4.Little Victim (7 page)

10

The Garden Party

‘Terrorism and cricket, that’s right.’

‘I said
tourism
– not terrorism.’ Major Payne raised his voice. Mrs Depleche, he suspected, was a bit deaf. ‘
Tourism
and cricket.’

‘So you did, Hugh. I am being naughty,’ Mrs Depleche confessed with a cackle. ‘One shouldn’t say such things, I know. The locals might kick me out or have me beheaded or something. I quite agree with you. Their only salvation. Yes.
Yes.
Poor benighted country. Lovely house and all that, but things aren’t much different from when I was here last all those years ago, really. Still, they can’t
all
be waiters and cricketers, can they? Or can they? I suppose some of them could be rent boys – don’t you think? We seem to have got the finest specimens here.’ She meant the waiters.

‘Perhaps some of them are – in their off-hours,’ Major Payne said.

The waiters were hurrying about on the sun-drenched terrace, handing round drinks. They all sported toast-golden tans and wore red boots with upturned toes, black baggy trousers and green and highly ornate tunics, bearing name tags. They had the grace of dancers. Ganymede himself couldn’t foot it more featly, Payne thought. They tended to overdo the prancing a bit, though. Judging by their names – Manolo, Marcello, Faustino, Felicio and so on – they were all of Portuguese extraction.

‘
Love is the sweetest thing
,’ Mrs Depleche hummed. ‘You don’t fancy any of them?’

‘No. I know it’s extremely boring of me, but one either does,’ Major Payne said, ‘or one doesn’t.’

‘How interesting . . .’

‘There’s more to life than sex, Charlotte.’

‘
Is
there?’

Mrs Depleche was tall, with a ramrod back, and she was dressed in a long dress of pale blue silk, with two strings of pearls at her throat and some more wound round her left wrist in a chunky tangle. In addition she wore a sola topi , whose brim almost touched the bridge of her beaky nose. She had a pair of diamond-encrusted opera glasses hanging round her neck. Major Payne saw her raise the glasses to her eyes and subject the waiters to a hawk-like scrutiny.

He looked round. Coconut Grove, frequently described as a ‘jewel of a house’, was built on a cliff overlooking the ocean, with terraced gardens hanging as in a theatre set. There were baskets of red roses everywhere, their heavy scent wafting through the heat-laden air. Heart-shaped balloons in all the colours of the rainbow and streamers fashioned as Cupid’s darts fluttered above their heads in the light breeze.

The song that was being transmitted through the loudspeakers was ‘Love is the Sweetest Thing’. Earlier on they had been treated to ‘Les Yeux d’Amour’, which of course was the French version of ‘The Look of Love’
.
(Major Payne and Mrs Depleche hadn’t been able to agree which James Bond film it came from.) The welcome party given in their honour had a St Valentine’s theme. It had been their host’s idea. At nine o’clock in the evening they were going to be treated to a ‘spectacular’ firework display on the beach below. Mysteriously, their host hadn’t appeared yet . . .

‘I do feel the stirrings of romance . . .
Such
poppets . . . I know I am being deliriously silly. Shall I tell you what they remind me of? I don’t think you’d ever guess.’

‘The genie from Aladdin?
Sans
the yatagan.’

‘Yes! How clever of you! Would they fulfil all my wishes?’

‘If you paid them, they might.’ I shouldn’t give her ideas, Payne thought at once.

‘Would have been dangerous if they did have yatagans. Nervous guests might not like it.’

‘Would have interfered with their waiting too. Actually, their garb has nothing to do with Goa or India. They are dressed up like Turks at the time of the Ottoman Empire.’ Major Payne’s head might have started feeling as light and inconsequential as one of these ridiculous balloons, but his sense of reality and knowledge of history – for which he had got a first at Oxford – hadn’t abandoned him yet.

‘Dear Roman has a penchant for the picturesque, if not for the carnivalesque, have you noticed?’

‘I have noticed. I never imagined historical accuracy was his strong suit.’

She adored the balloons, Mrs Depleche went on. And the cocktails had such splendidly seductive names. Perhaps there were too many colours? The colours made her feel a little dizzy. She wasn’t drinking too much, was she? Hugh must tell her if he thought she was. Stanbury insisted she drank like a fish, but she had grave doubts about Stanbury’s judgement. Now she had rather a weakness for Roman, she couldn’t quite say why. Had Hugh seen Roman’s signature? So splendidly baroque – a calligraphic
chef d’oeuvre
, really – all curlicues, loops and flourishes!

‘How very interesting.’

Mrs Depleche gave him a sideways glance and said she had the feeling Hugh didn’t care much for Roman.

‘No, not much,’ Payne admitted.

Well, she might live to regret it, but it had been her misfortune to fall for flamboyant men – Mrs Depleche transferred her gaze from Major Payne to some distant object on the horizon – for men
that went too far.
It had brought her nothing but tears. She was
not
a happy woman. What was it they said? Your company determines your conduct, your conduct determines your character, and – what was it?’

‘Your character determines your destiny?’

How true! Her last great passion had been a man called Glazebrook. Did Hugh know Glazebrook by any chance? Glazebrook had been an extremely distinguished military man. Glazebrook had had a number of endearing foibles, some of them far from innocent. He’d had a moustache. No? How very odd. She understood Hugh had met Antonia at the Military Club? Well, people did meet at the most peculiar places. A great friend of hers had met her future husband in Belgrave Square. Perhaps Antonia had been in the army herself? Some women had most distinguished military careers, or so she had always been given to understand . . . Where
was
Roman? A fine host he was, failing to appear like this!

