by Angela Huth
Her eyes lingered over further triumphs: the grey and white striped material that skirted the sides of the tent made exactly the impression she had wanted – a background of flickering shadows to the huge swathes of roses, lilies and chrysanthemums looped like millionaire paperchains, or plumped with artful carelessness into cream china urns (job lot from a country house sale in Derbyshire, another lucky find). Funny how no one would ever know the miles she had driven, the often desperate hunts necessary to find exactly what she envisaged, the hundreds of hours engaged in manifesting the smallest detail. . . .
‘Only the tinest bit over budget, Tobes,’ she said, eyes on the magnificence but feeling him next to her.
‘Never mind. It’s wonderful.’
On the bandstand, transformed by so much greenery and so many pink flowers that it reminded Toby of some Shakespearean bank, a couple of Ant Cellar’s bandsmen were tuning up.
The odd squawk of trombone and clarinet thrilled Frances like the sound of a hunting horn when she was a child: goose pimples rose on her arms. She longed for the music.
Toby had preceded her down the steps to inspect the other half of the tent, where supper was laid at two dozen round tables. Frances, missing the support of his arm, clutched at Fiona’s shoulder and wobbled after him. For a wild moment, she wondered if she should dash upstairs and change into one of the old dresses in which she had always felt comfortable: maybe the mermaid was her only mistake. But even as the thought occurred, she knew there was no time. People would expect her to be in something new and extraordinary and, most important of all, Miss Hubbard, who had taken such trouble making the beastly dress, was helping in the cloakroom. She would be irreparably hurt were Frances to change.
Clutching her daughter’s shoulder, Frances skittered across a corner of parquet and followed Toby through the arch in the lattice partition that divided the supper room from the dance floor. There, the profusion of scents from the flowers flung over her – almost visible, almost tangible, warm, creamy smells of gardenias, roses, summer jasmine.
Toby, Frances saw with pleasure, stood in a kind of trance among the tables. For a moment, she thought he looked like a small frog confused by a pond overcrowded with water lilies, and the idea made her smile.
‘Each of the tables, Mum, they said took an hour to lay,’ said Fiona, by now holding her mother’s hand.
It was no wonder.
The cloths of dusk pink could scarcely be seen under their encrustations. At the centre of each table stood a glass bowl of gardenias and pink roses, guarded at four corners by cream candles in silver holders. Each place was laid with a regiment of silver knives and forks and spoons and thin-stemmed glasses. There were cream porcelain side plates with a pink key pattern (eventually found in Edinburgh) and cream damask napkins. Name places were written on parchment cards in sepia ink. To achieve perfection in this part of her plan Frances had taken six lessons in calligraphy.
She and Fiona reached Toby.
‘The detail,’ he said. In some awe, thought Frances.
‘It’s what matters,’ she said, in a modest voice.
From the other side of the lattice partition a clarinet skittered up to a high note and down again.
‘We must go,’ she added.
The three of them began to edge their way back to the arch that opened on to the dance floor. The lacy wood of the partition was so thickly decorated with leaves and flowers that a clear view of the band, except through the arch, was not possible. Forethought, here: guests must be able to carry on a conversation easily, despite the music and dancing so near. Frances had noticed, through gaps in the foliage, comings and goings on the bandstand. Now, back on the empty dance floor, she saw every member was in place, all in white dinner jackets, minor versions of their leader. Mr Cellar himself, a master of public relations, gave a small bow at Frances’s entrance and raised his baton. With a great swoosh, the huge plush sound of The Very Thought of You filled the empty tent, and Frances, nervous tension suddenly flown, burst out laughing.
The creep, thought Toby, glaring at Cellar’s servile little smile. Marvellous music, though. Had to admit that.
Ant Cellar kept his eyes on Frances, smiling at her laughter. She moved away from Fiona and Toby, gave a few sinuous wiggles. This caused the sequins to dazzle so brightly their glare seeped into Toby’s reluctant vision. Then, to his embarrassment, he saw that his wife, alone on the floor, shuffled her feet expertly beneath the frothy tail and waved her arms like a ballet dancer who has not learned the art of restraint. The sight certainly amused the repulsive Mr Cellar. Laughing, he increased the tempo, thus encouraging Frances to speed up her ghastly performance.
