘You know, darling, if you’d like to get it refurbished, I have some amazing furniture restorers on my speed-dial—’

‘God, no!’ I practically yelp. Because – and I’m very far from an expert here, trust me – even though I may not have seen a Hollywood legend appear from the sofa since Marilyn Monroe, almost exactly a year ago last June, I have a gut feeling that it’ll only ever work again if it stays exactly like this. So yes, it’s a bit grubby, and yes, that smell of moist dog still never quite fades, no matter how many times I open a window and fan fresh air in its direction with a tea-towel. But for all I know, even the merest squirt of Febreze is going to take away its remarkable powers for ever. I’m not going to risk it. ‘Thanks so much for the offer, Elvira,’ I continue, ‘but I kind of like it the way it is.’

‘Oh! Well, that’s up to you, I suppose.’ But she’s looking at me with a little more respect than usual. ‘I can understand you don’t want to take away from the soul of the piece.’

‘That’s exactly it.’ I beam at her. ‘And in fact,’ I go on, hoping to use this unexpected moment of positivity between us as a springboard to more important things, ‘talking of souls, I’d really love to have a conversation about the next phase of plans for Libby Goes To Hollywood.’

‘That’s exactly why we’re here,’ Elvira says. ‘I mean, now that you’ve got the new studio, obviously it’s time to start moving things forward.’

‘Great!’

I feel a rush of relief at how well this is all going for a change. Our previous meetings have all been so awkward and stilted. I’ve been intimidated by her gawky beauty, her ineffable style and her screaming poshness, and she’s probably been … well, not intimidated by a single thing about me. Visibly irritated, you’d probably have to say, by my all-too-apparent lack of screaming poshness. And now here we are, conversation (comparatively) flowing.

I take a deep breath, and begin the little pitch I’ve been practising in my head. ‘Well, I’ve been looking at the sales figures from the website, and they’re really on their way up over the last three months. So I’ve been thinking I’d like to—’

‘Oh, yeah, that’s what we wanted to speak about, too.’ Ben sits down on the Chesterfield, either forgetting or ignoring his concern about rodent inhabitants. ‘El and I were talking in the cab over here, and we both think it’s really time to wind up that side of the business, and focus your energies more on the bespoke commissions.’

‘Yeah,’ says Elvira although, because she’s so screamingly posh, this comes out as a yah.‘Specifically the bridal commissions. After all, I think we can all agree that’s where your greatest talents lie, Libby.’

‘What? No. I mean … I don’t think we can agree that’s where my greatest talents lie.’ I stare at them both. ‘That might be where my biggest margins have come from these last few months, but if you have a look at the website sales, the charm bracelets and opal rings have been doing really, really well. And,’ I go on, remembering that I’m still holding a couple of my new bronze cuffs, ‘I’m really hoping this sort of thing is going to be a big seller, too, when I launch them on the website.’

Elvira glances at the cuff I’m holding out for her to inspect. ‘Pretty,’ she says, with a dismissive shrug, not even bothering to look properly at it. ‘But that’s not really the direction we see the business heading in, is it, Ben, darling?’

‘Nope, not really,’ Ben says. He’s taken out his phone, and is tapping away on the screen. ‘Listen to El, Libby. She knows what she’s talking about.’

‘Right, I’m sure, but I know what I’m talking about, too.’ I can’t quite believe I’m actually saying this to the pair of them – the de facto owner of my business, and someone as scary as Elvira – but needs must. Besides, after our moment of bonding over the sofa, I think she’ll respect me more if I stand my ground. ‘Look, it’s not that I don’t enjoy bridal commissions—’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear it.’ Elvira bestows me with a rare smile. ‘That piece in Brides has led to hundreds of enquiries, no? And – so far – dozens and dozens of actual orders.’

‘Sure, and like I say, it’s not that I don’t enjoy it.’ I take another deep breath. ‘It’s just that … well, the brides who’ve come to me after that article pretty much all want exactly the same thing.’

‘You mean the vintage-style tiara they featured in the magazine article Elvira arranged for you?’ Ben glances up from his phone. ‘The one,’ he adds, in a meaningful sort of way, ‘with the three hundred per cent margin?’

