The Finishing Touches by Hester Browne Page A

aunt with wild ivy hair and slept-in makeup flaking off the windows.
    The door was yanked open, and I took a step back.
    “Sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m just about to move it!” It was Paulette, the girl with the pixie crop from the reception—the one who’d let the cat out of the bag about the budget. Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes darted back and forth as if she half expected someone else to leap out from behind me.
    I held out my hand and tried to say hello, but she was talking and casting worried glances up the street at the same time, while blocking me from entering the house. “I know you’ve spoken to Ana about it before, but I don’t think they have parking restrictions where she lives in Moscow.”
    “I’m not here about any parking,” I said. “I’m here to speak to—”
    Paulette looked confused, then looked aghast. “You’re not a bailiff, are you?”
    Bailiffs ? How bad had things gotten here?
    “No, I have an appointment with Miss Thorne,” I said, extending my hand again. “She’s expecting me.” I paused, in case she didn’t recognize me. My hair was tied back so hard I’d given myself a mini face-lift. “We met briefly at the memorial service here, last week, but I don’t think we were properly introduced. Is it Paulette? I’m Betsy Phillimore.”
    Paulette clapped both hands to the sides of her face, dragging her chipmunk cheeks down in horror. “Oh, my God! You’re the orphan who the Phillimores took in off the steps! The ginger love child!”
    “Well, yes,” I said, because none of that was technically untrue.
    “And now you’re some kind of consultant busybody type who’s come here to kick everyone’s arse! Like on television!”
    “No! I mean, no, it’s really not that…” I tried again. “I’m just here to have a look around and a chat with Miss Thorne. Can I come in, please?”
    As I stepped inside, I tried not to let the shock of familiarity undo the cool, collected image I was working hard to present. It still felt strange, being in the Academy again as an adult, and my first impressions were a mix of nostalgia and fresh curiosity. Without the crush of ladies reminiscing about the good old days, the empty hall seemed much more “Monday morning”—echoing and somewhat chilly.
    I noticed Paulette was wearing two pullovers and very thick tights beneath her tweed skirt, as well as her regulation single string of pearls. She didn’t give the impression that either the pearls or the tweed skirt was her first-choice attire.
    “Would you like a cup of…No, hang on, I should let Miss Thorne know you’re…” Her forehead creased. “She’s not at her best first thing. I’d leave it half an hour if I were you, give her time to digest her croissant and sweeten herself up. Coffee?”
    “Yes, I’d love a cup,” I said, smiling as reassuringly as I could. “Why don’t you let Miss Thorne know I’m here, and I’ll wait in the reception room?” And have a snoop about, I added to myself.
    “Good idea,” Paulette agreed, and, without realizing, she let me direct her through the hall toward the headmistress’s office, a large room toward the back of the house.
    As we clicked our way across the black-and-white tiles, my eyes flitted from portrait to portrait, sweeping around for clues to why the Academy was in such dire straits. The pedestal plant holders still trailed ivy down the magnificent staircase, but I spotted cobwebs veiling the higher chandeliers. Next to the old grandfather clock was the museum-piece vacuum cleaner with a fraying power cord and a suspiciously waxy arrangement of out-of-season roses dumped in a large urn.
    I stopped, pretending to inspect the oil painting of the first Lady Phillimore but really so I could take a deeper breath. The Academy smelled almost as I remembered, but not quite. Something was slightly off.
    I closed my eyes and rolled the different components around my nose like a wine taster. Beeswax wood polish. Old books.