He filled up their glasses from the whisky bottle, then suddenly, he lifted his head, yawned slightly and looked in my direction. I shot him a glance I hadn’t used in months. One of pure naked come-hithering sex. It didn’t work. He looked away without interest.

‘Hard luck,’ said Split Ends, avidly drinking in this classic case of indifference at first sight. ‘You’re obviously not his type.’

‘He’s probably queer,’ I said crossly. ‘Most Don Juans are latent homosexuals anyway.’

Split Ends looked at me pityingly, then grabbed a plate of food from a nearby table.

‘I’m going to offer him a stuffed date,’ she said with a giggle, and wheeled across the room towards him.

I turned my back and talked to the stockbroker. It was a calculated gesture. If anything was likely to turn Rory Balniel on, it was my back — brown, smooth and bare from the nape of my neck almost to the base of my spinal column, unmarred by any bikini marks.

I imagined his dark, restless eyes ranging over me and thinking, ‘That’s the sort of girl who sunbathes without a bikini top. Mettlesome, ready for anything, even being treated appallingly by Rory Balniel.’

But when I looked around, he was talking to Split Ends, and was still hemmed in by the masses.

Sexless beast, I decided; or perhaps it’s my sex appeal that’s slipping.

Cedric was right. These people were frivolous and uninteresting. The evening wore on. People were dancing in the next room, drinking a lot and necking a little. No-one was actually orgying. I kept making up my mind to go home, but some instinctive lack of self-preservation made me stay. I felt jolted, uneasy and horribly aware of Rory Balniel. There was an unconscious glitter about him, a sinister stillness that set him apart from everyone else. One had to admit his force.

Split Ends and the girl he’d arrived with, who I discovered was called Tiffany (I bet she made it up), were still trying to engage his attention. He was laughing a lot at their jokes, but a little late on cue. As he filled his glass, his hand was quite steady. Only the glint in his eyes betrayed how much he’d drunk.

Annie Richmond went up to him and removed the bottle of whisky, ‘Rory, love, I don’t mean to nag.’

‘Women always say that when they’re about to nag,’ he said, taking the whisky back from her.

People were really getting uncorked now. Couples had disappeared into other rooms, a beautiful African girl was dancing by herself. A fat man was telling filthy stories to an ugly American girl who had passed out on the floor. The Australian in the red shirt, who had chatted me up earlier, turned out to be Split Ends’ boyfriend. He was not pleased at her paying so much attention to Rory Balniel and came strutting into the room wearing a Mickey Mouse mask, expecting everyone to laugh.

‘Where did you get that mask?’ said Rory Balniel.

‘Annie gave it to me.’

‘You should wear it all the time. Every day. Always. To the office. It suits you. Gives your face a distinction it didn’t have before.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ said the Australian furiously, wrenching off the mask. He nearly tripped over the ugly American girl who was now snoring on the floor.

‘Jesus Christ, why doesn’t somebody move her?’

‘She’s quite happy,’ said Rory Balniel. ‘I expect she needs sleep. Anyway, she gives the room a lived-in feeling.’

‘Someone might tread on her face,’ said the Australian, lugging her out of the way.

‘Good thing, too. It could only improve things,’ said Rory Balniel. He was trying to balance a glass on one of his fingers, managing to look like a Siamese cat. Inevitably, the glass crashed to the floor.

Split Ends and Tiffany howled with laughter. A blonde, attracted by the tinkle of broken glass, came over and joined the group.

‘I hear you paint,’ she said, ‘I’d love to sit for you sometime.’

Rory Balniel looked her over. ‘But would you lie for me later, darling? That’s the point.’

He started to undo the buttons of Split Ends’ dress.

‘I say,’ said the pink-faced stockbroker. ‘You can’t do that here. Unfair to Annie. Know what I mean?’

‘No,’ said Rory Balniel unpleasantly.

He had now undone all Split Ends’ buttons to reveal a very dirty bra.

‘Don’t,’ she said crossly, trying to do them up again.

His dark face set into a mask of malice. ‘If you throw yourself open to the public, sweetheart, you must expect people to want to see over you.’

Split Ends flounced off.

‘Good riddance,’ said the blonde, snuggling up to him.

‘She’s a silly cow,’ he said unemotionally, draining his drink.

‘What did you say?’ said the Australian, who was still smarting under the crack about the Mickey Mouse mask. ‘Are you referring to my girlfriend?’

