I go to New York with Tilly on leave weekends, and write to the boy whenever I remember, usually in the mornings after I’ve dreamt about him at night, or when I see something that would make him laugh. When I do, I send him presents: records, magazines, books. Lovesick Blues by Hank Williams. I tell him to see The Third Man at the movie house, because it’s brilliant. I promise we’ll watch it together at Christmas, as Cornelia talked all the way through it when we saw it here, so I probably missed half.
Tilly thinks I should drop Li’l Abner.
“I won’t,” I declare.
“I have a friend from home who’d be just the ticket for you,” she says, exhaling smoke out the window. “He’s handsome, intelligent and from the right kind of milieu.” She states.
I shake my head, push her out, and slam the window shut before flipping her the bird.
She has to run all the way round the building to get back in.
“What did you do that for, you idiot?” she says, breathless and furious, throwing A History of the American People at me when she returns. I am too fast and duck before it can hit me.
“Are you done?” I ask, smugly browsing Vogue on my bed.
“Sure.” She says. Giving up.
“Come home with me for Christmas,” Tilly says, flopping back on her bed and inspecting herself in a compact mirror. “Your parents are in Europe anyway. They don’t much want you, do they?”
“I can’t. I promised to go back down South.”
“Oh, gawd,” she yawns, eyes rolling. “I can’t believe you’d rather be in the backwaters of nowhere than with me in the Big Apple, having fun! Meeting boys!”
I pretend not to hear her.
“At least come for Thanksgiving,” she pleads.
“All right. Thank you. I’d love to.”
“My parents won’t mind. They say I’m so much easier to deal with when you’re around.”
She sniggers.
***
Thanksgiving in New York is magical.
I meet so many people, young and old. Tilly’s parents are enormously well-connected. They host parties for movie stars, politicians, and People Like Us.
Cary Grant is a friend of the family. It feels like a miracle when I meet him.
He’s older now than he was in Bringing Up Baby and Holiday, so I realise I don’t love him in quite the same way any more. I only love the boy with that sort of passion now.
Still, I’m drawn to Mr Grant. He’s someone who’s entertained me all my life. I feel as if I know him.
“He used to be married to an aunt,” Tilly explains. She doesn’t concern herself with anything as trivial as boring old movie stars.
“Now he’s with his new lady, Betsy, who is very nice.”
Mr Grant adores Tilly in a good-uncle way. He spends half the party acting like a delinquent just to amuse us. He doesn’t have any children himself, and I think he would make an excellent father.
“You girls must come stay with us if you’re ever out West,” he declares. “We’ll take good care of you, won’t we, Betsy?”
Betsy concurs and drags him back to the adults.
There’s a boy called Buddy at the party, a surly seventeen-year-old from Choate. He is very high and mighty, and Tilly loves him. I do not.
His friend, Topper, is more fun. He is handsome, no, he is beautiful. I feel guilty even looking at him.
“St. Paul’s,” he tells me, before I even ask.
“Where were you before Miss Porter’s?”
He bursts out laughing when I tell him.
“You came all the way from England to go there? Tennessee? Why?”
“I felt like I was called there,” I say, irked. “What does it matter to you?”
“Jesus.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Remind me never to ask you anything ever again.”
I smirk and reach for finger food on a silver tray.
“Goody.”
“What’s your real name?” I ask.
“Christopher.” He says coyly, then regains his composure. “Call me Topper,” he says.
“My friends do.”
“Fine. Now we dance.” I demand. I am not here for small talk.
He takes my hand and leads me to the ballroom.
“Will I see you again?” Topper kisses my hand like a Disney prince.
“Very gallant,” I giggle. I don’t want to, but I feel a stirring as he looks at me directly. This is how Natasha Rostova must have felt when she danced with Prince Andrei for the first time at the ball in St Petersburg.
“That’s not an answer,” he says impatiently, interrupting my inner travels to the hinterlands of War & Peace.
Tilly comes flying in, all red cheeks and white skin in her frilly baby blue gown.
“You’ll see Birdie again when she decides she is good and ready. Now go, man, go!”
They laugh.
“Why are you so flushed?” Tilly grabs me by the arm.
“Don’t let them know they have an effect on you, for God’s sake, woman! Why must I teach you everything? It’s like you’re a feral child.”
“Well, I sort of am,” I sigh. Tilly ignores me.
“Come with me now. I want you to meet Mr Capote.”
“Truman! There you are, darling!” Tilly exclaims “I want you to meet my friend Birdie. We go to school together. Isn’t she divine?”
My novel GREAT ARE THE MYTHS will be serialised (one chapter each day) over the summer of 2026. If you would rather listen to the audiobook, the full story is available for free on all the usual platforms. Info and links HERE
My World of Interiors 