'She'll have to get permission from Sir Theodore first,' said Mother. 'And from Mr Stringfellow, of course.'
'I have to ask their permission for everything,' Petunia apologized from the bed.
'And my permission, I might say,' added Mrs Bancroft. 'I'm still your mother, you know.'
'Yes, Mum,' said Petunia.
16
'I do so hope the young lady is free,' agreed Lord Nutbeam, when I arrived at his suite to explain the snags. 'I'd planned such a splendid little evening. There will be champagne, of course, and a band to play South American dances. Have you heard of the rumba, Doctor? It does my hip tremendous good. I wanted fireworks as well, but Ethel seems most disinclined.'
I made a consoling remark about Guy Fawkes coming but once a year, and he gave a sigh and went on, 'Don't you think, Doctor, that people are becoming such spoilsports these days? Not Ethel, of course.
The dear girl is most understanding. I wanted to buy a tank of those tiny fishes in the Aquarium and serve them frozen in the water-ice tomorrow night. It would have been such a capital lark. But the hotel management wouldn't hear of it.'
I shot the old boy a glance. I'd wondered more than once since arriving at Monte Carlo whether his wife's diagnosis of pre-senile dementia wasn't correct. I supposed it was all right to make your medical adviser an apple- pie bed, and to stick a champagne bucket on his bedroom door to dowse him with ice-cold water on retiring. Or even to bust in with shouts of 'Fire!' when he's enjoying an early night, and have him looking pretty stupid running into the hall in his pyjamas with everyone else in tails and tiaras moving off to the opera. All right when your adviser's a chap like me, perhaps, but if Lord Nutbeam really had summoned the President of the Royal College of Physicians the little episodes might not have ended with such hearty laughter all round.
'But we shall have a lot of fun,' 'his Lordship went on. 'I'm arranging for a life-size statue of Miss Madder in ice-cream, and we can eat her. Also, the delightful gentleman from South America has promised to let me conduct the band all evening if I want. I'm sure everything will be very jolly.'
By then I was as keen as old Nutbeam for Petunia to get clearance all round and come to the party. As Pet Bancroft she'd always been a very decent sort, whom you didn't mind introducing to your friends when she wasn't in her waiter-biting mood, but dancing round the room with Melody Madder I felt could make you seem no end of a chap. The odd thing was, though I hadn't been keen on marrying Petunia Bancroft I wouldn't at all have minded Melody Madder. I supposed Freud was right-if adult happiness comes from fulfilling the longings of childhood I'd always wanted to marry a film star, along with opening for England at Lord's and beating the school record of twenty-four strawberry ices at a sitting. The only snag was not much liking the idea of getting into bed every night with a limited company.
I idled away the following day seeing some of the films, which were all about peasants and chaps in factories who took a gloomy view of life, then I put on my white dinner-jacket and wandered into Lord Nutbeam's party. Sure enough, there was Petunia, bursting at the gussets with bewitchery.
'Miss Madder.' I bowed. 'May I have the pleasure of this dance?'
'Gaston, darling! But I must introduce you to Sir Theodore first.'
I'd heard of the chief financial wizard of union Jack Films, of course, generally making speeches after eight- course banquets saying how broke he was.
'What's he like?' I asked.
'Oh, perfectly easy and affable. As long as you're used to dealing with the commissars in charge of Siberian salt mines.'
I found him sitting over a glass of orange juice, with the expression of an orangoutang suffering from some irritating skin disease.
'Of course you know Quinny Finn?'
Of course, everyone knew Quintin Finn.
You keep seeing him on the pictures, dressed in a duffel coat saying such things as Up Periscope, Bombs Gone, or Come On Chaps, Let's Dodge It Through The Minefield. Actually, he was a little weedy fellow, who smelt of perfume.
'And this is Adam Stringfellow.'
I'd always imagined film directors were noisy chaps with large cigars, but this was a tall, gloomy bird with a beard, resembling those portraits of Thomas Carlyle.
Everyone shook hands very civilly and I felt pretty pleased with myself, particularly with my old weakness for the theatre. I was wondering if Pet perhaps retained the passions of Porterhampton, when she interrupted my thoughts with:
'I'd particularly like you to meet Mr Hosegood.'
Petunia indicated the fattest little man I'd seen outside the obesity clinic. He had a bald head, a moustache like a squashed beetle, and a waist which, like the Equator, was a purely imaginary line equidistant from the two poles.
'My future husband,' ended Petunia. 'Shall we dance, Gaston?'
I almost staggered on to the floor. It was shock enough finding Petunia already engaged. But the prospect of such a decent sort of girl becoming shackled for life to this metabolic monstrosity struck me as not only tragic but outrageously wasteful.
'Congratulations,' I said.
'Congratulations? What about?'
'Your engagement.'
'Oh, yes. Thanks. It's supposed to be a secret. Studio publicity want to link me with Quinny Finn.'
'I hope you'll be very happy.'
'Thanks.'
'I'll send a set of coffee-spoons for the wedding.'
'Thanks.'
We avoided Lord Nutbeam, chasing some Italian actress with a squeaker.
'Gaston-' began Petunia.
'Yes?'
'That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about yesterday. Jimmy Hosegood, I mean. I don't want to marry him at all.'
'You don't?' I looked relieved. 'That's simple, then. Just tell the chap.'
'But Sir Theodore and Mum want me to.'
'Well, tell them, then.'
'You try telling them.'
I could see her point.
'Gaston, I need your help. Terribly. Don't you see, I've simply no one else in the world to turn to? How on earth can I get rid of Jimmy?'
I danced round in silence. It seemed a case of Good Old Grimsdyke again always tackling other people's troubles, helping them to get out of engagements or into St Swithin's.
'This chap Hosegood's in the film business?'
She shook her head. 'He's in gowns. He's got lots of factories in Manchester somewhere. But he puts up the money for the films. You follow?'
'But I don't even know the fellow,' I protested. 'And you simply can't go up to a perfect stranger and tell him his fiancйe hates the sight of his face.'
'Come down to our tent on the beach and have a get-together. I'm sure you'll think of something absolutely brilliant, darling. You always do. Promise?'
But before I could make a reply, Mrs Bancroft was elbowing through the crowd.
'Petunia-time for bed.'
