More Entertaining

34

More Entertaining

    The cocktail party on the following Tuesday was a much more restrained affair than the barbecue: staff, senior students and invited guests. They were using their new staff common room, which, since Marianne had been involved in the planning for it, had the advantage of an adjoining kitchen.

    Donald Freeman had been invited, but dishonestly pleaded a previous engagement: the formal opening of the Nathaniel Cohen Memorial Library was coming up soon, and not so very long after that the formal opening of the Institute itself; and he’d have to turn up for those; but he had no intention of facing Caro Webber before he absolutely had to.

    Polly Carrano was invited, too, but she also turned down the invitation. She was out of charity with Hamish: she’d tackled him about Mirry in a quiet moment on the Sunday, and he’d claimed firstly, that he hadn’t “abandoned” her, secondly, that she understood his position, and thirdly, that he wasn't scared of Sylvie. Polly had informed him grimly that if he wanted Mirry to share his life she had a right to share in the bad bits as well as the easy bits. It hadn’t gone down too well.

    After some consultation, Hamish and Peter had invited not only the Vice-Chancellor, the Registrar, the University Librarian, and various other people from the university who had helped them in the Institute’s first days, but also the Trustees, for although this was not by any means an official occasion, it was the first entertainment in their new building. Poor Sir Jerry, who adored small functions where you could chat in a friendly way and wander round and eat nice little nibbles, hadn’t been invited: they’d felt it wasn’t a formal enough occasion to invite their benefactor. Hamish was rather concerned to do the correct thing; and Peter, even more concerned to do the correct thing and suffering from reaction to Veronica’s and Hamish’s reception of his “European gentleman fit”, backed him up fervently.

    There were three Trustees: a senior executive from Cohen Holdings, who sent his apologies; a senior partner of the firm of accountants who handled Sir Jerry’s business, who sent one of their junior partners; and a senior partner in Dent, Foreman, Shapiro & Overdale. He’d normally have sent one of their junior partners, too, but to his stunned amazement Micky Shapiro volunteered to go in his stead.

    “Eh?” he said.

    “I said, don’t send young Kevin, Bob: I’ll go,” said Micky, trying to sound airy.

    “You’re mad: they won’t really expect one of us.”

    Micky shrugged, and strolled over to his partner’s big window. He stared down at the grimy city canyon. The tops of the taller buildings opposite were in brilliant sunshine, but at street level it’d be unpleasantly chilly: the warm northerly that was blowing would be metamorphosed down there into a cold incessant gale. “I’d quite like to see the new buildings.”

    “Christ, if you’re that keen you can go up there for the bloody official opening instead of me!”

    “All right; I will,” said Micky, not turning round.

    “Good; I’ll make a note to play golf that day,” said Bob Overdale nastily.

    “Do that,” murmured Micky.

    His partner goggled at his slim back. “Shouldn’t think old Jerry’ll be at this cocktail do.”

    “Thank God,” murmured Micky.

    “Oh. Thought you might be thinking of getting back together with Pat,” he ventured.

    Micky gave a short bark of laughter. “Do me a favour!”

    Bob eyed him sardonically. In that case, the bugger was birding again.

    “What’s that?” asked Veronica with interest, looking at Caro’s drink.

    “Something American; Charlie made it,” replied Caro, also looking at it.

    “Frothy,” ascertained Veronica.

    “Yes.” They both looked at it.

    “He’s gone all thing,” said Caro gloomily.

    “How’dja mean?”

    “Well, last Saturday I said Danny and me ’ud move into his flat.”

    “Good!” said Veronica, beaming.

    “Yes,” said Caro, going very red. “Well, I mean—we spend half the time at each other’s places anyway, so it seemed silly... And his flat’s cooler than mine.”

    “Yeah; and?” said Veronica, grinning.

    “What?”

    “‘All thing,’” quoted Veronica.

    “He’s gone all—all possessive, kind of; and—he keeps doing things for me.” She looked gloomily at the frothy drink. “Usually things I don’t want him to do.”

    “Uxorious,” said Veronica, grinning.

    “What? Oh—yes!” she gasped, going scarlet.

    “Peter does it, too; ya just have to ignore it. They get even worse when you’re preggy.”

    “Yes,” said Caro faintly. “How—how do you cope, Veronica?”

     “I just said,” replied Veronica, mildly surprised. “I ignore it.”

    Peter came up at that moment so she quickly asked him what the frothy drink she was now holding was. The expert pronounced it to be a whisky sour and, informing her severely that it was full of alcohol, poured it into the nearest pot-plant.

    “That was Caro’s drink, not mine,” said Veronica feebly.

