Slim and the Notorious Mrs. Churchill

Georges smiled, “Pamela has exquisite taste, does she not. All, of course, is decorated the comfort of a powerful man in mind, non? A sumptuous space in which to be pampered.” Do you like the flowers?” Roses were lavishly tucked in every corner. “Autumn Sunset, your husband’s favorite, I believe?” George smiled widely as bemused Betsey looked over to see Pamela’s left hand was still firmly on top of Jock’s forearm. She was gesturing to the Matisse with her right. Pamela leaned into his shoulder speaking softly. Betsy watched as Pamela’s ample chest grazed her husband’s upper arm. Jock smiled, squinting at the artist’s signature on the painting.
“Matisse is a favorite of your husband, I understand,” Georges offered. “Pamela demanded she have the Matisse for this evening. I much prefer Seurat. Personally, I do not see the attraction.” Georges handed Betsy a sparkling, ruby-toned Kir Royale.
Betsey’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I do.” Her thin lips folded in a tight smile and caught Pamela’s eye briefly. Pamela smiled warmly back. Betsy could see the thirty-nine-year-old offered no hard edges, only soft bosomy comfort, and Jock appeared to still appreciate her charms. Betsey took a long sip from her champagne flute. Georges eyed her with curiosity and, perhaps, a little pity. As if she didn’t know that Pamela Churchill at loose ends posed an immediate threat to her own happy marriage. And to her sister, Babe’s. Indeed, the brothers-in-law spoke fondly of her gifts when reminiscing about the romance of wartime London.
An hour later, not long after the Windsors and the Prime Minister arrived Betsey stood next to the Duchess of Windsor, and they gazed out over the Seine. Jock had been greatly impressed by Pamela’s surprise and was now speaking animatedly with the Duke and the Prime Minister, himself. Betsey turned to the Duchess, “I did hope to see the Baron this evening.”
The Duchess smirked, “I dare say Pamela did, too. But it seems that ship has finally sailed. That is why, I suspect, Giles, is not in attendance.” She sipped her champagne cocktail slowly letting the sugar cube dissolve into sparkling bubbles and turned to check on the duke. He was in a lively conversation with Jock, Prime Minister Macmillan, and Pamela about polo ponies, a shared passion of the four.
“Giles?” Betsey queried, wrinkling her brow.
“Pamela’s usual butler courtesy of the Baron. According to Georges, the Baron recalled him at the last minute. Tidying up loose ends, so to speak. So, Pamela borrowed this one from the British Embassy and the Matisse from Sotheby’s. She is a terrific borrower.” The Duchess looked at Betsey, her light eyes sharp. “But, of course, you know that.” The Duchess moved to step away for a moment. “Excuse me, my dear, the duke appears to have misplaced his glasses,” she smiled ruefully. “These men – we can’t let them out of our sight for a moment.”
When the Duchess broke up the group, Betsey intercepted Pamela to compliment her on the excellent hors d’oeuvres. Pamela beamed in response. Her chef was a gift from the Italian heir, and she was very partial to him. Betsy then laid a conspiratorial hand on Pamela’s wrist. “My dear, where is the Baron? Jock and I were so looking forward to meeting him.”
“Oh, do let us get a fresh cocktail, Betsey. It has been quite an extraordinary few days and I am ready for a cozy chat. If not for you here tonight, this may have been the loneliest day of my life.” Pamela spoke in a low plaintive voice, now more British in accent than French.
“Oh, my dear, how can I help?” Betsy replied.
Pamela leaned in covering Betsy’s hand with her own and warbled in a fair version of Noel Coward’s voice, “Europe is dead to me, and England is unthinkable.” Betsey looked confused. Pamela smiled brightly and said, “First, I need an American friend, and then I need an American husband.” She did not specify whose.