‘Yes, OK, I get that it’s good for profit.’ I stare, rather desperately, in Elvira’s direction, wanting to appeal to her sense of creativity. ‘I just really wanted to have a bit more say in the design process. Rather than just replicating the same thing over and over again.’

She looks back at me. ‘Well, I do get that,’ she says.

‘I knew you would!’ I can see a tiny little chink of light here, I really can. ‘Look, Elvira, perhaps if you could have a closer look at some of the pieces I’m working on at the moment, not just the cuffs, but also OH MY GOD, IT’S A RAT!’

I wasn’t planning on finishing the sentence this way, but then I wasn’t expecting to see an actual rodent, just the sort that Ben has been suspicious about, scurrying out from the Chesterfield’s squashy cushions.

I act, I think, with commendable speed under the circumstances – after all, it’s my sofa, so therefore my rat, and I want to be clear I’m taking full responsibility for the horror – by pulling back my right arm and hurling both bronze cuffs towards the rat’s head.

I mean, I’m an animal lover, so I’m not actually trying to kill the thing, just scare it off, or, I don’t know, knock it out.

But Elvira, the moment she sees the cuffs go loose, screams as if I’m about to accidentally injure a newborn infant.

‘Don’t hurt my baby!’ she screeches, diving into the cuffs’ trajectory, but too late. One of them has actually made contact with the rat – its tail end, I think, and not its head – and it has let out a little squeal.

I’m confused, for a moment, as to why a rat would make a noise like that, and – much more importantly – why on earth Elvira is calling it her baby.

But then Ben is on his feet too, hurrying over to help Elvira tend to the creature.

‘Is he all right?’ he demands. ‘Did it hit him?’

‘I think so! Oh, my poor baby!’ Elvira is actually gathering the rat up, into her arms, and raining kisses down on its head. ‘I think it got him on the leg! At the very least,’ she adds, turning to me with a look of murderous fury in her eyes, ‘he’s totally fucking traumatized!’

‘I don’t … sorry, but I honestly don’t think rats can feel trauma, can they?’

‘He’s not a rat! He’s a dog! My dog!’

My mouth falls open. ‘Oh, God, Elvira, I didn’t—’

‘He’s a Xoloitzcuintli,’ Ben says, gruffly.

I blink at him.

‘A miniature Mexican hairless!’ Elvira spits. ‘The Aztecs considered them sacred!’

All I can honestly think to this is: more fool the Aztecs. Because, seriously, this dog is a peculiar-looking beast. Well, obviously, given that I have just mistaken him for a large rat.

‘He’s only eight weeks old,’ Elvira is going on, continuing to examine and kiss the dog/rat in equal proportion. ‘He’s just a puppy! How could you attack him like that, Libby?’

‘Elvira, again, I’m so sorry. I didn’t attack him … well, OK, I threw the cuffs, but only because I thought he was … er … well, you know … and Ben had been saying he thought there might be mice or something in the sofa …’

‘He was in my bag!’ Elvira points a shaking hand at her Birkin bag, still on the Chesterfield, that the dog must have just crept out of. ‘And really, Libby, what did you think I wanted water for, when we got here?’

‘I’m sorry, I just assumed … is he OK?’ I add, taking a step closer, albeit a little bit gingerly, but Elvira jumps back as if I’m brandishing an entire arsenal of dog-injuring weaponry.

‘You’ve done enough,’ she snarls. ‘Ben, darling, can you get a cab? I want to get Tino straight to the vet.’

‘Of course, hon.’ Ben shoots a rather weary look in my direction as he heads back to the sofa to pick up his phone. ‘Jeez, Libby,’ he says. ‘What is it with you and other people’s dogs?’

This is a rather unfair reference to the first time he met me – a time that, until now, both of us have chosen never to reference again – when I accidentally got myself stuck in a dog safety gate in my underwear.

‘Honestly,’ I say, as Elvira shoots me another evil look to end all evil looks, ‘I’m an animal lover! I just thought—’