‘What, the blokes as well?’
‘Sure. It was a Pink Party—period. All the food and stuff was pink and there was pink champagne and pink flowers everywhere and …’
‘I loathe pink.’
‘So does your Dad.’ Bunny giggled at the memory. ‘You should have seen him!’
Chris checked on him now, his hand on Irving’s arm, their shoulders almost touching, the other hangers-on standing back in awe. His face was pink beneath the tan. Pink with triumph. She turned back to Bunny. ‘Don’t you get to say hallo, as well?’
‘Oh, no. It’s man-talk only here. Big-man talk.’
Chris ripped a piece off her muffin, crammed it in her mouth. Bigman talk. So Bunny was the little woman, the original dumb blonde. Is that why her father had married her—someone less threatening than her own Mum and who was content to play foil to Mr Big? Morna was disqualified twice over. Not only was she clever (a crime for wives), she was also far too old. No self-respecting he-man in LA would be seen dead with a woman over forty. Bunny was Neil’s advertisement for himself. ‘Look at me! I made it. Isn’t she cute? And only last year’s registration plates.’
Martin wasn’t like that. Martin could have picked a blonde as well—gone even further, insisted on crap like waist-length hair or natural curls, instead of a standard-issue makeshift like herself. Martin loved her for that self—not just her face or bum or what she did for his standing with the boys. She had never really realised that before, nor valued the fact that he didn’t mind her being what he labelled brainy—brainier than he was—was proud of it, in fact, didn’t keep trying to put her down or shut her up, to make sure he stayed top dog.
She checked on her father again. He had competition now—had been swept into the crowd of Irving Stroud fans, all vying to buy him drinks or touch his garment as if he was Christ Come Back and could heal their leprosy. They did look leprous in the strange light of the bar which seemed to leach the colour from their faces and dump it in their garish-coloured cocktails. Martin wouldn’t leave her on her own if some big-wheel wreck diver swaggered in. He’d take her over, introduce her, show his pride in her. Didn’t Bunny mind, for God’s sake, sitting there in front of an empty soup dish with a few shreds of mangled muffin on her plate, whilst her husband fought to be the one who bought Irving’s second Tequila Sunrise? Their own glasses were empty. Neil had been about to order the wine when Jesus Stroud dropped in. Maestro Stroud? Senator Stroud? She still hadn’t worked out who he was.
One of the Nell Gwyns had come up to their table, her own two plump peeled oranges strapped high up in front. ‘Shall I bring your main course now, or wait for Mr Gordon?’
‘Oh, wait,’ said Bunny, shocked.
Chris removed her crown. So now they had to starve, suck their ice cubes. She was ravenous, despite the soup which had been only flavoured liquid. The whole place was something of a con, failed to live up to its five-star adjectives. The man at the next table had ordered the roast suckling pig which sounded both cruel and grand and was described on the menu in such high-flown prose that she felt it called for footnotes like her Eliot. Yet what actually arrived were thin anaemic slices of the same boring pork they served up at school, but heavily disguised with cherries and bits of green stuff and even a paper frill or two, as if it had been sent straight from the knacker’s yard to the gift-wrapping department. The party opposite were already on dessert, and were tucking into Sir Roger de Coverley’s Syllabub which looked suspiciously like Birds Eye lemon mousse and only owed its knighthood to the fancy dish it came in. Even the Nell Gwyns were sort of bogus—all panstick and hair-pieces and pushup bras—smiles stuck-on like the beauty spots. The one by the window wasn’t even smiling but carrying on a quarrel with a down-at-mouth court jester, hissing out insults from the corner of her mouth.
‘Don’t you just love those costumes?’ Bunny said, following her gaze. ‘See the one with the fur all round the hem?’
‘Yeah. It’s dragging in the dirt.’ Chris rocked back in her chair. Bunny was only trying to fill the gap, distract attention from the fact that Neil had forgotten all about them. Was she really so damned cheerful? Or was that a con as well? The trouble with the adult world was that everyone pretended—all smiles and smarm, bill and coo. It made you uncomfortable when you didn’t know the language, when ‘Divine’ or ‘Great’ could mean ‘Horseshit’ or ‘Fuck off’, and all those hugs and handshakes hid rage and jealousy. She was guilty herself to some extent, angry with her father, contemptuous of Bunny, yet concealing it, dissembling. What if they were angry with her, and the whole two weeks’ hospitality had been simply a load of humbug, plotted in advance? Neil might have decided to do his duty by her just the once, more to still his conscience than for her sake; offer her this one short trip, then cut all ties completely. Easy for Bunny to charm the arse off her if it were only for three weeks in a lifetime and she could bar her doors for ever at the end of them.
