It was like going to an audience sing-along of Moulin Rouge!, but more bonkers, more glitter, more confetti, and definitely more beer being drunk by attendees than I’d ever seen, well, ever.
“This was totally worth leaving Claridge’s,” I whispered to Dash.
“Was it?” he whispered back.
“Shush!” said an intoxicated audience member behind us who, minutes earlier, had shouted “Telly me everything!” to the corpulent, blustering actor playing Alice Fitzwarren, Dick Whittington’s wife.
Dash ignored the shushing, and the request to turn off cell phones. He showed me a message on his phone. “We’re being summoned back to Claridge’s for afternoon tea,” he said, not bothering to whisper anymore.
“By who?”
“I don’t know. Katarina just said we needed to be back by half three.”
“I don’t know what half three means.”
“Three-thirty!” the audience member behind us bellowed. “Go on, then. We’re trying to enjoy the show.”
“Glad to oblige,” said Dash. He got up, and so did I.
Once outside the theater showing the pantomime, I asked Dash, “How relieved are you?”
“So relieved.”
“I loved it,” I admitted. Between burning letters to that patron saint of patriarchy, Father Christmas, the Hyde Park Winter Wonderland, and now the Christmas “panto,” I was seriously enamored of British holiday merrymaking. Big fan.
“Have you ever been to a proper British afternoon tea?” Dash asked me.
“No.”
“Trust me, you’ll love it more.”
Returning to Claridge’s that afternoon gave me my first opportunity to really appreciate the spectacle of the Art Deco hotel. It was a redbrick building decorated with flags billowing above its entrance; inside its main foyer was a dazzling display of crystal chandeliers, checkerboard tiles, paneled walls, antique gilt mirrors, and flower arrangements taller than me. Piano music and the sound of teaspoon clinks drifted through the elegant lobby.
Dash and I found the host at the tearoom and gave him our names. “Right this way, sir,” said the host. He led us away from the foyer, which almost made me want to cry until I saw the next room, which was our destination. “Your reservation is in the Reading Room, and the first member of your party is already seated.”
I didn’t need to ask who our mystery tea companion was, because I knew by the faint aroma of Chanel No19 (“No5 is so boring”) wafting from the velvet-upholstered banquette where the host directed us.
Mrs. Basil E. stood up when she saw us. She nodded to the host. “Thank you, Geoffrey.”
He bowed to her before leaving. “Lovely to have you here again, madam.”
Mrs. Basil E. placed a kiss on my cheek and a pat on Dash’s shoulder. “You’re late,” she told us as she returned to her seat.
“It’s three-forty,” Dash said. “We only got your invitation an hour ago.”
“Punctuality is a virtue,” she said.
“So is fair warning of an ambush,” said Dash.
Mrs. Basil E. laughed. “You are a delight, in your inimitably snarly way.”
“Thank you,” said Dash. “Vice versa.”
My great-aunt was my one family member who not just tolerated Dash, but actually enjoyed him. And vice versa.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I was jealous when I heard you’d skipped town to come here. So I decided to join you.”
“Any other reason?” Dash asked.
Mrs. Basil E. said, “There’s a rumor going around that Lily is dropping out of college.”
“I knew it,” said Dash, affirmed once again in his conviction of my family’s overcontrolling nature.
“I never started college!” I said.
Dash said, “And we may have resolved the issue. Perhaps the problem was not that Lily was not in college, but that she chose the wrong one to attend … next year, not this year, by the way.”
Mrs. Basil E. fixed her gaze on me. “My mother, your great-grandmother, went to Barnard! I went to Barnard! Your grandmother went to Barnard. How do you think she met Grandpa? Because I introduced them. When we were at Barnard.”
Dash said, “Am I the only one who realizes the complete absurdity of Lily planning her future based on that logic?”
“Being a legacy doesn’t mean I should go there,” I said.
“Then why did you apply?” Mrs. Basil E. asked.
“Because it was near Grandpa’s home and because everyone else besides me seemed confident it was where I belonged.”
“And an exceptional amount of family pressure,” Dash added.
“Those are all good reasons,” said Mrs. Basil E.
Dash offered, “Lily’s thinking about applying to FIT to study design and entrepreneurship.”
Mrs. Basil E. nodded. “Not a bad option, actually. But Barnard. No one in our family has ever gone to FIT.”
Dash’s hand made the motion of an airplane. He said, “This family. Once again, logic flies away.”
Then it occurred to me: “Didn’t you drop out of Barnard?” I asked Mrs. Basil E.
“Indeed. I only lasted a year.”
“Why’d you drop out?” Dash asked.
She smiled. “His name was Henri. I met him when I did nude modeling for a figure-drawing program at Pratt. We took off to wander Europe for a year—maybe it was two?—afterward. Glorious time of my life.”
I didn’t say aloud what I was thinking but I psychically telegraphed it to Dash: Hypocrite! His lips upturned slightly into one of his rare smiles, which make me swoon. I patted his knee under the table. To Mrs. Basil E., I said, “So you didn’t regret dropping out?”
“God, no.”
“Then why shouldn’t Lily also exercise her right not to go?” Dash asked Mrs. Basil E.
To me, she said, “You may, I suppose. But you need purpose if you opt out. Dogs are not enough. I may be swayed by the idea of FIT, but I’ll need to think on it.” She began inspecting the afternoon tea menu. “Where are you staying, by the way? With Mark and his terrible Ikea couch collection? I’d really hoped marriage would improve his design aesthetic.”
“I’m staying at Claridge’s,” I said. “I thought that’s why you summoned us here.”
She laughed, then saw that I was serious. “I summoned you here because it’s where I’m staying. I gave the concierge your names and told her to send you the invitation. I didn’t realize you were already here.”
“You telling me about it is why I always wanted to stay here!” I said.
“Who paid for it?” she asked.
“I paid for it.”
“With what money?”
“My own! I sold a lot more dog crafts than I expected, and I got a big windfall from Christmas tips from my clients.”
“You couldn’t have possibly earned enough to pay for this hotel at peak holiday rates.”
“I did. I paid for it mostly using the bonus from one very wealthy and grateful dog-walking client who said I added years of life to his arthritic dog. That dog never used to want to leave the apartment and now she’s chasing pigeons in Tompkins Square Park again like a puppy. Also, he bought a ton of the dog sweaters I designed.”