‘It’s a moving and original interpretation of the Kama Sutra.’
‘Pin-stripe suitra more like,’ drawled Flora. ‘Who’s coming to this bash anyway?’
Guy looked even more bootfaced, but was not prepared to risk a row that might leave him waitressless.
‘Well, I decided in for a penny in for a pound. There’s Julia Armstrong and her husband Ben.’ Going into the kitchen, he gave his raspberry purée, to go with the lobster mousseline, a stir.
‘Who’s she?’ asked Georgie.
Guy sighed. ‘Oh Panda, I’ve told you a hundred times. She’s having an exhibition at the gallery next month. I thought people might enjoy a preview tonight. Ben and Julia live in Islington, but they’ve rented a weekend cottage in Eldercombe. They’ve got young children. Ben’s in computers. I like him a lot. Leave those grapes alone, Flora,’ he said sharply. ‘And you were going to wash a couple of lettuces, Georgie, I’ve done the dressing. And for goodness’ sake, do the placement before everyone arrives.’
Oh God, placement was more taxing than A level maths! There was Julia and Ben, Rannaldini and Kitty, Annabel Hardman, another friend of Georgie’s who lived in Paradise, and Valentine, her brilliant beast of a lawyer husband, who might not turn up. Boris and Rachel, Marigold and Lysander or Larry, and for Miss Bottomley Georgie had invited Meredith Whalen, an extremely expensive, gay interior designer, who was nicknamed the Ideal Homo, because he was so often asked to make up numbers at Paradise dinner parties.
‘I’ll need log tables to work out this one,’ grumbled Georgie.
‘Bottomley’d better go on your right, Mum,’ advised Flora. ‘She’ll need two chairs.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ giggled Georgie. ‘She goes on Daddy’s right and Hermione on his left.’
But Guy, who was spooning caviar on to each plate beside the lobster mousseline, was not in the mood for frivolity.
‘Put Julia Armstrong on my left. She won’t know anyone, and I’ve got to talk shop to her, and put Ben on your left.’
With alarm Georgie suddenly noticed a dozen bottles of Dom Perignon, a battalion of Nuits St George as well as the vat of caviar and four bottles of Barsac in the fridge. They were horrendously overdrawn at the moment, but she didn’t feel she could remonstrate with Guy when he’d done all the cooking and her new grey velvet dress had cost a fortune.
Following him into the drawing room she found him putting on a record. Next moment Mozart flooded the house from every speaker.
‘Oh, lovely,’ sighed Georgie, ‘Rannaldini’s Così.’
‘It’s Mozart’s Così,’ snapped Guy.
He is uptight about Rannaldini, thought Georgie.
Guy was wearing neither tie nor jacket, which was unusual. A cornflower-blue shirt which she hadn’t seen before was tucked into very dark grey cords held up with a leather belt. He looked glowingly handsome, and Georgie told him so. ‘And you’re in great shape,’ she added, putting her arms round his broad athletic back, and feeling his flat taut midriff.
‘Must be humping all that furniture.’
‘You’ve worked so hard,’ murmured Georgie, ‘particularly today. I am lucky. Love you, darling.’
‘Love you, Panda,’ said Guy. ‘Now do the placement, so you can relax and enjoy yourself.’
The evening, in fact, was far from relaxed. By nine o’clock only Miss Bottomley had arrived, roaring up on a motor bike and in a foul mood because she’d got lost.
Then at a quarter-past nine Boris rang full of tearful and mostly incomprehensible contrition. Rachel had found out that he’d been seeing his old mistress, Chloe, and issued an ultimatum. As a point of honour Boris felt he must resign from the marriage, so he couldn’t make dinner, nor understandably could Rachel, which meant a frantic resetting of the table, and a rewrite of the placement — not easy when one was three Bacardis up.
Even worse, Flora, on learning Boris wasn’t coming, retired to her bedroom with a bottle of Barsac and the cordless telephone, and flatly refused to do any waitressing. Bob then arrived with Hermione, looking radiant in an olive-green Chanel suit braided with rose pink. Bringing up the rear, was Meredith, the Ideal Homo.
‘We’re late because Rannaldini sacked two soloists this afternoon and Bob’s got to find replacements by Monday,’ said Hermione, handing her mink to Guy. ‘Gracious, it looks different since the Jennings’ day.’
She then proceeded to go into ecstasies over the dark green wallpaper in the downstairs lavatory which they hadn’t changed, and on peering into the study which had been papered in dark mulberry to set off Guy’s Victorian paintings, said: ‘What colour are you going to paint this dreadfully dark room?’
Meredith, who looked like Christopher Robin with Shirley Temple’s blond curls, and who was tiny, beautifully dressed, and a great giggler, made no comment, on the principle that any praise might do him out of a possible job.
‘I think it looks wonderful,’ said Bob Harefield, hugging a disconsolate Georgie.
By nine-thirty, they were still light on Rannaldini and Kitty, Julia and Ben Armstrong, Annabel and Valentine Hardman and Marigold and whoever. Georgie was so nervous and belted upstairs so often to check her face that Bob wondered if she was on something. Rannaldini’s Der Rosenkavalier was now surging out of the speakers, and Hermione had started to sing along.
‘You better put on the broccoli,’ muttered Guy as he opened another bottle of champagne. ‘I can’t do everything.’
Not waiting for the water to boil, Georgie was returning from the kitchen when through the door came a girl with long hair, the red of springtime copper beeches, and a lot of dark make-up round her fox-brown eyes. She was wearing a cream midi-dress, which enhanced her very pale skin, as falling snowflakes whiten the sky. Her slender neck seemed almost too delicate to support a heavy metal scorpion which hung between unexpectedly full breasts.
Lovely, thought Georgie with pleasure. Not unlike me twenty years ago, I must go on a diet.
‘Panda, this is Julia Armstrong,’ said Guy, ‘and this,’ he added even more warmly, ‘is Ben.’
Ben in computers was bald with protruding eyes, full red lips emphasized by a straggling black beard, and a little frill of black hair flowing over his white collar like a draught extractor. Seeing Guy in a shirt, he promptly removed his jacket to show off a small waist and hips as wide as his shoulders. He then proceeded to explain, in his nasal, very common voice, that they were late because he’d been kept at the office on extremely important business.
‘What a lovely spot, Guy,’ he went on, accepting a drink. ‘How did you find it?’
‘With great difficulty if you had Georgie’s directions,’ boomed Sabine Bottomley, who was gazing in admiration at Julia.
It is sod’s law, thought Georgie irritably, as Julia clapped her hands in joy as she saw her paintings on the walls, that such an enchanting girl should be on Guy’s left and I should be landed with her gh-a-a-stly husband.
But next moment the balance was redressed by the arrival of Rannaldini, who’d been kept on even more important business, some multi-billion Yen record deal with the Japs, and who was livid not to be the last to arrive. Heart-stopping in a dark blue velvet smoking-jacket, he was followed by poor Kitty looking unbelievably plain in burgundy polyester, with just the wrong gathers over the hips for her bean-bag figure.
As Ben was nearest the door and shamefully because they were the two most unattractive people in the room, Georgie introduced him to Kitty.
‘Do you play an instrument?’ asked Ben.
‘She plays the word processor,’ called out Rannaldini bitchily. ‘Don’t give her any other ideas.’