It was over a year since Emerald had lain there, reading of the treachery of Francis Richmond. The Sunday News was never now among the newspapers brought to her with her breakfast tray. It was banned both at her house in Chester Square in London and at The Waves. Since that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday she read only the more staid broadsheets dipping, as was her habit, into the Arts and Book sections to become au courant, as she put it, for when she descended from her bedroom to join her weekend guests in time for a cocktail before luncheon.
Because of Sylvia’s ball, this weekend was special. For on this Saturday evening there was to be the first real party either of the friends had held since the publication of Richmond’s infamous diary; and Emerald was, of course, bringing her dinner guests to Sylvia’s for the dance. She now pencilled in the places at table for dinner, after which they would drive the fifteen miles to Wainscott for the ball, whose arrangements the two friends had been planning with mounting excitement for several months.
Before the publication of the diary it had been the regular practice on most weekends for each of them to bring her house guests to the other for lunch on Sunday and the only time when this had been abandoned was during the six months immediately after the publication of the Richmond diary. During those six months Emerald and Sylvia had nursed their wounds in private and had abandoned their weekend house parties. The Waves and Wainscott had stood silent, emptied by the treachery of the man who had been entertained so often in both, the man who had betrayed his friends from beyond the grave.
But Emerald Cunliffe and Sylvia Benedict were tough. They could never have reached their position in the social world had they not been. So two days after the Sunday of the betrayal by the dead Francis Richmond and by Mordecai Ledbury who had refused to advise them because he had been retained by News Universal or been bought by News Universal, as Sybil Benedict had it – they had appeared together at lunchtime as usual at their favourite haunt in London, Harry’s Bar in South Audley Street. They’d had lengthy discussions as to whether they should be seen in society so soon after the publication of the diary.
It was Emerald who had decided. ‘If we don’t make a public appearance,’ she’d said on the telephone, ‘we’ll never be able to face anyone again. It will only be more unpleasant if we postpone it. I will not be driven out of society by that bitchy old queen now, I hope, roasting in hell.’
The lunch at Harry’s Bar had not been enjoyable. They were not cut; acquaintances bowed or smiled as they passed but none came over to them, as so many usually did when they took their places at their usual table. They could not avoid observing the whispers behind hands nor, in some cases, the suppressed giggles.
‘We are figures of fun,’ Sybil hissed, close to tears.
Emerald was made of sterner stuff. ‘It’s been so long since any of them had a man,’ she said loudly. ‘They’ve forgotten what it’s like.’ She glared imperiously around the room as she ordered bellinis with an extra dose of champagne and only a dash of peach juice. Nevertheless they observed that none came to chat to them and, earlier than usual, they swept out.
They did not repeat so public an appearance for many more weeks. Dinner parties were cancelled and for several months neither had a weekend house party. During this time both were well aware, as Digby Price had made sure they would be, of the activities of his hacks who haunted their houses, trying to speak to their friends and servants. Eventually the attentions became so intrusive that they considered going to court to stop the pestering. Characteristically Emerald was the more bellicose and she forced her solicitor to take her to see counsel to obtain advice as to whether there was anything to be done to stop the harassment.
The counsel chosen was Patrick Foxley. He told her Richard Tancred had retained him in his suit against News Universal, which pleased her; but he advised her against going to law or writing letters of complaint. ‘Price may want to provoke you into taking some kind of action,’ he said, ‘but you mustn’t. It would be playing into his hands. He’d try to humiliate you by raking up all the gossip he could find about you and, and if he couldn’t find enough, he’d invent it. You must treat what was published about you and his present harassment with the contempt it deserves. If it goes beyond what you’ve told me, we might complain to the Press Complaints Tribunal. As you have not brought proceedings against the newspaper, these people have no right to behave as they are doing.’
Emerald was much taken by Patrick and ten days after the conference he received an invitation to dine at Lady Cunliffe’s London house in Chester Square. It was a small party. Patrick was placed between Emerald and Sylvia, and towards the end of dinner Sylvia asked him what he thought of Mordecai Ledbury. His hostess leant forward to catch his answer.
