The Opening Of The Institute

43

The Opening Of The Institute

    It was the morning of the official Opening of the Institute. Of course they’d all been in the building for several weeks, but these things can’t be hurried, depending as they do on the convenience of such persons as Benefactors and Official Openers. Sir Jerry, though certainly the former, had refused to be the latter—he hated speech-making. So the building was to be opened by the Minister of Finance. As it was well known that he and the Prime Minister had just had an awful row, certain members of the Institute were looking forward to his speech with considerable anticipation.

    Veronica wasn’t one of them. “How long d’ja reckon this bloody do is gonna go on for?”

    Peter was tying his best tie. “I don’t know. The official ceremony is scheduled to take forty minutes, and I think it should run to toime.” He twinkled at her in the mirror. “Unless Jerry gets carried away and makes a long speech after all!”

    Veronica was not amused. “He better not. I wanna get on with my chapter.”

    He sighed. “Well, you must wait until the ceremony is over—and the reception.”

    The expression of hope that had flickered on her face died.

    “And do get dressed, Veronica! We shall be late!” He looked at his watch. “It’s already ten to twelve!”

    Veronica laughed suddenly. “No, it isn’t, Peter: I put ya watch forward when you were in the bathroom.”

    “What?” he cried. “Well, what is the toime?’

    Veronica glanced at her own watch. “I dunno; my watch has stopped.”

    “What?”

    “Battery musta run out: noticed it was going funny. But I know yours is fast.”

    Peter rushed frantically out onto the landing to consult the clock there. It was a very old clock, Veronica had bought it in an antique shop. It had stopped. He rushed downstairs.

    When he came back she was lying full length on the bed.

    “Veronica!”

    “I’m thinking,” she replied. “Shut up.”

    Peter glared at her. She closed her eyes. He went back to the mirror and finished his tie.

    Finally she stirred, and sat up. “What is the time?”

    Peter was now sitting on the dressing-table stool, putting his shoes on. He glared at her. “Eleven-fifteen,” he said sulkily.

    “See?”

    “I see you make me rush for nothink,” he replied sulkily. “And what will Betty think of us? I must have taken the babies round to her at least”—he glared at his watch—“nearly an hour earlier than I said I would!”

    “Not ‘at least nearly’, it’s bad grammar or something. She wouldn’t mind, she’s always begging to have the kids round at her place.”

    As this was perfectly true, Peter could think of no reply. He laced his shoes tightly.

    “Don’t do your shoes up so tight, you’ll get sore feet.”

    “Get DRESSED!”

    Sighing loudly, Veronica rolled off the bed. “Do I have to wear that foul academic gown?”

    “YES!” he roared.

    “Well, whadd’ll I wear under it?” said Veronica in a whiny voice. “Everything’ll look rotten.”

    “Rubbidge, Veronica!”

    “There’s that blue suit... No, it’ll be too hot under the bloody gown. Maybe I could leave the jacket off—bum, no I couldn’t, that blouse is strapless.” She opened the wardrobe and pulled out an apricot linen garment and looked at it with dislike.

    Peter put his jacket on.

    “You’ll roast with that on under ya bloody gown,” she said. Peter ignored this.

    “Well, I’ll tell ya what,” she said in a threatening voice, “I’m gonna take off my bloody gown the minute the ceremony’s over!” Peter didn’t respond. “Or wouldn’t that be appropriate?” she inquired nastily.

    “That would be—just marginally—permissible.”

    Veronica put her head in the wardrobe again. “The thing is, if I have to pin the ruddy hood to anything silk or anything, it’ll ruin it,” she grumbled. “It drags, ya see.”

    “Ah!” he said from just behind her.

    Veronica yelped.

    “I’m sorry, moy dearest, I didn’t mean to startle you. I wish to say, if that is what is worrying you, Veronica, then I have a foolproof way of pinning one’s hood down without ruining one’s blouse—or toie, of course,” he added, twinkling.

    “Really?” said Veronica suspiciously.

    “Da; it needs many safety-pins; I will go and foind some; you choose a noice dress, moy darlink.” He rushed out.

    “‘Nice dress’!” muttered Veronica scornfully. She looked wistfully at a turquoise suit in fine wool: it’d be too hot; although it was April, it was a very warm day.

    When he came back she was wearing a very pale yellow linen suit which he knew was brand-new. It was designed to be worn without a blouse. He eyed it nervously.

    “What’s wrong with it?” said Veronica defensively.

    Peter hesitated. Veronica scowled at him. “There is nothink wrong with it,” he said quickly, “you look lovely, moy dearest; only, please do not forget and take the jacket off, will you?”

    “Eh? Oh!” Veronica laughed. “I couldn’t,” she explained. “These buttons are only fake—see?”

    “Thank goodness!”

    “I’m not that absent-minded!” she said indignantly.

    Peter knew she was. He asked quickly: “How do you get in and out of it, then?”

    “Zip under the arm—see? Then ya pull it over y’head.”

    That seemed sufficiently complicated to prevent a strip-tease by even a very absent-minded Senior Research Fellow who’d had an inspiration about her new chapter in the middle of the previous night; he breathed a sigh of relief.

    Remarking gloomily that she’d better put a bit of muck on her face, Veronica sat down at her dressing-table. Peter watched with amusement the thoroughly professional operation which followed.

    When she’d finished she got up and said: “Well? Do ya reckon she’ll be there?”

    “Who?” he said weakly.

    “Mirry. If she isn’t, it’ll mean Polly’s ticking off didn’t do ruddy Hamish any good, eh?”

    “Well, partly. If she is not there, it will not, I think, bode very well for the future of their relationship; this is the first public occasion since they are back together on which Hamish moight appear with her; eugh—moight be seen to recognoize her.”

    “Yes,” agreed his wife in a grim voice.

    Their eyes met.

    “Well, all right, then: if she’s not there—if he’s chickened out—we’ll just have to do something about them, that’s all!” said Veronica with great determination.

    “We?” he echoed faintly, goggling at her.

    “Well, you, mainly; I’m no good at that stuff,” she replied, smiling; “only I’ll back you up!”

    Peter laughed. He kissed her cheek lightly. “In that case, how can I—non, non—how can we fail?”

    The speeches were over and the reception was in full swing. “Well, now, this is nice!” said Sir Jerry, rubbing his hands and beaming all over his frog-like face. On his left Hamish, who was in such a good mood that even if the ceremony had been a total disaster he wouldn’t have given a damn, smiled agreement. On his right Gavin Wiley agreed hastily that it was, inwardly thanking whatever gods there were that Sir Jerry had apparently never got wind of that damned business last year with Macdonald’s estranged wife.

    “What did you think of that damned feller’s speech?” Sir Jerry asked Hamish.

    “E-er...” The twinkling brown eyes reassured him. “Put his foot in it, didn’t he?” he said grinning.

    “Too right! I reckon he’s for the chop before he’s very much older!” Sir Jerry took his arm confidentially. “You know Old Stiffy?”

    “Not personally, no. Er—Maurice Black’s told me a fair bit about him, though.”

    “That right? Well, he reckons...” Sir Jerry dragged Hamish in the direction of the food, meanwhile telling all him about what one of New Zealand’s elder statesmen reckoned about both the Prime Minister and the Minister of Finance. Neither of the opinions was flattering.

    Hamish didn’t really listen. He looked over the old man’s head: there was such a crowd, it was difficult to spot any one individual...

    “How very nice to see you again, Dr Roddenberry!” said Belinda Cohen brightly.

    Politely Charlie greeted Lady Cohen and introduced the Institute’s Librarian.

    Caro had never before been in the position of having to make polite conversation to a “Lady” and her stomach felt distinctly leaden. It also felt distinctly empty, she hadn’t had any lunch, and not much breakfast, either, because she’d known there’d be all these goodies this afternoon that she’d never be able to resist.

    After chatting politely for a bit, Charlie then inquired politely after their requirements in the food and drink line, and disappeared with their orders.

    “What a very nice man he is!” said Belinda brightly.

