by Jilly Cooper
She gazed in the mirror. She looked small and defenceless. She’d been rubbing olive oil into her eyelashes for at least a week now, and they didn’t seem any longer. If only she could be a thousandth as beautiful as Noel tonight. The orange dress slithered over her head — it really was low; she took out the rollers and brushed her hair until it shone and stood back, for once pleased with her appearance.
She took the hair out of her brush, opened the window and threw it out; it promptly blew back again. Time was running out. Hastily she loaded up her evening bag, breaking her comb to get it inside. Pinching some of Noel’s loose powder to fill the little gold compact her parents had given her for her sixteenth birthday she wondered when she would ever see them again. Her sudden overwhelming wave of homesickness was only interrupted by the doorbell.
Chapter Seventeen
Dinner was much less alarming than she expected. Billy’s parents were friendly in a bluff horsey sort of way, and even though there were twenty for dinner — mostly hunting types — they were much less glamorous and bitchy than the people at Arabella’s party. There was only one really pretty woman there, a Mrs Willoughby who had red hair and sparkling green eyes like a little cat.
Harriet sat between the joint-master and Billy’s Uncle Bertie, who squeezed her thigh absent-mindedly and flirted with her in a gentle way.
The food, as Cory predicted, was disgusting. Fortunately a Jack Russell with beseeching eyes sat under the table and wolfed all her fish. The second course, Coq au Vin, was full of soot and quite inedible. Harriet toyed with hers for a bit then, when a maid came round with a large bowl full of bones, thankfully threw her chicken pieces in too. It was only when the maid moved on to Billy’s Uncle Bertie on Harriet’s right, who immediately picked up Harriet’s bits and put them on his plate, that she realized with horror that the maid was handing round second helpings.
She also put up another black after dinner when the women were drinking coffee. ‘Have you lived here long?’ she said to Billy’s mother, during a pause.
‘Well quite a long time,’ said Mrs Bentley.
‘About five hundred years,’ whispered Mrs Willoughby, out of the corner of her mouth.
Fortunately the wine had been orbiting the table pretty fast at dinner and everyone laughed.
Nice car, thought Harriet, as Billy’s Ferrari roared along the narrow roads. She snuggled down under the fur rug. Perhaps it was its coating of dog hairs that made it so warm.
‘Do you ride?’ said Billy.
‘No. I’m afraid I don’t. I get taken for one occasionally,’ said Harriet.
‘You’d look super on a horse. I could teach you very quickly.’
‘Do you really think you could?’
‘We’ve got an old pony of my sister’s. It taught us all to ride. It’s as quiet as anything. Soon get you going on that.’
She’d soon be talking about running martingales with Arabella!
Billy swung the car between a huge pair of gates. Sneering lions reared up on pillars on either side; the curtains flickered in the lodge window as they went by. Ahead the big house was blazing with lights; floodlighting illuminated the blond walls. Drink had done nothing to still the butterflies in Harriet’s stomach.
The car park was a quagmire from the recent rain.
‘Up to my fucking hocks in mud,’ bellowed a hunting lady in disgust, holding her dress above muscly knees. The wind plastered Harriet’s feather boa against her lipstick.
She left her coat on a huge four-poster, its rose pink brocade tattered with age. In the distance she could hear the sensual throb of the music. It was almost eleven; the ball was in full swing. Pale-shouldered women crowded in front of the gilt-framed looking glass, putting on scarlet lipstick and slapping powder over flushed-from-dinner faces.
The frayed banners hanging from the walls shivered in the heat; a pair of huge, blue chandeliers hung from the ceiling. On the landing a group of women laughed loudly. Elizabeth Pemberton in hyacinth blue was one of them. As Harriet went downstairs, clutching the curved banisters for support, she breathed in the sweet heady scent of a huge tub of pink hyacinths.
