Sheer Abandon

by Penny Vincenzi

  “What about your hair, I suppose Fergus did that an’ all?”

  “Don’t be silly, Nat. He’s not a hairdresser. No, Gran did it.”

  “Yeah? She’s all right, your gran. She still coming?”

  “Of course. She’s coming in the other car with Mum and Dad and some old bloke she calls her date. She’s really excited. Mum and Dad aren’t exactly looking forward to it,” she added. “Dad’s really miserable.”

  “He’ll be all right,” said Nat confidently. “He can stick with me.”

  It was a tribute to Fergus’s powers of persuasion that Kate was going at all, let alone her parents. They had been completely horrified when the invitations arrived, one for Kate and partner, one for Mr. and Mrs. James Tarrant. Jim had told Helen to put theirs in the bin where it belonged, that Kate would go over his dead body and wild horses wouldn’t drag him there.

  “Well, you’ll have to die then,” said Kate calmly, “because I’m going. I’m not missing this, not for anything.”

  “No harm can possibly come to her,” Fergus told them, earnestly. “This will be a grown-up party; in fact she’ll probably be bored in no time. But it will be wonderful for her to go, and a lovely reward for working so hard at her exams. And isn’t that great, Jocasta inviting you, too? You’ll have a wonderful night, I promise you. She told me she was asking Kate’s grandmother as well: I think that’s a very nice touch.”

  Finally, because Kate was so determined to go, they all went. She couldn’t go alone, with Nat and Sarah and Bernie, Helen thought, and it was asking too much of Fergus to look after her. There was no way Jim would entrust her to Jilly—“She’d be selling her into the white slave trade before the end of the night,” he said.

  As time went by, Helen was actually beginning to look forward to the party, just a little. It sounded so glamorous. Fergus had helped her with hiring a costume, a very nice silver shift dress, and Jilly had suggested she have her hair pulled back into a loose chignon, wear long glittery earrings, and carry a long cigarette holder. After all, as she said to Jim, no one would expect anything of them, they wouldn’t have to talk to anyone frightening, except of course Jocasta’s new husband, who was, after all, their own generation. And he must be a very respectable person; Kate had told her that he and Jocasta were going to the concert and fireworks at the Palace for the Queen’s Golden Jubilee. That had clinched it, really, for Helen. They could just sit there and eat some food, which she was sure would be very nice, and watch. It would be like going to the cinema.

  Jilly was beside herself with excitement, trying on and rejecting dress after dress, discussing her hairstyle endlessly with Laura at Hair and Now in Guildford, over old copies of Vogue, practising the Charleston in her sitting room. The invitation had said, “Mrs. Jillian Bradford and partner” and she had agonised over who to take, finally settling on Martin Bruce, who had been best man at her own wedding and was a recent widower.

  Sarah and Bernie and two of the more reliable boys they went round with, Cal and Kevin, all invited by Kate, had pretended to be cool about it at first, but as the days went by and the column inches about the party grew, they gave up and became very excited. The rumour that Westlife were going to do a spot really pushed them over the top. OK, they were a bit naff, but still they were—well, they were Westlife, for God’s sake. There. In the flesh. To dance to. It wasn’t exactly bad.

  “Right,” said Nat, as the doorbell rang, “that’ll be our car then. S’pose we’d better go.”

  He was interestingly composed; nothing really fazed him. His attitude to life was very attractive, Helen thought: she had become quite fond of him over the past few weeks. He was cheerful, good-natured, and, in a rather idiosyncratic way, nicely mannered. He was also touchingly thoughtful and clearly devoted to Kate. Helen hoped she wasn’t being naïve in her confidence that they weren’t sleeping together.

  Clio was still wrestling with her hair when the first cars started coming up the drive. She had a wild desire to run away. Jocasta would never miss her now—she was standing on the steps of the house in a state of high excitement, greeting, kissing, laughing, hugging. She had done her duty after all, Clio thought, calming her all day and just occasionally wandering round the grounds, marvelling at what imagination, combined with money, could accomplish. Jay Gatsby would have been very satisfied with this.

