Adrian dipped his hand in the pocket.
Rundell giggled.
'You see! I've cut the pockets out. And no undies. Isn't that brilliant?'
'You tarty great tart . . .'
'Keep going now you've started, for God's sake.'
*
Adrian reached Gladys and sat down with a thump. Down below, Rundell blew an extravagant kiss and skipped off to replenish his strength before trying the game on someone else.
Why can't I be satisfied with Tarty? Adrain asked himself, wiping his fingers on a handkerchief. He's sexy. He's fun. I can do things with him I wouldn't dream of doing with Cartwright. Oh hell, here comes someone else.
'Friend or foe?'
Pigs Trotter lumbered into view.
'Friend!' he panted.
'La! You are quite done up, my lord. Come and sit this one out with me.'
Trotter sat down while Adrian fanned himself with a dock-leaf.
'I always think the cotillion too fatiguing for the summer months. Persons of consequence should avoid it. When I have danced a cotillion, I know for a fact that I look plain beyond example. The minuet is, I believe, the only dance for gentlemen of rank and tone. You agree with me there, my lord, I make no doubt? I think it was Horry Walpole who remarked, 'In this life one should try everything once except incest and country dancing.' It is an excellent rule, as I remarked to my mother in bed last night. Perhaps you will do me the honour of accompanying me to the card room later? A game of Deep Bassett is promised and I mean to take my lord Darrow for five hundred guineas.'
'Healey,' said Trotter. 'I'm not saying you did and I'm not saying you didn't, I don't really care. But Woody Nightshade . . .'
'Woody Nightshade,' said Adrian.
'A poor thing, but mine own.'
'You've read his article, I suppose?' said Pigs Trotter.
'I may have glanced through it a few times in an idle hour,' said Adrian. 'Why do you ask?'
'Well ... '
There was a catch in Trotter's throat. Adrian looked at him in alarm. Tears were starting up in his piggy eyes.
Oh hell. Other people's tears were more than Adrian could cope with. Did you put an arm round them? Did you pretend not to notice? He tried the friendly, cajoling approach.
'Hey, hey, hey! What's the matter?'
'I'm sorry, Healey. I'm really sorry b-but . . .'
'You can tell me. What is it?'
Trotter shook his head miserably and sniffed.
'Here look,' said Adrian, 'there's a handkerchief. Oh . . . no, second thoughts this one's not so clean. But I have got a cigarette. Blow your nose on that.'
'No thanks, Healey.'
'I'll have it then.'
He eyed Trotter nervously. It was cheating to let your emotions out like this. And what was a lump like Pigs doing with emotions anyway? He had found a handkerchief of his own and was blowing his nose with a horrible mucous squelch. Adrian lit his cigarette and tried to sound casual.
'So what's troubling you, Trot? Is it something in the article?'
'It's nothing. It's just that bit where he starts talking about . , .'
Trotter drew a copy of
Adrian looked at him in surprise.
'I wouldn't get caught with this if I were you.'
'It's all right, I'm going to throw it away. I've copied it all out by hand anyway.'
Trotter dabbed a finger down on a paragraph.
'There,' he said, 'read that bit.'
''And they call it puppy-love,'' Adrian read, ''well I'll guess they'll never know how the young heart really feels.' The words of Donny Osmond, philosopher and wit, strike home as ever. How can they punish us and grind us down when we are capable of feelings strong enough to burst the world open? Either they know what we go through when we are in love, in which case their callousness in not warning us and helping us through it is inexcusable, or they have never felt what we feel and we have every right to call them dead. Love shrinks your stomach. It pickles your guts. But what does it do to your mind? It tosses the sandbags overboard so the balloon can soar. Suddenly, you're above the ordinary . . .'