Billy was standing looking distinguished under some antlers. ‘You’re easily the prettiest girl in the room,’ he said, taking her hand. Beyond lay the ballroom brilliantly lit. On tables round the walls champagne was plunged into ice buckets. The Master’s wife, heavily corsetted, stood in the door distributing largesse. The band had stopped; couples were drifting off the floor. There was Arabella her face looking glamorously suntanned for once against a floating white dress; and Charles Mander leaving his hand lingeringly on the bare back of a fast-looking beauty. She couldn’t see Cory anywhere.
Harriet was instantly conscious that Billy was regarded as somebody. Seeing her with him lots of people who’d ignored her at Arabella’s party said ‘Hullo,’ and were obviously trying to remember where they’d seen her before. Billy found their table and the rest of the dinner party near the band, and after knocking back a few more glasses of champagne, asked Harriet to dance.
Surreptitiously Harriet was still searching everywhere for Cory. Then, as they reached the far end of the ballroom, suddenly she saw him and felt an absolute explosion of jealousy. He was talking to a beautiful, slightly ravaged looking woman with greeny gold hair, slanting eyes, high cheekbones and a beautiful green silk dress worn off one shoulder. That must be Melanie. She had the kind of mystery and sophistication that made Harriet feel as raw as a broken egg.
‘Hullo Harriet,’ said Elizabeth, who was sitting at the same table. ‘Sammy’s dress does suit you. Harriet’s terrifyingly thick with my nanny,’ she added to the ferret-faced man in a red coat sitting beside her. ‘One shudders to think what they tell each other about us.’
Cory looked up suddenly and noticed them.
‘Hullo, Cory,’ shouted Billy, waggling his arms and legs so vigorously in time to the music that his mousy locks fell over his pink forehead. ‘I’m taking good care of her,’ he brayed with laughter.
‘I’m sure you are, Billy,’ said Cory, giving them both a rather wintry smile. He turned back to Melanie.
Harriet felt a great stab of disappointment. Suddenly she knew all the scenting and curling and orange dress had been directed at Cory, and he’d hardly glanced at her.
The ball grew more raucous. Young men were trying to lob ice cubes down the front of girls’ dresses. In the kitchen a group were engaged in feeding a long string of cocktail sausages down the waste disposal, with shrieks of laughter. Harriet had danced with nearly everyone in the party, and drunk nearly a bottle of champagne, which only deepened her despair. Billy was doing his duty dance with his aunt. Mrs Willoughby was as usual dancing out of her party. Everyone else was on the floor, except Harriet and two men in red coats who sat with their backs to her discussing a day out with the Quorn. Harriet tried to put on an animated ‘I-am-just-waiting-for-my-partner-to-return’ sort of face. She was terrified Cory would see her being a wallflower. Billy’s mother stopped at the table and whispered to one of the men in a red coat. He turned and looked at Harriet. ‘Of course,’ he said, in a long-suffering voice. ‘May I have the pleasure of this dance?’
Harriet was so humiliated, she got all hot and flustered and said sorry each time he tripped over her feet. He never apologized at all. There was Cory dancing again with the beautiful Melanie. Oh God, don’t let him fancy her too much.
The ball became wilder; upstairs the cordoned-off bedrooms were heaving with occupants. After a trip to the ladies, Harriet saw Mrs Willoughby emerge from a side room, patting her hair, with Elizabeth Pemberton’s husband, Michael. During a break between dances, a drunk poured a whole bottle of champagne over his wife, and then, picking up another, started to water the rest of his party. Two men in dinner jackets carried him bellowing out of the ballroom, his legs wriggling like a sheep about to be dipped.
Harriet was well on her way down a second bottle. She felt very above ground now and cannoned into sever
al chairs when Billy asked her to dance.
‘I’ve got you under my skin,’ played the band.
I’ve got you under my lack of chin, thought Harriet and giggled, as Billy pressed her to his chest. Cory was dancing with Melanie yet again, her face pale and dreamy against his scarlet coat. They looked so beautiful together, quite separate from anyone else in the room. Harriet felt the music and longing eating into her soul.
‘He will not always say, what you would have him say, but now and then he’ll say something wonderful,’ played the band.
