After the Party

by Cressida Connolly

  ‘Whatever’s happened to your dress?’ Patricia asked her.

  Her sister had found her standing by the fire in the hall. She still had goosebumps all along her arms, but her teeth had stopped chattering. Phyllis looked down and saw that there was a dark patch below her bosom, where she had leant against the car. Moisture had darkened the material. ‘Oh Lord, does it look dreadful? I went out to get some air and I must have brushed against something.’

  ‘Well, where’s the tippet Sarita lent you? You could just hold that – fasten it over – till it dries. I don’t think it’ll have marked the fabric, will it? It’s only water, by the look of it.’

  ‘I think I left it in the little sitting room, earlier.’

  ‘Shall I go and fetch it for you?’

  Phyllis felt a rush of warmth towards her sister. ‘Would you? Thanks so much.’

  Patricia duly returned with the fur and suggested that they go back to the small sitting room, where various of their friends – Pea-Brain and Fergus and Andrew Gordon-Canning among them – were holding court.

  Phyllis squeezed in between a couple of them so as to keep thawing out. The men were in high spirits, flushed from dancing and wine. In due course Fergus stood and reached out his hand to her. ‘Dance?’ he asked.

  Phyllis did not really want to dance with him, but Fergus was her host; it would have been churlish to say no.

  He led her through into the dining room. The room was long and slender, hung with pearl-green silk. Pairs of gilt swans necked at the top of tall ornate mirrors which stood at either end of the room, reflecting the distance between them again and again in the candlelight. A five-piece band installed at the far side were playing a slow tune. Phyllis hoped Fergus wouldn’t attempt conversation. It was so embarrassing, trying to talk small-talk and keep in step at the same time. In the event he did not speak. Instead he held his face so close against her head that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her hair, close to her ear. Fergus was a good dancer, she could tell, and the fact that he was on the short side allowed the rhythm of his body to awake her own. Some men were entirely stiff and only moved their legs, but he was different. There was a lilt in his torso and an ease in his arms, as if dancing came as readily to him as any other kind of movement. She wondered whether it was because he was an expert horseman that he seemed so natural to dance with. She thought of asking him as much, but she was enjoying herself and didn’t want to break the mood.

  As they shuffled about on the parquet, the pressure of his hand against the small of her back intensified. His hip touched hers. He shifted his face very slightly so that his breath was now against the naked skin behind her ear, as if he might be about to whisper, but still he said nothing. When the music came to an end Fergus made no sign of bringing their dance to a close, but carried on idly turning, as if in a dream. And yet there was a sense almost of purpose about him, despite the languor: a feeling that all his interest and energy were secretly aimed only at her, as if no one else in the world existed. Again she thought of riders. Adepts could urge a horse over a jump or around a tight turn without giving any apparent directions – no kicking, no yanking of the reins – just by turning their own face a little or with some invisible tightening of the legs against the flanks of the animal. Now a new tune started up and Fergus made the merest of adjustments, so as to keep in step, but still he did not speak. She was surprised to find that she was glad he had not let her go and that he meant their dance not to end just yet; she was surprised to find she liked being held by him. In real life she had never cared for him very much: he had never seemed to her to be worthy of Sarita.

  Phyllis felt her ribs against his, the softness below her ribs flattened against him. He was clasping her. His hand in hers was dry and smooth. He dropped his head very slightly and she thought she felt for an instant his mouth, the softness of his lips, brush against her throat. Still they slowly circled. His hand moved a little lower on her back, pulling her in. They seemed to be moving in slower and slower circles. Again the tune came to an end; again he gripped her against him, waiting for the next to begin. And there it was, suddenly, like the hilt of a dagger. Pushing, pushing against her. Like an insult. A nasty, sinewy accusation. A gizzard. She felt it against her stomach, almost pulsing; insistent and sharp. Every part of her recoiled with revulsion. The swoony feeling evaporated at once and she made to pull away, but Fergus had her, as if in a clamp. Now he took his face away from the nape of her neck and looked at her with a knowing, unashamed frankness.

