Provender tried not to flinch; not to let Arthur know that the barb had struck home. 'You don't need to work, Arthur.'
'And yet I do,' Arthur replied. 'I choose to. It would be perfectly possible for me to swan around all day long, the living epitome of the idle rich, all "la la la, look at me, I've never put in a day's graft in my life" - but I don't. I get out there. I roll up my sleeves, muck in, achieve. And I have to say, doing that makes it a damn sight easier to look at myself in the mirror every morning.'
Provender bit back the obvious retort. Too easy; and more to the point, he was suddenly finding himself on the losing end of the exchange, and a cheap crack about Arthur's looks would only incite his cousin to attack with even greater viciousness.
As it was, Arthur did not seem willing to relent just yet. 'Yep,' he said, 'having a job sets you free, definitely. It sends you to bed with a clean conscience. It gives your life structure and focus. It prevents you from getting obsessed with yourself, bogged down in your own thoughts. Generally a good thing, Prov, work. Take it from one who knows. Oh, and in answer to your original question, yes I'm working right now. Well, not right this moment, but you know what I mean. I've no idea how it's passed you by, when everyone's talking about it. I'm doing Hamlet in the West End.'
He left a pause, waiting for Provender to be impressed. When Provender just gave a noncommittal nod, he went on, 'Yes, I've never tackled Shakespeare before, but it's only right and proper that I should. We're about to open at the Shortborn Theatre on New Aldwych. Previews tomorrow and Monday, first night Tuesday. It's a challenge, and frankly I'm nervous as hell about it, but then something would be wrong if I wasn't. You don't brave the Bard lightly.'
'And you're playing...?'
'Who do you think I'm playing!'
'Well, I just thought I should check. You know, me not being part of the acting profession like you are, not a brethren or sistren thesp, somebody could say to me, "I'm doing Shakespeare in the West End," and for all I know they mean they're Third Servant or the stage manager or an usherette or something.'
Arthur looked askance at his cousin, unable to decide if he was really as naïve as he sounded. 'But I'm not somebody, Prov.'
'No, that's true.'
'And there can't be many actors better suited than me to portraying the Prince of Denmark. I do have a unique insight into that sort of world. Families in castles. Strange relatives and relationships.'
'Yes?'
'Yes. In fact, you really ought to come and see it. I can arrange comp tickets for you. In the Family Box.' Arthur struck Provender as surprisingly in earnest. 'You'd enjoy yourself. It's quite a production. You could even attend the first night. You're not doing anything on Tuesday, are you?'
'Don't think so.'
'No plans? Not likely to be otherwise detained?'
'Otherwise detained? Not as far as I know.'
'There you go, then. It's settled. I'll sort out tickets for all of you. You could make it a Family night out, the five of you.'
'Well, we'll see.'
'No, no, you have to come. Leave it with me. Now, I think there's someone over there I need to see. Nice chatting with you, Prov.'
Arthur sauntered off, and belatedly it occurred to Provender that even if he didn't have anything planned for Tuesday night, he should have said he did. It was, after all, his birthday.
Well, Arthur could arrange tickets if he wanted to, and Provender's parents and sisters could go see Arthur's Hamlet if they wanted to. Provender was pretty sure he would be staying put that night. He had no pressing urge to travel to London and watch his cousin massacre one of the great Shakespearian roles. Arthur's performance as the Dane would, he was sure, be tragic in all the wrong ways.
Provender scanned the piazza, looking both for someone with a drinks salver and for someone he might possibly want to talk to. Neither was immediately apparent. He swung his head this way and that, picturing the mask's nose as the barrel of a piece of field artillery, sighting along it and taking imaginary potshots at guests. He stopped when Great became his next 'target'. It didn't do to lob hypothetical artillery shells at your great-grandfather. Or was it great-great-grandfather? Or even great-great-great? Great being so old, so fantastically antiquated, there was some confusion about his genealogical status. The line of descent had become blurred, and nobody was quite sure any more where, exactly, he fitted in. It was possible he was not a direct ancestor at all, not several steps up the primogeniture bloodline from Provender but rather a distant uncle, a remote cousin several times removed. He was, though, undeniably the ultra-patriarch, the senior-most Gleed. For all his useless body, his threadbare scalp, his inability to communicate, his helplessness, he remained the root and figurehead of Britain's foremost Family.
Provender debated whether to go over and speak to him. What decided him against was the presence of Carver at Great's side. Carver stood sentinel, hands behind back, coldly viewing the party guests. Great's own expression seemed not much less cold. Nearby, Provender spotted a waitress bearing beverages. He made for her instead.
7
The Columbine did not, at first, recognise who the dark figure swooping towards her in fact was. The hooknose mask, flat hat and swirling black cape made him a startling apparition, and, already in a state of heightened anxiety, the Columbine experienced something akin to mortal dread as he closed in on her with purposeful stride. For a few appalling seconds she thought this was, not some party guest, but rather punishment, nemesis, doom, all rolled into one, coming to claim her. Had the figure been carrying a scythe instead of a stick, it would not, to her, have seemed at all out of place.