Harriet and Billy were passing Cory and Melanie now. Harriet looked up, and suddenly her eyes met Cory’s and she found she couldn’t tear them away. On and on they stared at each other, as the colour mounted in her cheeks.
Billy looked down at her, as though he could feel the current.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘are you still with me?’
‘I’d like a drink,’ muttered Harriet. She felt jolted and uneasy; her heart was thumping. She was just gulping down a second glass, when a soft voice said, ‘Would you spare a dance for an old fogey?’
She turned expectantly. It was Charles Mander, his face flushed, his cheeks veined with red. It was twenty to two, only a few minutes and they’d all be posthorn galloping. Suddenly she wanted to dance so badly with Cory, she nearly wept.
The next minute she was being mauled to bits on the floor. The tempo was very slow now and Charles was breathing down her neck, peering down the front of her dress, one warm hand wandering over her back and neck, the other which was holding her hand, nudging continually at her breast.
How could Noel have ever fancied him, thought Harriet. The music stopped.
‘Not letting you go so easily,’ said Charles.
‘I must get back to my party,’ said Harriet desperately and, wriggling away, went slap into Cory.
‘My turn, I think, Charles,’ he said.
And, joyfully, she melted into his arms. She was conscious of his height and strength, and in spite of being very drunk now, she tried to make herself as light as possible.
‘Have you had a nice time?’ he said.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
He’s my boss, she thought, and he loves Noel; but she felt herself curling round him like bindweed, lust leaping in her like a salmon.
Suddenly the contact of his body became unbearable; she lost her step. The music stopped to desultory clapping; several young men were galloping about the floor, kicking up their legs and uttering hunting cries. Across the room she saw Elizabeth Pemberton beckon imperiously to Billy and nod in their direction. Cory, however, held firmly onto her hand; perhaps after all he wanted her to stay. The band started up again. Reprieve, reprieve! Harriet’s self-control went to the winds. She put both her arms round Cory’s neck and smiled up at him.
‘I’ve been wanting to dance with you all evening,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘You’re pissed out of your mind.’
‘Am I really?’ she giggled, nestling against him. ‘I’ve enjoyed myself.’
‘Clinging to Charles Mander like a limpet?’ said Cory.
‘You mustn’t have a hang-up about him,’ said Harriet.
‘I have not,’ said Cory, extremely tartly.
‘He’s attractive, but not a millionth millionth as attractive as you.’
Melanie danced by with Michael Pemberton, trying to catch Cory’s eye with a do-you-need-rescuing expression on her face.
Harriet glanced at her.
‘She’s not the answer for you either,’ she said.
Cory raised his eyebrows.
‘Since when did I give you permission to dictate my sex life?’
‘Only tonight. I could supervise the whole world’s sex life tonight. Sammy says she doesn’t look nearly as hot first thing in the morning, and she’d got awful legs, and she asked Sammy to put a hot water bottle in her bed tonight, so she can’t be expecting to give you her all this evening.’
‘The nanny mafia,’ sighed Cory. ‘You spend far too much time gossiping to Sammy.’
‘Sammy says Melanie’s marriage broke up because she didn’t like sex. Anyway she’s too old for you.’
‘She’s four years younger than me.’
‘I know. But she’s too old inside. You need someone young and silly to stop you looking so sad.’
Her foot caught in her hem, and she stumbled and fell against him. His grip tightened on her; he laid his cheek against her hair.
‘You talk a lot of nonsense,’ he said. ‘And you’re going to feel terrible in the morning.’
‘It’s not morning yet,’ said Harriet dreamily. ‘It was the nightingale and not the lark that pierced the fearful hollows of thine ear.’
Suddenly there was a tantivy of hunting horns and view halloos, the sober fox trot tempo quickened, and broke into D’Ye Ken John Peel.
‘Oh Christ,’ said Cory, as a whooping line came thundering towards them.
What a noise of galloping feet! Harriet could feel the boards heaving as they rushed round the floor, one cavalry charge after another gathering up couples still trying to dance like fish in a net. With Cory protecting her from the scrimmage, Harriet was loving every minute, her cheeks flushed, dark hair flying.
