Jilly Cooper - Octavia

There was a hush as I walked into the drawing-room. Everyone gazed at me. Men’s hands fluttered up to straighten their ties and smooth their hair, the women stared at me with ill-concealed envy and disapproval.

‘Christ!’ I heard Jeremy say, in appalled wonder.

But I was looking at Gareth. For the first time I saw a blaze of disapproval in his eyes. I’ve got under his guard at last, I thought in triumph.

There seemed to be no common denominator among the guests. They consisted of old blimps and tabby cats, several dons from the University, and their ill-dressed wives, a handful of people of Lorna’s age, the girls very debbie, the boys very wet, and a crowd of tough hunting types with braying voices and brick red faces. It was as though the Hamiltons had asked everyone they knew and liked, with a total disregard as to whether they’d mix.

I wandered towards Jeremy, Gussie and Gareth.

‘I see you’ve thrown yourself open to the public,’ said Gareth, but he didn’t smile. ‘I suppose I’d better go and hand round some drinks.’

‘You shouldn’t have worn that dress, Octavia,’ said Gussie in a shocked voice. ‘This isn’t London, you know.’

‘That’s only too obvious,’ I said, looking round.

Bridget Hamilton came over and took my arm. ‘How enchanting you look, Octavia. Do come and devastate our local MFH. He’s dying to meet you.’

He wasn’t the only one. Once those hunting types had had a few drinks, they all closed in on me, vying for my attention. Over and over again I let my glass be filled up. Never had my wit been more malicious or more sparkling. I kept them all in fits of braying laughter.

Like an experienced comedian, although I was keeping my audience happy, I was very conscious of what was going on in the wings — Jeremy, looking like a thundercloud because I was flirting so outrageously with other men, Gareth behaving like the Hamilton’s future son-in-law, whether he was coping with drinks or smiling into Lorna’s eyes. Every so often, however, his eyes flickered in my direction, and his face hardened.

About ten o’clock, Bridget Hamilton wandered in, very red in the face, and carrying two saucepans, and plonked them down on a long polished table beside a pile of plates and forks.

‘There’s risotto here,’ she said vaguely, ‘if anyone’s hungry.’

People surged forward to eat. I stayed put, the men around me stayed put as well. The din we were making increased until Gareth pushed his way through the crowd.

‘You ought to eat something, Octavia,’ he said.

I shook my head and smiled up at him insolently.

‘Aren’t you hungry?’ drawled the MFH who was lounging beside me.

I turned to him, smiling sweetly, ‘Only for you.’

A nearby group of women stopped filling their faces with risotto and talking about nappies, and looked at me in horror. The MFH’s wife was among them. She had a face like a well-bred cod.

‘The young gels of today are not the same as they were twenty years ago,’ she said loudly.

‘Of course they’re not,’ I shouted across at her. ‘Twenty years ago I was only six. You must expect some change in my appearance and behaviour.’

She turned puce with anger at the roar of laughter that greeted this. Gareth didn’t laugh. He took hold of my arm.

‘I think you’d better come and eat,’ he said in even tones.

‘I’ve told you once,’ I snapped, ‘I don’t want to eat. I want to dance. Why doesn’t someone put on the record player?’

The MFH looked down at the circles of silver sequins.

‘What happens to those when you dance?’

I giggled. ‘Now you see me, now you don’t. They’ve been known to shift off centre.’

There was another roar of laughter.

‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ said the MFH. ‘Let’s put a record on and dance.’

‘All right,’ I said, looking up at him under my lashes, ‘But I must go to the loo first.’

Upstairs in the bathroom, I hardly recognized myself. I looked like some Maenad, my hair tousled, my eyes glittering, my cheeks flushed. God, the dress was so beautiful.

‘And you’re so beautiful too,’ I added and, leaning forward, lightly kissed my reflection in the mirror.

Even in my alcoholic state, I was slightly abashed when I turned round and saw Gareth standing watching me from the doorway.

‘Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?’ I said.

He didn’t move.

‘I’d like to come past — if you don’t mind,’ I went on.

‘Oh no, you don’t,’ he said, grabbing my wrist.

‘Oh yes I do,’ I screamed, trying to tug myself away.

‘Will you stop behaving like a whore!’ he swore at me and, pulling me into the nearest bedroom, threw me on the bed and locked the door.

‘Now I suppose you’re going to treat me like a whore,’ I spat at him. ‘What will your precious Lorna say if she catches us here together?’