Fortunately, at that moment, Luigi – dressed at his own insistence as a gondolier, to denote his position as captain of the staff – came running on to the terrace, arms flailing wildly, his face stricken. Frances stopped at once. Ant Cellar, ever sensitive, hushed the band to a mere pianissimo.
‘What is it, Luigi?’ The sudden halt of her movements, Frances found, was unbalancing. She skidded about, was saved by support from one of the enfoliaged pillars.
‘Mrs Farthingoe! Guests!’ shouted the suddenly unnerved Luigi. ‘They are come –’
And indeed, behind him, rolled an anticipatory pair: a large woman in mayoral satin, who had chosen not to disguise her arms with any form of covering, and her limpid husband.
Trust the bloody neighbours to arrive first, thought Toby. He hurried over to them, calculating that Frances’s constricted journey across the empty dance floor would take some time. Ant Cellar switched key into The Lady is a Tramp. Fiona remained where her father had left her by the arch. She watched her mermaid mother, slightly out of focus, slithering luxuriously across the polished floor. She wondered why on earth she had decided to come, and how on earth she was going to spend the long night ahead.
* * *
By the time they sat down to dinner, the three hundred guests had been drinking excellent champagne for three-quarters of an hour. Thomas was among those whose policy was to drink quickly at an early stage, knowing some effort was required to ease himself into an appreciative state of mind. Having found his place at a corner table near the partition that divided the supper room from the dance floor, he closely observed his fellow guests. Awful trap, dinner, at these sort of occasions. If your host had placed you badly, you were stuck for a couple of hours. No chance to be free till after the coffee.
Across the table, he saw with slightly rising spirits, was the woman he recognised from dinner at Oxford – Rachel had sat next to her husband. Unfortunately, the table was too wide to talk across, but he might manage to shift nearer to her later. Not that he had the least desire to pay any attention to any new woman, his heart being so completely occupied by Rosie. It just happened that she was the most attractive woman at the table by far. . . . What mischief had been in Frances’s heart when she had chosen to place him between the two who were settling on each side of him?
Thomas shifted slightly to his right, scrutinised the place card: Marina Folks. Mrs Folks, presumably, judging by a garnet ring in a 1950s setting on her finger. Thomas’s eyes rose slowly. Mrs Folks had chosen to wear a multi-coloured Indian dress covered with a quilted waistcoat of the same material -the kind of thing very popular in the early 1970s, which even Rachel had abandoned some years ago. He turned to the white orb of her face, the clenched hair, the flash of a cherry lipstick smile.
‘I come from Wendover,’ she said.
Thomas occupied himself in taking two long sips at the very good white wine while he reflected on this fact. Launching into conversation with a complete stranger was never an easy matter, and Mrs Folks, along with hundreds of others at these ridiculous middle-aged balls, scored zilch in the art of Striking Up. It would be much easier, less trying, altogether more agreeable, if, at this very moment, they voted that her comment should be both the beginning and the end. They should call a truce, agree there was absolutely no point in speaking to eac
h other for the rest of dinner, and they could enjoy their food in silence.
As it was, Thomas took a spoonful of delicious iced mint consommé, and said: ‘Do you.’
His graceless lack of response – she had expected in return a similar piece of information – flummoxed Mrs Folks completely. A rash of pink spots flashed on her neck, clashing with the fuchsia pattern of her quilting.
‘I mean, I suppose it’s a long way to come, but I’d travel any amount of miles to one of Frances’s parties, wouldn’t you?’
Thomas looked across at the pretty woman from Oxford. The rotten luck of it was, she seemed to be poorly placed, too. They exchanged a small, secret smile. He’d definitely move, later.
‘I’d travel about sixty-two miles,’ he said. ‘Possibly sixty-three.’
The Folks woman tittered, further unnerved.
‘Such fun,’ she may have murmured.
