‘Another thing about love,’ the girl with the ringlets said, ‘is its extraordinary infection. Has it ever occurred to you that when you’re in love with someone you’re really wanting to be loved yourself? Because that, of course, is the natural law. I mean, it would be odd if every time one person loved another person the first person wasn’t loved in return. There’s only a very tiny percentage of that kind of thing.’
An aggressive young man, overhearing these remarks, began to laugh. He went on laughing, looking at the girl in ringlets and looking at me.
I went away and filled my glass from the crock, and asked a pretty middle-aged woman what she did. Her answer was coy; I smiled and passed on. Margo caught my arm and dragged me off to a corner. ‘Mike, you’ll ring Nigel again?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ I said. ‘Honestly, I don’t think I can interfere.’
‘Oh but, dear, you promised.’
‘Promised? I didn’t promise anything.’
‘Oh Mike.’
‘Really, the whole affair – oh all right.’
‘Now, Mike?’
‘All right. Now.’
‘Lucy?’
‘Is that Mike?’
‘Who else?’
‘Who indeed? Where are you now?’
‘I’m at a party.’
‘A good party?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Why don’t you come along?’
‘I can’t, Mike. I’m doing things.’
‘With the bloody freight agent, I suppose.’
‘The what agent?’
‘Freight. Your friend the freight agent. Frank.’
‘He’s not a freight agent. He’s in publishing.’
‘What’d he say he was a freight agent for?’
A lengthy explanation followed. Calling himself a freight agent was a sample of Frank’s humour. I thought about this as I made my way back to Margo.
‘What’d he say, Mike?’
‘A woman said Nigel wasn’t in.’
‘Is that all?’
‘I said the house was being watched. I said the local authorities weren’t at all happy.’
‘What’d she say?’
‘She began to moan, so I said “I mean it,” and rang off.’
‘Thank you, Mike.’
‘That’s all right. Any time.’
Swann joined us and Margo said: ‘Mike’s been on to Nigel again. Mike’s being wonderful.’
Swann patted me on the back and said: ‘Any joy?’
Margo started to tell him. I went away.
Jo was pretending to listen to a couple of men who were between them retailing a complicated story. She said to me in a low voice: ‘Don’t worry about Margo. I’ll see she comes through the other side.’
I stared at her, wondering why she should imagine I was worried about Margo. ‘I’m sure you will, Jo,’ I said.
‘Trust Jo,’ she whispered.
I said I considered her a trustworthy person. I began to elaborate on the thought. One of the men said: ‘D’you mind, old boy?’
I shrugged and pushed a path back to the telephone. I dialled three times to be certain, but on each occasion there was no reply.
A ragged form of dancing was now taking place. Pausing by the crock, I found myself once again in the company of the girl with the ringlets. She smiled at me and in a boring way I said: ‘Do you know a girl called Lucy Anstruth?’
The girl with the ringlets shook her head. ‘Should I?’
‘I suppose not,’ I said. The girl examined me closely and passed on.
I went upstairs and discovered a quiet room with a bed in it. A lamp on a dressing-table gave out a weak light. The bed, which looked comfortable, was almost in darkness. 1 stretched out on it, welcoming the gloom. In a few
