‘There’s no one to cook,’ objected Maggie.

‘So there isn’t. Never mind. There’s buckets of drink and we can always go out. I thought we’d ask Admiral Walker and the Simons and have a little party.’

Maggie, who was gazing through the rain-smeared window at the grey sky and careering leaves, cheered up a bit. ‘It’s the last one we’ll have,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to give up your cakes and ale once Ace arrives.’

‘Yes,’ said Rose gaily, ‘I must remember to stop the milkman tomorrow.’

And although they smoked their way through three packets of my cigarettes and I cooked and washed up lunch and tea and the thought of Pendle and Maggie was never far from my mind, that day was one of the happiest I spent with the Mulhollands. It was like being in the flat with Jane.

I can’t say the same of the evening. Pendle and Jack got home about six. Jack looked tired and headed straight for the drinks tray. Pendle kissed Rose, and ruffled — yes, actually ruffled — my hair. He seemed curiously elated.

‘I’m sorry we slunk off at the crack of dawn,’ he said to me, ‘but we’ve had a marvellous day. Jack’s done wonders with the mill. You should be proud of him, Maggie.’ He looked at her for the first time.

‘Oh I am, I am,’ she said.

‘Have you been all right?’ Jack asked me, pouring himself a tumblerful of whisky and not even bothering to dilute it with water.

‘She’s been perfect,’ said Maggie. ‘A walking cigarette machine and endless lovely food appearing on trays.’ There was a slight edge to her voice.

Jack smiled and said, ‘I expect you’ve waited on them hand and foot. My mother is the laziest woman in the world, but my wife runs her a close second.’ He squeezed Rose’s hand as he said this, but the look he directed at Maggie was decidedly unfriendly.

Pendle lit a cigarette. ‘People in boiler suits kept rushing up to me,’ he said, ‘telling me what a great thing Jack’s been for the Mill.’

‘He spends enough time there,’ snapped Maggie.

‘At least I get regular meals at the canteen,’ said Jack. ‘Did you get my blue suit out of the cleaners?’

‘No,’ said Maggie.

‘You’ve had all bloody day. Did you go down the house and talk to the plumber?’

‘No.’ Maggie’s lashes swept down over half her cheek.

‘Well, what the hell have you been doing?’

‘Entertaining lovely Pru,’ said Maggie, demurely. ‘I know what a fan of hers you are.We couldn’t leave her alone on her first day.’

Jack shot her a murderous look.

‘By the way, Lucasta’s coming next weekend,’ he said.

‘Christ,’ muttered Maggie, ‘that’s all we need.’

My blood froze as I looked at Pendle. His pale grey eyes were gleaming. He’s enjoying it, I thought. He likes them sniping at each other.

‘Professor Copeland and a few people are coming over this evening,’ said Rose.

‘Oh God!’ said Jack, draining his glass of whisky. ‘For once I thought we might get an early night.’

I felt very depressed as I went up to change. Then I thought, to hell with it. Where’s your fighting spirit? Put on your warpaint and three pairs of false eyelashes, and go out and get him.

I wore a very simple, very short tunic in coffee-coloured crêpe, with a wide belt. At least I had a waist to belt, which is more than Maggie had, and I brushed my curls sleek to my head. I was pleased with my appearance. But it might just be the Mulholland’s mirrors — they were so dusty one tended to look good in them.

Jack, meeting me in the hall, gave an appreciative whistle.

‘You look like a Greek youth,’ he said.

‘Is that nice or nasty?’

‘Nice and extremely disturbing.’

I was pleased that Maggie wore a purple dress obviously bought before she put on weight. She had added black fishnet stockings, yesterday’s green belt and jade earrings.

‘That looks smart,’ mocked Jack. ‘It must have shrunk at the cleaners.’ Maggie scowled at him.

At that moment the door bell rang. Answering it, Jack found a man from the Inland Revenue, come to talk to Rose about her tax. He was pasty-faced and bald with a few strands of hair combed across his head, like anchovies across a boiled egg.

‘It isn’t a frightfully convenient moment,’ said Jack.

‘Of course it is,’ said a voice, and the next moment Rose swept down the stairs, poured into a black velvet dress which showed off her lovely figure, with pearls gleaming round her neck and at her ears.

‘Mr Ramsbotham,’ she said, taking both the taxman’s hands, ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t answered your letters, but I’ve been away. Come in and have an enormous drink, we’re just about to have a party, you simply must stay. Jack darling, Mr Ramsbotham wants a large whisky.’ And ignoring Jack’s signals of horror, she swept him into the drawing-room and introduced him to the rest of us.

