She disliked, in particular, the way the flesh welled over Russel’s collar. She thought, you think you’re such a philanthropist, don’t you, to marry her and give her a couple of children; Mr. Big-Heart. Carla Zussman, from the other end of the table, gave her a tight, compressed smile.
“Ah, Frances,” Eric Parsons said. “If you’ve finished flitting about … I’ve heard of a job prospect. An old friend of mine is leaving the Kingdom, and his wife used to do a bit of filing for this firm … I’ve got her telephone number here.”
“I don’t want to do filing,” Frances said, summoning a reserve of pleasantness. I must do better than this, she thought; after all, I invited them here.
“Oh, but it’s an opportunity,” Daphne Parsons said. She tilted her head charmingly, and gave Frances her best poison-madonna smile; with her knife, she delicately scraped at the fragment of veal on her plate.
“It’s not what I call an opportunity,” Frances said.
“You’re not worried about the police, are you?”
“Not really, but then if you are going to do something illegal, it ought to be something a bit more exciting.”
“But what do you do all day? You don’t see anyone, do you?”
“I see my neighbors.”
“Oh, you bother with Raji’s wife.” Russel stubbed out his cigarette in the saucer she had found for him. “Shouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t try to put some sort of a deal your way, Andrew. Raji’s a crook.”
Jeff said, with his mouth full, “They’re all crooks.” He reached for the carafe, and Andrew shifted in his chair, watchful host, ready to replenish it when there was a gap in the conversation. “But then I’m a cynic,” Jeff said.
“Are you?” Frances asked him. “Are you proud of that?”
“Yes … why not?”
“I think being a cynic only means you’ve had a lot of disappointments in your life. That’s nothing to be proud of.”
There was a short pause. “Very philosophical,” Russel said. “Frances is a clever girl. She thinks she’s above office work, Daphne.”
“I do, really,” Frances said.
“It’s the best offer you’ll get, I’m afraid,” Daphne said airily. “You’ll get awfully bored, as the months go by.”
“Yes, I know you mean for the best, but I’m just not cut out to be a filing clerk.”
Carla Zussman put down her fork. “Honey,” she said firmly, “if you don’t want the job, you don’t take it.”
The doorbell rang. Saved, Frances thought. “I’ll get it.” There’s a limit to how rude you can be at your own dinner party, she thought; more’s the pity.
Yasmin was giving a dinner party too, though for her it was more routine; Frances had made extra bowls of salad, and had taken one across the hall, and one upstairs to Samira. Sarsaparilla had opened the door, and a tear had run slowly down her cheek and dropped into the vinaigrette.
Now Yasmin had returned some dessert, a pale and creamy dish strewn with chopped nuts. Frances tasted it. Andrew came into the kitchen behind her. “Are you going to give it to them? It looks a bit unappetizing.”
“It’s nice.” She offered him some, on the tip of a spoon, but he backed off.
“Try and be nice yourself,” he said. “What’re those black spots that are in everything?”
“It came off the pans.”
“Oh, no … Did it? Why didn’t you notice?”
“Because I’m incompetent,” she said calmly. She bent down to take a jug of cream from the fridge. “I’d never make a filing clerk.”
As she returned to the dining room she hugged herself, mentally, whispering consoling words. They’ve drunk their wine, haven’t they, they’ve eaten their veal, or most of it. They haven’t said, is this by any chance Saudiflon? They can’t have seen it. Or politeness wouldn’t constrain them. Politeness? Pollard? Russel Smallbone? They haven’t really noticed the food, that’s what it is. They’re too busy boasting, about the vacations they’re planning for next summer, about how their unit trusts have gone up. She resumed her seat. Only the Zussmans were not boasting. They had transferred their salad from their bowls to their plates, and they were cutting the lettuce up small, and eating every scrap, eating every leaf, with a concentrated energy; as if they had been told that some starving child in Africa would be glad of it. Rickie reached again for the salad bowl, the hairs on his arm—he had rolled up his sleeves—a pale fuzzy crest in the candlelight.
“Have you heard what’s going on at the Philippines Embassy?” Daphne said. “It seems the place is full of maids who’ve run away from Saudi households. And the Embassy staff won’t repatriate them until they come up with bribes. Apparently there are hundreds of them, camping out in the grounds.”
“How do you know?” Andrew said, interested. “Has somebody seen them?”
“Well, I have it on good authority,” Mrs. Parsons said. “I was told by a committee member, at the British Wives.”
“Hundreds seems a lot,” Carla said. “Still, you never know in this town.”
“And the Filipino nurses,” Marion said. “Did you hear about the nurses, Fran?”
“I don’t think I did.”
“I thought everybody knew.”
“She wouldn’t hear it from her neighbors, would she?” Russel said. “Have some sense, Marion.”
