They’ve got five hundred coming for drinks, if you can believe it. Sort of a last hurrah, I suppose. I wonder who they’ll send.”
“They’re talking about Annenberg,” Larry said.
“Who?” Nick’s mother said, reaching for the menu.
“ TV Guide,” Larry said, smiling. “Campaign contributor. Generous.”
“It’s too bad,” his mother said. “They love David here. Which Annenberg? Philadelphia?”
Larry nodded. “Remember Moses? Nailed before your time,” he said to Nick, “for income tax evasion. Eight million penalty-in 1940 dollars. Makes you wonder what he really did. Now the son’s on his way to the Court of St James’s.” He shook his head. “It’s a wonderful country. Nobody remembers anything.”
And for a moment, in the pink Watteau room, it seemed nobody did. Water over the dam, the merciful absolution of time. Larry, grinning and casual, was on his way to Paris, and Nick’s mother, studying the menu, hadn’t heard a thing.
“Maybe he’ll be better than you think,” Nick said.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” his mother said. “The parties will never be the same. Never.”
Chapter 4
The cars were backed up to the gate at Winfield House, so Nick paid off the taxi and walked the length of the driveway. Behind the hundred lighted windows Regent’s Park stretched for miles, as dark as the night sky, so that the party seemed at first like a country-house ball, with Marine guards instead of livery men and Daimlers and Bentleys rolling up like coaches. Nick had come late to avoid the crush, but there was still a line on the steps, another for the coats, then a final clot at the entrance to the big room where the Bruces were receiving the guests. Nick worked his way around the edge, sure that the Bruces wouldn’t recognize him anyway, and grabbed a glass from a passing tray. The room was pretty, but so crowded that the walls and furniture receded into a flat backdrop, blocked out by all the people onstage. There was a room beyond, and presumably another beyond that, bright and noisy, and waiters moved between them, their plates of canapes emptying and reappearing with the magic of the loaves and the fishes. Nick passed one of the makeshift bars covered with flutes of champagne and kept moving. There was nothing as anonymous as a big party, so long as you pretended you were on your way to something and didn’t stand against the wall.
The crowd was hard to read, a hodgepodge of English and American voices, and Nick guessed that it was a general payback party-embassy workers, F.O. civil servants, transatlantic businessmen. They talked shop and the weather, polite and innocuous. Somebody’s new posting. A skiing holiday. No one mentioned the demonstration. In the next room he spied Davey, the journalist who’d tried to interview Redgrave, but he had moved on too; his hair was slicked back now, part of the pinstriped crowd. Nick wondered if he was working, finding an item for tomorrow’s chat columns, or just enjoying a perk. He was staring over his wineglass, his eyes fixed, and Nick followed the gaze to see what had caught his attention.
She was standing at the edge of a small group, her back to Davey, wrapped in a sleeveless red dress whose skirt, hugging her, ended somewhere on her upper thighs. When the man behind her moved, the full length of her legs sprang into view, a jolt of flesh in the crowded room, and Nick’s eyes followed them down to her high heels. He glanced back at Davey, who had tilted his head for a better view, and grinned in spite of himself. Only a crowd this polite or self-absorbed would miss the only thing worth noticing. Davey, all bad manners and frank appraisal, had her to himself. Nick watched, fascinated, to see if he would make his move. But the wonderful legs seemed wasted on him too — he took another drink, then looked away, back on the job.
Nick walked over to her. It was an outrageous dress for a reception, about six inches short of propriety, a Chelsea skirt. She was probably one of the English secretaries at the embassy, who had dressed for a real party and ended up here instead. Her hair was piled on top of her head, swept up tightly in her one concession to formality, but a few strands dangled to the side like loose promises. When she turned toward him, he stopped. He saw the freckles across the bridge of her nose, then the eyes, as surprised as his.
“Flaxman, double-oh two nine,” he said, smiling.
“What are you doing here?” she said, too surprised to stop the question.
He laughed. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I was brought,” she said, waving her hand and the small silver purse that hung from her wrist. “But really, what are you doing here?”
“I was brought too. Don’t worry, I’m not following you,” he said, stepping closer.
“You look different,” she said, nodding at his suit.
“So do you. I like your dress.”
She blushed. “I didn’t know. I’ve never been to an open house before. I thought-” She stopped. “It’s not just the suit, it’s the hair. You cut your hair.”
He shrugged. “Part of the dress code. It’ll grow back. Who brought you?”
“What? Oh, nobody. I mean-God, that sounds terrible. A friend of mine at the Observer. He thought I’d like to see the other half.”
“Well, here they are. You’re a journalist?”
“Just freelance. I had some stuff in Rolling Stone last year, though. A few other places.”
“Is that what you were doing this morning?”
“No, that was me.”
“You know, I’ve been wondering all day-what happened there? Did we just meet or what?”
She smiled. “They said at your flat that you were there. I was going anyway, so-”
“But-”
“Look, it’s no big mystery. Somebody told me to look you up and I thought I’d check it out first, that’s all.”
“And?”
“I’m still checking.”
He held her eyes for a moment. “Come to any decision yet?”
“About what?”
“About whether we’re going to go out.”
“Is that what goes on at these parties?”
“If you wear a dress like that.”
She looked away. “Look, let me ex-”
“Nick, there you are,” Larry said, coming up to them. “Having a good time?”
“Hi, Larry. Larry, Molly Chisholm,” he said, “an old friend. My father, Larry Warren.”
She looked rattled, either at the introduction or at Larry’s appreciative look, but managed to shake hands.
“I told you you’d find someone you knew,” Larry said to Nick, still looking at her. “It’s a Bruce specialty. I don’t suppose you’ve seen your mother anywhere?”
Nick shook his head.
“Then she’s probably looking for me. I’ll see you later. Nice to meet you,” he said to Molly, nodding. “You’re joining us later, I hope?”
“That’s just what we were talking about,” Nick said.
“Good, good. I look forward,” Larry said, moving off.
“You will, won’t you?” Nick said, but she was watching Larry slipping into another group, his hand already on someone’s shoulder.
“You remembered my name,” she said, turning back to him.
“Seems only fair. You already knew mine. How did you, by the way?”
“I told you, a friend-” She stopped, putting something together. “You’re that Warren? I didn’t know.”
Nick smiled. “That Warren. He’s my father. Come and have dinner anyway. You can see what it’s like in the enemy camp.”
“I had no idea,” she said, suddenly nervous. “God, this is all mixed up. I never expected-”
