Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs

by Clayton, Victoria

  Before Dimpsie had taken to her bed, she had met Brenda of the peg bags in the chemist’s. Brenda had made a point of telling her about Marcia Dane’s arrival in Gaythwaite, describing her, in a voice full of meaning, as good-looking, rich and a positive man-eater. She had not actually mentioned Tom’s name, but Dimpsie had understood. She had returned without the toothpaste and aspirins and I found her in tears by the hat stand. We had had a soul-baring talk and she admitted she had always known that my father’s relationship with Vanessa Trumball had gone beyond the knees. Often during the twenty-four years of their marriage he had come home late without explanation, but this was the first time he had taken to staying away all night.

  ‘Why don’t you have it out with him?’ I had asked indignantly. ‘Why should he get away with behaving so badly?’

  ‘What good would it do? It would only make him cross and me upset. This affair with Marcia whatever-her-name-is will peter out like all the others. I’m his wife and the only woman he’s had any deep, lasting relationship with. The others are just amusements.’ Her chin wobbled when she tried to smile.

  ‘But he’s making you so miserable!’

  ‘Well, darling, I’m pretty much used to it. It’s just that this affair’s come so close on the heels of the last one and my defences are down.’

  In fact they were completely destroyed. Her eyes were permanently swollen and pink with drinking and weeping. Perhaps it was not to be wondered at that, by the time of the lunch party, Tom had ceased to come home at all except to collect clean shirts. I washed and ironed them myself to save Dimpsie from harsh words.

  I had spent a long time deciding what to wear to Evelyn’s lunch, so I was pleased to be paid a compliment. Bearing in mind the temperature of the dining room at Shottestone, I had settled for an aquamarine velvet jacket trimmed with white fur, one of the costumes for the corps de ballet of Les Patineurs. Beneath the jacket I wore a pale pink satin dress from Liebeslieder Walzer. As usual my feet had been a problem. I had solved it by wearing a silver boot from Les Patineurs on my good leg and painting the cast and the exposed part of my other foot with silver metallic paint from the model shop.

  ‘How was Edinburgh?’

  ‘It was full of dresses and shoes and bags. Now its stores are much depleted. Isobel was inexhaustible. There can’t be a shop we didn’t visit or a square inch of pavement we didn’t cover several times.’ He guided me to the passenger seat and paused before closing the door to look in at me. ‘Are you addicted to shopping?’

  ‘I’ve never had the chance.’

  ‘I can’t understand what women see in it. I like clothes that are old. Familiar. I don’t like change.’ He walked round and got into the car. ‘I suppose all men are the same,’ he said as we accelerated away.

  ‘Not the ones I know.’

  Carefully he negotiated the turning at the bottom of our drive. ‘But I daresay your experience isn’t extensive. How old are you? If that’s not an impertinent question.’

  ‘I’m twenty-two.’

  ‘You don’t look it. Had many boyfriends? No, that is impertinent. Let me rephrase. Have you ever been in love? It’s all right to ask that, I hope, considering how long we’ve known each other?’

  ‘Quite all right. Anyway, I haven’t got any secrets. In the ballet world everyone discusses their love life in shocking detail.’ Then I remembered Sebastian and thought that I should not like Rafe to know quite everything. ‘Not that we always tell the truth, of course.’

  ‘I suppose it’s de rigueur for artistic people to kick over the traces.’

  I wondered about this. I had never been conscious of trying to rebel. I had been too busy dancing to worry about the conventions. By this time we had reached the market square in Gaythwaite.

  ‘Isn’t the Singing Swan the prettiest little place you ever saw with that lovely stone roof and those lattice windows?’ I said as we drove past it. ‘It’s such a pity Mrs Peevis can’t cook for toffee nuts. If there was somewhere decent for tourists to eat, they’d come in droves and then buy things from Dimpsie’s shop.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question. About having been in love.’

  Had I been in love with Sebastian? Quite a few of the girls were, in a romanticizing, masochistic sort of way because he was diabolically attractive, mean and powerful. And they all wanted to sleep with him because of the chance of promotion. Had I been just a little in love that first time?

