at Christmas. It had been the same this evening. It would require less effort than picking that orange. She would fall into his hands like a sleek ripe yellow pear.
Flora had told him about the secret engagement to Marcus and her grave doubts about the whole thing. Viking felt it was almost his duty to break it up.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he turned Marcus’s photograph to the wall. ‘You’ve lucked out on this one.’
As he wandered back into the living-room, he was pleased to see the silhouettes of his Second Horn and Cathie Jones become one under the stars on the balcony. It would make up for nicking Blue’s shirt.
Peter Plumpton, totally naked, was now mincing around with an upended bread basket on his head.
‘D’you thenk it’s suitable for Escot?’ he was asking, to howls of drunken laughter.
Abby’s other suitors, having failed to beat her at poker, were getting desperate. El Creepo, who wanted the two thousand for a big screen for his porn videos, was clumsily trying to chat her up.
‘What brassiere size d’you take Abby?’
‘Don’t insollt my woman,’ howled Viking, grabbing El Creepo by his food-stained lapels.
‘Don’t, Viking, your tooth,’ screamed Abby, as El Creepo raised a nervous fist.
Diversion was provided by a mighty splash from next door as the brass section threw a fully dressed Dirty Harry into the jacuzzi because they thought he needed a bath.
All the other revellers surged into the bathroom, with El Creepo sidling hastily after them, leaving Viking and Abby gazing at each other.
‘Am I?’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘Your woman?’
‘Sure you are.’
Unnerved by his nearness, Abby reached for her champagne, but Viking caught her wrist and emptied the glass into a vase of chrysanthemums.
‘No more,’ he said softly. ‘It dolls the senses, you don’t need Dottch courage with me.’
Abby was always banging on about the importance of bonding. Next door, it was more a case of James Bonding, as the rest of the party stripped off with squeals of glee to see how many of them could jump into the jacuzzi so the water spilled over, turning the blue shag-pile into a soggy pond.
‘I’ve always longed to go skinny-dipping,’ yelled Ninion.
‘And I’ve always wanted to go fatty-dipping,’ screamed Isobel, erupting from the wardrobe, breasts flying like duffle-bags, landing amid the heaving flesh, dispatching the last of the water.
‘Quite extraordinary, pure Rubens,’ said Old Henry, putting on his spectacles to walk round the jacuzzi.
‘Who killed Cock Rubens?’ shouted Dixie, active at the back of the scrum, to more cackles of laughter.
Davie Buckle sat beside them on the loo with the seat down swigging from a bottle of Dubonnet and telephoning Japan. Everyone jumped as Militant Moll stomped in, dressed for bed in men’s wool striped pyjamas and leather slippers.
‘Anyone seen Ninion?’
‘No,’ chorused the heaving flesh.
Burying his face gratefully in Isobel’s massive breasts, Ninion prayed Moll wouldn’t recognize his skinny flanks.
‘He said he was going to Mass in one of the cathedrals,’ called out Miss Parrott.
‘Plenty of steeples round here,’ giggled Clare.
‘You’re despicable,’ thundered Moll, marching out to rousing cheers. ‘Can’t you see how this degrades women?’
‘Get us some more hooch, Davie, love,’ asked Randy who was busy degrading Candy. ‘Just give room service a bell.’
‘Got to cock in with Brun’ilde,’ mumbled Davie, redialling.
‘Tum, ta, ta, tum, tum, tum, ta, ta, tum, tum,’ yelled the RSO to
‘You get the booze, Lincoln, you’re the youngest,’ Dixie ordered the Fifth Horn, who was sitting on the edge of the jacuzzi, in his Y-fronts, sadly gazing into space.
Opening the wardrobe and finding Simon Painshaw and Peter Plumpton passed out in each other’s arms, Lincoln hastily shut the door, and staggered into Abby’s bedroom where he found Little Jenny in tears on the bed.
‘I thought you loved me.’
‘I do, I do.’ Lincoln collapsed on the bed beside her.
Viking would throttle him, but he couldn’t keep the secret any longer.
‘Two thousand pounds would have paid off my overdraft,’ he admitted finally, ‘paid a deposit on a flat, and bought you an engagement ring, because, oh Jenny, I want to marry you.’
‘Did you say engagement ring?’ yelped Jenny, blowing her nose on Abby’s scarf. ‘Oh please, oh yes please.’
Having kissed her at length, Lincoln staggered to his feet.
‘Let’s go to my room, Cherub won’t be back for hours. I’ll go and find the key.’
Looking for stray bottles of drink in Abby’s bedroom, Candy found Jenny, gargling with Abby’s mouthwash and spraying
‘You’ll never guess why they’ve all been chasing Abby,’ she whispered. ‘Promise you won’t tell anyone?’
Candy promised.
‘Randy wanted some new golf clubs,’ Jenny was still explaining two minutes later.
‘I’ll club him,’ screeched Candy, storming back to the jacuzzi.
‘Found it,’ cried Lincoln, waving his room key.
‘Why are you carrying Cherub’s clothes?’ asked Jenny.
‘It’ll take him longer to get back to our room,’ said Lincoln.
As none of the sorties for more booze had been successful, Francis was dispatched on yet another recce.
‘
Going into the sitting-room to round up any spare drink, Francis discovered Abby and Viking kissing the life out of each other. They looked so beautiful. Viking was stroking Abby’s cheek as though he was rubbing the earth away from some long-buried Grecian urn. The blaze of triumph on his face made Francis reach for his dark glasses.
Oh fuck, groaned Francis. Bang went poor darling Janey’s hip operation. Never had he found it harder to be a good loser.
When he returned, the revellers fell on his armful of bottles.
‘Viking’s won the two grand,’ he murmured sadly to Old Henry.
For a second, Isobel stopped French kissing Ninion.
‘Viking’s always been too grand,’ she said dismissively.
‘It was Catch 25 situation,’ sighed Dimitri, emptying a whole bottle of
‘You can take me to Paradise instead,’ cried Miss Parrott. ‘Oh my wonderful, wonderful Whayte Russian.’
FIFTY-NINE
Viking was not happy about the contrast between Abby’s seven-room suite, and the cupboard he was sharing with Blue which was stuffy, airless, shaken with stamping music from the Flamenco night-club opposite and
