Free Emily by Jilly Cooper

looked pretty sensational; I put a ruby brooch Coco had given me over the mark on the navel. It was certainly tight, too, everyone would be able to see my goose-pimples, but on the whole I was pleased with the result - it was definitely one of my on days. The only problem was that when I put on my new tights, the crotch only came up to the middle of my thighs. I gave them a tug and they split irrevocably, leaving a large hole, so I had to make do with bare legs.
        I was just trying to give myself a better cleavage with Sellotape when Rory announced that he was ready. Even I, though, was unprepared for his beauty, dressed up in a dark green velvet doublet with white lace at the throat and wrists and the dark green and blue kilt of the Balniels. Pale and haughty, his eyes glittering with bad temper, he looked like something out of Kidnapped; Alan Breck Stuart or young Lochinvar coming out of the West.
        ‘Oh,’ I sighed, ‘You do look lovely.’
        Rory grimaced and tugged at the frills at his neck. ‘I feel like Kenneth McKellar,’ he said.
        ‘Never mind, you’ve got exactly the right hips to wear a pleated skirt,’ I said.
        Rory put a long tartan muffler thing on the dressing-table. ‘This is for you,’ he said.
        ‘I’m not thinking of going out in this weather,’ I said.
        ‘You wear it indoors,’ he said, draping it diagonally across my shoulders, ‘like this, and pin it here.’
        ‘But whatever for?’ I moaned.
        ‘It’s the Balniel tartan,’ he said evenly. ‘Married women are supposed to wear their husband’s tartan.’
        ‘But it completely covers up my cleavage.’
        ‘Just as well, you’re not at some orgy in Chelsea now,’ said Rory.
        ‘Do I really have to, it’s a bit Hooray for me.’
        Very sulkily I arranged it; somehow tartan didn’t go with skintight pink satin, and brooches on the navel.
        I wanted to fiddle with my hair and make-up a few minutes longer, but Rory was sitting on the bed, staring at me coldly, making me nervous.
        ‘Why don’t you go on down?’ I said.
        ‘I’ll wait here,’ he said.
        I combed a few pink tendrils over my shoulders. ‘What made you go crazy with the cochineal?’ said Rory.
        ‘I thought I ought to change my image,’ I said, sourly. ‘My old one didn’t seem to be getting me very far.’
        Downstairs in the huge drawing-room people were having drinks. The host and hostess stood near the door repeating the same words of welcome to new arrivals. Looking round I realized I looked better than most of the women but infinitely more tarty. Most of them were big, raw-boned deb types in very covered-up clothes, the occasional mottled purple arms were the nearest they got to décolletage. Very tall, aristocratic men in kilts stood talking in haw haw voices about getting their lochs drained and burning their grouse moors. Fishes in glass cases, and mounted stags’ heads stared glassily down from the walls.
        Fiona and Charles were standing near the door. She was wearing a blue dress and absolutely no eye makeup.’What a pretty dress,’ I said, with desperate insincerity.
        ‘Yes, everyone likes it,’ she said, ‘blue is Charles’ favourite colour.’
        Charles was gaping at my pink hair, his mouth even more open than usual. Fiona started trying to bring Rory out about his painting.
        ‘Do you do all that funny abstract stuff?’ she said. ‘No,’ said Rory.
        ‘Some young man - he had a beard actually - painted my sister Sarah. She sat for two hours and all he had drawn after all that time were three figs and a milk bottle.’
        She gave a tinkle of laughter, Rory looked at her stonily.
        ‘Charles paints quite beautifully too, I feel it’s such a shame his job in the City is so demanding he doesn’t have time to take painting up as a hobby - like you, Rory.’
        ‘Rory does not paint as a hobby,’ I said