    Belinda’s cosy chat had made Caro forget she was a “Lady.” “As a matter of fact,” she confided hoarsely, going very red, “we’re thinking of getting married soon.”

    Belinda expressed great pleasure at this, and wished her very happy. Somehow Caro found herself telling her about how Danny and Charlie got on so well...

    Belinda listened with great interest; when Charlie reappeared with drinks and plates piled with food she continued to chat pleasantly, but from time-to-time her eyes searched the crowd anxiously for her two granddaughters. She did hope that dear Carol—of course, Nat said she was all right; but then, he was a man... And Allyson hadn’t really wanted to come, only Jerry wouldn’t see it, of course—and it put up her co-workers’ backs at the office, giving her special treatment...

    “Have some of these,” said John hospitably.

    “What are they?” replied Darryl suspiciously, glaring at the plate of rolled-up little green things.

    “I don’t know; they’re nice, though.”

    They ate dolmades contentedly.

    “Who did you say did the catering?” Jake asked with interest.

    “Food by Flury; they’ve been very efficient,” said Marianne.

    “Never had them; must give ’em a go.” He ate a small hot savoury with enjoyment. “These are good, eh?”

    She smiled pleasedly.

    Since she’d worked for him for umpteen years Jake could perfectly well see that Marianne was a bit flushed and strained-looking. Of course, it might only be the to-do of the bloody reception... Only that was the sort of thing she’d always been able to handle with both hands tied behind her back.

    “They do the grog, too?” he asked casually, eyeing her narrowly.

    Marianne jumped. “Food by Flury? No; they offered to, but Peter looked after all that side of it. They supplied the glasses, though.”

    Jake grunted.

    “How are the children?”

    “Aw, good. Look, why don’tcha come over and see us some time, Marianne? We oughta see a bit more of you, now you’re living up here. Polly’d love to see you,” he urged.

    Marianne was very pink. “I’d really like to; only I don’t get much time for socializing.”

    “No; realize that. I’ll get her to give you a ring and fix a time, eh?”

    She gave him her lovely smile but the strained look didn’t disappear from her eyes. “Yes; that’d be really super.”

    Jake let her toddle off with her bloody plate of nibbles. He looked after her, frowning. Unless he was mistaken, and he wasn’t, she’d worked for him for so long that he knew her through and through, there was something very wrong, there...

    “Okay, honey?” said Hannah Nakamura brightly as the Institute’s janitor returned to her side.

    John Blewitt grinned. “Yeah; they’d let the Zip run dry, silly moos, but I got to it before it burnt itself out!”

    Hannah smiled. “Good.” She handed him back his plate.

    “Ta,” he grunted.

    “Have you seen Fred?” she asked.

    “Not since the ceremony.”

    “Oh, dear.”

    “Missy’s over there by the windows: looks a treat, eh?” He beamed fondly in the direction of the small kimono-ed figure.

    Hannah replied crossly: “I don’t know why the girls had to get themselves up like that!”

    John chuckled. “Well, from what Fred said, it was Jo-Beth’s idea this time round!”

    “Jo-Beth’s?” said Hannah incredulously.

    John engulfed a small savoury. He grinned through it, and swallowed noisily. “Mm—wanted to knock young Rod’s eye out, I gather!”

    “Oh, dear,” said Hannah gloomily.

    “Thought you liked him?” he said in surprise.

    “I do; he’s a lovely boy; only I don’t think they’ve got enough in common.”

    “Him not nice Nisei boy, eh?” said John in a silly voice.

    Hannah let out a high-pitched giggle and thumped his arm. “Stop it! –No, seriously, honey, I’m afraid Jo-Beth’s just been dazzled by his looks, she hasn’t really stopped to think about him as a person, at all.”

    These depths were beyond John. “Oh,” he said cautiously.

    Hannah sighed. “Oh, well—it’ll just have to sort itself out.”

    “There’s loads of food,” Timothy pointed out happily to Carol.

    “Yes; I was afraid there’d only be horrid little things on sticks, and nasty hors d’oeuvres, like Aunty Pat has.”

    “Which one’s she?” he asked vaguely, running an experienced eye over the laden buffet.

    “The one that’s divorced—Susan and Allyson’s mother.”

    Timothy grunted. “Look,” he said, “I reckon if we really stuff ourselves now, then we won’t need any tea.”

    “No,” agreed Carol: “good idea.”

    “And then we can make it to the eight-o’clocks in town, easy—and then we won’t need to stop too long to have anything to eat, we can just grab a hamburger and go right on to the late session at the Roxy, and catch The Rocky Horror Show!”

    Anyone over thirty could hardly have viewed this programme without shuddering. Carol, being not quite eighteen, agreed to it happily. They loaded their plates.

    The Zip crisis in the Institute’s new kitchen had been satisfactorily resolved by the efficient John Blewitt, but that didn’t mean that its complement of middle-aged ladies didn’t still have their feathers ruffled. Far from it. They’d been ruffled anyway by Hamish’s utter refusal to countenance the notion of their doing the catering themselves, and Marianne’s support of his position. Noelene, indeed, had gone so far as to suggest that it had actually been Marianne’s idea in the first place, but no-one believed that, Noelene just had her nose out of joint because Marianne had made her do that huge report of John Aitken’s all over again, just because she’d left out a short paragraph from the second page. And then Marianne had said that if Noelene wanted to keep her job she’d have to go on that awful course, and learn all about word-processing, because in these days it wasn’t efficient to type reports that long on a manual machine! So no-one believed a word Noelene said about Marianne, just at the moment.

    After that, unfortunately, insult had been added to injury when Peter had refused to believe that anyone would want tea or coffee at the reception. He’d told them it wasn’t an afternoon tea! Of course people would want a cup of tea, at least: people always did in the afternoon! No-one had actually said that Peter was only a foreigner, but everyone—including Peter—had thought it. Peter had given way: hence the crisis with the Zip. No-one was admitting it, but he was turning out to have been right, there hadn’t been any takers for the tea. This was why their feathers were still exceedingly ruffled.

    “Well,” said Irene, giving herself a bit of a shake, “I’m going out there!”

    Noelene sniffed. “She’s been out there for ages,” she pointed out in an injured voice. Nobody took any notice.

    “Yes, let’s go,” said Cheryl. She was still limping but she was back at work. She wasn’t actually middle-aged, but she’d ranged herself firmly with the clique. “There won’t be any food left, if we don’t.”

    “Yes, there will,” said Pam sourly. “There’s masses of food. I don’t know what Marianne can have been thinking of, to order that much.”

    “I reckon she let them put one over on her.” Noelene had already said this at least fifteen times today, so everyone ignored her.

    Ellen, who did the processing of the paperbacks in the Library, part-time, said: “I hope there’s some of that crayfish stuff left; hang on, Irene, I’ll come with you.” She, Irene and Cheryl went out.

    Pam looked uncertainly at the biggest tea-pot, which they hadn’t needed after all. “We-ell...”

    Noelene said sulkily: “Well, I’m going to have a cup of tea!” She went out in search of it.

    That left Pam, Linda who did the mending in the Library, part-time, Marilyn who did the processing of the hardbacks in the Library, part-time, and Raye, who was new. She helped Clive, who was also new, with the computers and that. The others weren’t too sure about Raye, she was a good sort, of course, you had to admit that...

    Raye gave a hearty chuckle. “Well, I dunno about you two, but I’m not gonna have a cuppa! Me for a stiff gin, dears!” She went out, grinning.

    Pam, Linda and Marilyn looked after her too-smart, bright flame-coloured polyester trouser-suit with its hugely wide shoulders and giant gold buttons, and felt that their suspicions were confirmed.

    Marilyn, who was more outspoken than Linda, said: “Trust her!”

    Linda murmured tentatively: “I wouldn’t mind a glass of punch.”

    “Me, too,” Pam agreed. “Come on.”

    They went out, Linda asking Pam if her Greg was here today and Pam, with a sigh, admitting he wasn’t, he couldn’t usually get away in the afternoons...

    Behind them the Zip came to the boil. It was different from the old Zip, it had to be switched off by hand when it boiled. There was no-one there to switch it off. It went on boiling…

    Bob Overdale said disagreeably: “I dunno why we hadda to come to this do!”