  A massive marquee stood just to the rear of the house, with lanterns strung across the trees above it; there was a jazz band on a platform on one side and a white grand piano, complete with pianist in white tie and tails, on the other. A fountain, made of outsize champagne glasses, played on the terrace; and beside that stood Gideon’s pride and joy, a black-and-silver twenties Chevrolet. A photographer was on hand for any guests who might wish to pose in it. Several cocktail bars, complete with barmen, were dotted about the grounds; a flashing sign on a gleaming black-and-silver deco-style structure said CASINO, and next to it, something that declared itself to be a cinema.

  Girls in long white crepe dresses wandered languidly about with borzois on leads (“Actually not Gatsby at all, more thirties, but never mind,” Jocasta said to Clio), men in Al Capone suits and slouch hats carried trays of drinks, and gangsters’ molls, with too much makeup and floozies’ curls, offered cigarettes and lighters. After dinner, and before the dancing, there was to be a treasure hunt, a great twenties craze.

  It was a perfect evening, warm but not hot, the sky starry, a nearly full moon hanging obligingly in it.

  She had met Gideon, and of course she had been totally charmed by him. She could see so easily how Jocasta would have fallen in love with him, how it had all happened. Warm, easy, tactile, and extremely attractive, not only good-looking, in his untidy Irish way, but with that crackling energy and capacity for intent concentration on whomever he was talking to. Clio felt she could have fallen in love with him herself. For a person as romantic and emotionally hungry as Jocasta, he had obviously been irresistible.

  Just the same, she thought, observing him over the twenty-four hours, watching as he appeared from time to time, then vanished again, completely uninvolved in the party, in what was going on, while striding about the house, mobile clamped to his ear, jabbing at his Palm Pilot, summoned frequently by the PA he had installed at the house for the day to deal with some crisis or other, to take calls, sign faxes, read e-mails, was this really the husband Jocasta needed?

  When the first few months were over would she just become part of his empire, another dazzling acquisition to be displayed and admired, but no longer the absolute object of his attention? Clio feared for Jocasta.

  And now the party was about to come to life; all the brilliant, famous, distinguished guests would appear, and Clio felt as close to terrified as she could ever remember. The dressmaker had done her proud, made her a pale blue chiffon dress, ankle-length with a drifting skirt, set off with long ropes of pearls; and her hair lent itself perfectly to the period, curved obediently into Marcel-like waves, held back from her face with a pair of diamanté clips.

  But her spirit didn’t quite match it. She sprayed herself lavishly with scent, touched up her already brilliant-red mouth—and then sank back on her bed, feeling dreadful. Who ever could she talk to, who on earth would she know? God. What a nightmare. She couldn’t do this, she really couldn’t.

  And then she had the idea. She could leave now. She would just quietly slip away: no one would miss her. Least of all Jocasta. It was perfectly brilliant. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She could call for a cab once she reached the lane that led to the house; it would be easy.

  She smiled at herself in the mirror with positive pleasure. Deciding to stay in her costume—she might meet Jocasta on the stairs or something if she changed—she picked up her bag and the fox stole she had hired and cautiously opened her door. The corridor was deserted; she was nearly at the bottom of the stairs, when she heard her name.

  “Clio, hello! How lovely to see you.”

  It was Fergus, smil
ing up at her, wonderfully handsome in white tie and tails; he came up to her, caught her hand, and kissed it.

  “You look marvellous. A real twenties femme fatale! What a lucky man I am, to have caught you on your own.”

  She smiled at him rather feebly, wondering what she might do next.

  “Would you like to take a turn round the grounds with me? Once everyone arrives, we won’t be able to see for looking.”

  “Well, I…” This was hugely tempting; Fergus was the opposite of demanding company, so easy and charming and funny. She might begin to feel part of the evening with him, even enjoy it a bit, and then when he found someone better, which he surely would, she could slip away.

  “Or,” he said, “do you have a beau waiting for you to come down and join him? I expect you do.”

  “Fergus, I don’t have any beau anywhere,” she said laughing, “and I’d love to take a turn with you. I’ve been sitting up there in my room, feeling quite scared.”

