The Great California Game

The hostess was an elegant youngish blonde wearing an enormously long diamond neck chain from the shoulders. She’d indicated that a Spanish bloke wanted some grub, so I hurtled decorously, trying to look, as waiters do, that I’d just been about to get round to him any second. As I served—Royal Doulton, no less—I caught a momentary flash of complicity between two glances. Well, my business was to see this guest got his fair share of mange-tout peas, never mind if he had something going with the hostess.

“Lovejoy.” Orly’s quiet murmur took me out of the dining room in a lull.

“Yes?”

He rounded on me. “Pay attention in there! Can’t you concentrate a single moment?”

“Eh? I am, I am!” I’d thought I was doing brilliantly.

“You’re not!” He gave instructions. “No more staring at the walls. What is the matter? You’ll have us cemented in the East River. Don’t you know who these people are?”

Well, no. “Okay, okay.” I returned to the trenches as Orly clapped his hands imperiously for the waitresses to clear the main course away. I’d met blokes of Orly’s temperament before, of course. His sort gets worked up over nothing.

The pudding was some impossible concoction — hot outside pastry with a cold fruit middle—which I served smiling to prove I was all attention. I almost dribbled into their dishes, I was so hungry. I even earned a smile from a dark lady in deep blue velvet who wanted some more wine. Her neighbour was a showy bloke who was all teeth. I was sure I’d seen his teeth somewhere on television.

And that was it, really. The reason I’m going on about this dinner is that it nearly got me killed. As in death.

IT was afterwards that my problems began. The guests drifted out to a loose chat, drinks and coffee in the larger of the two salons. My first real glimpse into American affluence. It convinced me that America was and is the mightiest nation that ever was. It had quirks, I knew, for wasn’t that a Thomas Cole landscape painting placed beside a genuine Persian seventeenth-century tile wall panel—over a hideous modern lounge suite? Well, no explaining what money will get up to.

One small incident: the host, a neat compact man who could shut people up by simply drawing breath to speak, made an announcement when everybody was sprung from the nosh. Orly signalled me to freeze. Mr Granger stood self-effacingly among the foliage. We serfs were not to be noticed.

“Ladies and gentlemen. A toast. I give you the Game.”

“The Game! Win, Nicko!”

Nobody stood, though everybody seemed happily enthusiastic. Oddly, the blue velvet lady, Sophie Somebody, had to strain her grimace to its limit. Didn’t like games? I caught her careful evasion of the Spanish gent’s gaze, and his of hers, because I was standing nearby her at the time with a tray—silver, a genuine antique Boulton and lovely to clutch. I was dying to look for the hallmark. She wanted some more wine. I naturally stooped to pour, and found something worrying.

She was wearing some lovely jewellery — except it was modern crap. Diamonds really are precious, but phony diamonds aren’t. Maybe wearing non-diamonds in the super circuit was the reason for her concealed anxiety? There’s nothing really wrong with a bit of fakery. I mean, look at me.

Mr Granger inclined his head. I zoomed for glasses, refills, after-supper chocolates. The glass wasn’t quite Jacob Sang, but it was rich Edwardian so I was pleased. And Mrs. Sophie Velvet caused me another pang a second or two later because I saw she’d put her glass on the Sheraton Pembroke table and the glass foot was wet, silly cow. She was moving across to speak with Spanish, whose wife was laughing merrily with the politician, so there was no telling how long it had been there. I crossed quickly, blotted it dry, whispered to Orly that I’d attend to it later, and the party chattered on with nobody noticing we were into danger time.

The guests left about one in the morning. I’d been helping to clear away. Then Jennie caught me examining the Sheraton piece, on my own. Its surface was marvellous, took my breath away.

“Lovejoy? What are you doing?”

“Eh?” I straightened up, worried by the stain. Satinwood can be a pig. “Oh, there’s a mark on this wood, ma’am. I caught it in time, but —”

“Sure that’s all?” She was looking about suspiciously. I was narked at her tone.

All right, so there was nobody else about and Orly and the rest were packing up to go, but a mark is death even on the best furniture.

“Knock it off, love. These library steps are worth a mint.”

“Jennie?”

Light flooded down the lounge from a tall doorway. Nicko stood there, his wife Gina and the politician visible inside the room behind. It seemed to be a large study, loads of books lining the walls. Lovely.

“It’s this waiter, Nicko. I caught him going through the drawers.”

I licked my lips in a panic. Jennie was looking at me in a mixture of apology and anger. “There are no drawers, guv.”

We did the what’s-this-guv-bit for a second or two. Nicko moved closer. I noticed two of the silent flunkeys had silently reappeared.

The host positioned himself directly in front of me, but his eyes stared obliquely off at an angle. It gave me the creeps.

“What were you doing?”

“It’s a set of library steps made to look like a table. Sheraton often did that. And Ince and Mayhew —”

“Jennie?”