    “You had to come because you’re the Trustee,” Micky reminded him mildly. His eyes searched the crowd; where was she?

    His partner gave a sour grunt. He drained his glass. “And I suppose you had to come because you’re still chasing that young bird!”

    “Who says she’s young?” said Micky defensively.

    “Babs does.”—This was his daughter.—“Saw you at the theatre with ’er last week: said she was young enough to be ya daughter!”

    “Last we—?” Micky gave a crack of laughter. “That was my daughter, you idiot! I took Susan to that damned Alun Whatsit thing.”

    “Oh,” said Bob morosely. “Bad, was it?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Shit. Babs has got her mother all fired up about; she’s dragging me to it next week.”

    Micky gave another crack of laughter.

    Bob grunted disagreeably again. “Think I’ll have another drink.”

    “Don’t expect me to drive you home.”

    Bob ignored him. He began to shoulder his way to the bar.

    Micky looked round for Marianne again. He couldn’t see her... Damnation! Well, perhaps if he started to work his way round the  room...

    “This looks good; have some of this!” urged Fred.

    Listlessly Jo-Beth allowed her brother to give her a huge portion of a chicken thing wrapped in pastry. His own plate was, as usual at such affairs, piled high.

    “Where’s Rod?” he enquired tactlessly.

    “Talking to some students,” replied Jo-Beth in a hard voice.

    “You two had a fight?”

    “No.” She ate a minute piece of the chicken thing. “I can’t stay here, Fred, the senior staff are supposed to circulate.” As far as it was possible to hurry in a kimono, she hurried away.

    Fred remained placidly in his obscure corner at the far end of the buffet, eating.

    Glo Withers ate a savoury discontentedly. There was absolutely nobody... The dishy ones were in couples and the rest were hopeless wets. She supposed gloomily that she could go and talk to Dr Riabouchinsky, he was all right, well, he was more than all right, only bloody Veronica Cohen never let him out of her sight for more than five minutes... And if it was true what everybody said about him, then—then it wasn’t fair! She’d been born too late, Glo decided mournfully—not for the first time since coming within Peter’s orbit. She took another savoury and glared around the room.

    “Hi,” said a wet voice.

    Glo wanted to tell Lenny Kirkpatrick to shove off, but she wasn’t yet in quite a bad enough mood to do so. “Hullo,” she replied gloomily.

    “Quite a crowd, isn’t it?” he said nervously.

    “Yeah.” She crammed the rest of her savoury into her mouth.

    “I can’t see anyone else from our class,” he ventured.

    “No.”

    Lenny eyed the savoury. ”Are those nice?”

    “Yes.” She took the last one.

    “I saw Timothy earlier.”

    Glo grunted.

    “He was with Carol.”

    “He would be.”

    “Um, can I get you a glass of champagne?” he said hoarsely.

    She swallowed a sigh. “Yeah; thanks, Lenny.” Lenny began to struggle towards the bar. Glo watched him apathetically. If he made it—which seemed improbable—it was highly unlikely that he’d ever manage to get served; he was that sort of boy.

    Why was it, she thought with rage, that all the decent men were always taken? Why did she always end up having to talk to wet creeps?

    “I don’t know how Caro does it,” said Julia in envious admiration to Val. “Who is that man?”

    “Something to do with the—the Trust, would he be?” said Val doubtfully. They stared at their boss, who was making animated conversation with Micky Shapiro.

    “Do you think we ought to circulate?” said Julia guiltily.

    Val was her senior at the Nathaniel Cohen Memorial Library and so she felt even guiltier than Julia at not circulating. “Uh...”

    “There’s an awful lot of people here, no-one needs us to—you know!”

    “No; I don’t think we need to,” decided Val.

    The plump Julia beamed. “Good! Let’s go and get some more to eat!”

    Donald Freeman said moodily to Larry: “I told you it’d be ghastly.”

    “Aw, I dunno... Plenty of bird,” his partner murmured.

    “You’ve got a one-track mind!”

    “Yeah; good, isn’t it?” replied Larry, grinning.

    Donald ignored him, and sipped his champagne.

    “Hey!” hissed Larry. “Who’s that?”

    Donald glared at him. His ruddy, square face, as usual glowing with animal health, had lit up; his dark eyes sparkled and his wide mouth had opened slightly. “For God’s sake, Larry! You look like a ruddy starving lion in front of a juicy steak!”

    Larry’s strong, blunt fingers gripped his arm painfully. Donald repressed a cry. “Who—is—she?”

    “Who?” said Donald irritably.

    “Christ, Don!” hissed his friend. “Her! The little Japanese bird!”

    “Oh—her,” said Donald indifferently. “You’ve met her before; she works in the library. And she’s not your type!”

    Larry gave a dirty laugh. “Not half, she isn’t!”

    “No, she isn’t!” said Donald crossly. “And you certainly aren’t hers, I can tell you! For one thing, she’s clever as Hell, and you haven’t got two cents’ worth of brain to rub together!”

    “I’ve got a better degree than you have!” retorted Larry furiously.

    “Yeah, and you haven’t picked up a book since the day you graduated!”

    “Yes, I have,” said Larry sulkily.

    “Only for work. You’re a semi-literate, Larry; she’d laugh at you.”

    “Huh! If you imagine that sort of thing counts with birds!”

    To Larry’s annoyance Donald didn’t flush, or shuffle his feet, or cringe in response to this remark; he merely shrugged.

    “You’re not gonna introduce us to ’er, then?”

    Donald gave a short laugh.

    “All right!” said Larry furiously. “I’ll bloody well introduce myself!”

    “You’re wasting your ti-ime!” chanted Donald warningly.

    “Drop dead, Don!” said Larry angrily.

    He walked off in pursuit of Jo-Beth. Donald looked after him drily. He’d noticed the bloke Jo-Beth had come with.

    The pretty girl at Bob Overdale’s elbow said: “I wouldn’t!”

    Instead of picking up a glass of champagne, as he’d been about to do, Bob looked up with a start. “Why not—what’s wrong with it?”

    Marianne smiled at him. “It’s local stuff: really horrid. Too sweet and too acid at the same time.”

    “Oh,” he said uncertainly.

    “We’ve got some Dom Pérignon squirrelled away, if you’d prefer it.”

    Bob beamed at her. “I’ll say!”

    Marianne went behind the bar and retrieved a bottle from a large container of ice standing on the floor. Bob looked appreciatively at the back view of black silk suit. She had sheer black tights, too: very sexy! He watched with a certain amused respect as she opened the bottle expertly and poured.

    When they were both sipping, she smiled and said: “You’re Micky’s partner, aren’t you?”

    Bob choked. Crikey! No wonder old Micky had been so keen on coming to the bloody do! “Yes!” he gasped. “That’s right!” He downed champagne desperately. “Bob Overdale.”

    “It’s nice to meet you, Bob; I’m Marianne Davies,” said Marianne sedately. “He’s mentioned you; I think you specialize in estates and trusts, is that right?”

    “Yes,” he said weakly.

    “And Micky’s company law, of course; and—is it Charles who does the conveyancing?”

    “That's right. You seem to have us all taped,” said Bob weakly.

    “Micky talks about work quite a lot,” said Marianne. She smiled at him. “Most men do, don’t they?”

    “Yeah; does it bore you to tears?” asked Bob with sudden interest.

    Micky’s very pretty bird smiled her nice smile and said in her gentle voice: “Oh, you get used to it; and it’s often quite interesting.”

    “Uh—yeah.” He gulped champagne and looked sideways at her. “Only not what you’d always prefer to be talking about, eh?”

    Marianne gave a tiny laugh. “Well, sometimes I’d prefer to talk about books, or plays, or—or history; or even politics!”

    “Mm,” agreed Bob, eyeing her with considerable interest. “Talking of politics, what did you think of that speech, earlier?”

    “Wasn’t it incredible?” cried Marianne, lighting up like a Christmas tree. “He must have said it on purpose—no-one could possibly come out with something like that by accident—and it was in direct contradiction to what the Prime Minister said about their fiscal policy two days ago!”

