Free Can We Still Be Friends by Alexandra Shulman Page B

at night, when the Rootsteins would regularly fill it with crowds of what Art liked to call ‘folk’, a term which deliberately downplayed the professional and social networking their soirées were renowned for.
    It was in preparation for one of these regular Thursday-night open houses that Marisa was styling the table. The word ‘open’ was misleading. Naturally, these gatherings were not remotely open, but Marisa and Art preferred the casual notion that
folk
would
swing by
, ideally accompanied by suitably interesting new blood. They aimed to achieve a sense of spontaneity for these carefully orchestrated evenings. A successful Thursday night would find a group of artists, writers and socialites, with a spattering of celebrities who were in town from New York, Los Angeles, Paris, Rome, drinking Art’s favourite white, Gavi di Gavi.
    ‘Darling, I know that it’s your life’s ambition to cause your father and I maximum anxiety but, surely, this idea of yours, of being a kind of
childminder
in a poor kids unit, is taking self-destruction justa step too far.’ Marisa continued to tinker with the placement of the things on the table as she spoke, avoiding eye contact with her daughter. She adjusted the arrangement of white hydrangea.
    For several weeks, Kendra had avoided telling her parents that she had taken on the job at the Chapel. Their house was large enough, and the Rootsteins immersed enough in the whole business of being the Rootsteins, for the fact that Kendra was working to have escaped them. The hours Gioia needed her were irregular, and the family structure loose enough, for Kendra’s absence during the day not to be noticed.
    However, that morning, Marisa and Kendra had coincided in the kitchen, a rare occurrence, since Marisa’s early mornings were usually spent in the company of Stephen, her analyst on Fitzjames Avenue, immediately and unrelentingly followed by a Pilates session. The combination, Marisa maintained, set her up perfectly for the trials of the day ahead. ‘An early start,’ Kendra heard her say, frequently, ‘is crucial if you want to get things done.’
    ‘We must find you some better clothes, Kendra. You haven’t been a student for over a year now, and those old T-shirts look terrible. You’ve got great legs but, God knows, you do your best to disguise them. There’s a Jasper Conran private sale next week where we could find you some nice pieces. His grosgrain jackets would look terrific on you. The cut would suit.’ Two decades of her daughter’s rejection of Marisa’s offers of stylish clothing had not deterred her from continuing to try to wean Kendra from her chosen look, which, in its hippie drabness, never failed to frustrate her mother.
    ‘Thanks, Mum, but I don’t think I’ll have much use for them at the Chapel. You know those kind of clothes aren’t really my thing.’ Kendra waited for her words to impact, visualizing them like weapons lobbed from a PacMan game.
    ‘The Chapel?
Qu’est-ce que c’est
, the Chapel?’
    ‘It’s where I’m working now. I joined a few weeks back, helping underprivileged kids. It’s run by a really inspiring woman called Gioia Cavallieri. It’s a proper job, Mum.’
    Marisa drained her canarino, leaving the twist of lemon peel in the china cup, and moved towards the door.
    ‘I’m running late, and have no time for this. I have to do Laila’s list for tonight. The Schnabels are in town.’ Kendra could see her mother’s shoulders, prominent from the back in her slim-fitting black cashmere sweater, tighten with restraint and the effort of not engaging in an argument with her completely incomprehensible daughter.
    During the school week, the Chapel still had a few of the regular kids hanging around. Although they were meant to be in class, Gioia took the view that if they were going to play truant it was better they were with her than causing mischief on the streets. She would talk the talk, try to get them back to their desks,