included. The only problem was a very beautiful dark girl dressed in what looked like a bikini entirely made of flowers, who was hanging possessively on his arm.
‘You promised me an orgy, Annie,’ he said, coldly. ‘All I can see here is a deb’s tea-party.’
Annie Richmond took him and the dark girl by the arm and hustled them towards the bar.
‘It’ll start warming up soon,’ I could hear her saying. ‘There’s a lot of fun people coming later.’
I noticed she gave him a whole bottle of whisky to himself, while the rest of us had to make do with the revolting cough mixture.
Gradually the conversation started to soar and dip again. ‘Who’s that?’ everyone was asking.
I turned to Split Ends. ‘Who’s that?’ I said.
She looked at me incredulously. ‘You mean to say you don’t know?’
A stockbroker with a pink face whose eyes were about level with my cleavage, came past and filled up our glasses.
‘That’s Rory Balniel,’ he said. ‘He’s a bit of a menace.’
‘He’s Annie’s cousin,’ said Split Ends, watering at the mouth, ‘and quite the most evil man in London.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘Oh, getting drunk and breaking people’s hearts deliberately. Everything you can think of, and a lot more besides.’
‘He looks like the leader of a Cossack horde,’ I said. ‘What nationality is he?’
‘Scottish, with foreign, I think French, on one side. His family own masses of land in the Highlands, but all the money’s tied up in trusts, and he can’t get his hands on it. He’s been sent down from everywhere imaginable. He hit London about a month ago. I don’t think he’s been sober since.’
‘He’s a bit of a menace,’ repeated the stockbroker, looking longingly at my cleavage.
‘He’s supposed to be a very good painter,’ said Split Ends.
‘The only thing he’s been painting recently is the town red,’ said the stockbroker.
‘He treats women appallingly,’ said Split Ends.
‘Has he treated you appallingly?’ I asked.
‘Not yet,’ she said with a sigh, ‘but I’m working on it.’
I looked around again. Rory Balniel was leaning against the mantelpiece. Two girls who looked as though the head groom had been polishing and curry-combing them for weeks, so sleek and patently glossy were they, were vying for his attention.
He filled up their glasses from the whisky bottle, then suddenly, he lifted his head, yawned slightly and looked in my direction. I shot him a glance I hadn’t used in months. One of pure naked come-hithering sex. It didn’t work. He looked away without interest.
‘Hard luck,’ said Split Ends, avidly drinking in this classic case of indifference at first sight. ‘You’re obviously not his type.’
‘He’s probably queer,’ I said crossly. ‘Most Don Juans are latent homosexuals anyway.’
Split Ends looked at me pityingly, then grabbed a plate of food from a nearby table.
‘I’m going to offer him a stuffed date,’ she said with a giggle, and wheeled across the room towards him.
I turned my back and talked to the stockbroker. It was a calculated gesture. If anything was likely to turn Rory Balniel on, it was my back — brown, smooth and bare from the nape of my neck almost to the base of my spinal column, unmarred by any bikini marks.
I imagined his dark, restless eyes ranging over me and thinking, ‘That’s the sort of girl who sunbathes without a bikini top. Mettlesome, ready for anything, even being treated appallingly by Rory Balniel.’
But when I looked around, he was talking to Split Ends, and was still hemmed in by the masses.
Sexless beast, I decided; or perhaps it’s my sex appeal that’s slipping.
Cedric was right. These people were frivolous and uninteresting. The evening wore on. People were dancing in the next room, drinking a lot and necking a little. No-one was actually orgying. I kept making up my mind to go home, but some instinctive lack of self-preservation made me stay. I felt jolted, uneasy and horribly aware of Rory Balniel. There was an unconscious glitter about him, a sinister stillness that set him apart from everyone else. One had to admit his force.
Split Ends and the girl he’d arrived with, who I discovered was called Tiffany (I bet she made it up), were still trying to engage his attention. He was laughing a lot at their jokes, but a little late on cue. As he filled his glass, his hand was quite steady. Only the glint in his eyes betrayed how much he’d drunk.
Annie Richmond went up to him and removed the bottle of whisky, ‘Rory, love, I don’t mean to nag.’
‘Women always say that when they’re about to nag,’ he said, taking the whisky back from her.
People were really getting uncorked now. Couples had disappeared into other rooms, a beautiful African girl was dancing by herself. A fat man was telling filthy stories to an ugly American girl who had passed out on the floor. The Australian in the red shirt, who had chatted me up earlier, turned out to be Split Ends’ boyfriend. He was not pleased at her paying so much attention to Rory Balniel and came strutting into the room wearing a Mickey Mouse mask, expecting everyone to laugh.
‘Where did you get that mask?’ said Rory Balniel.
‘Annie gave it to me.’
‘You should wear it all the time. Every day. Always. To the office. It suits you. Gives your face a distinction it didn’t have before.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said the Australian furiously, wrenching off the mask. He nearly tripped over the ugly American girl who was now snoring on the floor.
‘Jesus Christ, why doesn’t somebody move her?’
‘She’s quite happy,’ said Rory Balniel. ‘I expect she needs sleep. Anyway, she gives the room a lived-in feeling.’
‘Someone might tread on her face,’ said the Australian, lugging her out of the way.
‘Good thing, too. It could only improve things,’ said Rory Balniel. He was trying to balance a glass on one of his fingers, managing to look like a Siamese cat. Inevitably, the glass crashed to the floor.
Split Ends and Tiffany howled with laughter. A blonde, attracted by the tinkle of broken glass, came over and joined the group.
‘I hear you paint,’ she said, ‘I’d love to sit for you sometime.’
Rory Balniel looked her over. ‘But would you lie for me later, darling? That’s the point.’
He started to undo the buttons of Split Ends’ dress.
‘I say,’ said the pink-faced stockbroker. ‘You can’t do that here. Unfair to Annie. Know what I mean?’
‘No,’ said Rory Balniel unpleasantly.
He had now undone all Split Ends’ buttons to reveal a very dirty bra.
‘Don’t,’ she said crossly, trying to do them up again.
His dark face set into a mask of malice. ‘If you throw yourself open to the public, sweetheart, you must expect people to want to see over you.’
Split Ends flounced off.
‘Good riddance,’ said the blonde, snuggling up to him.
‘She’s a silly cow,’ he said unemotionally, draining his drink.
‘What did you say?’ said the Australian, who was still smarting under the crack about the Mickey Mouse mask. ‘Are you referring to my girlfriend?’
‘I was referring to the silly cow,’ said Rory. ‘And if she’s your girlfriend, she’s even stupider than she looks. And don’t come on all macho with me, you bloody colonial, or I’ll kick you back down under, where you belong.’ Picking up a wine bottle, he deliberately cracked it on the edge of the mantelpiece and brandished the jagged end in the Australian’s face.
The Australian clenched his fists. ‘I’ll call the police,’ he said, half-heartedly.
‘
He picked up another glass from the mantelpiece, and smashed it on the floor.
The Australian puffed out his cheeks, and then beat a hasty retreat.
The two girls roared with laughter again, enjoying themselves hugely. Then they looked around for the next distraction.