    “Three; yeah, exactly!” He chuckled.

    “Was it three? We’ve been so hectic here... Yes, you’re right; well, anyway, I wouldn’t have missed it for a thousand dollars!”

    “Nor would I; they must be mad, the pair of ’em; I mean, power struggles within the Party are one thing—!”

    “Exactly!” she said eagerly. “But how do they expect the electorate to take them seriously when they can’t even agree on major policy issues?”

    They plunged into an eager dissection of the government’s idiocies; Bob was genuinely interested in politics, but far more than the discussion itself he enjoyed the play of expression on the exquisite little face before him.

    “Look at her! Who’s that she’s got hold of?”

    “I don’t know, Noelene,” replied Pam heavily.

    “It’s one man after another! I don’t believe she’s spoken to a single woman all afternoon!”

    Pam was dying to reply that Marianne had, it was the married ones she was avoiding, but there was no sense in getting Noelene’s back up further. “I saw her talking to Veronica.”

    “Well, there you are!” replied Noelene triumphantly.

    Pam sighed. She most certainly wasn’t in the mood for one of Noelene’s anti-Veronica diatribes; besides, she herself liked Veronica very much.

    “And that suit!”

    “What’s wrong with it?” replied Pam, astonished. “It’s very smart.”

    “Exactly. Far too smart!” retorted Noelene. “She’s only a secretary.”

    The mild-mannered Pam had had enough. “Actually, if you bothered to look in our Prospectus, you’d see that her title is ‘Personal Assistant to the Director’. Of course, she was personal secretary to Jake Carrano—if you can call that ‘only a secretary’!” She walked rapidly away before the purpling Noelene could think of a reply.

    “Hello,” Donald said shyly to the pretty girl with the soft brown curls.

    Allyson Shapiro turned her head. “Hello,” she replied uncertainly.

    “Can I get that for you?”

    Allyson had been trying to reach the ham that was right at the back of the table. She knew perfectly well Mum’d have a fit—as a matter of fact Dad probably would, too: underneath that smoothie act of his he was practically Mediaeval—and as for Grandma and Grandpa! Only she adored ham. She went scarlet—but not only because of the ham: the man who had spoken to her was very good-looking and a lot older than her. “Thanks,” she muttered.

    He reached over with ease.

    “Ta,” she muttered, as he forked her over an enormous juicy slice.

    “Would you like a piece of the pineapple, too? It looks very nice.”

    “Ooh, yes, thanks!”

    The pineapple was right on top of the joint of ham and utterly out of Allyson’s reach. She watched enviously as he got her a bit. “Thanks,” she said with genuine gratitude. “I wish I had long arms,” she added enviously, looking at his.

    Donald now realized that she was very young. He didn’t feel shy any more; he smiled at her, and murmured: “Don’t wish that; I think you’ve got very nice arms.”

    They were rather plump; and, since it was a very warm day for the time of year and Allyson had been forced to remove her jacket, having got so hot she’d thought she was going to explode or something, they were fully exposed by her sleeveless blouse. Allyson went scarlet again. “They’re too fat!” she gasped.

    “No, they’re not,” said Donald in genuine surprise. He looked at them appraisingly and experienced a strong desire to bite them gently, up there where they were plumpest—like he used to do with Caro’s. His ears reddened slightly; he smiled at her again and said: “I can’t stand these skinny figures that are in fashion at the moment; I think they’re utterly grotesque!”

    “Really?” gasped Allyson, goggling at this superbly dressed, ultra-sophisticated Man who was actually talking to her as if—as if— Something inside her trembled a little and she never thought to tell herself that he was a worse smoothie than Dad.

    “Really,” said Donald, smiling again.

    Allyson had spent the past several weeks being the butt of the—not unkind, perhaps, but relentless—needling humour of her workmates, who one and all considered that old Sir Jerry’s granddaughter needed to be put firmly in her place and kept there. “You’re putting me on,” she said, giving him a sulky glare.

    “No, I’m not!” gasped Donald. “Honest!”

    “My cousin calls me Fat Face,” revealed Allyson, watching him warily.

    “Then he’s a rotten little squirt! And a liar!”

    “It’s a she,” said Allyson weakly. “That’s her, over there—with the red hair.”

    Donald looked at Carol. He sniffed slightly. “Skinny, isn’t she?” He grinned at Allyson. “You could call her ‘Skinny Carrots’,” he suggested.

    Allyson gave a snort of laughter. She began to eat her ham. In between mouthfuls she told him the awful story of Carol’s temper and how she’d poured the green paint on Damian’s hair and rubbed it in.

    Donald had as little sense of humour as she. He made sympathetic noises of genuine shock and disapproval. Allyson absorbed this reaction gratefully. She smiled at him.

    Allyson had a lovely smile: it was just a trifle lop-sided, not so much as her father’s, but equally charming. Unlike Micky, she had absolutely no idea of the effect it could have on impressionable members of the opposite sex. Having been put down firmly by her ebullient older sister and her elegantly thin, acidulated mother all of her life, she had in fact, no opinion at all of herself as a person of the female gender. She was therefore quite unaware of the effect the smile had on Donald Freeman—who was, of course, entirely open to impression by short, plumpish, brown-haired, cuddly persons of that gender.

    “Are you a student here?” he asked.

    Allyson went red again. “No,” she growled, “I’m with the lot from CohenCorp.” Nothing on God’s earth would have induced her to reveal that she was Sir Jerry’s granddaughter—she’d had enough of that at work, ta.

    Donald gave a little laugh. “Oh, old Sir Jerry’s lot! He’s a bit of an old bear, isn’t he? More bark than bite, though!”

    “Yes,” agreed Allyson weakly.

    “I don’t suppose you see much of him, though, in your job?”

    Fortunately she could answer this truthfully. “No; I’m only a cadet.” She hesitated. “That’s why I’m here, really; I’m sort of doing the rounds of all the Group’s different operations.”

    “I see. They didn’t put the building up, though, did they? Carrano Development put in the successful tender for that.”

    “Yes; but one of our subsidiaries did the air conditioning.”

    “Oh, yes, of course: Air-Con-Zed; they’re a subsidiary of C-E’s, aren’t they?”

    “Yes,” said Allyson, in some astonishment. “You seem to know a lot about it; do you work for Carrano Development?”

    Donald wasn’t, of course, nearly as sophisticated as Allyson imagined, but he did have the nous to realize that if he said he was the architect she’d probably run a mile. And he didn’t in the least want that; he knew she was too young for him, really, only... “No; I—I’ve been involved on the architectural side.”

    “I see!” She smiled again. “Gr—” She coughed loudly, and swallowed. “Sir Jerry’s very pleased with your firm’s design; he tells everybody about it!”

    “I’m glad,” muttered Donald, dazzled by the smile. His knees actually felt weak.

    Allyson opened her mouth to ask him what project he was working on now, gasped, and clutched his arm.

    “Quick! Stand in front of me!” she hissed, dodging behind him.

    Donald stood obediently, but asked numbly: “Why? Who is it?”

    Mouth full of ham, Allyson mumbled desperately: “’Shmy Dad! Don’ let—shee me!”

    “Aren’t you supposed to be here?”

    “No—sh’not ’at: ham!” She shovelled the remains in hastily.

    “Ham?” he asked blankly.

    If Micky had really been looking at them he would probably have seen her, for short, plumpish little Allyson stuck out on either side of tallish, slim Donald; only fortunately he’d just spotted Marianne and had his eyes riveted on her.

    Allyson swallowed, and peered round Donald. “Ooh, he’s going away, thank goodness!” She heaved a gusty sigh of relief.

    Donald turned round and said: “What about the ham?”

    Allyson went puce. “We’re Jewish; I’m not supposed to eat it,” she muttered.

    Donald swallowed. He bit his lip.

    “Only I love it!” she said, looking up at him defiantly.

    This was too much even for Donald. He laughed until his sides hurt.

    “Yeah,” muttered Allyson gloomily: “you can laugh: only you oughta catch my family doing their nuts—’s not funny then!”

