1. A Bubbly Welcome
   

Lady Lavinia Fitzhenry leaned back on the chaise longue, took a sip of champagne, a rather delicious ̓21 Dom Pérignon, and looked out at her guests gathered in the salon of Mydworth Manor.

So far, all appeared to be going swimmingly for her little Chelsea Arts Club weekend gathering.

This annual bash for a select group of fellow club members was a tradition for her, but she always liked to mix up the small guest list from time to time. New faces, new encounters – always fun with the lively Arts Club crowd.

In fact, there were times – she smiled at the memory – when things had even got a little “out of hand”.

She saw that Noel Coward was – where she’d expect – seated at the keyboard of the grand Bosendorfer, smiling and improvising a tune that, Lavinia guessed, would no doubt soon be a published one.

Such a creative spirit, she thought. Words, music... and apparently making money hand over fist. One West End success after another!

Good for him! she thought.

André Caras, fixer, theatrical angel, always effusive, a real party-goer by reputation, leaned on the piano at Noel’s side, nodding his head to the just-composed ditty.

At which point, an alumna from last year’s party weekend, the American actress Myrna Thornhill came over.

With her fetching and impish smile, she had won hearts on both sides of the pond – West End and Broadway. She was one of those women who commanded attention in any room. Even if she wasn’t quite the young starlet any more, she had sparkling eyes that matched the champagne and candlelight.

She gently clinked the edge of her flute with Lavinia’s and joined her on the chaise longue.

“Must say, Lavinia,” said Myrna, inserting a cigarette into a long holder and lighting it, “rather an eclectic assortment this year.”

Lavinia smiled. “Of course. Makes the possibility of the unexpected and the serendipitous so much more likely, don’t you think?”

“And who doesn’t love serendipity?” said Myrna, blowing an elegant wisp of smoke into the air. “I see that Noel’s caught the attention of Mr Moneybags.”

“André, you mean? I know. Very sweet. He told me Noel was one of his West End idols and, as we both know, Noel thrives on adoration.”

“Indeed. But I simply must ask... that slim young thing over there by the piano? Is she an Arts Club member?”

Lavinia nodded. “Certainly is. Cassandra Jones.”

“Hmm. Not ringing any bells.”

“That, my dear Myrna, is because you have yet to develop a taste for the ballet. I saw her in one of Marie Rambert’s shows at the Mercury. Rather breathless watching her – almost as if she could take flight!”

“Well, with a body like that, I wouldn’t be surprised. A good strong wind, and I imagine away she goes!”

Lavinia laughed. She did enjoy chatting with the always witty Myrna, who did quite well creating her own snappy – and salty – dialogue even when not following a script.

“I see that you also invited both the Kiers,” said Myrna.

Lavinia saw her friend glance over to the fireplace where the couple in question were engaged in intense conversation.

Georgia Kier rolling her eyes dramatically; her husband Gavin gesticulating wildly.

“Can’t invite one without the other – or so I’ve been told.”

“Tad serious though, the pair of them,” said Myrna.

“Well apparently they are very serious artists,” said Lavinia, laughing. “So, I suppose that would make sense.”

“Gavin’s so tiresome though. Always moaning about something or other.”

Lavinia wondered why Myrna seemed so dismissive of the couple – almost a sneer. But then she remembered the rumours from a few years back, that Myrna and Gavin had had a brief affair.

Just rumours... But maybe...

“They do squabble, too,” continued Myrna, not letting go of this bone.

“But, well, they are both extremely talented. And the art world is so exciting these days.”

“Is it?” said Myrna, blowing smoke in the air through pursed lips.

Lavinia decided to ignore Myrna’s current mood.

“I hear Georgia’s star is on the rise,” she said.

“Like her prices. Bet that doesn’t sit well with her communist husband.”

“A communist – really?” said Lavinia. “I rather had him down as an anarchist.”

“Darling, anarchists are so last year,” said Myrna.

“And what about Georgia? Don’t tell me she’s under the same spell!”

“Oh, now she’s earning the big bucks, she’s given up politics, apparently. Hence the bickering.”

For a moment, Lavinia wondered whether Myrna had a point. A couple like that, some friction simmering, could throw off the balance of what was to be – she hoped – a free and easy weekend.

“Oh, they’ll be fine,” Lavinia said.

Though she wasn’t really sure.

“Such a shame your Charles wasn’t able to join us,” she continued, changing the subject.

“I should be grateful for small mercies.”

Lavinia knew that Myrna, having married Charles Thornhill two years ago, had soon discovered some unfortunate facts about him that had tinged that impulsive decision with an ample amount of regret.

“Well, you did say that he had pressing business to attend to this weekend.”

Myrna didn’t answer – just looked away. Lavinia glanced around to make sure nobody else was in earshot.

“Things are no better between the two of you, I assume?”

“If anything, worse,” said Myrna. “Truth is though, I’m beyond caring. The man leaves me completely cold.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Oh, don’t be. Anyway. Thank God – I shan’t have to endure it for much longer.”

“No?” said Lavinia, surprised – and hoping her friend would elucidate. But she didn’t.

“What a fool I was. Just shows how naïve we Americans can be. With his claim to some kind of title, centuries of family history... was I wrong to think there’d be estates lavish on offer?”

“Cash in hand?”

Myrna laughed. “That too! Did picture quite a different life here, with him. Well, certainly turned out to be different. Cooped up in that little apartment, him coming home all hours, you know... whatever money he had, poof! Gone!”

Lavinia put her hand on Myrna’s wrist, wondering if there were darker secrets in the relationship than Myrna ever revealed.

“I’m always here, my dear, if you need support,” she said. “No matter what.”

“Don’t fret on my behalf,” said Myrna, stubbing out her cigarette. “You know, someday I may write a book about it. A Survivor’s Guide to the English Upper Classes. Oh sorry – present company very much excluded!”

Lavinia laughed at that. In truth, she was much relieved that Charles Thornhill had been unable to join the weekend party. Having met him at assorted dinner and club events, she had to admit he was... difficult. Self-absorbed, to be sure. And not much in the wit and repartee department!

So, yes, much better to have lively Myrna here solo. Though she also knew that her actress friend – freed from marital eyes upon her – could often get into a spot of trouble.

Myrna stood – drained her champagne flute. “Think I will powder my nose before getting a refill.”

Myrna sailed away. Benton, Lavinia’s butler, suddenly appeared beside her, holding the drinks tray.

“Another glass of champagne m’lady?” he said.

“Thank you, Benton,” said Lavinia, handing him her empty flute and taking a fresh one. She noticed an unusual frown on his face.

“Everything in order?” she said.

“Yes m’lady.” Then he paused. “Although... a request has come from Mr Coward.”

“Yes?”

Benton always needed to have such information prised out of him as if it were the lovely meat of an oyster.

“Mr Coward asked that, in lieu of the champagne, he might have something called a ‘Rob Roy’.”

“I see. Why, of course he may.”

She saw that that did not put Benton into motion.

“Yes, m’lady. But you see, I don’t know how to mix such a concoction. In fact, I’m quite sure I’ve never heard of it before.”

These days, new cocktails were being dreamed up almost daily, and Lavinia didn’t have a clue what went into a Rob Roy.

She also had to...