‘Hasn’t the weather been frightful?’ she went on. ‘We’re thinking of building an ark.’

Mr Ramsbotham went rather pink and muttered that perhaps he’d better have a private word with Rose as matters were getting rather pressing, and he was expected home for supper.

‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ said Rose airily. ‘It’s Friday. A man must unwind after a long week. We can’t talk about boring tax now. Actually I’m thrilled you dropped in this evening. I know you’re a racing man and I just thought you might be able to give us some tips for Newcastle tomorrow. Here’s your drink. Thank you, Jack darling.’

One had to hand it to her. Within seconds, Mr Ramsbotham was totally hypnotized, discussing racing from nose to nose on the sofa.

Jack and Pendle were still talking about the mill. I sipped my drink and talked to Maggie about pop music and took another good look at her, sizing up the competition. She had sat down opposite Pendle and kept crossing and re-crossing her legs, so he must be getting a constant suggestion of gleaming white checkered thighs. She looked carnal and hemmed in, and not what mother would call a ‘lady’, but who wants to be a lady, when they can exude so much animal health in such a dangerously unhealthy way? Unlike Rose, she wasn’t at all flirtatious, she didn’t flutter her eyelashes or flaunt her bosom. She just stared at Pendle with that stripping look. You felt if you’d walked between them it would have burnt you like a laser beam.

‘You’re not to call me Mrs Mulholland any more. My name’s Rose, and I’m going to call you Arnold,’ Rose was saying to Mr Ramsbotham. ‘Jack darling, you’re not doing your stuff. Arnold’s drink’s nearly empty.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Maggie, scooping up a handful of nuts. ‘I was going to go on a diet before Ace came back, wasn’t I? I wish I had a small bust like you, Pru. It’s so much easier for clothes.’ She looked complacently down at her own cleavage.

Bitch, I thought. Perhaps she does mind Jack chatting me up after all.

‘Do you think he’s here for the night?’ I muttered to Pendle as Vatman enthusiastically accepted a refill.

‘Expect so. At least he can dance with Copeland.’


Chapter Six


It was an odd party. Jack mixed a hell’s brew with a brandy base. I was as high as a kite after the first glass. Everyone seemed determined to drink as much as possible, as fast as possible. To wash away the boredom, I suppose. Two hours later, things were really in their stride.

Pendle was behaving impeccably, filling my glass, plying me with drink. But there was no message in his eyes. In Jack’s eyes, however, there was too much. He never missed a chance to reach my hand or squeeze me round the waist. Every time I looked up, I seemed to see those dissipated blue eyes smiling at me.

Tinkle, tinkle went the ice in the glasses. Conversation became more extravagant. The ashtrays filled and spilled over. My smile was as brittle as a dried chicken-bone, as I saw the passionate concentration on Pendle’s face each time he talked to Maggie. I talked to one of Rose’s bridge friends about hats.

Everyone fell over Coleridge and Wordsworth who, bored of barking at the door bell, stretched out in front of the blazing log fire. The room was impossibly hot because Rose, worried that Professor Copeland might not appreciate the chilliness of large English houses, had also turned the central heating up full blast.

The Professor arrived late, and stood in the doorway for a minute with his head held high so that everyone stopped talking and looked at him.

‘He likes to make an entrance,’ said Maggie.

He was wearing a grey herring bone jacket, a blue denim button-down shirt, a black knitted tie, grey flannel trousers, and a big black velours hat, which he left in the hall. In his middle forties, he was one of those tall thin, craggy Galbrathian American intellectuals with an impossibly slow drawling voice, who one felt ought to have one hip permanently hitched on to a broken column and be rabbiting on about the beauties of ancient civilization. He was also without doubt the man I’d seen creeping out in his stockinged feet that morning.

Almost immediately Rose brought him over to meet me.

‘Pru’s a writer too,’ she said airily, ‘so I know you’ll get along.’

Professor Copeland concentrated on lighting a revolting pipe, looked at me with hooded eyes, and in a slow drawling voice asked what I was working on at the moment.

I was tempted to say Pendle, then said I was only a copywriter, and at present was wrestling with a tinned peaches campaign.

‘Not South African, I hope?’

I stifled a yawn, and shook my head, and Professor Copeland in between puffs went on to say that he’d never met an ad man who didn’t yearn to be a real creative writer, and he was ‘darn sure’ I’d got a half finished ‘narvel’ in my bottom drawer.