  She could feel her face and throat burn with shame and fury.

  ‘No, I don’t want …’ she hissed. She would have shouted, but she did not want to alert the other dancers.

  Fergus smiled a slow smile, but maintained his grip. His arms were very strong and she found she could only wriggle. He put his mouth against her ear.

  ‘Shall we go somewhere?’ he said in a low voice.

  His mouth was level with the side of her throat. Earlier in the evening she had applied scent to the spot of skin just below her ear. It was one of the little rituals of going out for the evening, a pleasant feeling as the coolness of the glass scent stopper deposited its floral trail on her throat. Now, in that same place, something warm and wetly sticky slithered across the skin. For a moment the sensation so repelled and confused her that she almost thought the emission had somehow worked its way up from his groin on to her neck. Then she realized that it was his tongue. Fergus had licked her. If an eel or hagfish had deposited a trail of nacreous slime on to her body she could not have felt a more visceral disgust.

  ‘Let go of me!’ she hissed. She tried to lift her hand in order to wipe the smear he had left upon her neck, but he had both her hands in his, and would not yield. She pulled her head away from his and saw the look of challenge on his face.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘I can’t do that for the moment, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Got to wait for things to die down.’ Still he pressed himself against her.

  ‘Keep that … keep to yourself. I don’t want to dance with you any more. I want to stop,’ she said.

  ‘Steady on. All in good time,’ he said. Fergus didn’t seem at all riled. If anything he seemed amused. He continued to hold her, but less tightly. Now the supple rhythm of his dancing seemed disgusting, as if he were some sort of pantomime snake charmer. He still moved to the music, but all the concentration he had fixed on her had departed. Now she felt as if she were just an inanimate thing he had to move around, like someone’s coat. Phyllis willed the music to come to a stop, but it seemed to drag on and on. She could feel tears pricking in her eyes. All she wanted was to go home, away from here.

  At last the tune died away and she was able to break free. She tried not to run. She must find Hugh. In the hall people were standing about in twos and threes, some of them evidently the worse for wear: faces were flushed and voices raised: a roar of vowel-sounds seemed to issue from these people, as if they were all shouting the word ‘hour’ over and over again. One man stumbled as he progressed towards the door. She went to the little sitting room, but there was no sign of her husband. Perhaps he was dancing and she had not seen him. She didn’t want to go back towards the music, but the desire to get away was stronger. In the vestibule outside the dining room she bumped into Venetia Gordon-Canning.

  ‘Come back for another round?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m looking for Hugh, actually. Have you seen him?’

  ‘I think he’s dancing with your sister, down by the band. If you were trying to make him jealous just now, he won’t have seen. You were at the wrong end of the room.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘Egging Fergus on like that. I didn’t know you had it in you.’

  ‘I wasn’t egging him on! I find him creepy, to tell you the truth,’ said Phyllis, lowering her voice.

  ‘Well, it didn’t look as if you did. Everyone saw you, practically having it off on the dance floor.’ She leant
in towards her friend’s ear and whispered: ‘You could spot his stiffie at twenty paces, so you must have been doing something right.’

  ‘Who saw me? What do you mean?’ said Phyllis. She felt panic-stricken.

  ‘Sarita and I came through to watch the dancing.’

  Phyllis’s heart plummeted. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Gone upstairs, I think. She said she was just going to go and get something. Probably felt embarrassed. Rather shows her up if her great friend gets off with her husband at their own party.’

  At this Phyllis burst into tears. ‘Honestly, Venetia, you think you’re so smart and amusing, but you’re just cruel. I heard you outside, earlier on; what you were doing with some man in the back of a car out there. Someone’s husband, I daresay. Just because you go on like that doesn’t mean other people do. You shouldn’t have let Sarita be upset like this, it’s too unkind.’