She picked up her empty glass. ‘C … Can we have a drink?’
‘You’re thirsty, are you, honey? Want a Coke?’
‘I’d rather try that mead stuff.’ Fertilitie drink. At least if she were pregnant her father would take notice of her. He wouldn’t have much choice. She’d refuse to go back home until the kid was born, dump it on him wet and screaming, call it Irving.
‘D’you think you should? It’s very potent. Even one small glassful makes me tiddly.’
‘Let’s have a bottle, then. Two bottles.’
Bunny forced a laugh. ‘Why don’t we wait until your father …?’
‘No.’ Chris snapped her fingers at the beefeater-cum-wine-waiter, as she had seen Neil do earlier. She was frightened at her anger. If her father felt like that inside, then the past fortnight had been fraud, he and Bunny slapping whitewash over rust and stain.
‘Bunny …?’
‘What, sweet?’
‘Did you and Daddy …’ Chris stopped, changed tack. ‘I’m not sweet, Bunny. I’m horrible. I wish we could be … real—you know, say what we think. I mean, are you sweet—right inside, where it counts? Truly? Cross your heart?’
‘Well, I …’ Bunny broke off, seemed relieved to see the mead arrive, sidetracked on to the cuteness of the bottle.
Chris moved it out of range. ‘Take now, for instance. Aren’t you annoyed with my Dad, at least a little bit? Okay, so we had him for the soup and I suppose we have to be grateful if he comes back for the After Eights, but …’
‘It’s … only business, honey.’
‘Business! What, holding up the bar and all fawning on each other?’
‘Irving Stroud’s worth a hundred million bucks, at least, hon.’
‘And what are we worth?’
Bunny was silent, looking down, fiddling with her glass.
‘What’s he do, anyway?’
‘Well, he made his money originally with a chain of laundromats …’
‘L … Laundromats?’
‘That’s right. He started with regular ones and then he had this idea of building them up into like pleasure palaces. You can spend the whole day there. They’ve got video games, vending machines, sun-beds, everything.’ Bunny paused to sip her mead. ‘He came from nothing, you realise. His father was a Jewish immigrant who arrived in the States with only the clothes on his back.’
Chris banged her glass down. ‘Stroud’s not a Jewish name.’
‘Oh, he changed it, hon. They often do. It’s the classic story—second generation son makes good. Irving left school at fourteen and got his first job in a Chinese laundry. By the age of thirty-four he was a millionaire. That didn’t really make him, though. So who isn’t a millionaire in California?’ Bunny shrugged. ‘But he was sharp enough to make the absolutely right kind of marriage—a starlet who went on to be a star. That gave him the entrée to the movie world and …’
Chris stabbed her hand with her fork, winced at the four red weals. So there was her own father paying court to a chain of laundromats, licking the
boots of a scullery boy who didn’t even own his name, but who’d made sure he married right. Blonde again, most likely, and under thirty. She refilled her glass. The noise level was rising—‘O Mistress Mine’ in quadrophonic sound, guests guffawing and cackling as the liquor flowed, the clatter of knives on platters, the tread of wenches’ feet. Yet she was more conscious of Bunny’s silence, a terrifying silence. Bunny was happy, right? Full of jokes and chatter. So what had snapped?
‘Y … You’re angry with me, aren’t you, Bunny?’
‘Angry?’
‘Why don’t you admit it? I’m sick of all this crap, pretending we’re bosom pals when …’ Chris stopped. Bunny looked older suddenly. She had eaten off her lipstick; the make-up on one eyelid had smudged into an age-line. What when she was really old—like forty? Only eight short years to go. Dean would be twelve by then, the same age she had been herself when her father ditched her own Mum. Bunny didn’t even have a degree to fall back on, a job to tide her over. She was unravelling already. A blob of grease had dribbled from her soup spoon to her ruffles, the giggles had dried up. It was her fault. She had tried to break the rules, probe beneath the surface. She was beginning to understand now. If you didn’t keep the pretences up, everything might smash to smithereens—families, marriages, even meals in restaurants. She snatched up her glass, used it as her anchor. The mead was sweet and sticky, uncomplicated, comforting. She tried to think of nothing but the steady trickle down her throat.
