The Line of Beauty

successful recital, I thought.'

'Did you,' said Lady Partridge; and then, merely to be agreeable, 'I liked the last piece she played. I think I've heard it before.'

'Oh, the Khachaturian.'

She gave him a very dry look. 'Got a swing to it.'

'Mm, it certainly has'-Nick laughed quietly and delightedly, and after a second Lady Partridge smiled slyly too, as if she'd been cleverer than she knew.

A waitress came past and they both took new glasses of champagne. 'Extraordinary people… ' Lady Partridge was saying. As a rule she was happy and busy in Gerald's political world, she treated his colleagues very graciously, and felt a fierce thrill when, amongst the drab shop talk that alas made up most of their social dealings, they gave her an undiluted fix of policy, the really unanswerable need to reduce manufacturing, curb immigration, rationalize 'mental health' (what abuse and waste there were there!), and get public services back into private hands. They were like rehearsals for the telly, and even more inspiring. They liquidated every doubt. Nick said,

'That's Lord Toft, isn't it… the man who builds all the roads.'

'Nothing extraordinary about Bernie Toft,' Lady Partridge said. Sir Jack himself of course had been in the construction business. 'I don't know why Gerald has to ask that awful artist man.'

'Oh, Norman, you mean? He's not very good, is he?'

'He's a red-hot socialist,' said Lady Partridge.

They both looked over to where Norman Kent was standing by the piano, holding on to it symbolically, and probably conscious of his portrait of Toby hanging behind him, as if it was an element in his own portrait. Most people dodged him with a preoccupied smile and pretended to be searching for someone else, but Catherine and Jasper were talking to him. His voice rose emotionally as he said, 'Of course you must, my dear girl, paint and paint and paint,' and shook Catherine by the shoulder.

'Do you happen to know who that young man is with my granddaughter?' Lady Partridge said.

'Yes, it's Jasper, he's her new boyfriend.'

'Ah… ' Lady Partridge gave an illusionless nod or two; but said, 'He looks a cut above the last one, anyway.'

'Yes, he's all right…'

'He even appears to own shoes.'

'I know, amazing!' Nick's main feeling about Jasper, very clear to him at the moment, was that he needed to be tied up face down on a bed for an hour or two. 'He's an estate agent, actually.'

'Very good-looking,' said Lady Partridge, in her own odd lustful way. 'I imagine he sells masses of houses.'

Trudi Titchfield came past with a grimace, as if not expecting to be remembered. 'Lovely party,' she said. 'It's such a lovely room for a party. We sadly only have the garden flat. Well, one has the garden, but the rooms are rather low.'

'Yes,' said Lady Partridge.

Trudi lowered her voice. 'Not long of course before a very special party. The Silver Wedding…? I hear the PM's coming.'

'I don't think the Queen's coming,' said Lady Partridge.

'No, not the Queen-the PM'-in a radiant whisper. 'The Queen! No, no…'

Lady Partridge blinked magnificently. 'All rather hush-hush,' she said.

Sam Zeman came past and said, 'You're making me a rich man, my dear!' which was charming and funny, but he didn't stop to expand. Perhaps it was just the code of business, but Nick felt they'd used up their store of friendship in the gym and the restaurant, and that they would never be close to each other again.

In the crowd around the buffet (all chaffing courtesy and furtive ruth-lessness) little Nina was mixing with her audience, who in general were nice enough to say 'Well done!' and ask her where on earth she had learnt to play like that. She had simple expressionless English, and the English people talked to her in the same way, but louder. 'So your father, is in prison? You poor thingl' Just in front of Nick, Lady Kimbolton was greeting the Tippers. Lady Kimbolton's first name was Dolly, and even her close friends found ways of avoiding the natural salutation.

'Good evening, Dolly,' said Sir Maurice, with a satirical little bow.

'Hello!' said Sally Tipper. 'Well, that was very enjoyable.'

'I know, heartbreaking,' said Lady Kimbolton. 'I imagine you saw the Telegraph this morning?'

'I did indeed,' said Sir Maurice. 'Congratulations!'

'I do like to hear music in the home,' Lady Tipper said, 'as in the times of Beethoven and Schubert themselves.'

'I know… ' said Lady Kimbolton, her square practical face tilting this way and that to see what was on the table.

'Nigel must be chuffed,' Sir Maurice said.

'Maurice and I have been to a number of concerts at friends' houses lately, it's an excellent move,' said Lady Tipper, who was known to be artistic.

'I know, there seems to be an absolute mania for concerts,' Lady Kimbolton said. 'This is the second one I've been to this year.'

'I hear Lionel Kessler, you know…? had the Medici Quartet at Hawkeswood for a marvellous evening with Giscard d'Estaing.'

'I think that's really what gave Gerald the idea,' said Nick, joshing in between them as they got to the table.

'Oh, hello…'

'Hello, Dolly,' said Nick. He knew he could do quite a funny sketch about Gerald's growing preoccupation with the concert idea, which had come to a peak of competitive angst when Denis Beckwith, a handsome old saurian of the right enjoying fresh acclaim these days, had hired Kiri te Kanawa to sing Mozart and Strauss at his eighty-fifth birthday party. But something made him tread carefully. 'You know how competitive he is,' he said.

'We're all for competition!' said Dolly Kimbolton, claiming her plate of salmon from the waiter.

'Jolly good, jolly good… ' said Gerald, weaving through behind them. 'Clever you to introduce us to a new artiste,' said Sally Tipper.

'I liked that last thing she played,' said Sir Maurice.

Gerald looked round to see where Nina was. 'We thought rather than going for a big name…'

The 'Badminton' lady was darting in for a bread roll. 'You're so right,' she said. 'I hear Michael's hiring the Royal Philharmonic for their summer party.'

'Michael…?' said Gerald.

'Oh?… Heseltine? Yup… yup… ' She hunched in fake apology as she backed away. 'Yup, the whole blinking RPO. What it must be costing.

But they've had a good year,' she added, in a tenderly defiant tone.

'I thought we'd had a pretty good year,' Gerald muttered.

Nick had been avoiding Bertrand Ouradi, but as he turned from the table with his plate there Bertrand was. 'Aha, my friend the aesthete!' he said, and Nick was reminded of an annoying foreign waiter, perhaps, or taxi driver, for whom he was identified by a single joke. But he was able to say excitedly,

'How are you?'

Bertrand didn't answer-he seemed to suggest the question was both trivial and impertinent. He looked around the room, where people were grouping on the sofas and at little tables brought in by the staff and swiftly covered with white cloths. He didn't know where to settle, among these braying English snobs; his expression was proud and wary. 'Bloody hot, isn't it,' he said to Nick. 'Come and talk to me'; and he led him, again like a waiter, with half-impatient glances over his shoulder, among the dotted supper tables-not to the cool of the great rear balcony but to a window seat at the front, looking onto the street. Perching there, knee to knee, partly screened by the roped-back curtains, they had a worrying degree of privacy. 'Bloody hot,' said Bertrand again. 'Thank god that beast has got bloody air conditioning': he nodded at the maroon Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow parked at the kerb