‘I was referring to the silly cow,’ said Rory. ‘And if she’s your girlfriend, she’s even stupider than she looks. And don’t come on all macho with me, you bloody colonial, or I’ll kick you back down under, where you belong.’ Picking up a wine bottle, he deliberately cracked it on the edge of the mantelpiece and brandished the jagged end in the Australian’s face.

The Australian clenched his fists. ‘I’ll call the police,’ he said, half-heartedly.

‘What are you going to call the police?’ said Rory Balniel.

He picked up another glass from the mantelpiece, and smashed it on the floor.

The Australian puffed out his cheeks, and then beat a hasty retreat.

The two girls roared with laughter again, enjoying themselves hugely. Then they looked around for the next distraction.

He’s absolutely poisonous, I decided. How does anyone put up with him?

Picking his way disapprovingly over the broken pieces of glass, the little stockbroker came over and asked me to dance.

‘I told you he was a menace, did I not?’ he asked in an undertone.

He then proceeded to make the most ferocious passes at me on the dance floor. I can never understand why little men are so lecherous. I suppose it’s more concentrated. Fortunately, one of my safety pins gave way and plunged into him, which cooled his ardour a bit. But two seconds later he was back on the attack.

A quarter of an hour later, black and blue and as mad as a wet cat, I returned to collect my bag. I was really leaving this time. I found Rory Balniel was sitting on the sofa — Tiffany and the blonde on either side of him. Both girls were holding hands with each other across him, but were so tight, neither of them realized it.

‘Rory, darling,’ whispered the blonde.

‘Rory, angel,’ murmured Tiffany.

It looked so ridiculous I burst out laughing. He looked up and started to laugh too.

‘I think they’re made for each other,’ he said. And extracting himself, got up and came over.

I leaned against the wall, partly because I was slewed, partly because my legs wouldn’t hold me up. The impact of this man, close up, was absolutely faint-making.

‘Hullo,’ he said.

‘Hullo,’ I said. I’ve always been a wizard at repartee.

He looked me over consideringly as if I was a colour chart and he was selecting a shade.

‘The drink has run out,’ he said, taking a final slug of whisky from the bottle.

He had very white, even teeth, but his fingers were quite heavily stained with nicotine.

‘What did you say your name was?’ he said. His voice had lost its earlier bitchy ring — it was soft and husky now.

‘I didn’t,’ I said, ‘but since you ask, it’s Emily.’

‘Emily — pretty name, old-fashioned name. Are you an old-fashioned girl?’

‘Depends what you mean by old-fashioned — prunes and prisms Victorian or Nell Gwyn?’

He took my hand.

He’s drunk, I said to myself firmly, trying not to faint with excitement.

‘You’re like a little Renoir,’ he said.

‘Are those the outsize ones, all grapes and rippling with flesh?’ I said.

‘No, that’s Rubens. Renoirs are soft and blonde and blue-eyed, with pink flesh tones. It’s funny,’ he added, shooting me an Exocet look, ‘you’re not my type at all, but you excite the hell out of me.’

I looked down, and to my horror, saw that my fingers were coiling around his, and watched my only unbitten nail gouging into the centre of his palm.

Then suddenly I felt his fingers on my engagement ring.

I tried to jerk my hand away, but he held on to it, and examined the ring carefully.

‘Who gave that to you?’ he said.

‘Cedric,’ I said. ‘My — er — fiancé. It’s a terrible word, isn’t it?’ I gave a miserable, insincere little giggle.

‘It’s a terrible ring, too,’ he said.

‘It cost a lot of money,’ I said defensively.

‘Why isn’t he here?’

I explained about Cedric being in Norfolk and furthering his political career.

‘How long have you been engaged?’

‘Nearly eighteen months.’

The smile Rory Balniel gave me wasn’t at all pleasant. ‘Does he make love on all four channels?’ he said.

I tried, but failed, to look affronted. ‘He doesn’t make love to me much at all,’ I muttered.

Rory Balniel was swinging the empty whisky bottle between finger and thumb.

‘He doesn’t care about you at all, does he?’

‘Cedric and I have a good thing going.’

‘If you’re mad about a girl, you don’t let her out of your sight.’

Instinctively my eyes slid to Tiffany, who was now sleeping peacefully, her head on the blonde girl’s shoulder.

‘I’m not exactly mad about her,’ he said.

‘She’s stunning looking,’ I said, wistfully.

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Rolls-Royce body maybe, but a Purley mind.’