The music was different now, no longer a choir with lutes and viols, but a harpsichord and solo countertenor—a strange, forced, strangled sort of voice. Chris recognised the song from Much Ada. ‘Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever …’ What about women, though? Weren’t they as bad, or worse? She was a deceiver herself.
‘One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never …’
She tried to block the words out, glanced across at Bunny—silent still and drinking. ‘Speak,’ Chris prayed. ‘Call me ‘‘sweet’’ again or ‘‘honey-pie’’.’ Bunny said nothing, just refilled her glass. The record shrilled and quavered on, reached its final refrain: ‘Hey nonny nonny‘, repeated over and over and over until the last sighing cadence. There was a sudden roll of drums, a trumpet fanfare, and two Elizabethan lookalikes looped back the heavy velvet curtains on the stage.
‘Hey, look!’ said Bunny. ‘They’re starting the cabaret.’
‘So early?’
‘Oh, they go on practically all night. This is just the warm-up.’
Chris giggled suddenly. ‘I’m pretty damn warm already.’
‘It’s the mead, hon. I warned you, didn’t I?’
‘I like it. I feel better, actually. It’s only just hit me now—sort of all at once, slap bang. You’re tipping, Bunny. The whole room’s tipping.’
‘Don’t say that or you’ll make me dizzy, too. I’ve had quite a bit myself.’
‘Have some more. Go on, let’s be dizzy. Instead of angry. Right?’
‘Right.’ They clinked their glasses, settled back to watch the show. Henry VIII had strutted on to the stage and was marshalling his wives. Jane Seymour had gone missing. An MC in a black tuxedo and emerald cummerbund seized the microphone.
‘Okay, guys, we like to start the show by getting everybody relaxed—which means you folks joining in as well. We’re gonna need some volunteers, okay? Are there any guests from England here tonight?’
There were a few embarrassed titters, but the only ‘yeahs’ were Middle West in accent.
‘No cheating, please. I want only genuine born-in-Brits this time. Right, here’s our first one. What’s your name, pal? Stuart. Great! Hi, Stu. Say ‘‘Hi’’ to Stu, everyone. Louder! That’s better. Now, how about a lady? We need a girlfriend up here for Stu. Don’t we, Stu? No, sorry, Ma’am, Vancouver doesn’t count. Yes, Sir, Dublin does. Is your wife Irish, Sir? Bring her up then. What, Denver? Denver isn’t Irish, for Chrissake. Come on, now. I can’t believe we haven’t got one single English girl out there.’
‘Go on, Chris,’ Bunny urged, pushing her almost out of her seat. ‘This is your big break.’
‘I can’t. I’d rather die.’
‘Course you can. It’s only a bit of fun.’
Chris stole one last glance at the bar. Her father wasn’t looking, wasn’t even listening. The whole damned restaurant had its eyes turned to the stage—except for one Neil Gordon who was still in the laundromat.
‘Okay, okay, I’m going. You needn’t dislocate my arm, Bunny.’ Chris snatched up her crown, marched onto the stage amidst shouts and cheers. Those would make Neil turn round. She couldn’t see him now. She was blinded by the dazzling lights, confused by the strange floaty feeling in her limbs. It was difficult to stand straight and they wanted her to dance—join a chorus line with Stu and Henry Tudor and all six wives and a dancing bear or two. Okay, she’d dance—sing as well. Who cared? Course she could sing, yeah, loudly. No, she didn’t know the can-can, but she’d have a bash. High kicks? Okay, high kicks. Careful … No, she couldn’t fall. Two arms linked through hers, bodies pressing closer. More bodies behind. Feet kicking up all around her, froth of petticoats. She had got the hang now, got the beat. Easier when they played the music. Smashing music—wild and fizzy like she felt inside. Kick kick kick. Hoped she had clean knickers on. No, mustn’t giggle—it would only spoil her singing. Singalong along along along. Henry VIII was losing half his padding. Roars of laughter, more applause. Stu had sweaty hands. Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Kick kick, can can can …
You were great,’ said Neil. ‘Absolutely great!’
