Feeling sick, she went to find the others. How easy it was to be alone in a packed place, stumbling between rooms without belonging. Evie tried the indoor and outdoor bars, eventually finding Duncan at the edge of the dancefloor in the marquee. He was deep in conversation with Felix and Tony Dallas, so Evie lingered at his shoulder and tried to listen in, gaining neither a word of acknowledgment nor an opportunity to speak. She was privy only to the sound of Duran Duran. A man in a dinner suit and a woman in blue were the only people dancing. They moved together, all hips, and began to kiss with tongues. Evie watched them until the song had finished, then went in search of Clem.
She couldn’t find her friend anywhere, so knocked back another couple of drinks and people-watched before leaving the enclosed area and heading to the main grounds. There she could smoke and think in private.
Exiting via a side gate, Evie shed her heels and walked, barefoot, which felt pleasant, then dropped to the ground and slumped against a corner where a laburnum-covered pergola protruded from the wall.
A mellow mat of grass rolled ahead. So did the tree line, and in front of that was an unyielding sallow mark that could have been a lake. The smoke purled from Evie’s lips, the grateful smoke, and the sky above formed an overcast roof.
She was about to wander further into the garden when she heard a noise coming from the gloom. Being outdoors was making her feel very drunk, but she could just about see a figure standing a few yards away, almost hidden by a net of branches. Maybe it was Clem.
Evie made her way towards the pale shape until she could recognise the unmistakable contours of Clemmie’s face. “I’ve been looking for you…” she began, but stopped as she noticed Clem’s dress tumbling in corrugations over the sides of her legs, and a man’s head nodding between the space there.
Clem’s mouth was slack. Her eyes finally focused upon Evie, who stood but two steps away. Nobody spoke. The chasm of Clem’s mouth became huge as her hand wrenched the crouching man’s hair. He gripped both her thighs; Clem’s teeth were clear, bared at Evie now, as, still watching her, she bent to kiss the man, fingers fanning the back of his skull. Evie could make out the face. It was Archie Wethered.
She hurried to re-join the party, fighting a sob and unable to explain quite why. She could see her mother’s beehive hair standing out in sharp relief against the ice sculpture. Glazed, Evie felt glazed. She helped herself to another drink and drank another to chase that, which steadied her. Fizz always went down so bloody easily.
Her mother was chatting to a man. Dark of complexion, he was recognisable from the business pages, some party or other: one of those easy, old-money types who brushed thinning hair over bald spots and drank more than they ate because they were secretly making sure their man-boobs didn’t get any bigger.
“Evie!” said her mother. “Evie, meet Harry. Harry, this is my daughter, Evelyn,” Fiona said.
“Great to meet you,” the man drawled, liquid. “How lovely.”
He had an amused face, a louche posture, and Bram was nowhere to be seen. Evie would slip behind her lover when she saw him. She would drop a hand in his pocket and grab him where he couldn’t wriggle free.
“Evie?”
“Hi. Sorry. S’good to meet you,” she said. “Who’s this, young man? Tell us what y’do.”
“I’m in property, mainly,” Harry said.
Evie hiccuped. “I’ve just finished school.”
Fiona’s cheeks were thoroughly rouged, but Evie could still see them colouring. She gave her mother a desperate smile disguised as a sneer, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand, knocking her chin with the shoes she was still holding. They clopped against one another, left and right.
Harry said, “Your mother tells me you’ve been staying in Yorkshire.”
“Yes, and frankly, it’s fu—”
“Evelyn! Please excuse my daughter, Harry.”
The man’s hand alighted on Fiona’s waist.
“Sent north… I did ask to stay. Y’would, wouldn’t you?” said Evie. “Ask for help.”
Fiona was doing that wobbly-head, tongue-stuffed-behind-her-bottom-lip thing.
Evie said, “But Mummy sent me to a warzone.”
Fiona forced a laugh, mouth opening so wide that Evie was surprised bats didn’t fly out of it. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
Harry’s papery eyelids narrowed. “Ah, you mean the strike. An unpleasant business.”
“Unnecessary, too,” said Fiona.
“If you ask me, Keith Joseph had the right idea,” whispered Harry.
Fiona set a hand on Harry’s arm, then touched her chest.
“Y’should meet a friend of mine an’ tell him that,” Evie said.
Harry craned to see across the room. “Is he here?”
“It’s not his scene.”
“But a warzone?” Fiona raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to back that one up, Evie.”
“Put it this way, now I know what a Black Maria is.”
They both tilted their heads in approval.
“This one’s come home familiar with all sorts of earthy language,” Fiona said. “My son is more realistic, probably too realistic for his own good. But Evelyn…”◦– she shook her head◦– “…has always been more impressionable.”
“Surely not,” said Harry, and smiled at Evie, who parted her lips and showed him her flat, welcoming tongue.
“I’d say she’s more like her mother,” said Harry, raising his drink.
Evie wanted to put her head through the nearest pane of glass. She made a noise. She wasn’t sure how it sounded, as if she was tickled, perhaps. In any case it summoned Fiona’s hand to her wrist. Snapping tight, the nails dug in.
“My daughter is drunk.”
“It’s an occasion for drinking,” said Harry kindly.
A large plant was visible to Evie’s left, a maple in a copper pot. There was a wonderful purple tinge to its leaves, which were like emblems. “What’s that tree?” she said. “There’s one like it on Litten Hill.”
“What is she talking about?” said Fiona. “A friend of mine was like this at Ascot this year. Delusional with drink, she was. Babbling.”
“Ascot?” said Evie, perking up.
“Why don’t you have some water?”
Fiona summoned a waiter, who arrived with a platter from which Evie swiped another glass of wine and downed it.
Ascot. Of course.
“How were the races, Mummy?”
Fiona snatched the empty wine glass. “You’ve had more than enough.”
“You’re quite right.”
“She’s delirious.”
All of them laughed. Fixed races and duff tips. Fascinators and top hats and carnations for all.
“I confess I was fibbing when I said Harry’s name is just Harry,” said Fiona. “Would you mind if I told her, Harry? It’s such a grand title.”
“Oh, not at all,” said Harry, clearly delighted.
“Evelyn, you won’t have realised it but you and I are now in the company of—”
“Viscount Digby Alexander Halifax the fourth,” said a voice.
“Bram!”
“How’re you doing, Harry?”
The rest of the conversation was lost upon Evie. Bram seemed to stand at ten feet tall, and his eyelashes were like tarantula legs. Evie thoughts seemed to multiply in size. She could do nothing as she felt Bram’s arm slither around her waist.
“Hello, Pup.”
His voice. Evie’s vision was swallowed. She was in the charnel house and the outdoor light had gone all wrong, becoming indistinct, yet piercing, while her mother, Harry and Bram and indeed every other guest seemed to distort and solidify until they weren’t really people at all, but waxworks, malformed, beset by radiation, perhaps. Melted mannequins.