    Overcome, Peter apologized profusely. The grinning Caro explained that she hadn't wanted it anyway, she hated cocktails, but Charlie had forced it on her.

    There was movement by the door; Peter glanced over there and said: “I think we must desert you, moy dear Caro, if you will excuse us; there is Gavin Woiley. –Come along, moy dearest,” he added, taking Veronica’s elbow in a proprietorial fashion.

    “Wiley’s the world’s worst bore—oh, all right, if ya must, ya must!” Peter towed her firmly away. She looked back over her shoulder, winked, and mouthed: “Uxorious!”

    Caro collapsed in smothered giggles.

    John gripped his glass tightly and looked round him fearfully, sweating slightly in spite of the new building’s air conditioning. He hated semi-formal cocktail gatherings even more than he hated very large informal parties on lawns. The fact that he knew almost everyone present didn’t help very much. For one thing, everybody but him seemed to know what to say to one another—even if they’d spent all day at work together, they were nevertheless chatting politely and animatedly about the right sort of thing. For another thing, everyone was horrifyingly smart. Hamish was definitely the worst: after telling John only yesterday, when cornered in the staffroom, that he was going to wear “something cool”, he was dazzling in a cream linen suit. In this outfit he looked about seven feet tall and slimmer than ever, and John had meanly enjoyed Veronica’s reaction to it very much: “Fuck! What the Christ are you got up as, Hamish? Male model of the year?” Peter was also in a suit: grey silk, looking very smooth and somehow upholstered. Charlie was very American, in a white tux—he and Caro were going on to dinner somewhere. Somewhere expensive, John concluded, with a sort of gloomy, undirected envy. Fred was in a suit, looking smaller, neater, and more Japanese than ever. Even Marianne was in a suit: even more startling than Hamish’s: white, the jacket with a cutaway effect, showing an expanse of tanned chest at the front above the white waistcoat. John himself wasn’t in a suit, he didn’t own one. His grey slacks were unpleasantly heavy and he felt an idiot in his dark blue blazer—regardless of the fact that few people here were likely to recognize the faded thing on the pocket as an Oxford University faded thing.

    The female students had clearly made great efforts with their dress: square shoulders, frills, flounces and a preponderance of bloused, baggy bodices—apart from Ms Glo Withers, who was more out of her bodice than in it. John eyed her in terror and kept away from her, unaware that there was no need to do this: Glo found him totally uninteresting. The only person who looked half-way normal, John decided, was Judith Woods, who was wearing a plain navy-blue dress with a white collar. It was a pity he didn’t really know her; nevertheless, since there was no-one else he felt he could talk to and he fancied he’d seen Hamish give him a hard look as he stood half-concealed by a potted plant with his cocktail, John went over to her. “Hullo,” he said.

    “Hullo,” said Judith mildly.

    Silence fell.

    “Hamish looks smart tonight,” said poor John desperately.

    “You could say that,” replied Judith drily.

    John was too het up to register the dryness. He said nothing.

    “What’s that you’re drinking?” asked Judith after a while.

    It was something Charlie had forced on him. John felt he couldn’t possibly say this to Dr Woods. “It’s an American cocktail,” he said weakly.

    “Christ,” said Judith mildly.

    Hilary McLeod came up to them, grinning. “For God’s sake don’t drink that, John!”

    “What are you drinking?” he asked on an acid note..

    “Whisky,” said Hilary succinctly. She knocked it back.

    John subsided.

    Jo-Beth lurked in an obscure corner, not attempting to socialize, and glaring at her sister-in-law in her kimono. What on earth Missy thought she was got up as! Missy had said mildly, on being interrogated: “Oh, I just felt like it.” Jo-Beth thought sulkily that she was making a fool of herself—regardless of the very obvious fact that Missy was attracting only favourable and very admiring attention. Even Fred hadn’t attempted to rush off and help Charlie with the drinks, or stand in a corner eating, or talk shop with his colleagues. Jo-Beth was in blue—last year’s, and it didn’t suit her. She knew this, because Hannah—very smart in a crimson and navy patterned silk—had looked at it in undisguised horror and said: “Jo-Beth, honey, that colour makes you look real yellow; why you don’t change into something pretty?” Jo-Beth had replied unpleasantly: “I might not look ‘pretty’ but at least I don’t look conspicuous!” Hannah hadn’t attempted to disguise her displeasure at this rejoinder, though she knew Jo-Beth was peeved because Rod Jablonski had turned down her invitation. Poor Rod, since it was a Tuesday, was driving his father to an AA meeting; he had felt very strongly that this was the sort of engagement you don’t announce to a nice American girl from a nice home that you’re starting to feel serious about.

