illumination. What sort of world d’you think you’ve created when there’s no child whose unhappiness can’t be dispelled by a sunshine breakfast, no romantic setback that can’t be cured by using a new kind of toothpaste, no marital dust-up that can’t be ended with a box of chocolates?’
He was playing with words now.
‘Bravo,’ I said.
‘Advertising’s fun; no one takes it seriously,’ protested Jane.
‘Oh yes they do,’ said Pendle. ‘Thousands of people write in for an amazing offer of a ?2 so-called steak knife that’s worth 99p. Dress anyone up in a white coat and the public think he’s an unimpeachable authority. I came across an advertisement the other day which claimed its product was used by 90 per cent of actors who play doctors on television.’
‘Sounds like the sort of line I write,’ I said in a desperate attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
‘At least advertising keeps people in work — actors, writers, designers,’ stuttered Rodney.
‘Advertising stultifies creativity,’ said Pendle crushingly. ‘That’s why hardly any decent poetry or painting or music’s being produced in this country at the moment. All the creative talent is being frittered away in advertising.’
There was a silence. Tiger Millfield let out a huge belch, but no one giggled. Somehow when Rodney had attacked Pendle it had just been bluster, but with Pendle one felt it was the real thing. It was too late to do any rescue work. I really ought to catch the eye of the highest lady of rank, and whisk her out of the room, leaving the combatants to their port, but we hadn’t had pudding yet.
‘I’m sure some of the advertising for slimming products is very suspect,’ said Ariadne.
‘Isn’t it time for your commercial, Rodney?’ said Jane.
‘Well if that concludes the case for the prosecution,’ said Rodney, getting to his feet and switching on the box, ‘I think we might indulge in a little animated corruption.’
I cleared away. It was sad that people could leave more on their plates than you appeared to have given them in the first place. I didn’t bother with the pudding, and by the time I got back with the coffee, the commercial break was over, and Jane and Rodney were stuck into some political scandal on the news. Tiger Millfield was listening owlishly to Ariadne yapping on about wheat germ. Pendle was looking at his watch.
‘Where’s your glass?’ I said.
‘I must go.’
‘But it’s early. Now beastly dinner’s over we can relax.’
‘I’ve got to drive down to Winchester early tomorrow morning. The brief only arrived this evening. I haven’t studied it yet.’
He nodded a curt goodbye to everyone else, and I followed him out into the hall.
‘Will you be down in Winchester long?’ I said, suddenly overwhelmed by desolation.
‘A couple of days. Thank you for having me.’
‘You certainly floored Rodney,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you felt so strongly about advertising.’
His eyes gleamed wickedly.
‘I don’t. If I’d wanted to I could have argued the case for advertising just as well.’
‘B-but you were so convincing,’ I said.
‘That’s my job.’
And he was gone, without even saying he’d ring me.
Back in the drawing-room Tiger Millfield was trying to ring for a taxi on the answer-phone. In the end he decided to go and flag one down in the street, taking Ariadne with him, thank goodness.
‘You get so tired on a diet,’ she said. ‘Are you coming, Rodney?’
‘I’ll stay on a bit,’ said Rodney. ‘Mustn’t break up the party all at once.’
I left Rodney and Jane, and went into the kitchen. I felt near to tears, physically and mentally exhausted. The hostess with the leastest, Mrs Utterly Beaten. A pile of pots, pans, glasses, plates and uneaten food greeted me. I couldn’t face it. I went back into the drawing-room. Rodney was sitting in an armchair, rolling a joint, telling Jane about the pot he grew in his back garden. Jane was leaning against his knees. They stopped talking when they saw me.
‘Lovely dins, darling,’ said Rodney.
‘I’m sorry about the beef,’ I said, flopping into an armchair.
‘You were had by the butcher,’ said Jane.
‘I never know if meat’s tender just by looking at it,’ I said. ‘It all looks the same, like Chinamen.’
‘Rodney’s going to put me on a poster,’ said Jane. ‘You’re going to see me hoarding down from every stare.’
There was a long pause. Then they both said simultaneously,
‘Darling, he’s not for you.’
‘Why not?’ I said, blushing.
‘Because he’s a bastard,’ said Rodney.
‘It’s only because he worsted you in an argument,’ I said. ‘He didn’t really mean what he said about advertising, he admitted it outside in the hall. He could’ve just as easily argued
‘That’s what’s wrong with him,’ said Jane, ‘he’s inhuman.’
‘Beneath that cold chilly legal exterior,’ said Rodney, ‘is an even chillier legal heart.’ He handed Jane the joint; she inhaled deeply.
‘I don’t know why he didn’t go and sit in the fridge,’ she said with a giggle. ‘Might have warmed him up a bit.’
She offered it to me, but I shook my head. I felt too miserable.
‘Come on, cheer up,’ said Rodney. ‘There are plenty more cold fish in the sea.’
‘But I don’t want to go out with a fish. Why does he keep asking me out?’ I said with a sob.
‘I don’t know,’ said Rodney. ‘He’s obviously far more interested in his own briefs than getting into yours.’
‘If he really cared for you,’ said Jane, ‘he’d have made an effort to be polite instead of freezing us out.’
‘Whatever he feels for you,’ said Rodney, much more gently, ‘it isn’t the normal healthy lust a man feels for a beautiful normal girl. He’s playing games with you, Pru, and I don’t reckon he’s up to any good.’
Chapter Three
Whatever game Pendle was playing, he left me to stew after the dinner party. He didn’t ring me for a fortnight. I kidded myself he must be working hard, probably out of London. I tried to forget him, but instead spent a lot of time sobbing in the bath and composing long quotation-loaded letters of renunciation in my head. An added irritation was that Jane was having a riproaring time, going out every night mostly with Rodney.
On the Monday evening, a fortnight later, she was getting ready for yet another date, trying to repair the ravages of a weekend of dissipation in front of the drawing-room mirror, while I sat slumped on the sofa, eating my way through a box of chocolates.
‘You’ll get spots,’ said Jane, squirting blue liquid into bloodshot eyes.
‘Do you know what I’m sitting on?’ I stormed.
‘W-what?’
‘The shelf. I am hurtling towards spinsterhood and middle age without even a whisker of a supertax husband on the horizon. D’you know how long it is since I’ve been out with a man?’
‘What about Mark?’
‘He’s not a man, he’s a stockbroker.’
I got up and wandered into the kitchen next door.
‘I doubt if anyone will ever ask me out again. I must face up to a future looking after cats in an attic. I’ve