  “You ridiculous woman,” he said, “what have you to be scared of? It’s going to be fun, just you see if it isn’t. And did you know we’re on the same table for dinner? With old Johnny Hadley, diary writer on the Sketch. He’s the best fun in the world and has so many scurrilous stories. We’ll all have a wonderful time together. Come along, my darling, and let’s take a tour. Now, did you get that hospital job you were after?”

  “Good heavens,” said Jilly, “isn’t this absolutely out of this world? Just look at those lights—oh, thank you so much,” she said graciously to the driver. “Martin, dear, take my stole for a moment, would you—and that fountain over there, how absolutely marvellous—Oh, now there is Jocasta. My God, what a dress!”

  Jocasta stood on the steps of the house with Gideon, wearing a dress that was a faithful copy of a vintage 1924 Chanel. It was ankle-length chiffon, in palest grey, with a layered petal-like hem, the fabric printed in a spiderweb pattern in a darker grey. When she raised her arms, wings unfolded from the dress in the same floating fabric, falling from her fingers; she looked like a dancer, the star of some exotic revue—a shining, glittering star.

  “Jilly, how perfectly wonderful to see you! You look younger than ever. I want you to meet my husband, Gideon Keeble, I’ve told him so much about you. Helen and Jim, it’s nice of you to come, and where is the lovely Kate? Kate, darling, come and give me a kiss. My God, you look wonderful, and who is this desperately handsome man you’ve got with you?”

  “Nat Tucker,” said Nat, holding out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. Nice place you’ve got here,” he added, “very nice indeed.”

  “We like it,” said Jocasta, “thank you. I’ll catch up with you all later, just a bit busy at the moment—go through there and you’ll be looked after.”

  “She’s very nice-looking,” said Nat, the first to take a glass of champagne, leading the way through the arch of flowers that led across the side of the house and down to the wonderland below.

  “Isn’t she? And nice too,” said Kate, following his example, sipping at her glass, aware that a great many people were staring at her. “Oh my God, Sarah, look, a cocktail bar and there’s another—this is going to be really cool! Let’s explore.”

  “Kate…” called Helen feebly, as the six of them disappeared into the lantern-lit twilight. But she was gone.

  “I think we should do exactly the same,” said Jilly. “Just look over there, it’s—my goodness, a casino, and, I don’t believe it, there’s even a cinema! Do let’s see what’s on.”

  “Well, he’s certainly pushed the boat out for her, hasn’t he?” said Josh. He and Beatrice were settling themselves at their table for dinner: the family table, with Gideon and Jocasta, and Jocasta’s godmother and her husband, substituting for Ronald Forbes. Jocasta had changed the table plan through a blur of tears.

  The marquee slowly filled, the buzz of conversation rising and falling as people moved to their tables, greeting people on the way; it was almost half an hour before everyone was seated.

  “And soul food!” said Fergus to Clio. “What a brilliant idea. Don’t look like that, you’ll love it. And if you don’t, there’s an alternative. Of course.”

  “They really have thought of everything, haven’t they?” said Jack Kirkland to Martha. She smiled. “Indeed. It’s been quite wonderful.” So far it really had been fine; Jack had been a marvellous escort, courteous and attentive, introducing her to anyone who would listen as one of Centre Forward’s brightest stars. Janet Frean, rather surprisingly dressed in tie and tails, her auburn hair slicked back—“Well, I don’t like dresses”—had been warm and friendly.

  A rather subdued Chad told Martha she would greatly improve the standard of looks in the House when she got there. Eliot Griers told her it was nice to see her, and asked her how she was getting on; Caroline Griers was effusively friendly. Sitting next to her was Chris Pollock, the editor of the Sketch, whom she had liked enormously when she met him at the Centre Forward launch. Chad was on her other side; she asked him where his daughters were.

  “Oh, there’s a younger contingent down there,” he said gesturing vaguely towards the other side of the marquee. “They’re having a wonderful time. Too many cocktails, I’m afraid, but it’s that sort of night, isn’t it?”

