Wild Grapes

by Elizabeth Aston

  Wonder what’s upset Pa? thought Harry, who was passing by. He casually joined the little group, slipping himself in beside Serge.

  “What’s up?” he whispered in Serge’s ear.

  “Harry,” said Serge. “Let me introduce you to Miss Voesli, a friend of mine from Switzerland. It seems she is also a friend of your father’s.”

  Harry took one look at Miss Voesli’s voluptuous appearance, well emphasized by the dress she wore, and put two and two together. No wonder Pa looks thunderous, he thought with amusement. It’s the Swiss number he’s been so hot for.

  “Shall we dance?” said Victor to Cucki with cold politeness.

  “I should like that,” said Cucki, giving Serge a swift wink.

  Victor bore Cucki off, and Harry shook his head at Serge. “Unwise, letting her go like that. Victor will cut you out.”

  “I don’t think so, you know,” said Serge. “Cucki has strong views on the men in her life. She’s very fussy about married men.”

  “My father has very strong views on women doing what he wants.”

  “He’ll find Cucki has strong views on doing what she wants.”

  Harry was laughing. “I hope so, that would be a rare treat to watch. Have you seen Gina?”

  Serge looked around. “She was over there near the - conservatory, is it? - with Zoe, the blonde girl.”

  “I haven’t met Zoe,” said Harry. “I’ll go and find Gina, though.”

  “You do that,” said Serge with a light wave of his hand as he eased his way over towards where people were dancing. Cucki was sound, but she might need rescuing; best to keep an eye on her.

  There was a buzz of conversation rising from the supper tables as old friends clustered in groups. Music from the string quartet, stationed on a corner of the terrace, wafted out over the lawns. Tongues were loosened by good wine, people relaxed in the warm evening air, gossip flowed.

  “I warned him not to buy that horse, but he only has to see a crook to get out his cheque-book.”

  “She still had her knickers on, nothing else.”

  “He was bound to get into trouble sooner or later, you can’t sleep with Reggie without everyone knowing about it two minutes later.”

  “There was no question of divorce, he couldn’t afford it. And he said that if she brought up the matter of the poodle, he’d mention the Russian sailors.”

  “It was there, floating in the bath, for all to see.”

  “No wonder she hurt her back, up against a wall in high heels.”

  “Twenty thousand pounds! Just like that.”

  “Bolted! Yes, quite true. No, he’s not her sixth, that was Jamie Honks. This must be the seventh, and it’s six children now, isn’t it?”

  “First you simmer it, and then the skin comes off very easily.”

  “They thought she was tucked up in bed at that incredibly expensive school she goes to, but no such thing. Extraordinary the fascination these hairy men have for some girls.”

  “Then he woke up. Well, you can imagine how Flora felt.”

  “Nine inches? Harbottle? I don’t believe it. Besides, I was at school with him, so I know for a fact it isn’t true.”

  “You’ll never believe this, but I bought it in Boots.”

  The moon was now riding brilliantly in the sky, still huge, illuminating a few wisps of cloud with its intense white light.

  “Positively operatic,” commented a man as he went past.

  A night for love, thought Harry, as he went to find Gina. Tonight, under this astonishing moon, he was going to announce his engagement to Gina. That was good, and he liked Gina, and he wanted to get married. But what would it feel like, he asked himself with a tinge of melancholy, to really love someone?

  He saw a flash of a scarlet dress. Good, he’d found Gina. Sitting on a bench, talking to Fergus, and...

  Who was that girl?

  Zoe turned, laughing, pushing back a strand of her pale blonde hair, silver now in the moonlight. She saw Harry, and looked full at him for a moment.

  Harry just stood and stared, rooted to the spot. Zoe threw him another look.

  What amazing eyes.

  “Gina, who’s that?” said Zoe, breaking across the conversation while Fergus was still speaking.

  “Who?” said Gina, surprised; Zoe was rarely rude.

  “That one. There.”

  “Harry,” cried Gina. “Oh, good.” She beckoned to Harry to come over.

  He walked towards them, his eyes fixed on Zoe.