‘He’s a formidable advocate,’ Patrick replied. ‘But … he’s not quite the force at the Bar that once he was.’ He looked at Sylvia. She was disappointed. She had hoped for something more. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’ he added.
‘He was once. Not since Price bought him.’
‘I must say I was surprised when I heard he was representing News Universal. He’s been very rude about them in the past.’
‘Money,’ she said, ‘that’s all it is. That man Price can buy anyone.’
More invitations to dine followed from both Sylvia and Emerald, and when house parties were resumed at Wainscott and The Waves, Patrick Foxley was now and then invited and now and then he accepted. On this Saturday, when Emerald was lying in bed engaged in settling her placement for her dinner that evening, he was among the guests she was expecting to arrive later in the morning.
Emerald’s American friend, Dolly Partiger, who was paying her annual summer visit to England, had already arrived. When Emerald had discussed with her the party for the ball, Dolly had asked her to invite Anna James, a young friend of hers from Oldhaven whom she had not seen for over a year and who was now living in London. Anna was by then well settled into the flat Max Wainwright had arranged for her to rent and, when Emerald telephoned and she learnt that Dolly had suggested her, she accepted – although she expected she’d know no one at the dance. Then Emerald went on to say she’d see that a young lawyer, Patrick Foxley, would give her a lift down on the Saturday morning.
‘I know him,’ Anna had said.
‘Good. He’s very bright. And attractive.’
He is, Anna thought, as she put down the telephone. That first evening when he had given her a bed in his flat she’d been too upset by the encounter with Streatley and Taylor to take much notice of Patrick’s looks. Except that he was tall and dark. She had just been grateful for the way he had taken control and found Max Wainwright for her. But twice since her move to Clapham she had seen him. A week after she’d moved in he had called and asked her to dine. She had hesitated but she could hardly refuse. When he had come to collect her she’d been struck by his obvious good looks. He must be very conceited, she felt, and she was unsure that she’d like him. But he had been very agreeable and correct, and he’d interested her. He took her to a local restaurant, made her talk about herself and her painting, saying little about himself and dropping her home early, excusing himself by saying he had to work when he got back. When, a week late, he repeated the invitation she was pleased. On this occasion he had kissed her lightly on the cheek before he drove away. So she knew he was attracted to her, as she was to him, but there had been no opportunity to get beyond the cool terms which he apparently had laid down for their friendship. When she heard that he was to take her to The Waves for the weekend she was glad. Not only would she now know at least one person at the ball; perhaps she might also even discover what, if anything, lay behind that cool exterior.
At eleven o’clock precisely he drew up outside her flat in Clapham in his silver Saab convertible. When she opened the door to him he stood on the doorstep, in an open blue shirt and pale trousers, the first time she’d seen him without his dark lawyer’s suit and formal tie. As they made their slow way through the traffic to rea
ch the M3 motorway to the south-west, he asked her how well she knew Emerald Cunliffe and she told him she did not know her at all.
‘I’ve been to dine at her London house and once or twice to The Waves for the weekend,’ Patrick said.
Anna replied that she’d only been asked because her aunt’s friend, Dolly Partiger from New England, was staying with Emerald.
‘And I’ve only been asked because I’m the lawyer in a case against her enemy, News Universal,’ he commented, smiling.
‘Is that the newspaper?’ Anna asked.
‘Yes. The Sunday News printed a diary that was very rude about her.’
‘Of course. I remember. Streatley sold it to them.’ She paused. ‘Godfrey Lacey works for them.’
‘He has left News Universal,’ Patrick observed.
The mention of Godfrey’s name made him think about the Tancred case, for it was now not long before the trial and the case was never far from his mind. He wanted something from Godfrey, since Godfrey would know the inside story of how News Universal had come to publish the diary. If he could be persuaded to help, this could be important. He might be able to reveal if there was anything personal or malicious behind the publication and if Tancred’s team could get evidence of this the consequences for the scale of damages would be considerable.
