‘That’s incredibly kind of you. Who else is coming?’ Of course, I knew as I said this that I had to accept, because you can’t ask who is coming to some event and then refuse. Inevitably it sounds as if you might have accepted if the guest list had been of a higher standard.
Candida knew this. ‘I think we’ll have fun. We’ve got Dagmar and Lucy and the Tremayne brothers.’ I wasn’t mad about the Tremaynes, but I didn’t actually hate them, and I was actively fond of the other two, so the idea was growing on me. I knew there wasn’t the smallest chance I would otherwise have a proper holiday that year before I started what I liked to call my ‘career.’ ‘I’ve found a charter airline where they almost pay you, so the tickets will cost about sixpence. Can I definitely include you in?’
I am ashamed to say this settled it. I was confident I could get my dear mama to sub a cheap ticket, so all I would need was pocket money and a couple of clean shirts, and I would have ten days of luxury in the sun. I was pleased by the idea of seeing Lucy and Dagmar, and even Candida too, for that matter, all of whom I had not caught up with for a long while. ‘Yes. I’m in,’ I said.
‘Good. I’ll make the reservations and send you the bumph. There is one thing…’ She tailed off for a brief pause, as if choosing her words, and then continued, ‘We’re a bit short of men. The trouble is so many of them have already started working and it’s hard for them to get away at short notice. I have been slightly scraping the barrel.’
‘As witness the inclusion of the Tremaynes.’
‘Don’t be unkind. George is all right.’ This made me wonder briefly if Lord George was planning to take advantage of Candida in some way, but I couldn’t think how.
‘But if I come, won’t we be three of each?’
Obviously, she hadn’t done her maths and this momentarily threw her. ‘Yes. I suppose we will…’ She hesitated. I could almost hear her sucking her teeth.
I decided to help. ‘But you’d rather have extra in case someone drops out.’
‘That’s it. I hate it when the men are outnumbered.’
‘What about Sam Hoare?’
‘Working.’
‘Philip Rawnsley-Price?’
‘Ugh.’ She laughed and began again. ‘The fact is I was wondering if you might ask, you know, what’s his name, Damian Baxter. Your pal from Cambridge who used to come to all the dances.’ The studied casualness of this request told me it had been a long-term part of the scheme. I didn’t answer at once and she came in again. ‘Of course, if it’s a nuisance-’
‘No, no.’ I had, after all, nothing specific against Damian then. He had been more successful than I with Serena and I resented it. But that was all I knew at the time. The worst I could have accused him of was enjoying a flirtation with her. More to the point, neither of us had got her in the end. To our, I assume, joint horror she had married Andrew Summersby in April of the previous year and in the following March, three months before this conversation, she had given birth to a daughter. In other words she had moved far, far away from us by now. ‘All right, I’ll try,’ I said.
‘You don’t think he’ll want to.’
‘I don’t know. He dropped out of the Season so completely that there might be a principle involved.’
‘You haven’t discussed it?’
‘We haven’t discussed anything. I hardly saw him after your dance.’
‘But you didn’t quarrel?’
‘Oh, no. We just didn’t see each other.’
‘Well, you haven’t seen me either and we haven’t quarrelled.’
I didn’t know why I was putting up such resistance. ‘All right. You’re on. I’ll give it a go. I’m not sure if the numbers I’ve got still work for him but I’ll do my best.’
‘Excellent. Thanks.’ She seemed a little brighter. ‘OK. Let me know what he says and we will take steps accordingly.’
Things were more complicated in the years before mobiles. Whenever anyone moved you’d lost them, although one hoped only temporarily. Nor did we have answering machines, so if people were out they were out. Then again, we managed. However, when I looked in my old address book I found I still had Damian’s parents’ number and they were quite happy to provide me with the new number for his flat in London, which he’d apparently just moved into. ‘I’m very impressed,’ I said. And I was, actually.
‘So are we,’ I could hear that his mother was smiling as she spoke. ‘He’s on his way, is our Damian.’
I repeated this to Damian when I dialled the number and he picked up. ‘I’m sharing a rented flat at the wrong end of Vauxhall, even supposing there’s a right end. I am still some way from Businessman of the Year.’
‘It all sounds quite advanced to me. Have you found a job already?’
‘I fixed it before I left Cambridge.’ He mentioned some dizzying, American bank. ‘They were recruiting and… they recruited me.’ I was suitably awestruck. One thing I have learned in life: Those who get to the top tend to start at the top. ‘I begin at the end of August,’ he said.
‘So do I, but I suspect in less style.’ I explained about my lowly job as whipping boy in the magazine offices. We fell silent. I suspect that for both of us the exchange had only served to underline the extent to which we had lost touch while still at university. Damian had not only dropped out of the Season, but also out of my life, and I don’t believe I had fully appreciated it before that moment.
I explained the reason for my call. ‘I don’t know.’ He didn’t sound keen.
‘I told Candida I thought you might have had enough of us.’
‘I always liked Candida.’ I was quite surprised by this. I never took notice of their friendship at the time, but then, how much had I noticed? Although I couldn’t help feeling that if Candida had known how she was remembered she would have rung him directly and not bothered with me. He spoke again. ‘OK. Why not? After paying my deposit here and buying the clothes I need to work in I haven’t a penny left, so there’s no chance of any other holiday this year.’
‘My position entirely.’ I was a little surprised by his acceptance, maybe, but on the whole pleased. It seemed to offer an opportunity to take us past the slightly odd end to our friendship and to give us the chance to go our separate ways after the summer more peacefully.
‘Did you go to the wedding?’ he said.
I’d wondered how long it would take him to ask. ‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘I know.’
‘I was asked.’ He needed me to hear that his absence had been his choice, not hers. ‘Have you seen the baby?’
‘Once. She’s the image of Andrew.’
‘Lucky girl.’ He snorted derisively, trying to make a joke out of the sorrow we shared but did not admit. ‘Right. Send me the arrangements when you’ve got them and I will see you in the sun.’ The conversation was over.
The villa, when we arrived, was on the coast, wedged between Estoril and Cascais. I dare say it is much more built up now but then, thirty-eight years ago, there were only rocks below its terrace, leading directly to a wide and glorious, sandy beach and, beyond it, the sea. It couldn’t really have been better. The house was built, along with two or three others stretching along the coast in those pre-planning days, during the 1950s and it consisted of a large, main room – one cannot call it a drawing room, full as it was of rattan furniture and the like – as well as a dining room/hall, which took up the whole of the entrance front, with a mass of kitchens behind. These we hardly penetrated, since they were full of busy, Portuguese women who always looked cross whenever we went in. The bedrooms were arranged on two floors, ground and first, in a long wing that stretched away from behind the main block at a right angle. Each room had its own bathroom and high French windows opening, upstairs on to a balcony with an outside staircase leading down, and on the ground floor directly on to a wide, balustraded terrace overlooking the sea.