  ‘Ooh, tra-la! The pot and the kettle spring to mind. It’s a bit late now, to be so sanctimonious. What were you doing out by the motors, in any case? I bet you were spooning too. With Fergus, were you?’ said Venetia.

  ‘No, I wasn’t, I …’

  ‘Well, if you sneak on me I’ll certainly tell on you,’ said Venetia. She strutted off.

  Phyllis tried to collect herself. She could feel her heart pounding against her ribs, like a trapped bird flapping at the bars of a window. Her nose was running. She turned to face the wall, pretending to examine a little painting of what looked like a Dutch landscape, flat and straw-coloured. Just then she heard Patricia’s voice and Hugh’s. She sprang round and clutched at her husband’s arm.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness, I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Can we go now? I’m terribly tired, suddenly: I don’t think I can go on for another minute.’

  ‘But we haven’t had breakfast yet,’ said Hugh.

  ‘We can have breakfast at home. Only I really must go,’ said Phyllis. ‘I’m going to wait on the steps, while you fetch your coat.’

  ‘Are you all right, darling? You don’t seem quite yourself,’ Patricia asked, following her sister through the hall towards the door.

  ‘I’m not ill or anything. I think I’ve just overdone it.’

  ‘Let’s telephone in the morning so we can have a post mortem,’ said Patricia. ‘Not too early, though. Greville never likes to leave a party until the last crumb has been swept away.’

  ‘I will,’ said Phyllis. ‘I promise.’

  Phyllis cried silently all the way home, allowing her tears to fall unchecked. She kept her face averted, so Hugh wouldn’t notice. The effort of not making any sound gave her a sore throat. She could hardly bear to think she had upset Sarita, who had always been so very kind to her. Her dearest friend, really; the person – even more than her own family – she was most herself with.

  Phyllis didn’t know how she could make things right, but she knew she must try. A letter or a telephone call wouldn’t do: she would go and see her in person and just hope that Fergus wouldn’t be about when she called. She didn’t know how she would be able to face him, after this. Almost the worst thing had been that way he’d looked at her; the ghastly assumed complicity in that look. Hugh gave no sign of noticing her distress, he was concentrating on the road. It was bitterly cold and he rather thought there might be black ice: he drove slowly.

  The following morning was bright and clear, with air so cold and fresh it almost stung to breathe. The sky was remote and very blue; the horizon a distinct line where the dark sea met the sky, as if a child had drawn it with a ruler. The bare elms cast long shadows. Phyllis took her morning cup of tea and stood under the cedar, looking out across the horseshoe bay towards the village church. The low sun revealed frosted cobwebs, strewn over the empty rose bushes. They looked as intricate and easy to tear as old frozen lace. Hugh was already up and dressed and freshly shaved. He came and stood beside her on the grass.

  ‘Do you think it’s wise to be wearing gumboots with your dressing gown? You do look eccentric,’ he said. He sounded more doubtful than chiding.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s anyone much about,’ said Phyllis. ‘I didn’t want to ruin my slippers, you see.’

  From inside the house came the sound of the telephone ringing.

  ‘Could you go?’ Phyllis asked Hugh. ‘If it’s Patricia will you tell her I’ll ring her back in an hour?’

  She was enjoying the sun on her face and the glittering water. It was a new day after all and in the brightness good humour was restored. Gossip could wait.

  After a time Hugh came out to her and took her by the elbow. When he spoke it was with such exaggerated calm that she knew he was about to impart something very terrible. She felt an almost physical coldness, like opening the door into a deep cellar. She thought her father must have died. ‘You’d better come in and sit down, Phyllis. I’m afraid there’s some very sad news. It’s Sarita.’