‘Godfrey’s got a job with a merchant bank,’ he went on. ‘He spends a lot of time abroad.’
Anna thought of the scene in Paris when she’d been so angry and disappointed over the portrait commission and had drunk too much. It was not an evening she cared to remember. She glanced up at Patrick beside her, at the set look around his mouth. There is more to him, she thought, than just his film star looks.
They drew up at The Waves in time for lunch. Anna was greeted enthusiastically by Dolly Partiger before they were introduced to the ambassador, without whom no party of Emerald’s would be complete; not, this time, the Italian Ambassador who had returned to Rome, but the Egyptian Ambassador and his striking, if fat, wife. The others were Elizabeth Wheatley, an elderly and rather dowdy novelist, and her sad but distinguished-looking husband, Christopher; and the Solicitor-General and his pretty wife. Two other guests, the painter Sandro Marini and his wife, were not expected until later. In the afternoon Patrick took Anna for a walk. They were away for two hours. When they returned Anna, rather flushed, went to her room to change. As she lay in the bath she decided she’d changed her mind about Patrick Foxley. He was not only interesting; he was nicer than she’d thought. And not nearly so sure of himself as he made out. He’d talked about his visits to the States, to the country around Charleston in the south; and New York which, he said, somehow always disturbed him. ‘Why?’ she’d asked.
‘I don’t know. Probably because I’ve never been there for long enough. I found it threatening. Silly, isn’t it?
At dinner he was placed next to her but he was monopolised by Emerald and she talked principally to the dinner neighbour on her other side, the painter Sandro Marini. During the meal she overheard Emerald enquiring about the Tancred case and when it was due to be heard. In a few weeks, Patrick said. If she liked he would arrange for his clerk to get her a place.
‘I would. Provided you promise you’ll win.’
‘I cannot do that.’ He laughed. ‘But I’ll do my best.’
As they rose from the table he turned to Anna. ‘May I drive you to Wainscott?’ he asked.
It was a warm evening in early May and at ten o’clock the party got into their cars. Patrick and Anna were the last to leave so that when they got to Wainscott and the car parker directed them to the lines of cars on the lawn, the rest of The Waves party were already in the house.
It was a large, rose-brick mansion, floodlit for the occasion with lines of flambeaux with naked fire, which lined the drive leading to the entrance steps. Patrick took her arm as they climbed the steps to the great front door and entered the hall, from which rose a double circular flight of stone stairs, which a queue of guests were slowly mounting to the first floor. As they did so, Sylvia fluttered down the stairs, pausing now and then to embrace someone, including Patrick, smiling at those she didn’t know who included Anna. ‘Forgive me, darlings, but I have to be in the hall. I must be there when he arrives.’ And on she went down the stairs.
‘Who is “he”?’ Patrick asked the man on the steps immediately above them.
‘Her lion for the evening,’ he replied. ‘The Prime Minister. Personally, I can’t see why she’s making such a fuss.’
Anna looked over the banister and saw Sylvia at the door, greeting the silver-haired figure whom she’d often seen on television or in the press.
‘We’d better move on,’ said Patrick and when they had reached the top of the stairs he steered her towards the sounds of music in the salon.
‘As you can see, I am, alas, alone,’ the Prime Minister said to Sylvia in the hall. ‘Joan has one of her wretched headaches so you’ll have to put up with me by myself.’ He stopped and stared up at the double staircase. He turned to Sylvia. ‘It was from that landing above those stairs that Augusta greeted George Byron on an April evening in 1813 when, I am certain, even if some of the scholars are not, they consummated their criminal connection.’
‘You know so much,’ Sylvia murmured, taking his arm.
There were only a few people still on the staircase for by now the bulk of the queue had reached the top and, with no hostess to receive them, had disappeared into the four great state rooms which stretched in pairs across the whole of the south front of the house. A few, among them two women, one in maroon silk flared trousers, were still on the landing, looking down as Sylvia and the Prime Minister approached the staircase.
‘I shall have to disappoint you and decline to join in the Lancers or execute the tango,’ he said as they slowly mounted. ‘I have a badly inflamed knee.’ He had an ebony cane in his left hand. ‘But I couldn’t resist the chance of seeing you, my dear – nor this fascinating house.’