  I had been running to get to a class and had literally bumped into him in the corridor. He had scowled, then the expression in his eyes had changed from anger to surprise. I had been in the company for nearly four years but he seemed to see me for the first time. He had asked me where I was going.

  ‘Madame’s eleven o’clock,’ I panted.

  Sebastian had looked at his watch. ‘You’re one minute late.’

  ‘I know.’

  I had started to edge away but he gripped my shoulder. ‘Come into my office.’

  ‘Oh, but Mr Lenoir, Madame’s casting Lac!’ Lac was what we all called Swan Lake. ‘I’m in with a chance of being one of the cygnets—’

  ‘Never mind that.’

  ‘Couldn’t I come back after class?’

  ‘No.’ He opened the door and propelled me inside.

  ‘But if I’m any later she won’t give it to me. And I want it so badly.’

  Sebastian locked the door, his expression now one of anticipation, like a hungry man who has made his choice from the menu and knows that nothing now remains but to avail himself of a knife and fork. Without a word he had pulled down my leotard so he could feel my breasts. ‘Get your clothes off.’

  When he ran his hand over my naked bottom I had definitely felt a violent surge of excitement. But I was wondering what my reward might be for allowing myself to be spread over his desk and taken from behind without so much as a five-minute warm up. Ten minutes later I had entered Madame’s class. Her flinty little eyes had screwed up with rage but Sebastian, walking in behind me, had cut short her scolding. He had taken a chair, folded his long legs, lit a cigarette and signalled to Madame to begin. The class had proceeded at a terrific pace and we had all danced ourselves into states of exhaustion. Every time I looked in the mirror I could see him watching me. My extensions had always been one of my strong points, and I practically kicked the lights out that day. At the end of class he and Madame went into a huddle by the piano, and when the cast list went up I was down for the Act III Spanish pas de deux. I absolutely knew it had been worth it, but remembering those cynical intimacies while driving through the cold, clean air of Northumberland in the company of Rafe, a knight sans peur et sans reproche if ever there was one, I felt a revulsion that was laced quite painfully with self-disgust.

  Now we were on the road that climbed steeply to the gates of Shottestone Manor. The hills were particularly beautiful that morning. The sky was like grey silk, appliquéd with pompoms of cloud.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ve never been in love.’

  A silence greeted this admission. I glanced at Rafe. He was staring ahead at the road but there was a slight smile at the corner of his mouth. He began to hum the ‘Song of the Toreador’ from Carmen.

  An enormous car was parked to one side of the front door as we drove up.

  ‘That’ll be Conrad’s. Germans are always punctual, so we’re told,’ said Rafe, as though aggrieved.

  ‘Really? But in his favour you ought to remember that Conrad was dreadfully late last time.’

  ‘So he was. The paragon has his imperfections. That’s a comfort.’

  ‘Don’t you like him?’

  ‘I think he’s arrogant. I suppose having all that money gives you a pretty good idea of yourself.’ He came round to open the passenger door. ‘Don’t take any notice of me,’ he smiled. ‘As I said before, I expect I’m envious.’

  By comparison with me Rafe was as rich as … whoever that rich man was, but of course wealth is relative. No doubt I was rich by comparison with a
Vietnamese boat person. Conrad’s car certainly was elegant. Its bodywork was two tones of blue and there was a large B with a pair of wings on the back.

  ‘You needn’t envy anyone. I think Shottestone is the most beautiful house in the world.’

  He put his hand on my arm to detain me. ‘Do you?’ His eyes were two shades of blue, like the car.

  ‘I’ve always loved it.’

  ‘Then I won’t be jealous any more. What good angel made you break your foot and brought you home, I wonder?’

  As I walked into the hall, I experienced one of those painful moments of cold rationality, rare for me, that made my stomach turn over. I asked myself what the hell I thought I was doing flirting with Rafe. When my foot was better I was going back to London to dance. Why did I not say so at once? It was ignoble curiosity, perhaps, or worse, vanity. Rafe’s mental state was precarious and if there was the least chance that he was seriously contemplating a love affair with me it would be the act of a louse to mislead him. Or could it be that I felt more for him than an ancient schoolgirl crush? He had turned his back to me to fling his coat over one of the hall chairs. It was a strong back with broad shoulders, but was it a back for which I could sacrifice everything I had slaved, starved, prayed, beggared and prostituted myself for?