    Donald stopped laughing. “No,” he agreed nicely. “I don’t suppose it is.”

    “Is your family like that, too?”

    He went very red, but met her eyes bravely. “No; but my wife—my ex-wife, I should say, we’re getting a divorce—well, she was a fair hand at scenes.”

    For once virtue had its reward: Allyson was terribly impressed by his having been married; it reinforced her impression of him as experienced and sophisticated. “Oh,” she breathed, looking up at him, hazel eyes wide.

    Donald’s slender nostrils dilated. His own eyes widened; he stared back into her eyes, blood racing. “Your eyes have got little green flecks in them,” he discovered.

    Allyson felt extremely peculiar, it was much worse than watching Bruce Willis in Moonlighting on TV, or—or like that... “Yours are exactly the colour of some sherry Dad’s got!” she squeaked.

    “Amontillado?” he suggested.

    “Yes! How did you know?”

    Donald smiled slightly. “I’ve been told that before,” he murmured.

    Allyson nearly passed out when he said that, it was just so sexy! She wished desperately that she was older, and more sophisticated—she was sure she sounded like a stupid kid to him, help, what could she say next? Her face burned.

    “What’s your name?” Donald asked hoarsely.

    “Allyson Shapiro; what’s yours?”

    “Donald Freeman.”

    Allyson knew that the Institute’s architects were Freeman, McGrath but she naturally assumed that Donald was a son of the partner. –Sir Jerry’s reference to his architect as “young Freeman” had made no impression on her; he’d been known to refer to Uncle Peter as “young Peter”. “Do they call you Don?” she asked uncertainly.

    “Only idiots do,” he replied tersely.

    “Good; Donald’s a nice name.”

    “So is Allyson.”

    Allyson shyly revealed its spelling.

    “That’s very pretty,” he said.

    Donald immediately became a hero in Allyson’s eyes. She smiled up at him worshipfully.

    “Would you like a glass of champagne?” he said huskily.

    “Yes, please,” replied Allyson, even more huskily.

    Donald had no intention of letting her out of his sight. “Come on; it’s over here.” He took her hand and led her off towards the bar.

    John Blewitt returned from his second foray to the Institute’s new kitchen grinning. “Thought so!” he announced triumphantly.

    “What?” asked Missy and Hannah.

    “They’d left the ruddy Zip on again, wouldja believe it!”

    “Was it okay?” asked Missy in horror.

    “Well, the kitchen was full of steam—like a sauna or something, never seen anything like it in me life! But the thing hadn’t quite boiled dry, they musta filled it right up.”

    “You’ll have to do something about it, honey!” declared Hannah strongly.

    John grinned. “I have! –That my glass? Ta.” He grabbed his glass back off her, and drank champagne thirstily.

    “What?” asked Missy interestedly.

    John grinned again. “Disconnected the wiring; now they can’t burn it out if they want to!”

    “What’s this muck?” said Darryl suspiciously.

    “Crayfish pâté—try it, it’s great!” urged Rod.

    “Yes; go on, Darryl,” agreed John.

    Darryl looked suspiciously at his plate. “You haven’t got any.”

    “I’ve eaten mine,” said John, grinning.

    “Oh.” She looked at the pale peach-coloured slice Rod had dumped on her plate, and gulped. “To tell you the truth,” she said, not looking at either of them, “I don’t like crayfish that much.”

    Rod gave a snort of laughter.

    “What’s so funny?” she growled.

    “Thought it was one of your native foods!” he gasped.

    “Hah, hah,” growled Darryl, glaring.

    “Cut it out, Rod,” said John placidly. “Here—I’ll have it, Darryl.” He transferred the huge slice of delicious crayfish pâté to his own plate. “You have this,” he said generously, giving her a cooling avocado savoury.

    “Green muck,” she discovered.

    “Av’cado,” said John through the pâté.

    “Oh.” She ate it.

    Belinda Cohen plucked imperatively at Sir Jerry’s sleeve. “Jerry! Isn’t that your architect, over there with Allyson?”

    “Eh? Young Freeman? Yes, s’pose it is,” he grunted.

    “Jerry! He’s giving her champagne!”

    “So what? Gave ’er a glass of decent burgundy meself the other night. Hasn’t got a bad palate, either,” he acknowledged.

    Belinda said weakly: “She’s too young.”

    “Rubbish! Old enough to go into a pub if she wanted to.”

    “Well, she’s far too young for him, anyway!” she retorted.

    Shuffling his feet and reddening in annoyance, Sir Jerry replied grumpily: “Rubbish! Only a youngster ’imself!”

    “And he’s married!”

    “No, he isn’t, see, he’s getting a divorce!” he countered triumphantly.

    “Well, that makes it worse!” retorted Belinda with spirit. “A divorced man who must be more than ten years older than her?”

    “Look, he’s only getting her a drink, Belinda, he’s not ruddy well proposing to her!”

    “Look at the expression on her face!” replied Belinda fiercely.

    Sir Jerry peered across the room. “So what?” he said grumpily.

    “The child looks—looks... besotted!”

    “Besotted my bum!” he replied angrily. “What’s got into you, Belinda? You’ve been fussing over that kid like a hen with one chick ever since she came into the firm!”

    “Because you’ve been treating her like a boy!” replied Belinda aggressively.

    “Eh? Nonsense!” He gave an unconvincing laugh.

    “You have, Jerry, you know you have: you never let Veronica have red wine when she was living at home!”

    “Rubbish,” he muttered unconvincingly.

    “It isn’t rubbish; you haven’t been taking proper care of her at all, Jerry!”

    Sir Jerry glared at her resentfully.

    Belinda took a deep breath. “Well, I don’t care; I’m going to break it up; a young boy her own age is one thing; but—

    Sir Jerry’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm. “No, ya don’t!”

    “Jerry!” she gasped.

    “Now don’t you Jerry me; just you calm down and listen a minute: young Donald Freeman’s a perfectly decent young chap, and he’s had a rotten run of luck with that dead loss of a wife of his. And as for Allyson, she’s got too much sense to be interested in young fellers her own age, see? She doesn’t like all this disco crap and so on they go in for. And if she’s gonna get interested in young Donald, all I can say is, it’s a damn good thing! So just give ’em a chance to get on with it!” He released her, but went on glaring at her.

    “Jerry, are you—are you sure he’s nice?” she said weakly.

    “’Course I am! Anyway, you’ve met him, haven’tcha? Said ’e was nice yourself; said we oughta have ’im round again!”

    “I know, but—”

    “Give ’em a chance!” he repeated.

    “He isn’t even Jewish,” she said weakly.

    “How’d ya know? You looked?” he retorted spiritedly.

    “Jerry Cohen!” she gasped, turning puce.

    “Anyway!” he said triumphantly.

    “Anyway what?” said Belinda suspiciously.

    Sir Jerry sniffed, preparatory to firing his big gun. “Might be, mightn’t ’e? ’S name’s Freeman, isn’t it?”

    “There you are!” said Micky, surfacing at Marianne’s elbow. He glared at his partner.

    “Hullo, Micky,” replied Marianne composedly. “I hope you’re getting enough to eat?”

    “Yes,” said Micky baldly. “I didn’t know you two had met,” he said pointedly to Bob.

    Bob was perfectly well aware of what Micky was feeling; he looked at him sardonically. “Only just,” he said calmly. “Marianne’s been telling me what she thinks of the government’s financial policies.” He looked at Marianne, twinkling. “I use the plural advisedly,” he added.

    Marianne laughed.

    Micky glared at the pair of them. “I didn’t know you thought anything of the government’s financial policies,” he said sulkily.

    Bob chuckled. “She doesn’t, much!”

    Marianne laughed again.

    “Have some champagne.” said Bob kindly.

    Numbly Micky let him fill his glass. He gulped it down.

    “That’s no way to treat a decent wine,” said Marianne. Her lips twitched.

    “Rats; it’s only some local plonk,” growled Micky.

    Bob held up the bottle and raised his eyebrows nastily. Micky went very red.

