Nikko ran at once to his wife and caught both her hands. ‘Dragǎ,’ he cried, ‘but you were magnificent. Everyone was saying to me: “How beautiful, your Bella! How rightly named!”’
There was something febrile about the laughter with which Bella accepted this praise. She turned to Harriet, ready to accept more, and Harriet said: ‘You have heard the news?’
‘Oh, my dear, yes. Isn’t it terrible!’ She spoke on a high note and swept away, leaving Harriet with the certainty she had said the wrong thing.
Guy, in the midst of his company, had the vague benevolence that came of contentment and physical exhaustion. When Harriet went to him, she slid her arms round him and squeezed his waist in love and thankfulness that the play was over and his companionship would be restored to her.
She said: ‘The show was a tremendous success. The audience forgot all about France.’
‘It wasn’t too bad,’ he agreed, his modesty that of a man well satisfied with his achievement. He went on to criticise the production. It had, he thought, been full of minor faults, but one must learn from experience. ‘When I do another …’ he began.
‘Oh, surely not another?’
Bewildered by her demur, he said: ‘But I thought you enjoyed it,’ and turned aside in search of more encouraging praise. He found it at once. It was being given on all sides. Harriet did her best to join in, but she was outside their union that resulted from weeks of contiguity – besides, she was in the real world, they were not. She could not emulate their high spirits.
She looked around for Nikko, but he was in attendance on his wife, growing drunk on the overflow of congratulations. She retreated to the terrace doorway and stood there, half in the room, half out, watching the clamour within.
Yakimov was wandering round, his face vacant and happy, holding out his glass to be refilled, receiving congratulations with ‘Dear girl, how kind,’ ‘Dear boy, what nice things you say!’ but not bestowing them. He looked a little anaesthetised by his success; and so, for that matter, did the others. They were like travellers unwillingly returned from brilliant realms, not yet adjusted to their return.
The room was dividing into two groups, one centred upon Sophie, the other upon Bella. Bella had seated herself on an armchair, with Nikko on one of the arms. She plucked at Yakimov and he let himself be pulled down to her other side. Having organised the students into a semi-circle at her feet, she appeared to be holding court again, but it was really Yakimov who was the heart and centre of attention. The students gazed at him, waiting for him to speak, and when Dubedat, chewing glumly at the caviare, asked disgustedly: ‘What’s this stuff?’ and Yakimov replied: ‘Fish jam, dear boy,’ they rolled about in their delight. Encouraged, he began to rouse himself and talk. Harriet could not hear what he was saying, but she saw Bella break in on the acclaim by slapping him and saying with mock severity: ‘Behave yourself.’
Sophie, who had changed into a black velvet evening dress but was still wearing stage make-up, was attended by all the men from the Legation and, Harriet noted rather jealously, Clarence.
Guy, David and Inchcape stood together between these groups. When Inchcape noticed Harriet alone, he crossed to her and said: ‘Let us go out to the terrace.’
Outside, a breeze came cool and moist from the trees, and there was a scent of geraniums. The park was still in mourning, a cloudy darkness starred at the heart with the lights of the lake restaurant.
When they reached the rail and looked over it, Harriet realised that the path below was a-rustle with people walking in silence in the darkness. She began to speak of them, but Inchcape showed no inclination to listen.
‘The situation’s serious, of course,’ he said, ‘but we haven’t much to worry about. The Germans are too busy to bother us. I think we’re lucky to be here,’ and before Harriet could contest this optimism, he went on to ask her opinion of each performance in the play.
When Yakimov, Sophie, Guy, David, Dimancescu had been given their due, Inchcape remained expectant.
‘And Dubedat was good,’ said Harriet.
‘Remarkable!’ Inchcape agreed. ‘He certainly knows how to exploit his natural unpleasantness.’
Inchcape still waited, and Harriet, suddenly realising what was amiss, said: ‘And your Ulysses, of course, was tremendous – that slightly sour manner edged with wit: the tolerance of experience. People were very impressed.’
‘Were they, now!’ Inchcape smiled down at his small, neat feet. ‘Of course, I hadn’t much time for rehearsals.’
Pauli came out on the terrace, eagerly summoning his master. Sir Montagu had arrived. Inchcape snorted and gave Harriet a wry smile that could not hide his satisfaction: ‘So the old charmer’s turned up after all!’
He hurried inside and Harriet followed him. Sir Montagu was standing in the middle of the room, leaning on his stick. His face, dark, handsome and witty, with thick folds of skin on either side of a heavy mouth, was like the face of some distinguished old actor. He was smiling round at the girls.
Fitzsimon, on the sofa, holding Sophie in a casual clinch that she tried to make look like an embrace, suddenly saw his chief and sprang to his feet. Sophie slid to the ground. She looked furious until she saw who was the cause of her fall, then she began to rub her buttocks with rueful humour.
‘’Evening, sir,’ said Fitzsimon. ‘Good of you to patronise the show, sir.’
‘I must say, I enjoyed myself.’ Sir Montagu looked at Sophie then smiled at Fitzsimon. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Nice, plump little partridges. Very fond of ’em m’self. Sorry to be late. I had to offer our condolences to the French.’
‘And how were the French, sir?’ Dobson asked.
‘Apologetic. The Rumanians have sent us their condolences. They think the war’s over. I told them it’s only just begun. No more demmed allies round our necks. Now the real fighting can begin.’
During the laughter and applause that followed, Inchcape approached the Minister, who held out his hand. ‘Congratulations, Inchcape. Fine show. Clever fellows you’ve got on your staff; very clever fellows! And I must say’ – he gave a long look first at Fitzsimon, then at Foxy Leverett – ‘I admired the mixed grill put up by the Legation.’
‘All my own, sir,’ said Fitzsimon with a smirk.
‘Indeed!’ Sir Montagu smiled in bland disbelief. ‘Very enviable, if I may say so.’
Inchcape had gone to a corner cupboard. After some clinking of hidden bottles, he came back with half a tumblerful of whisky, which Sir Montagu, watched respectfully by the whole room, drained in two gulps. After that he excused himself, nodded his good-nights and limped out.
‘See you to your car, sir.’ Dobson followed at his heels.
‘Oh,’ screamed Sophie while the Minister was still within earshot, ‘what a sweetie-pie!’
Now, with his chief safely come and gone, Fitzsimon became animated. He went to the pianoforte and started to thump out the tune of the ‘Lambeth Walk’.
Guy and David were standing playing chess on the piano-top with some valuable ivory chess-men while Inchcape hovered about them, apparently afraid something might get broken.
Clarence, his expression gentle and bemused, saw Harriet and came over to her. He was, she realised, rather drunk. He put a hand to her waist and led her out to the terrace away from the growing uproar of the room.
The students were on their feet now and dancing while Dubedat, loudly and tunelessly, bawled a Münich version of the ‘Lambeth Walk’.