  ‘Shall I take that charming little jacket?’ He was facing me now, his eyes admiring.

  The top of my dress was low-cut with tiny straps and quite unsuitable for the middle of the day. ‘No, thanks. I’ll keep it on.’

  In the drawing room, Conrad and Fritz were standing with Evelyn in a stiff little group, drinking champagne.

  ‘Marigold, darling!’ She came over to kiss me. ‘You know Conrad and Fritz, of course.’

  The two men bowed. I would have curtseyed but my leg made that impossible. Instead I gave them my radiant Giselle smile, hoping to make up for Evelyn’s frost. ‘Hello, Fritz. Hello Conrad.’

  A line appeared between Evelyn’s brows. I understood it to mean that I must not ally myself with Lucifer and the servant of Lucifer. They were bundled up in thick tweed jackets with woollen jerseys beneath, a sign that the chill at Shottestone had been noted. But on this occasion Evelyn had gone to great trouble to boost the temperature. The grate was stacked with blazing logs and fan heaters had been placed discreetly about the room. I perceived that Evelyn felt embattled and was anxious that Conrad should not hold her housekeeping in contempt.

  ‘Hello, little girl.’ Kingsley approached from the window where he had been standing gazing out at the view across the valley. ‘How nice that you’ve come to play. I’m Isobel’s daddy. Would you like to see my model soldier? You can hold it if you’d like—’

  ‘Kingsley!’ snapped Evelyn. ‘Go and tell Mrs Capstick fifteen minutes at least. There are three more still to come.’ As Kingsley shuffled away, Evelyn looked at her watch. ‘Great artists are allowed to break all the usual rules of social intercourse, but I can’t imagine what Sibyl’s excuse will be.’

  ‘I don’t see why artists of any stature should be allowed to inconvenience the rest of us.’ Rafe handed me a glass. ‘As they probably have much more fun than us ordinary mortals, I think they ought to make amends.’

  ‘But surely, darling, geniuses inhabit another plane. They don’t intend to be troublesome. Time doesn’t exist when you are selecting from the two hundred thousand words of the English language exactly the right adjective. Or capturing a mood with a flick of the brush.’ Evelyn mimed the action on an imaginary canvas. ‘You may have heard of Dame Gloria Beauwhistle.’ She looked at Conrad, who bowed again, which could have meant anything. ‘She is a composer of international reputation.’

  ‘Two hundred thousand vords, you say?’ Fritz took from his pocket the notebook and pencil. ‘Do you include vords vich are spelling the same but haf not the same meanings?’ He pointed to a table lamp. ‘“Light”, for example. And “light” that means not heafy. It is counting one vord or two?’

  Evelyn looked distracted. ‘Two. I think.’ I knew how she felt. Entertaining is murderous to the intellect. Whenever I had people to supper, my brain went into orbit the moment the guests arrived. I was incapable even of boiling a potato.

  ‘And vat of dialect vords?’ Fritz continued. ‘I am thinking to write a little study of Northumberland language for a literary vork to vich I send zings time to time. I haf been reading Brockett’s Glossary of North Country Vords vith their Etymology and Affinity to other languages. Most curious and interesting. I regret my English is so bad. “What fettle?” means “how are you?”. “Gey snell comin’ doon the brae” means “Most cold coming down the hill”. And vat means “carrying coals to Newcastle”?’ Fritz looked at Evelyn with an air of expectation.

  Conrad, the interloper, came to her rescue. ‘It is, as one says in German, Eulen nach Athen trage – to carry owls to Athens. An idiom meaning a useless effort. The owl was a sacred bird in Ancient Greece.’

  ‘I was most disappointed in Athens,’ said Evelyn. ‘The acropolis was full of tourists.’

