Page 46 of Kiss My Glass
“Frankie, my dear, what a lovely surprise.” Ted kisses me on both cheeks, British style. He smells incredible, and not unlike a typical Bartons cocktail, with notes of warm spice, vanilla, and citrus zest.
He holds out his hand to shake Danny’s. I watch for signs of macho grip-strength competitiveness but Danny’s being sensible. One of the Ted rumors is that he was in the British SAS, their special forces whose missions are highly classified. If that’s true, Ted may have killed people with the bare hand he’s now politely offering in greeting.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Danny,” says Ted. “I’m acting on behalf of an acquaintance who’s been plunged into straitened circumstances and is hoping for an expedited sale of all their major assets, including this vehicle.”
Being a lawyer, I’m used to unpicking sentences that on the surface sound clear and factual but in fact omit great chunks of vital information. In my mind, a James Bond scenario plays out, in which Ted’s “acquaintance” is a rebel Russian oligarch with a price on his head, who needs to raise money quickly to employ his own private army.
“Happy to help,” says Danny.
His face is alight with curiosity and eagerness to see said vehicle. He really does love his work. I hope he’s rewarded with something special. My best ever vintage clothing find was a red silk Christian Dior gown in my size! I still have it and wear it when I want to make my best Jessica Rabbit impression.
“Nice place,” I say to Ted.
“Yes,” he says, vaguely, as if he’s barely noticed that he’s standing in front of a house to rival a Vanderbilt mansion. “Quite an interesting history to it.”
Then he’s all business again. “Let me show you to the garages.”
The garages – plural – are way down behind the house, I suppose in order not to clutter up the entranceway. There are six, all with wooden doors that would not survive a ram raid, though security here, I imagine, is up to rebel Russian oligarch standards.
Ted lifts a remote from the pocket of his beautifully tailored linen trousers and opens the first garage. I can tell that Danny is holding his breath. He lets it out in a low whistle when the car is revealed. I recognize the hood ornament – it’s a Rolls Royce. An older model, a two-door, goldish colored convertible with its top folded down, and that’s where my knowledge ends.
“I realize it’s not out of the absolute top drawer for this marque,” says Ted. “And my acquaintance’s expectations for sale value are reasonable.”
Danny has snapped into professional mode and is walking around the car, peering at everything. He folds open the hood and scrutinizes the engine. Lastly, he runs his hand over the tan-colored leather seats, almost as if he’s caressing them, and looks at Ted with a huge smile on his face.
“I’ll have to sense-check my assessment,” he says. “But my strong feeling is that this could fetch close to four hundred grand.”
I practically choke. “Excuse me?”
Ted is unmoved by such numbers. “And how quickly do you think you could complete the sale?”
Danny pulls out his phone. “Let me make a few calls and I’ll let you know.”
“Splendid.” Ted turns to me. “Frankie, may I offer you some refreshment while Danny conducts business?
“Yes, please.” If it means I get to see inside the house, then I’ll agree to eat anything, even sandwiches with cucumber in them.
Alas, Ted leads me around into a delightful garden area, with low formal hedges holding back an overflowing abundance of roses and other flowers I have no hope of identifying. A path made of golden gravel takes us to a paved circle in the center, where sits a French style café table and chairs painted a pale mint green and shaded by a modern cantilevered umbrella standing nearby. Whatever is on the table is covered by a white cloth.
Being a gentleman – he literally is a British aristocrat, but no one knows what kind – Ted pulls out a chair for me, and then removes the cloth to reveal a glass jug filled with a reddish liquid and topped with fruit, and a three-tiered stand holding miniature cakes, sandwiches and scones with jam and cream. It’s so perfectly, ridiculously British that I can’t help but laugh.
Ted, being perfectly British himself, ignores my rudeness, and pours me a glass of the red stuff. Fortunately, or perhaps intentionally having been forewarned of my tastes, he uses a strainer so the fruit stays in the jug.
“Pimm’s,” he says. “I can offer you tea if you’d prefer?”
I take a cautious sip. “Thank you, no,” I reply. “This is weirdly delicious.”
“A statement that applies to most traditional British fare,” says Ted, with a smile. “Although often the word ‘weird’ alone suffices.”
Set on the table before me is a white china plate with a gold rim, a crisp white damask napkin, and a pair of tiny silver tongs. Real silver: I spot a hallmark.
“Please.”
Ted gestures for me to help myself, and I do. There’s probably a correct order to eat these dainty morsels in, but I start with the scone. Jam is one of the few acceptable uses of fruit, so I’m not forced to surreptitiously scrape it off.
After the scone, I decide it would be polite to make conversation. Difficult to know where to start when I have so many pressing questions.
I settle for, “Have you lived here long?”