    “There’s Darryl,” said Glo Withers. “We could ask her.”

    “She won’t know!” said Alison Glanville scornfully. “She’s always got her nose in a book.”

    “Explains why she’s doing a Ph.D. and you’re failing your M.A.,” said Phil Barlow promptly.

    “Shuddup, Phil!” retorted Glo crossly. “She’s the only one that’s been around long enough to know; we might as well ask her.”

    Lenny Kirkpatrick said uneasily: “Isn’t she thick as thieves with his wife? I don’t think...”

    Nobody took any notice of him. They never did.

    Timothy Revill said loftily: “Why in God’s name are you interested, anyway? It’s hardly significant; is it?” “Significant” was one of Timothy’s words. They ignored him.

    “Come on,” said Glo determinedly. She led them over to Darryl. “Hi, Darryl,” she said brightly. “Nice party, isn’t it?”

    “No,” replied Darryl, scowling. “It’s bloody.” She ate a small sandwich from the large plateful she was holding. “Mind you, I knew it’d be bloody.”

    “Why did you come, then?” asked Timothy, eyeing the sandwiches.

    “Hamish told me I had to,” said Darryl, scowling more than ever.

    “Can I have one of those?” asked Timothy.

    “No.” She scowled at them all. “If that’s all you lot came over here for, you can push off again. I found these, and I’m gonna eat them.”

    “Actually,” said Glo quickly, “we wanted to ask you something. –Didn’t we?” she asked the coterie.

    “No,” said Timothy. Lenny giggled.

    “Yes, we did,” said Phil. Darryl looked at him. “Go on, Glo,” he added weakly.

    “We-ell... “

    “Spit it out!” said Darryl crossly. She took another sandwich.

    “Well, is it true,” said Glo breathlessly, “that Dr Riabouchinsky once had a thing with Dr Reeves from the English Department?”

    Darryl looked at her nastily. “What’s a ‘thing’?”

    Glo had thought this a very sophisticated thing to say. She reddened crossly. “An affaire!”

    “How the fuck would I know?” said Darryl. “And why the fuck does it matter?”

    “That’s what I said,” agreed Timothy.

    Darryl chose another sandwich. “Coulda slept with the entire university, far’s I know.” She took a bite. “Who the Hell’s Dr Reeves, anyway? I’ve never heard of him.”

    “She’s a woman!” said Glo loudly and indignantly.

    “Ya don’t say,” said Darryl, very drily indeed.

    Glo reddened. “Come on,” she said to the coterie. They went, looking sheepish, but Timothy stayed.

    Darryl glared at him. “You can piss off, too, ya not getting a sandwich. If I have to waste petrol coming in to bloody cocktail does, I’m gonna get my money’s worth out of them.”

    “It’s not that... I thought you knew Dr Reeves,” he said slowly.

    “Known her for years,” agreed Darryl, eating a sandwich.

    He gave a startled laugh.

    “’S not any of La Withers’s business, though.”

    “No,” said Timothy, smiling.

    “Can’t stand bloody gossips,” she elaborated.

    “Nor can I,” he agreed. “She is a bit like that, Glo, eh?”

    Darryl gave him a sharp look. “Thought all you blokes fell for that breathy boobs bit?”

    “No; some of us have more refined tastes.”

    “Glad to hear it.”

    “Can I get you a drink?”

    Darryl stared at him. “I’m capable of getting my own drinks, thanks.”

    “I know that, Darryl,” said Timothy, grinning. “I’m offering to get one for you.”

    “Oh. All right, then—better make it a fruit juice, I’m driving.”

    Timothy went off. He came back with two fruit juices and a plate of asparagus rolls. “Do you like these?”

    “Yes,” said Darryl, eyeing them greedily. “Where’dja get ’em?”

    “Bribed a librarian with an offer of my fair body. I’ll swap you some of these for some of those.”

    “Done!”

    Timothy and Darryl ate and drank hungrily behind a huge potted fiddle-leaf plant.

    “Are there any of those savouries left?” hissed Pam, hurrying into the kitchen.

    “No; why?” replied Marianne, rinsing a glass under the hot tap.

    “There’s another big-wig just come in; he’s talking to Hamish and the—uh—you know, that university high-up.”

    “The Vice-Chancellor?” Marianne dried the glass.

    “Yes; I think so; anyway, the asparagus rolls are all gone, and the students have got down on the sandwiches; I told you we should have made more!”

    “It isn’t a dinner,” said Marianne in a rather firm voice. She rinsed another glass.