    Mirry came in breathlessly and looked round for Hamish. She was terribly late: the history tutorial on the city campus had dragged on and on, and she’d had to go home and change. She was awfully glad she had; everyone seemed to be dressed up to the nines. Marianne always looked gorgeous, of course, but that black suit! Mirry wondered if she could wear black; no, perhaps she was a bit sallow for it... She smoothed her cheongsam nervously over her hips. Was it okay for a do like this? Hamish had said it was, only he didn’t know a thing about clothes...

    There was Polly—why hadn’t Hamish said she’d be here? She was wearing a dark green silk suit, she looked fabulous. Should she go and talk to her? She looked doubtfully at the men Polly was with. She didn’t know either of them, and they were a lot older than her; how could Polly manage to talk to them like that? Well, of course Hamish had said she’d always been a bit too fond of men, and if he’d been in Jake’s shoes— Her ears reddened at this disloyal thought, and she looked away. There was Jo-Beth: ooh, didn’t she look gorgeous! Mirry waved and smiled, and Jo-Beth waved and smiled back, but as she was with Rod and a man Mirry didn’t know, she thought maybe she wouldn’t go over to them.

    That must be Veronica, over there, in the pale yellow—yes, and there was Peter. Oh, dear, that was a suit, oh, heck, were all the ladies wearing suits? Well, apart from Jo-Beth, you couldn’t count her. Chewing her lower lip a bit, Mirry tried to find a lady who wasn’t in a suit. There was Judith, she’d met her with Caro that time, and that girl she was with must be the other new junior lecturer, Hamish had said she had red hair. Both Judith Woods and Hilary McLeod were in suits. Mirry began to feel extremely depressed. Where was Hamish? You’d think she’d be able to spot him, even in this lot, he was tall enough—only she was so short, it was awfully hard to see anything. She tiptoed, and peered. There was Pam, in bright pink linen-look—blast! It was a suit! And that was one of the ladies from the library with her, and she had on a pale turquoise trouser suit! Mirry began to feel slightly hysterical.

    “Hey, Mirry,” said a shy American voice.

    “Hullo, Fred!” replied Mirry in relief, beaming at him. “What a crowd, eh?”

    “Yeah,” agreed Fred morosely.

    “I just saw Jo-Beth; is Missy here?”

    Fred looked round vaguely, blinking a little. “Yes, she’s here somewheres.”

    “Is there any food left? –I only just got here.”

    Fred’s eye brightened. “Yeah, sure! Come on, I’ll show you.” He seized her elbow and began to guide her towards the buffet.

    Jo-Beth felt slightly intoxicated. It couldn’t be the champagne, because she’d only had two glasses, and they hadn’t been big ones—besides, it was mostly bubbles, wasn’t it? No, she admitted guiltily to herself, it was the sensation of having two attractive men competing over her! She had been, frankly, a bit annoyed to have Rod desert her practically the minute they got to the reception, just because she’d said she’d have to circulate a bit and talk to some of the guests—after all, she was the Deputy Librarian, it was her duty. Not that she’d wanted in the least to gossip with the students, which was what he seemed to have spent most of the time doing—gee, sometimes you wouldn’t think he was a lecturer at all, he behaved just like— And then he’d ended up talking to John and Darryl—well, they were nice, of course, but that thing Darryl was wearing was a bit— Gee, couldn’t she have made an effort just for once, for the Institute’s Opening?

    But when this architect guy had started chatting her up Rod had suddenly woken up, and come dashing over! She giggled explosively at Larry’s weak joke, and looked at him from under her lashes in the way that the unlamented Hank Cunninghame had always said drove him crazy. It appeared to drive Larry crazy, too—and Rod was looking real jealous! Well, if you asked her, that wouldn’t do Doctor Roderick Jablonski the least harm in the world: maybe it’d help him to make up his mind whether he wanted her or not!

    Rod experienced a very primitive desire indeed; namely, to pound Larry Thing into a bloody pulp, and then drag Jo-Beth off to his cave and— Why was she encouraging the bastard like that? Jesus, couldn’t she see what type he was? Jesus!

    Sir Jerry had buttonholed Jake, who was merely waiting it out until he could scoop up Polly and go home. There was no reason at all why they should have come: he’d only got the invite as a courtesy, because Carrano Development had put up the building; but of course she’d said they had to, it was bloody Hamish’s great day, blah, blah. Well, thank God him and Mirry were back together, that was all, maybe they’d be seeing a bit less of the bugger round their place, now!

    “Yeah, good,” he agreed, at the end of Sir Jerry’s enthusiastic encomium on the architect’s idea of having the staffroom and the conference room next to each other, separated by a wall of folding doors that could, at need, be folded right back to throw the rooms into one, as they were at the moment.

    Hamish had joined them. “Yes, it was a good idea,” he agreed, “but it wasn’t Freeman’s idea at all, actually.” Sir Jerry looked crossly at him.

    “Whose was it, then?” asked Jake. “Yours?”

    Hamish laughed suddenly. “I thought you knew me better, Jake! No, it was Marianne’s, of course!”

    “Who’s she?” asked Sir Jerry.

    “My Personal Assistant.”

    “Used to work for me—wish to God I’d never let her go,” Jake grunted.

    “That right? Bright girl, eh?” he said kindly.

    “Very bright,” Hamish agreed. “As a matter of fact, I’d like you to meet her, Sir Jerry; that’s her, over there, with one of the Trustees.”

    “Hey,” said Darryl, coming up to Jo-Beth and breaking in rudely on her flirtation with Larry McGrath, “you doing anything this evening? Me and John thought we might watch University Challenge over in Rutherford Hall, they’ve videoed the whole series: wanna come?”

    “Actually, some friends of mine are having a party, later; we thought we might go on to that,” said Rod quickly.

    “Yes,” agreed Jo-Beth. “Thanks, Darryl, but I guess some other time, huh?”

    “Yeah, sure,” said Darryl amiably.

    Larry looked speculatively at Darryl. “I like University Challenge,” he murmured.

    “You wanna come? Hang on, there’s Glo, she said she might— GLO!” She grabbed Glo Withers by the arm, and hauled her over to the group. “You coming over to watch University Challenge?” she said. “This joker thinks he might come, and you could prob’ly get a lift home with him; I’ve got two sacks of spuds in my back seat, ya see.”

    Glo looked at Larry, and Larry looked at Glo.

    “Yes, I’ll come,” they said in chorus.

    “Look over there,” said Peter slowly. “Is not that a strange mixture of personalities?”

    Veronica peered at the large group near the buffet. “Students, mainly, isn’t it?”

    Peter went rather red. “Veronica,” he said in a strangled voice, “do you not have your contact lenses in?”

    “Nope. Long experience has taught me,” said his wife, imitating his own most pompous tones, “that these little does are relatively more bearable without them!” She gave a huge snort of laughter.

    “You are incredible,” he said weakly.

    Veronica looked very pleased. “I’ve got my glasses in my handbag, though.”

    “Well, put them on,” he urged.

    “Where is my handbag?” She looked round vaguely.

    “It’s under Peter’s arm!” said Polly’s voice loudly. She went into a paroxysm of giggles.

    Peter tried not to glare at her. He produced the handbag and removed the glasses from it.

    “What’s this mixture you were going on about, anyway?” asked Polly with interest.

    “Over there,” said Peter, reddening. “Boy the buffet: see, there is Darryl and John—”

     Polly looked at the group dubiously. “Ye-es...”

    “That very smart, dark young man who is standing between Darryl and Glo Withers—the buxom girl, Polly, she is one of our students—he is the architect’s partner, the one who does all the interior decoration. What is he doing h’with them, he is not a scruffy student, he is a man-about-town!” He brought this last phrase out very proudly, and Veronica and Polly both choked.

    “Yes,” said Polly kindly, seeing that Peter’s wife wasn’t going to: “I suppose he is: that’s a very nice suit.”

    “Da,” agreed Peter gratefully; “and see, on the other side of the so scruffy Darryl we have the beautiful blond young Rod and the neat and pretty Jo-Beth!”

    “Well, her and John do live next-door to each other,” Veronica reminded him.

