wayward nerk. I tore my eyes off her. She sat in the rear seat. I was lodged perilously beside Guy. No wonder he was on a permanent high, with a bird like her. But how to keep such a creature? You’d have to be the world’s greatest powerhouse of excitement, handsome, constant dynamite, rich. I glanced at Guy and sighed. He seemed all of those things. We ripped through France, two deities and a scruff.
And made Troude, and the place we were going to collect the antique silver from. Sometimes, absolutely nothing is true. Ever noticed? This was one of those times.
It was a garden party. I was astonished, then embarrassed, then mortified. Talk about wealth.
“Welcome, Lovejoy!” Troude greeted me with such calm pleasure I could have sworn it was nearly genuine. He advanced across the grass beckoning waitresses and acolytes. “So glad you could make it!” He did his merry twinkle. “Your wanderlust is cancelled, Lovejoy. Henceforth, adhere to the schedule.”
“Henceforth I shall, thither,” I promised. He said schedule the English way,
The enormous mansion wore lawns like skirts extending in all directions. Groves, garden statues, pools, small summerhouses, it looked a playground. Primary colours everywhere. The house itself was regal, symmetrical, balustrades, wide stone steps up to a magnificent walk. I’d thought Versailles was somewhere else. Or maybe France has a lot of them knocking about.
The guests were even more ornate. They looked as if they’d brought summer with them. No rain on their parade, thank you. Cocktail dresses the norm. From there, every lady zoomed upward in extravagance, Royal Ascot without the horses. I looked at a statue of a discus-thrower. I could have sworn he was breathing, put it down to imagination. I was nervous in case I was going to cop it for going missing.
“Now, Lovejoy! None of your famous bashfulness!” he chirruped. A glass appeared in my hand, cold as charity, moisture on the bowl. Ancient Bohemian glass, too. Beyond belief. (Watch out for modern Bohemian fakes—they are our current epidemic. The best are vases, costing half a year’s average wage if genuine, the price of a railway snack if fake. Sixteen inches tall, ornate damson-coloured vases engraved with forests and deer, they’re basically a tall lidded cylinder on a stem, such a deep colour it’ll look almost black. Sinners buy these fake Bohemians, then sell them at country auctions as genuine.)
“Come and meet some of our visitors!” Troude was saying. “You’ve already met Veronique and Guy, I see!” He chuckled, introduced me to a charming couple from Madagascar who had a yacht. “Lovejoy hates sailing,” Troude told them. “Though his next movie’s about a shipping disaster.” He glanced at me in warning. “That wasn’t confidential information, Lovejoy, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t.” It also wasn’t information.
“Lovejoy’s company has four wholly-owneds in LA,” Troude said, smiling. “He changes their names on a weekly basis!”
The couple from Madagascar laughed. Troude laughed. God, but I wished we’d jack it in and stop laughing. Even Monique, among a crowd of admirers, was laughing. I looked again. That discus-thrower really had actually breathed. Laughing too? Here came Paulie and Almira. How close were they, really?
“Lovejoy.”
“Wotcher.” God, I hated Paulie’s name, the swine. I couldn’t help scanning the garden party for Katta. Difficult to hide anybody that fat. “Almira.”
“Hello, darling,” from Almira, on edge but laughingly. “Sorry I had to dash. But you got here!” She was exquisite in a stunning flared dress of magnolia, usual among this slender clique. And she was getting away with high heels, when the other women had gone for less rakish footwear. I’d have been proud of her, if I hadn’t noticed her husband Jervis Galloway, MP, deep in conversation among a gathering of colourfuls. Nobody introduced me. It was Diana’s paramour Jay, all right. When I drifted his way I got deflected. The statue breathed again.
“Come, Lovejoy!” Troude was affability itself, steering me round, introducing me, saying I was here to finance movie deals with Italian money. I kept my wits about me, saying the deal was for five movies and all that. I clammed up when people asked who’d star in them, said that was still being negotiated.
“He’s cagey!” Troude laughed. The people laughed. Even I laughed. And now a statue of The Three Graces, naked women embracing, breathed. And a zephyr gently moved their hair.
“The movie industry’s crazy,” I laughed, to laughter.
Talk, chatter in the golden sun, Veronique and Guy being delightedly admired strolling in their magnificent world, everybody loving or lusting after Monique—more sedately dressed than the others, dark green with silver jewellery. And Marimee there, looking not quite at attention. An orchestra played soft airs in a wrought-iron pagoda. Lully? Something that way on. Everything was superficial, no digging deep for motive or disgorging woes. It was so beautiful it troubled me. . I sought out my Madagascar couple. They looked ready for the Olympics. Everybody was gold and gorgeous. I felt sick. They wanted to talk about yachting, sails and motor engines, races I’d never heard of. He was a friend of the Algerian couple, the man explained, brought into this syndicate by the Mexican couple. I wondered, was it one per nation? If no, I was superfluous, seeing Almira’d fetched hubby J for Jervis. They liked the idea, they told me, surreptitiously lowering their voices. I said I did, too. They asked me how long it would take. I asked from what to what. From start to finish, they asked. I liked their intensity—first time anybody had stopped laughing—but said it depended on how soon we got started.
“Can I take him away?” Troude begged, just as I’d noticed that the shadows cast by the sun hadn’t moved, though the trees in the distance had glided quite a foot or two along the background of the orchestra’s summerhouse. How come?
“See you later,” I smiled, going with him. I looked at the grass. It was non-grass. Pretty good fake, but definitely bud.
We headed for the house. Was this whole dump some sort of film studio? A set? I looked forward to getting inside to see if it was real or just a giant doll’s house that turned continually to face the sun just like its garden. A mansion house that stays put while its gardens swivels is in deep trouble.
The house felt real, lovely and genuine. I keep saying how a house responds when you step in through the door. It susses you out and thinks, who’s this newcomer? If it likes you, it welcomes you. If not, then you’ll never be happy there. It’s a person, is a house. Be polite to it. I silently commiserated with it for losing its real garden, in exchange for a look-alike turntable phoney lawn plonked on top. Maybe their antique silver was here.
Marimee was there before us. “Lovejoy did well with the cover story,” he said. “Lovejoy will receive sanction for the default.”