In her consternation, she nearly dropped her salver. But the figure reached her just in time to seize her wrist and steady it, levelling the salver before the drinks slid off, and his grip was warm and firm and plainly that of an ordinary human being, and his voice was plainly that of an ordinary human being too as he said, 'Whoops, careful there. Be a shame to waste all that booze before I've had a chance to sample some.'
The Columbine blushed. She could scarcely believe her own foolishness. Thinking this was some supernatural entity. Honestly! How ridiculous was that? Get a grip on yourself, girl.
'Drink, sir?' she said, faltering only slightly over the words.
'Absolutely,' said the partygoer, 'now that they're not spilled all over the floor.' He let go of her arm and she lowered the salver so that he could peruse the selection on it.
'I do apologise about that, sir.'
'Oh God, don't worry. Accidents happen. Or don't, as the case may be.' The partygoer's hand hovered to and fro over the various glasses like that of a chess player trying to decide which piece to move next. 'Ah, bugger it, I can barely see what I'm doing.' He grabbed his mask by the nose and yanked it down beneath his chin. 'That's better. Now then...'
It was Provender Gleed, and the Columbine had realised that it was Provender Gleed an instant before he exposed his face. She ought to have known who he was as soon as she set eyes on him, and would have, had she been thinking straight. She had, after all, been told what costume Provender would be wearing tonight. It had been described to her in detail, right down to the fake spectacles on the nose. She had been supposed to be looking out for somebody dressed just like this.
Again, she told herself to get a grip. She needed to stay calm and focused. She needed to have all her wits about her. If she didn't pull herself together, she wasn't going to be able to do what the Harlequin wanted her to do, the plan would fail, everything would be in vain...
She remembered the Harlequin telling her earlier how he had faith in her. Even though they were no longer lovers, he had a way of making her feel capable of anything, everything. Not only that, his approval was still important to her, his happiness still mattered to her.
Thinking of which instilled her with strength. She could pull this off. She would. She peered across at Provender Gleed, who appeared unable to make up his mind.
'So, what'll it
be?' she asked, and she accompanied the query with a small giggle. At the same time, she widened her eyes slightly, tilted her head to one side, and arched her back, thrusting her chest forward. Old tricks. Obvious tricks. But they seldom failed.
Provender noticed. He glanced up from the salver. His eyes flicked to her face. Searched there for a moment. Then he smiled.
It was, the Columbine noted, a nice smile. He was, indeed, a good-looking boy, better so in the flesh than in photographs. In some of the pictures of him she had seen, his nose looked enormous, as though transplanted from somebody else's face, someone twice his size. But up close, it fit. Big yet dignified. Characterful. A perfectly-in-proportion nose would have left him looking bland, she felt. Ordinarily handsome. A run-of-the-mill pretty-boy. The largeness of it gave him stature. And of course, such a nose was a physical trademark of his Family - without it, he would be far less of a Gleed. The shaven head worked for him as well. On someone else it might have looked thuggish. On him, it emphasised the sensitivity of his features, making him seem vulnerable and open. She vaguely recalled reading somewhere that that was the reason he had lopped off his long locks, as an outward expression of honesty. That, and to distance himself from the current vogue among young Family males for collar-length hair.
It crossed her mind that she oughtn't to be so taken with his looks. It seemed a betrayal of her principles. He was Family, and she hated the Families. She consoled herself with the thought that if she found Provender fanciable, there was no harm in that. It made what she had to do easier. She could play her role more credibly.
'There's champagne,' she said. 'White wine. Red. Rosé. That's a kir Famille there. That's a margarita, of course. And there's a G and T, and that one's a vodka-tonic, I think. If you'd like something else, just say. Anything. Anything at all. If you don't like what you see...'
It was a perfect lead-in, but for some reason Provender didn't take advantage of it. Instead he said, 'Did you know that every drop of alcohol on that tray comes from a Gleed Family vineyard or plantation?'
'I didn't know that, sir,' replied the Columbine. 'How fascinating.' She widened her eyes a fraction more, and a fraction more breast flesh swelled into view just above the level of the salver. 'It must be quite a thing, owning all those vineyards and plantations. I can't even imagine what it must be like.'
'It's... As a matter of fact,' he said, with a shrug, 'it's pretty meaningless.'
'Meaningless, sir?'
'I've no idea why I even brought it up. It doesn't bother me in the slightest where all that booze comes from, and I don't see why you should care either.'
'Because, um, because I might be interested to know what I'm serving you with?' said the Columbine. 'Its provenance?'
'Provenance?'
He grinned at her. Like his smile, his grin was nice too, the Columbine thought. Fresh and sincere, as if it was something he didn't do too often.
'That's a good word,' he said. 'Not one you hear every day. Provenance. I suppose if you hang around auction houses and museums you'd hear it a lot, but... Do you hang around auction houses and museums at all?'