But Thomas was not listening. He glanced to his left: hulk of emerald satin. He sighed. A setting such as this – delicious music, flowers so powerful they almost knocked you out – emphasised imperfection as much as beauty. With his entire being he longed for the impossible: Rosie Cotterman to be beside him, her fragile Irish beauty mesmeric in the candlelight. Oh God, Rosie. . . .
‘Do you come from round here?’ asked the satin.
* * *
Fiona hadn’t realised she would be so in the way. Everywhere she went ladies in lacy aprons carrying five plates had to duck and swerve to avoid her. When she had refused to have a place at any of the tables, not wanting to be stuck all through dinner with a lot of boring old grown-ups, she had not realised how conspicuous she would feel, the only non-helper standing up. It was awful, really awful. If only Jessica had been allowed to have come they could have gone off somewhere, had quite a good time. As it was, it took her at least twenty minutes to persuade one of the bossy ladies to give her a plate of food – some sort of salmon stuff falling out of pastry, parsley everywhere, which she hated – and then she had to spend ages trying to find a free fork. . . . In the end she slipped along the edge of the dance floor, observed only by Ant Cellar’s bandsmen, and sat on the floor at the foot of their stage. She had a curious feeling of wanting to be near Ant. He was so cool, with his smashing hair and white suit. His music was all right, too: a bit sad. She looked up at him: couldn’t see him very clearly without her glasses, but realised he smiled at her. Actually smiled. Perhaps she would stay here all night. She smiled back. But he was concentrating on his conducting, didn’t see her. Never mind. She’d have another go, later. She dug her fork into the pink fish, pushing away the revolting parsley. The smell of the million lilies made her feel sick. Or maybe it was the salmon. Still, if she was lucky she’d get Ant’s autograph. Somehow.
* * *
Frances’s own place at her table was as skilfully calculated as every other detail. To her right was her father, a retired colonel: to her left, his best friend, a deaf old boy of equal rank. Their pleasure was to reminisce about the last war together: Frances’s constant forays from the table would afford them many opportunities.
She deserted them first as their spoons slithered about the brilliant jade of their jellied consommé. She herself, devoid of appetite, had sipped at half a teaspoon, and left the rest. She patted both old men on the shoulders, whispering she would return soon: they neither heard nor cared.
Frances made her way through the tables. She found it hard not actually to dance, as she had earlier, in time to Ant’s heavenly music. But she restrained herself, fearing a return of Toby’s disapproving look. She merely tossed her head instead, shining hair swinging like an advertisement, diamanté trout earrings speckling her cheeks with diamond stars. On the tide of gardenia scent and nostalgic music, she glided above the heads of her guests stopping here and there to clutch a bunch of raised fingers which squeezed her own in congratulation. Sometimes she was pulled briefly down to brush a cheek, to feel a wet mouth, and to register a small chip of expensive scent behind an ear – no match for the overpowering smell of the party flowers. Single words were exchanged: party shorthand.
‘Frances!’
‘Amazing!’
‘Thanks!’
‘Dress!’
‘Like it?’
‘Stunning!’
‘Mermaid!’
‘Mermaid?’
‘This salmon –’
‘Koulibiak –’
‘Triumph!’
‘Thank you! Thanks –’
On, on, through the swell of praise, awe, congratulation. All worth it, then, the trouble. All worth it. Night and Day, Ant was playing. So appropriate. It had been a struggle, night and day, for months.
At the last table, Frances saw Thomas Arkwright. Poor old Thomas: he was fatter, flushed, hot. She had chosen Marina Folks very carefully for him: her husband, too, was a brewer. She thought they might have had something in common. But by the looks of things she had miscalculated. Frances decided to cheer him up with the whispered promise of a dance: Thomas had always given her the encouraging eye. But meantime, Ralph, on the other side of the Folks woman, was beckoning.
‘Frances, my darling, you’ve done it again.’
Slightly drunk, the confused thought struggled in Ralph’s mind that, now he was free of her affection, it was in order to address her thus at her own party. She would see it meant nothing beyond admiration for her party skills. He kissed her hair.
‘Ralphie! Enjoying yourself?’
‘Wonderful!’