    “Well, that means there isn’t anything I can offer him!”

    “Serve him right for being late,” replied Marianne, polishing the second glass with a tea towel—brought from home, she’d long since discovered that none of the staff took any responsibility for the Institute’s tea towels. She and Pam were taking turns to take them home on Fridays and wash them.

    “Maybe if I just gather up things from other plates? There is the odd asparagus roll, and that...” Pam sounded rather plaintive. Inwardly Marianne sighed.

    “Good idea,” she replied firmly.

    Pam bustled off on her new errand. Marianne took a deep breath, and put her clean glasses on a tray.

    “Are those clean?” said Charlie as she came up to him at the bar. “Good.”

    “How’s the wine holding out?” she asked.

    “The white’s almost gone; there’s plenty of red, though.”

    “Yes; women don’t usually drink red,” said Marianne. “Pam says another big-wig’s arrived; can you pour me some more whiskies and, um, gin, I think the others are drinking; I’d better take them over.”

    Charlie glanced over at where Hamish and Peter had been absorbed into a group of well-dressed, well-fed-looking older men. He poured whisky and gin, and added several little bottles to Marianne’s tray. “That’s the malt stuff Hamish likes,” he said, “and this here’s Scotch; don’t get ’em mixed up, will you?”

    “Why on earth would I get them mixed up?” said Marianne. “They look different, they smell different, and they certainly taste different!” She took the tray and departed.

    “Ouch!” muttered Charlie to himself. “What’s got into her?”

    Veronica, who was immune to male sensibilities on this point, had just joined the peer group. The Registrar was offering cigarillos. Her eyes lit up. “Ah!” she said. “Thanks,” she said to the Registrar. The University Librarian snapped his lighter for her. “Ta, Bob.” She inhaled deeply, and blew out a stream of smoke. “That’s better!” she sighed.

    “Anyway,” said Hamish with a laugh, evidently finishing some anecdote: “he accused me of wearing a skirt; at that precise moment, of course, he was wearing a dirty pair of shorts and a torn shirt with about an acre of hairy chest showing!”

    The men all chuckled. “He’s a character, all right,” agreed the Vice-Chancellor. “Sound scholar, though,” he added hastily.

    “He always was a character,” said Micky. “I was at Grammar with him; I remember he had a down on the physics teacher—forget what the bloke had done to get offside with him—” His voice faltered, and stopped. He swallowed. “Hullo, Marianne; how are you?”

    “Good evening, Micky; would you care for a drink?” replied Marianne. Her cool manner didn’t reveal that her heart was racing, her mouth felt dry, and she was wishing fervently that she’d checked her makeup.

    Micky took a Scotch, and added a little soda water. He was surprised, in a detached sort of way, that his hands didn’t shake. His heart certainly seemed to be shaking—or at least doing something fairly odd and wholly adolescent.

    “Go on, Micky,” prompted Peter, watching him narrowly.

    “Eh? Oh. Where was I?”

    “Something about the physics teacher,” said Veronica, eyeing Marianne’s tray.

    “Would you like me to get you a fruit juice, Veronica?” asked Marianne politely.

    “Yes, please, Marianne, that would be very koind,” said Peter quickly.

    Veronica sighed. “All right, then—ta. –Go on, Micky,” she said as Marianne went off.

    Micky started. “Oh! Yes—well...” Somewhat disjointedly he told them how the University’s Dean of Engineering and several like-minded friends, when in their last year at Grammar, had dismantled the physics master’s Fiat Bambina and reassembled it on the school roof.

    “Can I have one of those?” asked John.

    “Well, just one,” said Darryl firmly, letting him take an asparagus roll. She looked him up and down. “At least you’re not got up like a dog’s dinner,” she said.

    “No,” agreed John.

    “Didja get a load of Hamish?” she asked.

    “Yes,” he said gloomily.

    Timothy said in surprise: “I think he looks great.”

    “Huh!” snorted Darryl. She ate the last sandwich. “Looksh like a bloody mannequin out of a shop window,” she said thickly.

    Timothy grinned. “Well, at least no-one could accuse you of that!”

    “Not into bourgeois consumerism,” grunted Darryl.

    “No,” he agreed, looking at her greenish tee-shirt and baggy khaki shorts. “Are those Army Disposal?”

    “Yeah,” said Darryl, picking up the last asparagus roll.

    “She’s living on a shoestring,” John excused her.

    “Got nothing uh ’oo wi’ it,” said Darryl thickly. She swallowed. “Wouldn’t buy that sorta crap, anyway. Why put money into the capitalists’ pockets?”