Suddenly I was frightened. There was murder in his eyes.

‘It’s about time someone taught you a lesson,’ he said, coming towards me. ‘And I’m afraid it’s going to be me.’

Before I realized it, Gareth had me across his knee. I’ve never known what living daylights were before, but he was certainly beating them out of me now. I started to scream and kick.

‘Shut up,’ he said viciously. ‘No one can hear you.’ The record player was still booming downstairs. I struggled and tried to bite him but he was far too strong for me. It was not the pain so much as the ghastly indignity. It seemed to go on for ever and ever. Finally he tipped me on to the floor. I lay there trembling with fear.

‘Get up,’ he said brusquely, ‘and get your things together. I’m taking you back to the boat.’

The moon hung over the river, whitening the mist that floated transparent above the sleeping fields. Stars were crowding the blue-black sky, the air was heavy with the scent of meadowsweet.

Aching in every bone, biting my lip to stop myself crying, I let Gareth lead me across the fields. Every few moments I stumbled, held up only by his vice-like grip on my arm. I think he felt at any moment I might bolt back to the party.

Once we were on deck I said, ‘Now you can go back to your darling teenager.’

‘Not until you’re safe in bed.’

I lay down on my bunk still in my dress. But when I shut my eyes the world was going round and round. I quickly opened them. Gareth stood watching me through cigar smoke.

I shut my eyes again. A great wave of nausea rolled over me.

‘Oh God,’ I said, trying to get out of bed.

‘Stay where you are,’ he snapped.

‘I ought to be allowed to get out of my own bed,’ I said petulantly. ‘I agree in your Mary Whitehouse role you’re quite entitled to stop me getting into other people’s beds but a person should be free to get out of her own bed if she wants to.’

‘Stop fooling around,’ said Gareth.

‘I can’t,’ I said in desperation, ‘I’m going to be sick.’

He only just got me to the edge of the boat in time, and I was sicker than I’ve ever been in my life. I couldn’t stop this terrible retching, and then, because Gareth was holding my head, I couldn’t stop crying from humiliation.

‘Leave me alone,’ I sobbed in misery. ‘Leave me alone to die. Gussie and Jeremy’ll be back in a minute. Please go and keep them away for a bit longer.’

‘They won’t be back for hours,’ said Gareth, looking at his watch.

‘Can I have a drink of water?’

‘Not yet, it’ll only make you throw up again. You’ll just have to grin and bear it.’

I looked up at the huge white moon and gave a hollow laugh. ‘It couldn’t be a more romantic night, could it?’

In the passage my knees gave way and Gareth picked me up, carried me into the cabin and put me to bed as deftly as if I’d been a child. He gave me a couple of pills.

‘They’ll put you to sleep.’

‘I wasn’t actually planning to meet Jeremy on deck tonight.’

I was shivering like a puppy.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, rolling my head back and forth on the pillow. ‘I’m so terribly sorry.’

‘Lie still,’ he said. ‘The pills’ll work soon.’

‘Don’t go,’ I whispered, as he stood up and went to the door.

His face was expressionless as he looked at me, no scorn, no mockery, not even a trace of pity.

‘I’m going to get you some more blankets,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you catching cold.’

That sudden kindness, the first he’d ever shown me, brought tears to my eyes. I was beginning to feel drowsy by the time he came back with two rugs. They smelt musty and, as I watched his hands tucking them in — powerful hands with black hairs on the back — I suddenly wanted to feel his arms around me and to feel those hands soothing me and petting me as though I were a child again. In a flash I saw him as the father, strict, yet loving and caring, that all my life I’d missed; someone to say stop when I went too far, someone to mind if I behaved badly, to be proud if I behaved well.

‘Getting sleepy?’ he asked.

I nodded.

‘Good girl. You’ll be all right in the morning.’

‘I’m sorry I wrecked your party.’

‘Doesn’t matter. They’re nice though, the Hamiltons. You should mix with more people like them; they’ve got the right values.’

‘How did you meet them?’

He began to tell me, but I started getting confused and the soft Welsh voice became mingled with the water lapping against the boat; then I drifted into unconsciousness.

When I woke next morning I felt overwhelmed with shame. In the past when I’d got drunk, I’d just shrugged it off as part of the Octavia Brennen image. Now I curled up at the thought of last night’s performance — barging in on those people half naked, behaving atrociously, abusing their hospitality, and then the humiliation of Gareth putting me across his knee and, worst of all, throwing up in front of him and having to be put to bed.