“As well as a philosopher.” Frances stood up. “Excuse me.” As she turned away she caught her hip painfully on the corner of the table. Eric’s wine spilled. “I’ll bring back a cloth,” she said, averting her face.
“That’s all right,” Eric said absently, dabbing up the liquid with his white linen napkin. The red wine, which they had made with cherry juice, was dark and strong, and they had got through a number of bottles already.
In the kitchen, Frances heard Carla running down the hall toward her; heard the slap of Carla’s feet, in her flat leather sandals. She turned to meet her, her face flushed, angry and defensive tears springing into her eyes.
“It’s a failure,” she said. “An utter mess.” She searched her pocket for a handkerchief, and Carla tore off a strip of kitchen roll and gave it to her. She blew her nose.
Carla’s sparrow arms went around her neck. “Nothing’s a failure. What do you mean, failure? Your life doesn’t ride on a Jeddah dinner party. Listen, they’re here because you’re obliged to them. That’s all. You feed them and your obligation ends. If they want to squabble and tell scare stories, let them.”
“Oh, go back, Carla, would you?” Frances scrubbed the tears from her face, leaving it blotchy. “Just keep the conversation going. If Pollard says anything else about my neighbor, just push a glass in his face, would you?”
“Yeah,” Carla said. Her quiff of tough dark hair seemed to bristle, like a terrier’s. “I’ll scar him for life,” she said.
Frances made the coffee. When she took in the tray Russel had vacated his chair, and taken hers; he had got a piece of paper from somewhere, and was demonstrating to Jeff, by means of figures, that smart investors were moving into nickel. Having no choice, she sat down by Daphne, and began to set out the cups. Daphne leaned toward her. “I hope you’re not making a mistake about that job.”
“I don’t think so. Coffee, everybody?”
“Carla and I usually drink herb tea,” Rickie offered.
“Pour the coffee,” Carla said.
“Okay,” Rickie said amiably. “It was just information, you know, not a suggestion.”
“I’ll pass these cups down, shall I?” Daphne resumed her confidential tone. “Tell me, Frances, how long have you been married?”
“Five years.”
“That’s nice.”
Frances felt a passion of enmity for the woman, a torrent of choked-off phrases, leaving a nasty taste in her mouth. Five years was nice, was it? What would fifteen years have been? Nicer still, or not nice at all? What would five months have been?
“So perhaps you’re thinking of starting your family?”
“Not really.”
“You shouldn’t leave it too late, you know.”
She felt Mrs. Parsons looking her up and down: thinking, no doubt, perhaps she has a little problem. Maybe her natural tact, which she was always referring to, would forbid her to say more.
“I think you’ve forgotten the sugar, Frances dear.”
“Does anyone take sugar?”
“I do,” Russel said.
Andrew began to get up. “I’ll get it,” Frances said.
In the kitchen, she took the opportunity to rinse a few glasses. Soon be over, she told herself. A pity that it’s taken a fortnight out of my life.
When she returned the topic of conversation had shifted. “I see they’ve put a tank trap outside the American Embassy,” Jeff was saying.
“Perennially popular target, I should suppose,” Eric Parsons said.
“Who for?” She slid the sugar bowl down to Russel.
“Anybody, really. There are a lot of people who don’t like the U.S. influence here. Even people within the royal family.”
“The newspapers are always denouncing us,” Carla said. “But it’s only for show. They need our guns.”
“It keeps the fundamentalists happy,” Rickie said. “All the—what do you call it. Rhetoric.”
“I wouldn’t say it kept them happy,” Carla said. “Not happy exactly. But you see, Frances, the Saudis are trying to keep the lid on things in this part of the world. They’re rich, thank you. What do they want with the Islamic revolution? Though they have to pay lip service.”
“So the Saudis give their money,” Rickie said. “And other Arabs give their blood.”
“My neighbor told me—my Saudi neighbor, I mean—that when girls’ schools were first opened, there were riots.”
“There were riots when TV was introduced,” Jeff said. “The King’s nephew was the ringleader. The security forces shot him dead.”
“They have a little go, every few years,” Mrs. Parsons said. “Some of them, they want the place to be like Iran.”
“They cut their