  Gina put her hand on his arm. “This is my friend Zoe.”

  Harry stretched out his hand to Zoe, who took it at once.

  “Dance?” he asked, in a voice which Gina had never heard before.

  Zoe gave a tiny shake of her head. “No, you should dance with Gina.”

  “No, go ahead,” said Gina at once. “Please, I’m quite happy here.”

  Harry tucked Zoe’s arm into his, and drew her away, looking down at her and saying something which Gina and Fergus couldn’t catch.

  They vanished into the shadows.

  Fergus and Gina looked at each other, Fergus’s face giving nothing away, Gina’s thoughtful.

  “Oh dear,” she said fatuously.

  Fergus began to say something and then stopped. “I think...”

  Gina shook her head. “Thinking doesn’t come into it.” She smiled, a little sadly. “That’s what Harry always wanted, you know, but had given up hoping for.”

  “What, a blonde girl in a long dress giving him the eye?”

  Gina protested at that. “No, you mustn’t blame Zoe. It just happened. I wouldn’t believe it could, not if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  “What? Tell me exactly what has just happened?”

  “Oh, Fergus, you could see. A coup de foudre, a lightning bolt.”

  “Nonsense,” said Fergus. “A surge of sudden sexual attraction. Shattering, but it will wear off. Sit tight, Gina, it’ll come right in the end.”

  “Don’t talk rubbish,” said Gina. “Harry never looked at me like that. Nor did I ever feel one-tenth of that attraction or whatever magnetism it was that passed between them just now.”

  “Harry is engaged to you,” said Fergus furiously. “Now is hardly the time for him to start making sheep’s eyes at your best friend; what a bastard he is.”

  “It has nothing at all to do with friendship,” said Gina firmly. “But what am I going to do now?”

  Tara was dancing with Don, and talking her usual gobbledygook.

  She’s attractive, thought Don, feeling her pleasing shape pressed against him, but she is also very, very boring.

  He told her so.

  Nobody had ever said that to Tara. Many had thought it. Past lovers, when her undoubted charms in bed had lost their novelty; her agent; her publisher; any number of readers who hastily returned her books to the library or wished they hadn’t wasted the money on buying her latest sad saga of depressed office workers.

  The critics weren’t bored by Tara or her books. They gave her books good reviews, and she, in turn, wrote two or three columns of turgid prose praising their books.

  And now this man in the country had dared to say that to her. Her eyes flashed as she drew abruptly away from him.

  Don laughed. “It does improve your looks when you let yourself go and show a bit of temper,” he observed. “The languid pose is desperately dull.”

  Bugger, thought Tara. I’ve thrown Hadrian out of my flat, thrown over all kinds of invitations to come down here to be with this man, and now look what happens. Men! They just can’t stand the competition from an intelligent woman.

  “You aren’t intelligent,” said Don placidly, catching hold of her and running his hand down her backbone in a teasing and aggravating way. “You are exceptionally foolish, and very tiresome. Do something about yourself quickly, is my suggestion, or you’ll find the tide has gone down, and you’re up there with the empty shells and the seaweed.”

  She broke away f
rom him, and flung herself away from the dance, running angrily and blindly until she tripped over one of the pavilion ropes and ended up sprawled at Alwyn’s feet.

  He was feeling at a loose end, and rather fed up with the proceedings. Gareth had disappeared, he knew very few people there, and he had decided that this kind of gathering was intolerable for a man like him.

  On the other hand, he thought, as he helped Tara up and dusted her down, there could be compensations.

  “Gareth’s sister?” he said, as he led her towards a drink. “Of course, the novelist. How very, very interesting. Now, you must tell me all about yourself. I’m Alwyn Aumbry, by the way. I’m an historian, and I’m going to be doing some work with your brother. I expect he’s mentioned it to you. You see...”

  Tara had met her match.

  Nicky watched the dust-up between Tara and Don with a strange sense of detachment. She yearned for Don, she always would, probably, but there was no point in it. He would forever be surrounded with women, delighted to have another one join the club; but did he take any of them seriously? He did not. He drove them wild and then abandoned them. Then he shamed them back into harmony with him by little acts of kindness and warmth.