Chris didn’t answer, just forked more salad in. A fantastic salad, with loads of nuts and fruits and swanky things like avocado chunks and hearts of palm. The meal was looking up, no doubt about it.
‘And she tried to kid me she was shy,’ grinned Bunny. ‘They ought to sign you up, hon.’
‘It was only a bit of fun.’ Chris picked up an asparagus spear, waved it sort of nonchalantly. Several people had come up to their table, told her she was great, pumped her by the hand, offered to buy her drinks. There was someone coming now, a friend of her father’s, judging by the way they leapt upon each other—but not that Irving creep—no, someone much much younger and really rather dishy. Neil made the introductions with all the Cambridge spiel again, and she didn’t blush this time, just smiled her best light blue smile and murmured ‘enchantée’ which was probably phoney but fitted the trilingual bit. His own name was Derwent which was frightfully chic and seemed to match his dark hair (longish for America) and mulberry-coloured jacket. Did they mind if he joined them? No, of course they didn’t mind, and how about some champagne? Yes, absolutely fine, and would it mix with the mead? Well, who cared if it didn’t, so long as he filled her glass like that, sort of gazing into her eyes and asking her questions about Granchester and Rupert Brooke and bluestockings, and to hell with herpes, all she had was a double first from Emmanuel and a MGM contract for the lead rôle in a musical spectacular …
Derwent edged his chair a little closer. ‘And how are you enjoying California?’
‘Oh, it’s great,’ she said, sipping her champagne. Of course it was. She’d been jaded before, blasé, clinging on to boring old England instead of grabbing the new country with both hands.
‘Have you seen much of it—been along the coast yet?’
She shook her head. Perhaps he was planning to ask her out, take her for a spin in his Tornado. She might not have a cleavage, but she did have orgasms (two with Gerry and both without a finger) and she could do the can-can and make people laugh—even make her father laugh, prise him away from multi-millionaires. She’d like to see the coast, maybe take in Santa Barbara or even San Francisco. The trouble was, she only had a week left, and if the Derwent thing developed, they wouldn’t have much time. She could always stay on, of course.
She gulped her champagne too quickly, sneezed into the bubbles. That wasn’t such a ba
d idea. All she had to do was change her ticket, buy a few more clothes. Okay, so there was Martin, but it was obvious her father didn’t like the sound of him, and just being Neil’s daughter counted over here, meant she met a different class of person, sort of supercharged and swankpot. If she hitched herself to Martin, she might turn out like his mother who expected nothing and spent her weekends mowing their scrap of lawn or washing the loose covers or scouring out the saucepans after the same heavy greasy lunch they’d been having every Sunday since their twenties. Californians took their food and selves out, went surfing, golfing, water-skiing or just soaking up the sun. True, Martin had ambition and the Diving Club, but half the year the weather loused things up—freezing sea or gale-force winds or pea soup visibility, and once they were married, they probably wouldn’t go at all, but spend their Saturdays in Tesco’s and their Sundays in the launderette. England killed ambition, so her father said. It was Americans who made it, turned dreams into hard fact. You were freer in the States, not tied down by class or convention or lots of footling rules. You could earn more and do more—and do it earlier—not wait until you were ninety before you could afford to buy an underwater camera or a car. Most Yanks learned to drive when they were still at school—and the schools were far less hidebound. You could call your teachers by their Christian names and wear jeans to class, and make-up, and if you needed an abortion, there were walk-in clinics and special counsellers instead of all the forms and frowns back home.
Not that she was pregnant—not with Gerry’s kid. Absolutely not. She would save the baby thing for someone more like Derwent. Derwent Lester Waldo—it really was a very classy name. Mrs Derwent Waldo. Derwent Junior. She ought to stay on ages if she planned to get to know him, get to see the country. California was the third biggest state, and then there were the other forty-nine, not to mention Mexico and Canada and … In fact, what was the point of going back to England at all, slaving away at some second-rate university only to be unemployed at the end of it and spend the rest of her life cooking cut-price steaks for a non-vegetarian chauvinist who didn’t even trust her? Back home she was no one, sort of anonymous like the hotpot, but garnished with her father she could move into the Michelin class—two rosettes at least. He might even find her a glossy job in his office with wall-to-wall secretaries and mink-covered telephones until her society wedding to some Derwent-clone who would fight off all the beauties in homage to her torrid sexuality. She giggled into her glass.
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