Free Chanel Bonfire by Wendy Lawless

from an upper-class family, but had been forced to go to work when the family money ran out and her husband went down in an RAF plane. She was very well connected and introduced Mother to an international cast of characters who joined her entourage of other groovy American expat moms.
    Deziah was a psychic to the royals who wore her hennaed hair and Gypsy dresses long. Mother started telephoning her every morning to see if she should venture out tothis or that event. “Deziah says there’ll be bad vibes there,” Mother would say, putting down the receiver. Fresh-faced brunette Hilary Mole looked like a kindergarten teacher but had been a high-priced call girl who was now safely married to a famous bandleader who had once been one of her clients. Dominique Lamond was a volatile French department-store heiress who looked like Anouk Aimée and swore and drank like a sailor, and whom I frequently found passed out in the downstairs loo.
    Mother also became fast friends with Marian Montgomery, the American singer, and started going to Ronnie Scott’s jazz club in Soho to see her perform, with her girlfriends in tow. From there, they’d move on to exclusive discos like Annabel’s or Tramp and often end the evening at our house to drink the rest of the night away. On Sundays, they would all come to what Mother began calling the “drunken lunch” in our garden with cold white wine, cigarettes, and maybe a chicken salad for those who were hungry.
    Left to our own devices, my sister and I emulated the values and behavior of the only role model we had; Mother was out on her party circuit, so we created our own. It was easy to meet up at someone’s parent-free house and break into the liquor cabinet. I liked Mateus rosé because it was sweet and came in a curvy bottle, but sometimes we’d just pour a bit of everything in a tall glass and take turns sipping. The first time I was actually served alcohol—Dom Pérignon at a brunch at Mary Broomfield’s house—I felt so sick fromdrinking the night before, I poured it into a plant when no one was looking.
    Robbie and I also attempted to copy Mother’s clotheshorse side. She was sporting Ossie Clark, Yves Saint Laurent, and Courrèges, so we started shopping at a kids’ clothing boutique named, appropriately enough, Little Horrors, the Kitson of its time. We bought trendy French New Man corduroy pants with matching jackets, and flowered Cacharel blouses to wear to school. For my first big formal party, thrown by the son of a diplomat at Quaglino’s, an exclusive Soho supper club, I went to Biba to buy a long dress and a beaded evening bag. Biba was simply one of the most fashionable shops in London. Twiggy had appeared in their ad campaign and their logo was of a glamorous couple dancing who were dressed like Fred and Ginger.
    And, of course, we smoked. We especially liked these herbal cigarettes that came in a flowered box and smelled like overcooked vegetables. Who cared if they tasted like burnt broccoli; we thought we looked so cool smoking. At the pub, conveniently located inside the tube station across the road from school, we were always trying to find someone to buy us a shandy, beer mixed with ginger beer, or a Babycham, which was sparkling pear juice with a cute fawn on the bottle. We had even purchased platform shoes, hoping to look older (taller) and sometimes it worked. I realize now we probably looked a lot like Jodi Foster in Taxi Driver.
    Another favorite pastime was chasing pop stars. When Elton John gave a concertin in the ASL gym, Robbie andI ran outside at the end of the show to the back entrance, determined to get his autograph. “I love you, Elton!” I yelled, jumping in front of him as he came flying out of the exit. Startled, he tripped over me in his silver platform boots and matching pants. I can still see his shiny bottom flying away from me. I didn’t get his autograph, but our eyes met as he looked at me over his shoulder while he was dragged off