  ‘In Greece the equivalent idiom is “carrying vampires to Santorini”,’ said Conrad. ‘The island of Santorini was believed to be the birthplace of those malign creatures.’

  I liked the way he spoke English. He chose his words with precision, and none of them ran into each other as ours did. ‘Do you mean vampire bats?’ I asked.

  Conrad looked at me with an expression that was chilling. ‘No, Miss Savage. I mean the kind that change into human form when the sun dips below the horizon in order to bite your neck and drink your blood and which can only be killed by a stake hammered through the heart.’

  His black eyes widened slightly and seemed to pierce as effectively as any stake. I felt he was penetrating my mind and seeing into my thoughts. If so, he must have been disappointed, for they immediately struck tents and decamped. I pulled myself together and asked, ‘Do you believe there really are such things?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, darling,’ said Evelyn. ‘Conrad is teasing us.’

  ‘Oh, but am I? If there can be a lump of rock and iron populated by humans, elephants and ants speeding through dark matter and dark energy in an ever-expanding universe, I see no particular difficulty with believing in vampires.’

  It was a good answer, but for the purposes of polite conversation rather stumping. I would have liked to ask how anyone could tell that the universe was expanding, but Spendlove came in to announce Mrs Hinchingbrook and Mr Shinn.

  ‘Sybil, darling!’ Evelyn went to embrace a tall woman clad in flowing draperies in misty greens and browns. She had longish grey hair, also flowing, and a pale face with small features set close together.

  ‘Evelyn! So kind of you to include us in your little party. Basil is just changing out of his driving shoes. I’m sorry we’re a bit late but I had to finish a painting for my exhibition. I do hope you’ll come. It’s at the Old Mill in Hexham. Hardly the most exciting of venues, but it’s one up on that ghastly little craft shop in Gaythwaite—’

  ‘You must meet my other guests.’

  Evelyn marched Sybil up to Conrad and Fritz. I missed the introductions because Basil Shinn came into the drawing room just then. I saw at once that he would not ‘do’ for Isobel. He had a curious high-stepping gait which drew attention immediately to his elegant brown and white co-respondent shoes. He was thin like his sister, but where she flowed he was angular. As befitted a man of books, his dress was carefully negligent and his white hair had been rinsed to an interesting shade of purple. Nature had saved him the trouble of dying his nose which was purple also.

  ‘A party!’ Basil clapped his hands, which looked a little blue. ‘Such heaven! How sweet of you to invite me! Sybil and I were getting just the teeniest bit fatigued with each other.’

  Basil shook my hand without the smallest sign of interest, but appeared galvanized by Fritz and at once asked him where he had got his delicious accent. Rafe was drawn into a painting conversation with Sybil and Evelyn darted out to check that
Spendlove had remembered to build up the dining-room fire. That left Conrad and me.

  ‘What’s dark matter?’ I asked.

  He looked at me with a question in his eyes. His hair was thick, black and shining and beautifully cut, coming into points just in front of his ears. ‘You are really interested?’

  ‘I’m not just being polite, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Well, please stop me if you find the explanation dull. You must first understand that objects in the universe can be seen with a telescope because they emit light waves.’ His skin was a marvellous shade of pale gold. ‘Or, in the case of a radio telescope, radio waves. Or their existence can be inferred by the effect they have on observable phenomena.’ His lower eyelids were full and curved, as though chiselled from marble by Michelangelo. ‘But there is a significant amount of matter, perhaps as much as ninety per cent, in the universe that we are unable to observe. This we call “dark”.’

  I remembered that he had been reading the New Scientist on the train. I had a faint idea what he was talking about while his lips were actually moving – his upper lip was finely shaped, the lower was full and defined by a tuft of black hair beneath it which was separate from a short fringe of neatly trimmed beard on his jaw – but the difficulty was to keep hold of the information long enough to absorb it. He had marvellous cheekbones.

  ‘What do you mean by matter, exactly?’

  Conrad must have realized then that he was talking to an idiot, but he did not allow this to register on his face or in his voice. ‘Matter is anything that takes up space. Atoms, molecules. You are matter.’