Round and round they went until she was quite breathless. Suddenly they all slithered to a halt, stopped like statues, while the band played God Save the Queen. Just in front of them Charles Mander was patting Mrs Willoughby’s bottom while Mrs Mander snored peacefully in a chair with her mouth open. Harriet found her fingers curling in and out of Cory’s, and looking up saw Elizabeth Pemberton glaring in their direction.
The band stopped. A fat woman executed a pirouette and collapsed on the floor with cackles of laughter.
Harriet watched fascinated.
‘At least I’m not as drunk as her.’
‘Nor are you going to be allowed to be,’ said Cory firmly. Picking up Harriet’s bag which was lying on the table, he extracted the cloakroom ticket and handed it to Mrs Willoughby who was on her way upstairs.
‘Annie, be an angel and get Harriet’s coat while you’re up there. She’s much too slewed to find anything.’
Billy Bentley arrived, braying nervously.
‘We got lorst,’ he said.
‘This child has had far too much to drink,’ said Cory sternly.
‘’Fraid she hash; entirely my fault; take her home at onshe.’
‘You’re as bad as she is,’ said Cory, dropping his cigarette into a discarded plate of fruit salad. ‘Neither of you is in a fit state. Give her a ring in the morning, but for God’s sake get someone to drive you home.’
‘Or you might go slap into a tree along the Fairmile,’ said Harriet and laughed.
Elizabeth came up to them. ‘You’re coming back for a drink, aren’t you, Cory?’
Cory said he had to take Harriet home.
‘Billy can take her,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Far too drunk.’
‘Michael can run her back then.’
Harriet frantically pressed Cory’s hand.
‘He’s too drunk too,’ he said. ‘It’s late, and she is my responsibility.’
‘I am, I am,’ agreed Harriet, beaming.
‘Thanks, Annie,’ said Cory taking her coat from Mrs Willoughby. ‘I feel I ought to tip you.’
‘I’d much rather have a kiss,’ said Mrs Willoughby, her eyes gleaming. ‘You and Harriet,’ she shot a sly glance at Elizabeth, ‘must both come to dinner.’
Harriet had never seen anyone so cross as Elizabeth Pemberton.
Outside the rain had stopped; the clouds had rolled back like a blind on a clear starry night.
‘Damn,’ said Cory, going up to his car. ‘I’ve left the lights on; the battery’s flat.’
‘As flat as Elizabeth Pemberton’s chest,’ said Harriet. Really she was behaving very badly; she must get a grip on herself.
‘Having trouble?’ It was Harry Mytton, one of the red-faced stal
warts in the Bentleys’ party. Out of the corner of her eye, Harriet saw Elizabeth and her party bearing down on them.
‘Quick,’ she whispered.
‘Battery’s flat,’ said Cory. ‘Can you give us a lift? The garage can come and get it in the morning.’
Harriet leapt into the car as quick as a dog thinking it might be left behind. She found she was sitting on two riding crops and a dog lead. There was a sticker for the Aylesford point-to-point in the back window.
As the headlights lit up the bracken and the trailing traveller’s joy, she was achingly conscious of Cory sitting beside her in the back. Mrs Mytton discussed one of the drunks in their party.
‘Kept a pack in some unlikely place like Haslemere,’ said Harry Mytton. The huge stars seemed to be crowding in on them as they drove along the winding road. Harriet kept being thrown against Cory.
‘Annie Willoughby’s a damned attractive woman,’ said Harry Mytton, ‘magnificent woman across country you know.’
‘She can even keep potted plants alive,’ said Mrs Mytton.
Another corner, another lurch across the back of the car. This time Harriet didn’t bother to move away, nuzzling up to Cory like a puppy. Her head kept flopping forward. In the end Cory turned her over, so she lay with her head in his lap, and stroked her gently behind the ears, almost as he might have petted Tadpole or one of the children.
Looking up she could see the lean line of his jaw, above the white tie. Behind his head, out of the back window, Orion glittered in a sooty, black sky. Now he disappeared, now he appeared again as the car swung round the bends.
