On the pretext of buying Chattie tights, she went into Skipton and found a flame-coloured boa to cover up some of the lack of dress. She failed, on the other hand, to find a bra to wear under it.
‘Go without,’ said Sammy. ‘Live a little.’
‘I’ll fall out when I dance — if anyone asks me to.’
She spent the day of the ball surreptitiously getting herself ready, as she knew with putting the children to bed there wouldn’t be much time later. She painted her nails and washed her hair, and put on a headscarf so it dried smooth. She was peeling chips for the children’s tea when Cory came into the kitchen, carrying a couple of shirts.
‘Don’t do any more work, Daddy,’ said Chattie, seizing his hand.
He opened the washing-machine door and was just about to throw the shirts in, when instead he drew out an old bunch of daffodils: ‘Planning to wash these?’
‘Oh dear, I’m getting so vague. I meant to put them down the waste disposal,’ said Harriet.
‘I suppose you also mean to put those chips down the waste disposal and the peelings into the pan?’ he said. ‘And why are you wearing a headscarf? Are you feeling all right?’
‘Fine. Do you want a cup of tea?’ said Harriet nervously.
‘I want something stronger,’ said Cory, pouring himself a large whisky.
‘You ought to eat something,’ said Harriet.
‘I know, but I’ll be eating again in an hour or two.’ He cut a slice of pork from the joint, covered it in chili pickle, put it between two slices of bread and settled down with the evening paper. His eating habits drove her to despair.
Chattie scrambled onto his knee.
‘Are you going out tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘To the Ball? Will you take me?’
‘No.’
‘Are you going to dance with Harriet?’ she went on, ignoring Harriet’s agonized signals. ‘She’s going to wear an orange dress which shows all her bosoms.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ said Cory.
‘She is,’ said Chattie. ‘Sammy lent it to her.’
He turned to Harriet.
‘Is this true?’ he said sharply.
She nodded, blushing, grating cheese so frenziedly over the cauliflower that she cut one of her fingers.
‘Who’s taking you?’
‘Billy Bentley,’ she said, sucking her finger.
‘Didn’t know you knew him.’
‘I met him at Arabella’s party, and at the meet.’
‘I see. Who’s looking after William and the children?’
‘Well it is my night off, and Mrs Bottomley said she’d babysit, but if that’s difficult Billy says their old nanny can look after William.’
‘Billy seems to have displayed more initiative than usual,’ said Cory. ‘Where are you having dinner?’
‘With his parents.’
‘You’ll be poisoned before you get to the ball. They’ve got the worst cook in the West Riding.’
And he stalked out of the room, leaving the half-eaten pork sandwich and the glass of whisky. Harriet wondered if she should go after him and apologize. But what was there to apologize for, except she hadn’t told him? It was entirely up to her what she did on her evenings off. Perhaps he didn’t like downstairs mixing with his upstairs friends. Oh, why had she agreed to go?
She was getting ready, sitting in front of her looking glass, just wearing a pair of pants, when there was a knock on the door. She grabbed a towel; it was Cory. His dark hair sleeked down, wearing his red tail coat with the grey facings and black trousers.
‘You do look nice,’ she stammered. Privately she thought he looked stunning.
Cory shrugged. ‘I’ll have champagne poured over it before the night’s out. Can you cut the nails on my right hand?’
As she bent over his hand, her hair in Carmen rollers tied up with a scarf, keeping the towel up with her elbows, her hand shook so much, she was frightened she’d cut him.
‘You can leave William here,’ he said. ‘I’ve cleared it with Mrs Bottomley.’
‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘Been monopolizing you too much myself lately. Do you good to get out.’
‘Yes,’ she said, trying to sound more enthusiastic.
He glanced round the room. ‘The light’s terrible in here. Go and make up in Noel’s room. I must go. I’m invited for eight. If any of the young bloods start pestering you, give me a shout.’
The mirrors in Noel’s room showed her from every angle. It’s like a Hollywood set, she thought, all those pink roses and ruffles. It’s a mistress’s room not a wife’s, and quite wrong expecting Cory to sleep in it, like putting a wolfhound in a diamante studded collar and a tartan coat. And how extraordinary to have so many photographs of oneself looking down from the walls: Noel sunbathing topless, Noel receiving a screen award, Noel arriving at a premiere smothered in ermine, Noel laughing, with Chattie, Jonah and Tadpole gazing up adoringly. That one hurt Harriet most of all. Trust Tadpole to suck up, she thought. Sevenoaks would be more discriminating.
She gazed in the mirror. She looked small and defenceless. She’d been rubbing olive oil into her eyelashes for at least a week now, and they didn’t seem any longer. If only she could be a thousandth as beautiful as Noel tonight. The orange dress slithered over her head — it really was low; she took out the rollers and brushed her hair until it shone and stood back, for once pleased with her appearance.
She took the hair out of her brush, opened the window and threw it out; it promptly blew back again. Time was running out. Hastily she loaded up her evening bag, breaking her comb to get it inside. Pinching some of Noel’s loose powder to fill the little gold compact her parents had given her for her sixteenth birthday she wondered when she would ever see them again. Her sudden overwhelming wave of homesickness was only interrupted by the doorbell.
Chapter Seventeen
Dinner was much less alarming than she expected. Billy’s parents were friendly in a bluff horsey sort of way, and even though there were twenty for dinner — mostly hunting types — they were much less glamorous and bitchy than the people at Arabella’s party. There was only one really pretty woman there, a Mrs Willoughby who had red hair and sparkling green eyes like a little cat.
Harriet sat between the joint-master and Billy’s Uncle Bertie, who squeezed her thigh absent-mindedly and flirted with her in a gentle way.
The food, as Cory predicted, was disgusting. Fortunately a Jack Russell with beseeching eyes sat under the table and wolfed all her fish. The second course, Coq au Vin, was full of soot and quite inedible. Harriet toyed with hers for a bit then, when a maid came round with a large bowl full of bones, thankfully threw her chicken pieces in too. It was only when the maid moved on to Billy’s Uncle Bertie on Harriet’s right, who immediately picked up Harriet’s bits and put them on his plate, that she realized with horror that the maid was handing round second helpings.
She also put up another black after dinner when the women were drinking coffee. ‘Have you lived here long?’ she said to Billy’s mother, during a pause.
‘Well quite a long time,’ said Mrs Bentley.
‘About five hundred years,’ whispered Mrs Willoughby, out of the corner of her mouth.
Fortunately the wine had been orbiting the table pretty fast at dinner and everyone laughed.