  Martha agreed and noticed that, like her, he was hardly drinking. She would have liked a little more champagne, but she knew she couldn’t afford to. She still felt the need to be very watchful.

  Towards the end of the meal, Gideon stood up. He smiled round the vast space, raised his hands for silence, picked up a microphone.

  “He looks marvellous, doesn’t he?” whispered Beatrice to Josh. “He really is wonderfully handsome.”

  Gideon had refused to dress up; he said people his age and size had no business to be embarrassing everyone. His only concession to the theme was a wing collar on his dress shirt.

  “No speeches, I’ve promised Jocasta. Except for two things: thank you all for coming. It’s been a wonderful night—so far. I’m told it is yet extremely young. Not being quite that myself, I am hoping I can last a little longer. And I just wanted to tell you all, our friends, our very good friends, how much I love Jocasta and how happy she has made me.” He reached down and took her hand; a chiffon wing spread itself across the space between them. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve her, but I only hope I can make her as happy in return.”

  Jocasta promptly started to cry; Gideon leant over and wiped her tears tenderly away with his fingers.

  “She’s like that,” he said, “terribly predictable.”

  A roar of laughter went up. As it died again, he said, “Next on the programme is the treasure hunt; each table has a list of clues. First back here wins. I shall be waiting patiently. Good luck.”

  “I’m going to go and visit the Tarrants at their table,” whispered Fergus in Clio’s ear. “But I will be back, I promise. Don’t go off treasure hunting without me.”

  “I won’t,” she said laughing and then turned back to Johnny Hadley who was telling her yet another scurrilous story about Charles and Camilla. He could hardly believe his luck in finding a pretty woman who had never heard any of his sort of well-worn gossip before; instead of mocking him, as the media girls did, Clio’s eyes got bigger with every story.

  She found it hard now to believe she hadn’t wanted to come to this party. She’d had a wonderful time. Fergus, she discovered, was not just charming and amusing himself, he made you feel the same. For almost the first time in her life Clio was experiencing the dizzy sensation of making someone else laugh. And although he did disappear from time to time, at the sighting of some new high-profile celebrity, he kept coming back to her.

  She just wished he did something else for a living—and then wondered why on earth it mattered to her.

  “Martha, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. Hello, Josh.”

  “Hello. Wonderful to see you. Who’d have thought we should all be reunited at a bash like this?”<
br />
  “Who indeed?”

  “What are you doing these days? Law, isn’t it?”

  “Law, yes. And a foray into politics. And you?”

  “Oh, working for the old family firm. Are you—married or anything?”

  “No, nothing. You?”

  “I’m married. Yes. Very much so. Two children as well. Girls. Dear little things.”

  “And is your wife here?”

  “Yes. Somewhere. Well what a long time ago that seems, doesn’t it?”

  “It does indeed. Another lifetime altogether…Well, I must be getting back to my table. Nice to see you, Josh.”

  “Nice to see you too. Very nice dress,” he added.

  Well, that had been all right. She’d got through that. No awkward questions. He still looked pretty good, a bit heavier, maybe, and possibly a bit less hair, but you could still just about see the golden boy there.

  Yes, it had been fine. She needn’t have worried about that.

  “Who was your smooth friend?” It was Bob Frean’s voice; Janet had proved a rather enthusiastic treasure hunter and been missing for ages.

  “Oh—Jocasta’s brother, Josh,” she said carefully.

  “I didn’t know you knew them that well.”

  “I don’t really. Not anymore. I met them when we were young.”

  She was beginning to feel a bit panicky; she took a deep breath, smiled at him feebly.

  “Do you want to go over to the casino? Or have a dance, even?”

  “I’d love to go to the casino,” she said. She had learnt, when she was feeling like this, that the trick was to keep moving.

  He took her hand, pulled her out of her chair. “Want to take a drink with you?”

  “No, I’m fine. Are you sure Janet won’t be wondering where you are?”

  “It’ll make a change if she does,” he said and smiled just the briefest moment too late. Ah, Martha thought, not quite the perfect partnership then.