dizzy.
‘I’ll have a Cobb salad and a grilled sole,’ I said.
‘You really do look marvellous,’ said Xander. ‘What’s up? Someone must be. Who’s he married to?’
‘No one,’ I said, grooving four lines on the table cloth with my fork.
‘There must be some complication.’
‘He’s engaged,’ I said.
‘I didn’t know anyone did that any more. Who to?’
‘An eager overgrown schoolgirl; she’s so fat, wherever you stand in the room she’s beside you.’
‘Unforgiveable,’ said Xander with a shudder. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Tall and blond — almost as beautiful as you, and so gentle and sympatico.’
‘Rich?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t asked him; not particularly.’
‘Well that’s no good then.’ Xander broke a roll impatiently with his fingers, then left it. He watched his figure like a lynx. Then he sighed, ‘You’d better tell me about him.’
Conversation was then impossibly punctuated by waiters laying tables, asking who was having the smoked trout, giving us our first courses, brandishing great phallic pepper pots over our plates, and pouring us more wine. A quarter of an hour later I was still picking bits of bacon out of my avocado and chopped spinach.
‘Am I boring you?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Xander gently. ‘But it really doesn’t matter. You have got him bad. What about Charlie?’
‘Charlie who?’ I said.
‘Like that, is it? Who’s going to be the other guy on the boat?’
‘A friend of Jeremy’s called Gareth Llewellyn.’
Xander looked up. ‘He’s supposed to be rather agreeable.’
‘If you like jumped-up Welsh gorillas,’ I said.
Xander laughed. ‘He’s phenomenally successful — and with birds too, one hears.’
‘Oh, he’s convinced he’s got the master key to everyone’s chastity belt,’ I said. ‘But I’ve had the lock changed on mine. He doesn’t like me very much. He caught me swapping extravagant pleasantries with Jeremy. He knows something’s up.’
‘Well, I’d get him on my side, if I were you,’ said Xander. ‘He sounds pretty formidable opposition.’
Now we were into the rat-race of the second course. Waiters kept butting in, asking if I wanted my sole on or off the bone, offering vegetables and salads, more wine and more phallic pepper and tartare sauce.
‘Everything all right, sir?’ said the head waiter, hovering over us a minute later.
‘Yes, perfect, if you’d go away and leave us alone,’ snapped Xander.
‘There’s only one thing,’ I said, pleating the table cloth with my fingers. ‘Can you possibly lend me ?200?’
‘What for?’ said Xander.
‘I need some clothes for the weekend.’
‘You’ve got quite enough,’ sighed Xander. ‘As it is, Covent Garden comes to you every time they want to dress an opera.’
‘Just ?200,’ I pleaded. ‘I promise, once I hook Jeremy I won’t ask you for another penny.’
‘Darling, you don’t seem to realize that things are frightfully tight at the moment. There’s a little thing called inflation which neither you nor Pamela seem to have heard of. We’re all going to have to pull our horns in. My dear father-in-law’s been on the warpath all morning, bellyaching about my expenses. I gather this year’s accounts are pretty disastrous too.’
‘For the whole group or just Seaford-Brennen?’
‘Well Seaford-Brennen in particular. Everyone’s very twitchy at the moment. Something’s obviously up! Directors going round after dark piecing together one’s torn-up memos. Every time you go down the passage, you’re subjected to a party political broadcast on behalf of the accounts department. Both Glasgow and Coventry look as though they’re going to come out on strike — the shop stewards so much enjoyed appearing on television last time.’
‘Things’ll get better,’ I said, soothingly.
‘Bloody well hope so,’ said Xander. ‘I’ve borrowed so much money from the company they’ll have to give me a rise so I can pay them back. Thank God for Massingham, at least he’s on my side.’
Hugh Massingham was managing director of Seaford-Brennen, a handsome, hard-drinking Northerner in his late forties, who liked Xander’s sense of humour. They used to go on the tiles together, and bitch about Ricky Seaford. Hugh Massingham liked me too. When my father died six years ago he had looked after me, and eventually we’d ended up in bed. The affair had cooled down but we’d remained friends, and he still spent odd nights with me.
‘He sent his love,’ said Xander. ‘Said he was going to come and see you next week.’
I wondered, now I’d fallen for Jeremy, if I’d be able to come up with the goods for Massingham any more. Never mind, I’d cross that bridge party when I came to it.
Depression suddenly seemed to encompass the table. I could feel one of Xander’s black glooms coming on, probably caused by my tactlessly rabbiting on about Jeremy — which must only emphasize the stupid mockery of his marriage.
I took his hand.
‘How’s Pamela?’ I said.
‘Not awfully sunny at the moment. She’s spending the weekend at Grayston with Ricky and Joan, and I’ve refused to go. I have to put up with my dear father-in-law five days a week, I need a break at weekends. And I can put up with Joan even less, the great screeching cow. No one can accuse me of marrying Pamela for her Mummy.’
I giggled. ‘What’s she done now?’
‘Alison’s pregnant.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’
Alison was Pamela’s younger sister, only married this year.
‘And dear Joan never stops subtly rubbing Pammie’s nose in it that she isn’t,’ said Xander.
‘What does the gynaecologist say?’
‘He can’t find anything wrong with her. Joan wants her to have a second opinion — nice if she had an opinion at all. So the onus falls firmly on me. Pamela takes her temperature every morning, and when it goes up I’m supposed to pounce on her, but I always oversleep, or have debilitating hangovers, or don’t get home like last night. But I’ve a feeling nothing’s going to happen while I lie on one side of the bed reading Dick Francis, and she lies on the other poring over gardening books.’
He was rattling now. His hand shook as he lit a cigarette. I could sense his utter despair.
‘Is it absolute hell?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘I suppose prep school was worse, but at least one had longer holidays then.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘She’ll get pregnant soon.’
Xander was busy ordering coffee and brandies and I was easing a piece of bacon out of my teeth, when I looked up and saw a boy of about twenty-three standing in the doorway. He had dark Shelley-length hair, huge languorous dark eyes, and a Mediterranean suntan. He wore navy blue pinstripe trousers and was carrying his jacket slung across his shoulders. His pale blue shirt was open at the neck to reveal a jungle of gold medallions nestling in a black hairy chest. He looked like a movie star. For a second I felt a flicker of unfaithfulness to Jeremy.
‘Look at that,’ I breathed to Xander.
‘I’m already looking,’ said Xander, and suddenly there was a touch of colour in his pale cheeks, as the dark boy looked round, caught Xander’s eye, waved, and wandered lazily towards us.
‘See a pinstripe suit, and pick him up, and all the day you’ll have good luck,’ murmured Xander.
‘Hi,’ said the dark boy. ‘I was worried I’d missed you. The traffic is terrible.’
He had a strong foreign accent, and was shooting me an openly hostile look, which became distinctly more friendly when Xander said,
‘This is my sister, Octavia. Darling, this is Guido. He comes from Florence, I must say I learnt more on my
