Soldier No More

'Good heavens! Isn't it David Roche?'

The sun switched on and off and on, in blinding flashes between red-black, and his tongue was half as big again as it ought to be, and tasted of armpits.

'It is David! I thought I recognised the car back there—the Volkswagen—your posszonwagen! Wake up, David!'

A shadow blotted out the sun above him as he fumbled for his dark glasses, which had slipped off his nose somehow while he had been dozing.

'David who-did-you-say?' Another shadow took the place of the first one, a bigger shadow with a fluffy aureole of hair.

'Do I know him?'

'How on earth do I know? But I shouldn't think so—David's an army-type, commuting between the OEECD and NATO, doing frightfully important things . . . I met him at Fontainebleau—wake up, David!'

Roche managed to get his sunglasses back in position at last, to filter out the glare.

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'What are you doing here, David?'

One thing was for sure—or two things, counting the fact that he had never done anything important between the OEECD

and NATO as the first one of them: he had never seen this girl before in his life.

He blinked at her, the glasses sliding on the sweat which had accumulated on his nose. 'Gillian Baker— Jilly!'

There was another girl coming into view, alongside the big one with the fluffy golden hair, a small, dark-haired one; three of them . . . but the one who was due to recognise him was doing the talking, and she had to be Gillian Baker—

Thompson on Gillian Baker: Foreign Office assistant principal, Cheltenham Ladies' College and Oxford— plain as a pikestaff but super-bright— she'll get you on to the inside . . . not one of ours, but they're doing us a favour for once— someone high up must have twisted their arm, they've never done as much for us before . . . but they've got her in, and she'll get you in— you met her at a NATO

reception and took her out to dinner afterwards . . . 'Jilly', you call her, and take it from there—

'I adore soldiers!' exclaimed the big girl. 'And isn't he gorgeous—what a tan!'

Roche didn't feel gorgeous as he staggered to his feet. 'And tall, too!' The big girl seemed set on demoralising him.

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'What are you doing here, David? Are you on leave?' Jilly persisted. 'Take no notice of my predatory friend.'

'I was trying to sleep.' It was hard to take no notice of the big girl: Jilly wasn't really as plain as a pikestaff, she had a beautiful slender body, just sufficiently rounded, to go with her snub nose and freckles; but the big girl would have stopped any merely casual conversation, not only with her splendid proportions but also with her slightly glazed expression, which contrived to be eager at the same time.

'We were just going for a swim,' said the big girl encouragingly. 'We always swim here—isn't that lucky!'

Roche couldn't help smiling at her, even though whatever it had been, this encounter hadn't been a matter of luck.

'Come on, Jilly—introduce us!' said the big girl. 'Don't be mean.'

'Do shut up, Lexy,' said the dark-haired girl. 'How can anyone introduce anyone when you're burbling all the time?'

'Oh—sorry! Sorry everyone—' The glazed-eager look embraced them all, settling finally on Roche '—I mean, if he's yours, Jilly darling, I mean double-plus sorry—'

'Oh God!' murmured the dark girl.

'He's not mine, Lexy,' said Jilly. 'He's not anyone's.'

Lexy's mouth—a big generous mouth, revealing very white teeth with gaps in the centre—opened wide.

'Don't say anything, Lexy,' said Jilly. 'David—Lady Alexandra Perowne—David Roche—Meriel Stephanides—

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David Roche. End of introduction.'

'Lexy for short. Pleestameecha, David.' Lady Alexandra Perowne began to unbutton her dress.

'Hello, David,' said Meriel Stephanides, offering a cool, long-fingered hand to Roche. The dark hair and the pale olive skin were as Mediterranean as the surname, but the voice was English home counties, refined in some exclusive boarding school. Also, now that he looked at her properly, he realised that she was the most arrestingly beautiful of all, so much so that he wanted to go on staring at her with pure platonic admiration, even while trying to take in Lady Alexandra's unbuttoning with entirely different thoughts in mind. For if Lady Alexandra was a splendid English rose in full bloom—or maybe more like a great big prize chrysanthemum—Miss Stephanides was some rarer and more exotic flower, delicate and subtly perfumed.

'Do you hunt?' Lady Alexandra's fingers stopped midway down.

Roche swallowed. 'I beg your pardon, Lady Alexandra?'

'Are you cavalry? And 'Lexy', not 'Lady'. Are you cavalry?