‘I think he’s wonderful. Bravo, bravo, Alexei,’ cried Cherub excitedly.
Indignantly Abby noticed Viking was back on his chair squeezing Evgenia’s little hand every time she passed. But all her indignation was forgotten because of the deafening cheers when Abby joined the others on the platform and Declan kissed one hand and Alexei the other.
I’m with my peers, thought Abby joyfully, as they bowed again and again to the sea of happy ecstatic faces.
Stamp, stamp, stamp, thundered the feet.
Choking from the dust, Marcus thought how boyish Abby looked. She had thrown away her turban and slicked back her hair like Valentino to show off the amazing yellow eyes. Alexei was burying his big mouth in the palm of her hand again. Christ, things were complicated.
‘Encore, encore,’ the great rumble grew louder.
‘I ’ave idea,’ whispered Alexei, sending Abby back to the rostrum.
Once again, he only lifted a hand for a hush to fall.
‘It ees nearly meednight, we must all celebrate the most beautiful words in the twentieth century-’ his voice thrillingly deepened and broke slightly — ‘Veectory in Europe.’
The next moment he and Evgenia had broken into ‘The Lambeth Walk’, up and down the stage they danced so merrily and charmingly, followed like two baby elephants by Georgie and Declan, and the crowd bellowed their approval, and all over the polo field and in the aisles between the seats people jumped to their feet singing and joining in. Even Marcus found himself clamped to Peggy Parker’s maroon bustier.
‘We must finalize a date for my soiree, Sonny’s hard at work on your concerto,’ she shouted over the din, completely disproving the myth that fat women are light on their feet.
At midnight the fireworks went off, red, white and blue soaring into the sooty sky, writing VE Day across the stars.
Seeing Flora crying, Viking leant across and put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Cheer up, darling, you know what VE stands for?’
‘W-w-w-what?’
‘Viola Extinction Day, of course.’
FIFTY-ONE
It was a measure of George’s heavies that they dispersed the multitudes at amazing speed and soon only three hundred guests were left to enjoy Dom Perignon, asparagus, lobster Nemerovsky, cold roast beef, loganberry ice-cream and meringue Evgenia under the stars.
Everyone was desperate to meet Alexei. But, as if to protect himself from boring conversation, he had retreated with a vodka bottle through the cow parsley to a pale green semicircular bench under a big clump of white lilac and proceeded to flirt outrageously in Russian with Abby. Also in the same rowdy over-excited group were Georgie, Declan and Viking, who were all getting plastered and arguing about the peace process, and Evgenia, who seemed content to sit quietly retracing her steps in her head, sipping orange juice and relishing the taut warmth of Viking’s body and his hand on the seat behind her occasionally stroking her hair. Nugent sat beside them, pink tongue hanging out from the great heat and to pull in the pieces of roast beef everyone was giving him.
Watching them from the shadow of a weeping ash, Marcus was once more reminded of
God, he’d shoot himself if Abby got off with Alexei, and, if she didn’t, how could Alexei not fancy Viking? thought Marcus in additional anguish.
Viking was wearingjust his denim shorts and his white evening shirt with all the buttons undone, gold hair ruffled, lazy smile showing the chipped very white teeth. His eyes, however, were cool and calculating, a beach-bum on the hunt for a sugar mummy to bankroll him through a long hot summer.
‘The lads are coming out all over Europe,’ he was telling Declan, as he glared at Nemerovsky ‘I’m so sick of being propositioned by gays in the music business, I’m getting an “I love Pussy” T-shirt printed.’
Then he put Abby’s turban on Mr Nugent which Nugent adored.
‘He’s going to open an Indian restaurant the Celtic Mafia won’t get thrown out of,’ Viking told everyone.
Abby tried to be a good sport about the turban and join in the roars of laughter, but underneath Marcus could see she felt hurt and foolish, which was no doubt Viking’s intention.
He daren’t go over and protect her in case Declan collared him. The ash pollen was tightening the band round his chest, he longed to slope off home but couldn’t tear himself away.
If anyone was unhappier than Marcus that evening it was Flora. From the safety of a little summer-house, she could see her mother getting plastered with Declan.
‘I’m just not trying any more,’ Georgie was yelling, ‘I’m on a permanent fault-finding mission, which doesn’t help my poor husband.’
Declan would make a nice stepfather, decided Flora, but Georgie, looking so good at the moment, made her feel fatter and frumpier than ever. She also knew that she would have been fired if her mother hadn’t diffused the dog fight.
All around her people were crowing about the gala pulling in a bigger crowd than Rannaldini and Harefield. If only people would stop talking about him.
A lamb was bleating persistently for its mother in a nearby field, which made her eyes fill with tears. God, the smell of wild garlic was strong. To stop a bristling Trevor wriggling out of her arms and attacking Nugent, who was still getting too much attention in his turban, Flora retreated to the shelter of a great oak tree, and watched George relentlessly working the room.
She also noticed the Steel Elf had piled up her golden hair and changed into a ravishing sea-green dress, Grecian in style and leaving one shoulder bare. Whenever George came across a restless pocket of bored men, he’d feed her in to bat her long blonde eyelashes and charm them. Watching them drool, Flora realized what an asset Juno was to him.
‘What a little cracker,’ said one of new Labour councillors, as she moved away from them. ‘Wouldn’t mind giving her one. Trust George.’
‘There’s no doubt,’ said his Liberal Democrat friend, ‘if George can mount a do like tonight, he can produce a megaplex with one hand tied behind his back. I think we should back him on that supermarket.’
Seeing Flora, they paused.
‘Lovely show, well done.’
Going through the french windows in search of more beef for Trevor, Flora surprised George eating illicit potato salad. He made some attempt at geniality.
‘How d’you enjoy playing in the pit?’
‘Good training for when we’re a super orchestra.’
George’s face hardened.
‘Hallo, George, great party. God, it’s hot.’ It was Lord Leatherhead mopping his very low brow and in search of strawberries.
‘Moost be nearly in the eighties,’ said George. ‘Look at that butter, it’s completely melted.’
‘Makes it easier for you to grease the palms of all those incoming socialist councillors,’ spat Flora.
‘That is no way to talk to your boss,’ said Lord Leatherhead with unusual sharpness.
‘One wonders how such a lovely warm, beautiful woman as Georgie Maguire can have such a bitch for a daughter,’ said George curtly and stalked out into the garden.
Shaken, Flora went in the opposite direction into the hall where she found Miles, Hilary, Juno, Gwynneth and Gilbert in a huddle with Mrs Parker.
‘She spoilt our concert,’ Hilary was saying, ‘wearing those dreadful Union Jack panties and letting that horrid