    “The health of the economy depends—” began John unwisely.

    “Save it for ya bloody lectures, John,” she recommended.

    Timothy shifted uneasily. “I’d better be going; don’t want to miss the Marx Brothers.”

    “Hang on; what Marx Brothers film is that? Didn’t know there was one on,” said Darryl.

    “A Night at the Opera: it’s a video: they’re showing it in Rutherford Hall.”

    “Good, I’ll come with you.”

    “Where’s Rutherford Hall?” asked John.

    Darryl stared at him. “Here!”

    “It’s the student hostel,” explained Timothy kindly.

    “Oh.” He looked uncertainly at Timothy. “Do you board there?”

    “No.”

    “What the Hell’s that got to do with anything?” said Darryl crossly. “Come on, Timothy, or we won’t get a decent seat.”

    “Can anyone go?” asked John feebly.

    “No, it’s a student thing!” Darryl replied impatiently.

    Timothy began to laugh. “I think—John likes—the Marx Brothers!” he gasped.

    “Well, why the fuck didn’tcha say?” she said to John. “Come on, then.”

    “You just said it was students only,” he objected feebly.

    “’S not for the public, ya dill! No-one’s gonna throw you out; come on!”

    She marched off. Timothy, still chuckling, followed her. John hurried after them.

    The advantage of arriving late at a cocktail party is that when you get there everybody else will, with luck, already be quite cheerful, and the official guests will push off fairly soon. So it was with this party. Micky only had to do his duty with the university’s representatives for about ten minutes, and then he was free to circulate. Unfortunately one of the disadvantages of arriving late at such a party is that the person you most wish to see may have decided to leave early. Marianne was nowhere to be seen. Micky wandered miserably round the room, peering behind large potted plants, trying to look casual. After a bit he gave up and went over to the now deserted bar and poured himself a stiff drink.

    “I’ll have one of those,” she said.

    Micky gasped. A goodly portion of his whisky shot out of his glass and splattered over Pam Anderson’s second-best tablecloth. “I thought you’d gone!”

    “No,” said Marianne. “I was out the back.”

    Numbly Micky poured her a drink.

    “I didn’t realize you’d be coming,” she said.

    “No; uh—Bob—my partner—couldn’t make it.”

    Marianne sipped her whisky. Micky couldn’t tell whether the Hell she believed him.

    “The party seems to be going well,” he said inanely.

    “Is it?” said Marianne. She finished what was left in her glass and set it down sharply. “I wouldn’t know; I’m not here to enjoy myself, you know!”

    “What?” he said faintly.

    “No,” said Marianne, nostrils flaring. “I’m here to organize the whole thing, and make sure everything runs smoothly, and serve drinks, and smooth over awkward moments, and make sure everybody gets something to eat, and—and serve more drinks, and—”

    “Hush!” said Micky, trying not to laugh.

    “I’m fed up!” said Marianne in a shaking voice. She reached for the whisky bottle.

    Micky quickly put his hand over hers. “I don’t think that’s going to help.”

    “How would you know? You’re not expected to spend half your life being a dogsbody!”

    “Nor are you; why don’t you—” He was going to say “forget about this lot and come and have a decent dinner,” but Marianne interrupted him.

    “Of course I am! That’s what women are hired for! But of course you wouldn’t know that, sitting in your palatial office with your hordes of willing female slaves!”

    “Marianne... This isn’t like you,” he said helplessly.

    “Not like me! You don’t even know what I’m like! All you see is—is the surface!”

    “You haven’t given me much chance to see anything else.”

    Marianne went very red, and glared at the array of half-empty bottles and used glasses on the table before them.

    “Have you?” said Micky in a low voice, standing rather close.

    “No,” she said. “I s’pose not.”

    “Come to dinner,” he said.

    “I can’t,” she replied dully. “I’ve got to stay and help clear up this lot.”

    Micky as near as dammit tried to laugh her into changing her mind. He gulped. “All right; I’ll stay and give you a hand; we can grab some dinner afterwards.”

    Marianne looked up at him suddenly. Her lips parted uncertainly. “Come on,” he said huskily. “Where do we start?”

    Pam Anderson, busy at the sink, was delighted to have another helper who—unlike Hamish, Judith and Hilary, whom she’d permitted to collect glasses but nothing else—was quite sober. She accepted placidly Marianne’s introduction of “um—Micky”, and didn’t enquire the gentleman’s surname. However, she didn’t fail to observe both Marianne’s blush and the fact that “um—Micky” was the big-wig who’d come in late.

Next chapter:

https://themembersoftheinstitute.blogspot.com/2023/01/modified-rapture.html