‘Marina! Lovely to see you –’
‘Frances! This is fun –’
‘And Thomas!’ Frances stretched out an arm. She felt her left bosom rise slightly from the sequin bodice. ‘Thomas, have you met Ralphie?’
‘I haven’t, no.’
Things were a little out of focus, Thomas found. The sequins on Frances’s flank hurt his eyes. He was conscious of sweat running down the back of his neck. His underthighs itched against the wicker seat of his chair. His shirt strained against his stomach.
‘Ralph Cotterman,’ said Frances.
The two men looked at each other, shook hands across Marina Folks.
Thomas swallowed. There was something faintly familiar –top lip, set of head on neck.
‘Promise me a dance later, Thomas.’ Frances glided away.
‘Lots of dances,’ promised Thomas, too late.
Useless as an underwater fish, his mouth moved silently. Heart in a turmoil, he tried very hard, then, to summon a calm voice.
‘Cotterman? Any relation to Rosie Cotterman, the painter?’
The man smiled. Weakish face.
‘My mother,’ he said.
‘Good heavens.’ Thomas felt the blood fleeing his own cheeks, leaving cold skin flaccid against the bone. ‘I’ve bought several of her paintings. . . .’ He was aware that Ralph Cotterman was straining to see his place card. Frances, in her hurry, had not completed the introduction. ‘Thomas Arkwright, the name.’
‘You’re Mr Arkwright? She told me.’
‘Told you what?’
‘That you were a very generous client.’
‘Ah.’
Thomas registered that Mrs Folks, unable to contribute to this exchange, had taken out a silver compact and was powdering her nose with a matted piece of cotton wool.
‘She’s here, as a matter of fact,’ Ralph Cotterman was saying, voice on one level as if it were a perfectly ordinary piece of news.
‘Here?’ Thomas felt so weak that he thought he might faint.
‘All the way from. . . .’
‘In the old days she’d go any distance for a party, my mother. Quite a girl in her time.’
Mrs Folks smiled noisily, snapping shut the beastly little tortoiseshell lid.
‘When I was younger,’ she offered.
‘Where is she?’
Thomas’s head was swivelling about. Myriad diners floated, scarf-like, unclear, before his eyes. Dizzying.
‘Somewhere,’ said Ralph
. ‘I’m not sure.’
Thomas crashed his spoon down into a pink mousse that twinkled with fraises du bois. He must eat, stop drinking, gather strength, retain composure . . .
‘I’ll be off in a moment to do the filial duty,’ Rosie’s son was saying. ‘First dance and all that. She’ll be very tickled to discover you’re here.’
Tickled. . . .
‘Could you pass the cream, please?’ Marina Folks’ huffy little voice came from some far-off horizon.
. . . my darling beloved Rosie, I’m going to dance with you all night. . . .
Somehow, Thomas passed the cream.
* * *
Frances’s thoughts for Toby’s place a table was no less calculated than for that of her own. He should have Rosie Cotterman and Mary Lutchins. Thus, if he, too, wanted to wander round the tables before dinner was over, they would have a good time talking to each other across the gap.
It had not occurred to her that Toby would have no intention of wandering about. His idea of an enjoyable dinner was to stay where he was, relishing the conversation, the wine, the food. And this he did. His companions were two game old girls: Mary, sweet and brave; Rosie, the wild, dotty Rosie, sharp and funny. Toby, despite all predictions to the contrary, positively enjoyed himself.
‘Lovely, lovely music,’ Rosie was saying. Since her third glass of his superb claret, Toby noticed, her adjectives had begun to multiply. ‘Takes me back.’
‘Also, you can talk against it,’ observed Mary. ‘Very clever of Frances to have found this Cellar Music.’
‘Very, very clever,’ agreed Rosie.
Toby’s mood of easy contentment was then jarred by the view of his wife filtering, once again, through the tables. It was the third time during dinner she had set out on a solo peregrination. Surely there wasn’t a guest in the room she had not greeted by now, not a guest who had not observed and wondered at her dress . . . ? Attention-seeking, as usual. He longed for her to sit down, stay put till the dancing began. But then he felt the meanness of his sentiment: it was her party, her evening of glory. She surely deserved the rewards of approbation she so desperately sought.