  You couldn’t hate him, though, thought Nicky, as she watched him suavely greet a delectable girl in a green dress and escort her back into the dance. At least, she couldn’t.

  “May I join you?” said a very familiar voice.

  Roger. Her husband. Standing there, looking down at her slightly doubtfully, two glasses in one hand, and a bottle in the other.

  She didn’t look at him; instead, she watched the droplets chase each other down the chilled wine.

  “I wish you’d come home,” he said, as he poured her a glassful. “I do miss you so.”

  “What about the girl from Corda Episcopi that I hear about?”

  Roger gave a shrug. “I’m glad you heard, you were meant to. I thought it might make you a little jealous.” His eyes wandered to where Don and the girl in green were dancing together, very closely. “That was a waste of time, I suppose. But if not for me, couldn’t you bring yourself to come back for the children?”

  Nicky felt tears prickling at the back of her eyes. Tiredness; she was very tired. She wanted to go home, to be done with this masque.

  “You can’t leave yet,” said Roger gently. “You’ve done a wonderful job here.”

  Nicky gave a rather weak smile. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s dance.”

  Victor, enraged when his Swiss armful went back to Serge’s side, prowled formidably around his lawns and terraces, growling at anyone who spoke to him. Julia, spotting him in the moonshine, sharply told him to pull himself together and behave, but Victor was feeling very hurt, and very frustrated, and didn’t in the least want to behave.

  Lori was sitting by herself on a bench, wishing she knew more people there, and wondering why Gareth was spending so much time talking to that beautiful young man who seemed to be in charge of the food and drink. Yes, he’d said he wanted him for a television slot, but was that all? Did he need to stand so close to him, appear so extremely interested in everything he said?

  “Ah,” said Victor, sitting down beside her. “My little enemy from Heartwell.”

  Lori blinked, felt she ought to move away, he was really sitting much closer to her than politeness would dictate. On the other hand...

  “I think we ought to discuss these matters, just you and me,” said Victor. He flicked a hand at a waiter. “Champagne, and two glasses. At once.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Champagne?” said Esme suspiciously as the waiter stammered out his request. “Who for?”

  The boy from the caterers shifted uneasily on to his other foot. “Big gent. With a beard. Kind of powerful. Got his hand round a woman’s waist.”

  “Victor,” said Esme. “Yes, a bottle of the one over there; don’t open it, idiot, he’ll do that himself.” Blimey, where do they get them from, she added to herself as the boy scuttled away. “Hey,” she called after him. “Tell him the fireworks are due to go off in one hour.”

  The boy gave the message, thick with sirs, nervously backing away as he did so.

  Victor pulled the cork out of the champagne with a vigorous twist. “An hour,” he said musingly. “Thank you, that’s all.”

  His hand slid back round Lori’s waist and his fingers slipped down towards the top of her leg.

  Lori looked down at the hand on her lame dress, which shimmered in the moonlight. I’m going to enjoy this, she thought, as Victor fed her a sip of champagne, following it up with a sensual and very stimulating kiss.

  “Perhaps out of the moonlight?” murmured Victor. “Inside, for a moment or two?”

  Sybil was sitting at a table with Gina and Fergus and Byron. They were enjoying themselves vastly, and were by now very merry.

  “Fireworks soon,” said Sybil.

  “I like fireworks,” said Byron.

  “You’d have to, being married to Nadia,” said Gina boldly. “Where is she, by the way?”

  “She’s about somewhere,” said Sybil. “Moping. Which is rather sad.” She waved an imperious finger at Byron. “You need a talking-to.”

  Byron liked Sybil, but he didn’t in the least want to be given a talking-to by her. Particularly not when she was tipsy.

  “I may be tipsy, but not so tipsy that I can’t see straighter than you,” said Sybil.

  “Yes,” said Gina, firmly. “Sit right down again and listen. It’s time you learned a few truths.”

  Byron listened, startled but unconvinced.