    “Da... But to see them socialoize together... It’s just so bizarre!”

    “Yes,” agreed Polly, “I see what you mean, Peter. I must say that overall thing Darryl’s got on is a bit off, for a do like this; her mother’d have a fit if she could see it.” Peter looked at her gratefully but unfortunately she then rather spoiled things by adding: “But I don’t know about Rod; I mean, he’s only just stopped being a scruffy student himself, hasn’t he? And he’s known Darryl for ages, he used to go round with her cousin Marama, you know.”

    Veronica took her glasses off. “Crikey, I’m really blind without these things,” she reported.

    “You are wrong about Rod, Polly,” said Peter firmly, getting his second wind. “Look at his clothes; and I know for a fact that Darryl has offered him a room in her terrible old house, and he has refused.”

    “Oh,” said Polly, a trifle disconcerted. “Well, I’m glad to know he’s growing up at last. As a matter of fact,” she remembered, “Jake did say that he thought Rod felt a bit different about Jo-Beth from his other girlfriends.”

    “Ah-hah!” he cried. “We think so, too! But besoides, we think that perhaps maybe John Aitken, he fancies her, too.”

    “Oh,” said Polly uncertainly, eyeing Veronica out the corner of her eye.

    “Da,” continued Peter, “only now we wonder if perhaps maybe John fancies Darryl, instead. He is very often with her.”

    Veronica looked pleadingly at Polly.

    “I see!” she said brightly. “We-ell, I don’t know, Peter... He might; but, well, she’s had lots of girlfriends, hasn’t she?” At this point Veronica let out her breath very slowly. Fortunately Peter was looking at John and Darryl and didn’t spot her. Polly hoped fervently she wasn’t going to laugh. “They do seem very friendly, don’t they?” she said dubiously.

    “Exactly!” said Peter happily.

    Polly began to try to convince Peter there was nothing in it; he responded eagerly. Veronica looked at her friend gratefully.

    “Well,” said Polly on an uncertain note, when Peter seemed to have run down, “you know John better than me, you could be right: maybe something will develop between him and Darryl.”—She avoided Veronica’s eye entirely.—“But anyway, I’m sure Rod’s keen on Jo-Beth: she’s exquisite, Peter! He obviously can’t take his eyes off her: did you see him earlier, when that other man was chatting her up? He looked like a—a dog with a bone!”

    “Loike a dog whose bone is threatened boy another dog,” he corrected. “Yes, this is very true, Polly; only she did not look...” He hesitated.

    “She looked like a girl who’s being chatted up by two blokes at once, and thoroughly enjoying it!” said Veronica loudly, grinning broadly.

    “Ooh!” cried Polly. “That reminds me! Did you see Marianne earlier with those two men?”

    “Yeah, one of ’em was Micky, I toleja about him,” said Veronica. “He’s the one with ’is nose out of joint!”

    “Which one is he?” She peered.

    Veronica peered, too. “Next to Hamish: the short one.”

    “He is lop-sided!” cried Polly. “You were quite right!” She laughed delightedly.

    Veronica grinned, but admitted: “It wasn’t me that said that, it was Nat—you know, Helen’s husband. But it’s good, eh?”

    Peter took her arm. He squeezed it against him. “Spot-on,” he agreed. “So you tell Polly about Micky and Marianne?”

    “Yes,” said Polly, going very red and lowering her voice: “And about Marianne and you-know-who; Peter, isn’t that awful?”

    “Disgusting. I mean, one should not be shocked, he is not—not in his dotage, as Veronica points out to me, but all the same, when first I h’year of it, Polly, I feel quoite sick!”

    “So did I!” she agreed fervently.

    “Uh—yeah,” said Veronica uneasily. “Look: isn’t Jake wig-wagging at you, Polly?”

    “Oops! Yes, I’d better go. See you later!” She hurried off.

    “Can we go?” said Veronica hopefully.

    “Eugh… it’s too soon: the official guests are still here,” he said regretfully.

    “Hang on,” said Darryl.

    John hung on.

    “Hey, Marianne,” she said, going over to Marianne and breaking in rudely on her conversation with Hamish, Sir Jerry, and Micky and his partner: “I’ve got that book for you.”

    “Thanks, Darryl,” said Marianne, smiling at her.

    Darryl was now wearing on her back the khaki army-surplus satchel that had stood at her feet during the reception. “Hang on,” she said, hauling it off and digging in it. “Here!”

    Marianne accepted the weighty tome being offered her with renewed thanks.

    “That’s okay; but listen: I got it on interloan, on my graduate card, see? It’s gotta go back to—uh—I think they said it was the National Library—anyway, it’s gotta go back in a couplea weeks, ya won’t let it get overdue, will ya?”

    Marianne assured her she wouldn’t; Darryl grinned, said: “See ya next Tuesday at Women’s Group, if not before!”—winked, and departed.

    “What on earth’s this book she’s forced on you?” said Micky lightly.

    “She didn’t force it on me, I’ve been wanting to read it for ages.”

    Micky took the book. Naturally everyone looked expectantly at him. “Why on earth do you want to read this?” he said in a strangled voice.

    Hamish, of course, had little curiosity about his fellow creatures; but books were a different matter. “What is it?” He peered over Micky’s shoulder.

    Micky said faintly: “It’s a compilation of official reports about—as far as I can see—public works in Puriri County in the 1880s!”

    Hamish took it off him. He looked at it with interest. “The University Library should have these,” he said to Marianne.

    “Yes, they have; so has the Public Library in town; but they won’t lend their copies.”

    “I see,” said Hamish, apparently satisfied. He gave the volume back to her.

    Micky was very red. “Why do you want to read it?” he said to Marianne.

    She flushed, and shot a glance at Hamish. “Well,” she said faintly, “I got interested in the history of the county when some of our staff from overseas asked me to look out some information for them; and—and then someone mentioned that the background to the—the way the university acquired the land up here at Puriri was interesting, so I started reading that up; and then I—well, I just found myself digging back further and further.”

    Micky goggled at her, speechless.

    Sir Jerry smiled kindly at the pretty slip of a dark girl and said jovially: “S’pose you’re going to be telling us next the university’s got no proper title to the land!”

    Marianne looked nervously at Hamish.

    “Go on,” he said, grinning. “Tell them.”

    “Well, it’s not that, Sir Jerry,” said Marianne, going rather pink: “it’s—it’s sort of the other way round. You see, the early records seem to indicate that, um, that the Crown reacquired all this land from a local farmer in the 1890s, only then they didn’t use it; and the County records were mostly destroyed in a fire; and...” She looked at Hamish.

    He laughed. “What Marianne seems to have discovered,” he said, “is that the Crown’s bought its own land!”

    “What?” cried Micky.

    Sir Jerry laughed heartily. “Wouldn’t surprise me at all! When was Puriri Campus built—back in the Sixties, wasn’t it, for the baby-boomers? Yeah, that lot woulda been capable of it, all right!” He laughed heartily again. “Bit of a historian, aren’t you?” he said to Marianne.

    “Not really; I mean, I do enjoy the historical side of it—the research, I mean,” she said, glancing shyly at Hamish, and flushing. “Only what really interests me is the intricacies of local government.”

    Hamish put his hand kindly on her shoulder. “She’s wasted working for me,” he said to Sir Jerry. “Not that I know how the Hell we’d manage without her, mind you. But—well, I was thinking of that scholarship you mentioned, Sir Jerry, for a person wanting to take up university studies—e-er—later than the normal age.”

    Marianne turned scarlet.

    Sir Jerry waggled his eyebrows at her. “Fancy doing a bit of study, do ya?” he said.

    “I—well—I was thinking of it!” she gasped.

    Bob Overdale had merely been a sardonic bystander during the whole of this interchange. Now he said cheerfully: “Good! Mustn’t waste brains like yours in an office job!” He looked sideways at his partner’s face. Micky had gone very pale—in fact he looked as if he might pass out. Bob couldn’t work up even a flicker of sympathy for him; he’d thought for years it was time someone took Shapiro down a peg—no, several pegs.