Mrs Depleche sipped her cocktail, then pointed with her opera glasses. ‘That boy, by the potted palm . . . So terribly subdued, but
such
a pretty face.’

‘He has the kind of outrageously innocent look that appeals to elderly women.’

‘Looks sad. Why is he so sad? Can’t bear to see pretty boys looking so sad.’

‘Perhaps his lady love has left him? Always the saddest when it happens on St Valentine’s Day.’

‘Let’s drink to St Valentine, shall we?’ Mrs Depleche snapped her fingers and called out raffishly to a passing waiter: ‘Another Mumbai Mule, Marcello, and go easy on the crushed ice, there’s a good chap.’ There were twenty different cocktails on offer. Mumbai Mule, she had declared, was the one that gave you a definite ‘kick’. ‘To think I could have gone through life without ever tasting a Mumbai Mule.’ She pointed to Payne’s glass. ‘What’s yours called?’

‘Scorpino.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘I’d say – I’d say it contains lemon sorbet, cream, Cointreau and Kalashnikov vodka.’

‘Sounds heaven. Isn’t Kalashnikov a Russian machine gun? Years ago I used to do target practice. I do intend to try every single cocktail on the list, you know. So far I’ve had – let me see – three.’

‘Five.’

‘Widow’s Wink. Black Russian. Shirley Temple. Bahama Mama. Mumbai Mule . . . Yes, five. You are quite right. What an observant boy you are.’ She patted his arm.

‘This Mumbai Mule is your sixth cocktail.’

‘This is such fun. I am enjoying myself enormously. To think that only last month I convinced myself that I’d finally reached the age of disenchantment. It was pelting with rain in Wiltshire, I was feeling utterly unstrung, so I sat down and added a note to my will, what I believe is called a “codicil”, saying I didn’t want a Christian funeral, rather, when I snuff it, throw my body to the dogs at a meet. I’d had all sorts of worries. The house in Eaton Square, Stanbury, death duties, my teeth. Well, I’ve had several marriage proposals since then, so everything hasn’t been doom and gloom.’

‘You’ve had marriage proposals?’ Major Payne cocked an eyebrow. She was seventy-five, if a day.

‘Several, yes. One or two extremely promising ones. Ah, look at the sea!’ Mrs Depleche pointed. ‘Just look at it. Too perfect for words. The sky is so cloudless and such an intense blue. It’s like a – a – Can you think of something? Your aunt said you were terribly clever.’

‘I am sometimes described as “astutely analytical” . . . The sky is like a paladin’s mantle. The sun stands absolute in its heaven.’

Of all the desultory conversations, Payne thought. We could go on like this for ever. Time seemed to have stood still. He almost wished something could happen. ‘
Fear no
more the heat o’ the sun
,’ he cried, wagging his forefinger at Mrs Depleche’s sola topi. Now why did I do that, he wondered.

She frowned. ‘D’you write too? I thought your wife was the writer.’

‘That’s
Cymbeline
, actually.’ By jingo, I am tipsy, he thought.

Mrs Depleche informed him that her sola topi was one of great antiquity – she had first worn it in India sixty years before. She had been a prim miss who had wandered from the sedate salons of
Sense and Sensibility
straight into the louche alcoves of
Les Liaisons Dangereuses
. She wasn’t in the least literary, Mrs Depleche pointed out, but she did get the odd inspiration, after a drink or two.

Payne tried to see her as fresh-faced, pink-and-white and parasol-twirling, and failed. Soft and demure and uncorrupted? Quite impossible to imagine.

‘What’s this wonderful game you’ve been playing? Your aunt told me about it.
I remember, I remember
? Let me see. I remember my first Mumbai Mule.’

‘I remember the solar eclipse this morning.’

‘Too recent.’

‘Don’t they say that a solar eclipse is a bad omen? I remember my first footman mainly because I did
not
have an affair with him. I remember the owl – that’s when one of the novice guns shot an owl.’

‘There’s no need to explain.’

‘I remember being much married.’

‘You can’t remember being much married, Charlotte. You
are
much married.’

This is the kind of brittle whimsy that passes for wit among members of jet-sets, Major Payne thought as Mrs Depleche cackled. Five minutes of their relentlessly droll conversation was bound to drive any sane person to distraction. He suddenly felt depressed. He wondered how long it would be before things started to really pall. It was only their second day. The sun showed no signs of weakening . . .

‘I remember when my life was a frenzied dance and feast of pleasure. I remember attending a Second Childhood party. Would you like me to go on?’

‘No,’ Major Payne said.

Mrs Depleche gave a delighted croak. ‘Your aunt was right. No one could live up to your smart repartees. You are the best company I’ve ever had. I think I will leave all my money to you.’

‘Nonsense, Charlotte. You can’t possibly do any such thing.’ Payne looked worried. ‘What about your grandson?’

‘Ha. You don’t think Stanbury deserves a penny, do you? Where did your clever wife disappear? You haven’t had a tiff, have you?’

‘
Pas du tout
.’

‘Clever women can be the devil, but then you too are clever, so it doesn’t really matter, I suppose.’

‘Antonia is not used to the heat – wanted to sit near the fountain for a bit.’ Major Payne shaded his eyes. ‘I think – I think she’s sitting inside the folly.’ He strained to catch a glimpse of his wife. The folly was shrouded by brilliant scarlet and maroon bougainvillea.

‘That floral georgette she’s wearing . . .’ Mrs Depleche’s diamond-encrusted opera glasses glinted like a dragonfly in the sun as she adjusted them to her eyes. ‘I am sure it’s an original Vionnet. Goodness.
She’s writing
.’ Antonia might have been playing the harp or standing on her head, she sounded so surprised. ‘Plotting her next book, no doubt?’