Vanity Fair

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‘Why do you make such an effort for him?’
‘Why do you think it is for him?’
‘You’re going to the opera –‘
‘-with him, yes, I know.  I am going out with someone whose belly does a Mexican wave, who dresses worse than Groucho Marx and whose hairdresser should be hanged and quartered.  That’s exactly the point, girl.  Hand me the rose cream, please.  It is on the hatbox.’
‘That smells lovely.’
‘It does.  Is also does wonders for your skin.  You should try it.’
‘So tell me why you are making such a fuss?’
‘The contrast, silly goose, the contrast.  After the opera, when we walk into the Savoy, me on his arm, it is like a live performance of the Beauty and the Beast.  Guess who’s the Beauty?  Meaning all eyes will be on yours truly.  And I’ve seen the guest list.  Very delectable.   It reads like a Who is Who of eligible bachelors.’
‘Philippa, you are wicked.  Poor Henry adores you.  You are wearing a Ben Nevis on your finger: that is how much he adores you.’
‘Grow up sis.  Are these buttons all ok?  It is not me he adores.  He simply adores himself; for having such a lovely wife to be. It has precious little to do with me.  Do you think I should have those feathers in my hair?’
‘Philippa, dear, you can’t have peacock feathers.  It brings bad luck, everyone knows that.
Better hurry now, Henry is waiting.’
‘Let him wait for a bit- beautiful women can be late without impunity.’
‘You are playing a dangerous game, Phil.  You better be careful.’
‘Who needs to be careful when she is beautiful?’

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