    “Well, look, Macdonald, we’ll have a chat about that scholarship, eh?” Sir Jerry said. “You ring me tomorrow and make an appointment, eh?” Rubbing his hands and declaring that there was no point in letting the grass grow under their feet, he then took a hearty farewell of them all, and ambled off in search of his relatives.

    The crowds had really thinned at last and most of the official guests had gone. Veronica was about to join her parents, but Peter held her back.

    “What?”

    “Just wait a little, moy precious one; I wish to—to look at us all...” His arm came round the waist of her elegant pale yellow suit, and held her fast.

    “Mum and Dad are waiting for us over by the door,” she pointed out mildly.

    “Da, I see; there is no hurry, they are talking to Polly and Jake.”

    Veronica was obediently still. Her eyes wandered vaguely over the crowd. She couldn’t see much, because she’d taken her glasses off again. Suddenly she stiffened. “Peter! Isn’t that her?”

    “Who?” he said blankly.

    “Over there! With Hamish!” hissed Veronica. “Isn’t that Mirry?”

    “Oh, yes, so it is! Is that not splendid?” He beamed.

    “Mm, good,” agreed Veronica. She leaned on him a bit.

    Peter looked approvingly at Mirry and Hamish. She was looking up at him, saying something animatedly. He was looking down at her and smiling. As Peter watched, he said something to her and put his arm round her shoulders. Peter saw Mirry go pink; but she went on looking up into Hamish’s face, and in response to his gesture put her own arm round his waist. The tall, slim, red-haired figure and the little, slim, dark-haired one swayed gently together.

    “Good,” he murmured.

    “Mm,” agreed his wife vaguely.

    Peter’s curly mouth twitched. His eyes wandered round the big room...

    Over by a big potted Monstera slim little Val and plump little Julia from the library were drinking champagne—Julia was holding a bottle—and giggling, both rather red in the face. Not far away Fred Nakamura and one of the boys from the M.A. class were deep in earnest converse. They both held plates of food and glasses of a pinkish substance which Peter had not nerved himself to try, but which the local wholesalers had assured him was a delicious non-alcoholic punch. Where—ah, there, on the other side of the room was pretty little Missy in her kimono, with her mother and nice John, the janitor—now, who would ever have thought of that one! And here came Jo-Beth in her kimono, she should be encouraged to wear it more often, she looked so-o sweet; and Rod was with her, they seemed to be saying goodbye—yes, there they went, arm-in-arm, Rod looking very protective: good!

    Which reminded him... He looked round, peering a bit. Ah! John and Darryl were still together. They’d been waylaid near the buffet by Marianne. What on earth...? As Peter watched, Marianne spoke earnestly to one of the caterers. He fumbled under the table, and produced some large plastic containers which certainly from this distance looked remarkably like empty ice cream cartons. Marianne took one and, handing the rest to Darryl, began to fill it with food. Darryl handed a plastic carton to John and copied Marianne with every appearance of enthusiasm. John, looking a trifle stunned, copied them slowly.

    Peter chuckled. “Put your glasses on again, moy dear, and you will see whoy Marianne orders such goigantic quantities of food,” he said to Veronica.

    Veronica fumbled her glasses onto her nose. She stared at Marianne, who, with a very sulky-looking Micky Shapiro trailing in her wake, was now trotting from clump to clump of the remaining students. The students streamed eagerly towards the buffet, where the caterers provided them with large plastic ice cream containers...

    “I getcha! She’s letting ’em take it home with ’em!”

    “Da, da—look, now she speaks to little Val and Julia!”

    The two young librarians joined the crowd at the buffet.

    “Pity Noelene and those other moos have pushed off, they’re missing out,” said Veronica, without any evidence of pity at all in her voice.

    “Da—oh, but there is Irene: she does not miss out.”

    “Oh, good: she’s all right.”

    Peter thought so, too; he gave her waist a little squeeze.

    “There’s Allyson,” she discovered. “Dad said he’d bring her; Mum tried to tell him giving her special treatment’ll only put people’s backs up at the office, but ya know what he is.”

    “Mm,” he murmured vaguely, looking with great interest at Allyson Shapiro and Donald Freeman, heads together on a couch, empty plates and glasses at their feet.

    “Who’s that bloke she’s with?”

    “Do you not recognoize him, moy dear? It’s Donald Freeman, the architect.”

    “Aw, yeah, the one that was having it off with Caro.” Veronica stared. “You know what?” she discovered. “They’re kinda the same type, don’tcha reckon? Caro and Allyson, I mean.”

    Naturally this had already occurred to Peter, but he was very glad that Veronica had bothered to notice it. He squeezed her waist hard and said: “So they are; well, perhaps maybe this is a solution for poor lonely Donald.”

    “Yeah; listen, do ya reckon he’d like to come back home with us? I mean, Allyson came with Mum and Dad, didn’t she? So—”

    Peter was quite sure that Donald would greatly prefer to have Allyson to himself for the evening, but as he couldn’t see Belinda Cohen letting him carry off her eighteen-year-old granddaughter from under her nose he replied: “What an excellent notion, Veronica! I invite him in a minute, da?”

    “Mm. Who else can we see? This is fun,” she said.

    “Da... I am just thinking...”

    Veronica ignored this. She pointed out several people he’d spotted already.

    Peter was thinking of all the things that had happened in the last three years—of which by the far the least was his own extraordinarily happy marriage. He was quite aware that most of their acquaintances thought of it rather as an extraordinary marriage but this did not perturb him. He looked again at Hamish and Mirry, now laughing and chatting with Veronica’s parents and the Carranos; at Caro and Charlie, just disappearing out the door, hand-in-hand, and back at little Allyson and Donald Freeman on their couch...

    “Where is Carol?” he said.

    “Eh? Oh, her and Timothy pushed off ages ago, don’tcha remember?”

    “Ah, ouais, t’as raison, ma chère Véronique...” His eyes wandered round the room again.

    “She’s all right,” said Veronica.

    He jumped. “Who, moy darlink?”

    “Carol, of course.”

    “Yes, I think so, too...” He looked round the room again. Micky had sequestered Marianne in a corner behind a small table. He appeared to be speaking earnestly; his face was flushed and he was waving his hands about rather a lot. Marianne was listening with the expression of polite interest that, as Peter knew by this time, meant she wasn’t interested at all. He frowned a little. That was not entirely promising, though it was true that one must give them time... How could he manage to drop a hint in Micky’s ear, when he didn’t really know him at all well? He began to work out ways and means...

    Veronica had lost interest in their co-workers. She looked contentedly at Peter. By stepping back just a little—she stepped back just a little—she could see his bald spot easily, with these high heels on. That sapphire choker thing that Dad had given her yonks ago’d be just right with this outfit. Be a bit too much for work, though, Peter’d say it was unsuitable, or something. Her gaze wandered back to her husband. Thank God the Carol thing hadn’t ended in disaster; thank God he seemed back to normal; and it had been a great idea to ask him to do that editing, he was really chuffed; even apart from the Carol thing working out like that she reckoned he was back on an even keel again. Of course, the Marianne thing... No: ask her, he’d got over the shock about old Maurie: the Micky business looked like keeping him all bright and interested for at least the next few months! She sighed happily, and stepped forward again so that she could see his profile.

    “Anyway,” she said, harking back to his last remark but several, “what were ya thinking about?”

    Peter jumped. “Comment?”

    “Ya said ya were thinking; what were ya thinking about?” repeated Veronica loudly and patiently.

    Peter’s eyes came into focus on her big blue ones. Her handsome face was a little flushed; her wide mouth was a little parted. Gently he reached to stroke a stray wisp of her short blond hair back from her cheek. Veronica pinkened; as it always did when she did that, his heart quickened a little.

    “I am thinkink of how much has happened over the last few years, moy darlink; of—of how much things have changed; of how we have all changed!”

    Veronica looked thoughtfully round the room at the various members of the Institute and their guests. She grinned. “Aw, I dunno.” She took her glasses off and smiled down into his eyes.

    “Pretty much what ya might’ve expected, if you ask me!” she concluded.