natural beauty. The result was uniquely, inspiredly ugly.
‘Your waitress showed a bit of style there,’ said Corinna.
‘Surprised?’ said her fiancé. ‘That’s stereotyped thinking, Corinna. That’s a very glib social judgement, is that.’
‘I do not make glib social judgements, Ted.’ Corinna’s rebuke was cool but affectionate. ‘I was brought up not to. Don’t forget, my father’s a bishop.’
‘Some chance,’ muttered Ted.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing. Well, you do rather drag it in. “Nice cup of tea, this. Incidentally, my father’s a bishop.”’ He lowered his voice, in order to talk about sex. ‘“That was magnificent. You’re the best lover I’ve ever had, Ted. Not that I’ve had that many. My father’s a bishop.”’
‘I’ve never said you’re the best lover I’ve ever had.’
‘No. You haven’t. Why not?’
‘Maybe you’re the only lover I’ve ever had.’
‘What?’ Ted’s astonishment slipped out. He worked hard to alleviate his tactlessness. He wasn’t entirely successful. ‘I mean, not that I’m surprised. No, it’s just that … statistically speaking, it’s very unusual for women to reach your … oh heck …I mean … well … great!’
‘Don’t forget, my …’ began Corinna. Ted joined in. ‘… father’s a bishop.’
They laughed.
Sandra watched. Her face was a rigid mask.
‘Sorry if I was a bit edgy, love,’ said Ted. ‘But, I mean … I am. It’s with seeing her. Being reminded what a … well, not a bastard exactly. I mean, I didn’t intend when I … I had no idea I’d be passionately loved by a beautiful, glamorous, sophisticated virginal goddess. I forget sometimes how attractive I am.’
Liz’s skeletal, ramrod uncle, Hubert Ellsworth-Smythe, who had never refused liquid refreshment in his life, stood with a cup of tea in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, regaling Angela Wintergreen with anecdotes about faux-pas at tiffin, and Angela Wintergreen was enchanted, because he hadn’t mentioned golf once. Matthew Wadebridge, Neville’s colleague, whose wife did charity work six evenings a week and snored in her chair on the seventh, looked out over the grounds, watched a heron flapping indolently through the murk in search of more promising waters, shivered, thought how long the night must be for herons and what jolly times he had in the Bacchus Wine Bar in Newbaldgate each weekday lunchtime, decided that perhaps being human wasn’t too dreadful after all, and turned back to the jollifications with renewed enthusiasm. Jenny Rodenhurst, charming despite her advanced pregnancy in a red and cream chiffon tent-style dress, with a natural straw hat and a shoulder bag hand-woven by the wives of Bolivian tin miners, approached her mother diffidently, wondering how to present Paul’s absence in a not wholly unfavourable light.
‘Mum?’ she began.
‘Paul’s absence from social functions is becoming habitual, Jenny,’ said Liz, driving a coach and pair through her daughter’s diffidence.
‘He hates do’s. Any excuse. Look, Mum, we’ve had difficulties arising from lack of mutual faith arising from Paul’s lapse with Carol, but our troubles pale into insignificance compared to floods in Cambodia and earthquakes in Armenia and poverty in the shanty towns of El Salvador. So, let’s not talk about it.’ She wanted to get away from the mother she had longed to talk to two minutes ago. She saw Eric at his drinks table. ‘Champagne!’ she said, and set off without further excuse. ‘Better not,’ she said, looking down at her swollen body. ‘Have you any orange juice, Eric?’
‘Certainly, madam,’ said the dapper, ageless Eric Siddall. ‘No problem. Here we go. Tickety-boo. And how’s that husband of yours?’
‘Fine,’ lied Jenny. ‘Great.’
‘Sometimes, I – not having ever myself – sometimes I look at married couples and I … but with you two, I see you, so devoted, such loving parents, and I … I do, I come over all unnecessary …’
‘Oh, belt up, Eric. You know nothing about it,’ said Jenny.
Eric Siddall, barman supreme, stared at Jenny aghast.
‘Oh Lord,’ she said. ‘Oh, Eric. Oh, I’m sorry, Eric.’
Eric bore his hurt with dignity.
‘No problem, madam,’ he said.
Betty Sillitoe had intended to make something of an entrance. Entering a room without Rodney at her side was, after all, something of a rarity. She had planned to stand in the doorway, smiling, looking really rather fetching, she felt, in her coral crêpe dress edged with apricot ribbon, and throwing her arms out in a gesture of affection; embracing them all in the warmth of her personality, as if she were the Pope and the Brontë Suite St Peter’s Square.
This touching tableau was ruined before it started, by Jenny hurtling tearfully towards her, trembling with self-disgust, wailing, ‘I shouldn’t have. Not today,’ and hurrying out into the lobby. Betty turned towards her in amazement, then turned back towards the room, and was embraced by Rodney before she had regained her composure.
‘Betty! You came!’ His delight removed all traces of regret for her lost entrance.
‘I’m sorry I missed the service,’ she said, ‘but I couldn’t leave her while she was hallucinating.’
‘Hallucinating?’
‘She thought she was Joan of Arc. She might have burnt herself.’
‘Oh, Betty.’
Rodney embraced Betty again, even more warmly.
‘Rodney!’ she protested. ‘A bit of decorum in public, if you please. As befits joint managing directors of a major new business. I’d have been earlier but I popped home to change because this dress creases if you travel. Rodney, there’s a dreadful, soggy, wobbly, smelly mess on the kitchen table. What is it?’
‘Carrot and cashew nut roulade. A treat for tonight, for your homecoming.’
‘Oh, Rodney. I’m sorry.’
‘No. I knew it had gone wrong. I meant to throw it out.’
Neville, Rita and Liz came forward to greet Betty.
‘Hello, Neville,’ she said. ‘Hello … Councillor! Congratulations.’ Now at last she embraced the whole room in her gaze. ‘Ted! Corinna! Sandra!.’
Sandra approached, smiling serenely, ignoring Betty’s surprise. ‘Tea, madam, or champagne?’
‘Oh tea first, I think, please.’ Betty called out to Eric. ‘Eric? Later I’d like a drink. Do you have any fruit juices?’
‘What?’
‘I