  “It’s all very well you saying this, but it’s pure fantasy. How do you know what Nadia feels, for me or anyone else? And what business is it of yours, I’d like to know?” he added, with growing anger.

  There was a flare on the wall behind where they were sitting, and it burst into extra life, with flames shooting upwards.

  “Gina knows what she’s talking about,” said Sybil. “Nadia talks to her; Gina is half-Russian and they understand each other.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Byron. “Gina is a cousin of the Cordovans and she comes from Scotland.”

  “Oh, she does, does she?” said Sybil with a loud whoop of laughter. “We’ll see, we’ll see.”

  “Don’t worry about where I come from,” said Gina, frowning at Sybil. “Why don’t you go and find Nadia, ask her?”

  “I will do just that,” said Byron. He had been fairly abstemious for most of the evening, but he now poured himself out a generous measure, downed it in one go, and set off to find his wife.

  “Pot valiant,” said Sybil, glad that she was past all that. “Does Nadia really care for him so much?”

  “Yes,” said Gina. “Very much so.” Her face clouded over. “Lucky Byron. Lucky Nadia. To be in love like that. I wish I were. Or that someone loved me as much as Byron does Nadia.”

  Fergus, who had listened in silence to Byron being sorted out, looked at Gina reflectively.

  Sybil looked at Gina.

  Gina watched the flares.

  CHAPTER 26

  The guests were moving up from the dancing in the sunken garden, and pouring out of the pavilion to get a better view of the cake which was being wheeled in by Guy. Maria hadn’t made it, knowing her limitations, but she had been very happy to recommend a master baker to Nicky. It was a superb confection; rather like Aimee herself, just this side of being too much.

  Aimee, exquisite in sea-green chiffon which fluttered and floated as she walked, was there, laughing and making eyes at her many admirers. Champagne was being served; Victor, looking like a large cat who had lavishly partaken of the cream, was standing by to superintend the cutting and make a speech before giving the signal for the fireworks.

  A hushed and expectant silence fell, and then a woman in a short, tight, tarty Versace number and very high heels bounded forward.

  “Hi, there, cousin Aimee,” she shouted. “So glad I got here in time, marvellous,
happy birthday!”

  She was about to fling her arms around Aimee’s neck, but Victor forestalled her. “Just who are you?” he demanded in a very loud voice, indignant at this unseemly interruption to the proceedings.

  “Hi, Victor,” she said. “Don’t you remember me? Georgie. Georgie Hartwell, your little cousin from Uish. Hi, you’re cousin Julia, aren’t you? And there’s Harry, with a delightful blonde, haven’t I seen you before, sweetie, in Oxford? And where’s my namesake?” she added, looking round. “Did you rumble her? Aren’t you clever! Or did you tell on her, Harry? That wasn’t very sporting of you, was it?”

  Julia was rigid. “Who do you say you are?”

  “I don’t say. I am. I’m Georgie Hartwell. Your cousin.”

  “Our cousin Gina is here already. She has been here for some time.”

  Georgie gave a peal of laughter. “Oh, that isn’t your cousin. She’s an American, a nobody; she thought she could pretend to be me so that she didn’t have to go back to the States. She wanted to marry an Englishman, and I gather she thought Harry was very eligible.”

  Gina’s cheeks were burning. Georgie! She might have known. Fergus took her hand and held it very firmly. “Chin up,” he said.

  Mutters and murmurings were flying round the guests as they explained to each other what was going on.

  “Don’t tell me she’s still here?” said Georgie, with a little frown. “If she is, she’d best take herself off, you aren’t going to be too pleased about this, I don’t suppose.”

  Victor’s eyes had been searching among the faces which showed so visibly in the clear white light of the moon. He saw Gina.

  “Gina,” he said, shouldering his way towards her. “Gina, is this true?”

  Fergus stood resolutely beside her, eye to eye with Victor. “Leave her alone,” he said.

  “No, no,” said Victor. “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this. Now.”

  Serge was there, and Gina was strangely pleased to sec him. Then Harry, with Zoe following, swept to Gina’s side.