The woman in trousers, the journalist Julia Priest, turned to her companion, the Under-Secretary at the Home Office. ‘Your boss is looking very old.’
‘I’m told he’s hurt his knee,’ Patsy Oxborrow replied.
When the Prime Minister and Sylvia reached the top and came near to where the two women were standing, Sylvia said, ‘You know Patsy Oxborrow, of course.’
‘Of course,’ the Prime Minister said cheerfully, quite unable to place her but with a vague recollection of having seen her somewhere before. ‘How are you, how are you? You’re looking splendid, a most fetching dress.’ But he didn’t linger. ‘My dear,’ he said to Sylvia, ‘you must take me to where I can sit. Not too near the band so that I can’t hear what is being said but not too far from all the gaiety.’ They disappeared through the door to the salon.
‘He had no idea who I was,’ Patsy Oxborrow said. ‘And I’ve been in his government for three years.’
‘He can’t go on much longer,’ said Julia Priest, giving her hand a squeeze. ‘He must retire soon and then he’ll join you in the Lords and see you every day.’
‘Perhaps then he might recognise me,’ Patsy mumbled sourly. A man had come from the further salon and was approaching them. She switched on her fixed, brilliant smile. ‘Perry,’ she said. ‘How nice to see you here.’
Sylvia had settled the Prime Minister in a gilt armchair in a small ante-room with the door open to the main salon where they could see the crowd talking and drinking – and the crowd could see them. In the room beyond was the dancing, and the music could be heard above the hum of talk. A waiter brought a glass of champagne. The Prime Minister waved it away. ‘Whisky and soda, if you please.’
Sylvia saw Emerald in the distance. ‘There’s Emerald Cunliffe,’ she said, ‘talking to Ogilvy Grant.’ She made frantic gestures signalling them to come to join the Prime Ministerial circle.
‘Of all the media magnates he is the most personable,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘His newspaper, the Telegram, alth
ough misguided over politics, is at least reasonably respectable.’
As they approached, Sylvia called out, ‘The Prime Minister has a bad leg and can’t circulate, so I’m bringing people to him.’
‘Gout?’ Grant asked the Prime Minister jovially.
‘A twisted knee and very painful,’ the Prime Minister replied equally jovially. ‘And you must not tease me just because you and your newspapers haven’t the wit to support my administration.’
‘Unlike Digby Price,’ Grant said.
‘That creature!’ said Emerald. ‘Don’t mention his name, not in the presence of Sylvia and myself.’
‘He is certainly a man who makes many enemies,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘But I never permit the serious business of personal relationships to interfere with the triviality of public affairs. As you know, Ogilvy, I don’t read the newspapers. I’m the author or the actor who never reads his notices.’
‘It’s rumoured, Prime Minister, that in fact you read the press regularly. Is that true?’
‘Of course it is. I can admit it in the privacy of the private house for I was brought up to rely on that what is said at a country house party will remain inviolably confidential. Or is that too old-fashioned? My official position for public consumption is that I don’t read the newspapers.’
‘I suppose we’ll soon be reading about Richard Tancred’s libel action against Price. It can’t be long now before it comes to trial.’
This subject was disagreeable to the Prime Minister and he was glad to be able to avoid making any comment by the approach of others whom Sylvia had lassooed and had brought to the ante-room. Soon more chairs were drawn up and quite a circle surrounded the Prime Minister, to his unfeigned delight. ‘Ah, Peregrine,’ he said, ‘I am glad to see a colleague relaxing. Ballroom dancing is excellent for the liver. Or it was in my youth. I used to enjoy it greatly and I’m sorry that, alas, age and infirmity prevents me joining in tonight. So I must sit and bask in the company of my enchanting hostess and her fascinating guests in the surroundings of this remarkable house. I was speaking with Lady Sylvia about Augusta Leigh who, as I am sure you know, often stayed at Wainscott.’
The Richmond Diary Page 14