  Phyllis, 1979

  When I heard about Sarita of course my first thought was that she had taken her own life. I suppose in a way she had. It was devastating: there’s no other word for it, really. It would have been terribly upsetting to have lost such a dear friend under any circumstances, especially someone as young as Sarita still was. And at that time I’d never lost anyone close to me: she was the first. Until someone you’re really close to dies, death is something that happens to other people but you don’t truly take in that it’ll ever happen to you. I felt not just grief but the most awful, searing guilt. And shame. Guilt and shame are not quite the same thing, that’s something I have had a great deal of time to think about and I am quite sure of the difference. I should be, because I am very familiar with both. My children think I’m shameless – that’s one of the things they can’t forgive me for – but they’re wrong about that. They’re wrong about quite a number of things, as a matter of fact.

  On that morning I couldn’t stop thinking how ghastly it must have been for her to see me smooching with her husband, how alone she must have felt at that moment. You must remember that she was a foreigner: she didn’t really fit in with English life. It might have been better if she’d been in London, with more sophisticated sort of people. As it was I think she always felt very much the outsider. I believe she was lonely. Especially in the horsey and rather coarse circle her husband mixed with. Everything about her was the opposite of that: she was a very refined sort of person. An extraordinary person, really. She was curious without ever being indelicate and she had this tremendous natural elegance. That was the word people always used to describe her. She was elegant in a very unaffected way, all her gestures and the way she dressed and moved and spoke. Her hands. She just couldn’t help it. And she had such a pretty laugh, which made people want to please her, because it was like a beam of light when she laughed. Grace, that’s what Sarita had.

  I blamed myself, of course I did. And what made it even worse was that I couldn’t tell anyone. I certainly couldn’t tell Hugh and I felt too wretched and ashamed to tell my sisters. The other friend I had at the time – her name was Venetia – had seen me dancing closely with him: the husband, Fergus. It sounds so trivial now. She’d been standing with Sarita: in fact it was she who told me that Sarita had seen us on the dance floor. She was a spiky sort of girl. My sister Patricia had tried to warn me off her, but I’d put it down to a spot of sibling jealousy, because this woman Venetia was rather a figure in county circles and my sister always minded about that sort of thing. But actually I think Patricia had had my best interests at heart, that Venetia actually was a trouble-maker and a gossip. Anyway. Venetia had seen Fergus and myself in this sort of clinch, you might call it, and I lived in dread of her broadcasting it. She might have exaggerated, claimed he and I were having an affair, she was the sort of person who piled it on for fun. It would have been the most natural thing in the world for her to spread it about that poor Sarita had been broken by the sight of her husband and her dear friend together. I never really knew whether Venetia did talk in this way, because I sto
pped seeing her after the Templetons’ dance.

  It was morphia. I only learned years later that Sarita’d been taking it in secret for years, even before she’d married for the second time. The first husband knew about it and had tried to get the little girl to live with him because he didn’t think Sarita was reliable. I imagine Fergus must have known, but I don’t suppose it troubled him too much: he knew lots of people who did rather rackety things, and if anything he seemed to relish that sort of behaviour. She let him do as he liked – she had deep enough pockets for his ponies, all that – which presumably was the main thing.

  No one had gone up to bed that night until God knows when. Fergus hadn’t slept in their room but had gone to bed in his dressing room – which had its own bathroom – otherwise he’d have noticed that she wasn’t there. One of the house guests had got up in the night and afterwards they said that they’d stepped in something wet on the landing outside their bathroom but that they hadn’t thought too much about it. Everyone was pretty drunk and a soggy patch of carpet could have been where someone had spilled a drink, or a dog had peed. It wasn’t the sort of thing that would cause a guest to wake up the whole household after a party.

  It was fortunate that the plaster didn’t come down on someone’s head or they’d have had another corpse on their hands. As it was, it was a lump of heavy cornicing in the bedroom below that fell. Luckily it was in the room of an elderly Italian couple – friends of Sarita, not Fergus – and they did bother to switch the light on and get out of bed and when they saw that there was a huge brown mark spreading across the ceiling and water dripping they went to investigate. There was water trickling through the landing ceiling outside their room, too.