The Columbine wasn't sure how to answer. Definitely, Provender was flirting with her, and that was good, that was the plan, that was the reason behind all her eye-flaring and her bosom-thrusting and her awed-ingénue remarks. His flirting, however, wasn't taking any form she was familiar with. He was attracted to her but showing it in none of the commonly accepted ways, by complimenting her, for example, or showing off. That line about vineyards had sounded sort of boastful but he had undercut it straight away. And now he wanted to talk about auction houses? One thing was for sure: Families were not like ordinary folk.
'Museums,' she said. 'Sometimes I'll go to a museum. But not that often, really. I've been meaning to visit the Gleed Gallery, the new one on Millbank, but... But... I haven't had the time.'
'You're busy.'
'I am.'
'Doing jobs like this?'
'No. I mean, yes. Working, generally. Earning a crust. Some of us have to.'
Provender was suddenly unsmiling. 'The implication being some of us don't?'
'No. Oh no, sir.' Idiot! 'It was just a figure of speech. I didn't mean that --'
He waved a hand and laughed. 'I was teasing. Sorry. Unfair of me. I apologise. 'Earning a crust' - I like that, too. You come out with all sorts of interesting conversational wrinkles.'
'So do you, sir.'
'Do I? Thanks.' He sounded genuinely flattered. 'I like to talk with people. Properly. You know, not the standard hello-how-are-you-lovely-weather-we're-having crap, the nonsense that passes for conversation at occasions like these, everyone agreeing with everyone else. I like discussing things, the way you and I are doing. Aren't we? I get bored out of my mind if there isn't some kind of depth to a conversation. I'd rather have an argument with someone than listen to them jabber on about mutual acquaintances and the last holiday they went on and isn't so-and-so looking positively radiant this evening? It's an attitude that doesn't make me very popular, but then life isn't a popularity conte--'
'Provender!'
Both he and the Columbine swung round in the direction of the cry. She saw a middle-aged woman striding towards them with another, younger woman in tow. The latter the Columbine did not recognise but the former she knew was Provender's mother. That afternoon, Cynthia Gleed had stood up before an assemblage of all the catering staff and told them what she expected of them at the party tonight (not much, just total dedication and immaculate efficiency). She had struck the Columbine then as a forceful personality, someone not to be messed with. Enviably beautiful, too. Now, resplendent in ballgown and mask, she looked no less beautiful and no less indomitable. She steered her young companion towards her son by the wrist, and it didn't take a genius to intuit what she had in mind for the two of them. The girl was in her twenties, slim, pretty in a vacant posh-girl way, and Provender's mother had a glint in her eye that said she was sure her son and this lissome lass were going to hit it off, and if they didn't, she would want to know the reason why.
'Prov, not interrupting anything, am I.' It was not a question. Cynthia Gleed shot the Columbine a look that was mercilessly - or, depending on your viewpoint, mercifully - brief. It appraised and dismissed in the same instant. 'Only, this is the most amazing coincidence. I was just talking to Gentian here and she, can you believe it, went to the same finishing school in Zurich as Cousin Inez. Isn't that a thing?'
Provender had no alternative but to fix on a smile and hold out his hand to the willowy Gentian. The Columbine, for her part, had no alternative but to shrink away with her salver. Cynthia Gleed's look had made it plain. The Columbine was not wanted there. Superfluous to requirements. She must look for someone else to serve.
Just before turning to meet Gentian, however, Provender had given the Columbine a wry roll of the eyes, then winked. Suddenly there was complicity between them, and in that complicity, connection. When the Harlequin sidled up to her a few moments later and said he'd spotted her talking to Provender and asked how it had gone, the Columbine was able to tell him, with complete honesty, that it had gone well. When the Harlequin then asked if she and Provender were going to be meeting up again later that night, she was able to say, also with complete honesty, that yes, she was certain they were.
And hearing this, the Harlequin smiled. A broad smile, but a wolfish one too. Not like Provender's. Not nice at all.
8
It wasn't until nearly midnight that Provender was able to speak to the Columbine again.
Dealing with Gentian took half an hour. She was a pleasant enough person, hard to find fault with. They talked about her horses, whom she loved, her parents, about whom she was more ambivalent, and about his cousin Inez, with whom, in Zürich, she had learned deportment, cooking, etiquette, and all the other hunting skills a girl needed in order to bag herself a well-to-do husband. She didn't balk when Provender made a joke about finishing schools being so called because they
finished any chance their pupils had of becoming independent, free-thinking individuals. She responded by saying, with just the right amount of rancour, that learning how to behave correctly in polite society didn't always mean turning into some kind of mindless social robot. You stayed who you were inside, just a little more polished on the outside. Did he think Inez had turned into a robot?
He didn't, and said, with truth, that he liked Inez a lot and didn't believe her time in Switzerland had inflicted any lasting damage.
'There, then,' said Gentian, her point made.
Briefly, Provender recalled his date with Inez, which their mothers had fixed up. He had flown to Seville in the Gleed dirigible, met Inez for lunch at the Lamas Family hacienda, found her appealing but much too like his mother for comfort, and returned home the same day. His mother was still, a year on, smoothing the Lamas feathers that had been ruffled by his swift departure.
Gentian felt she had to prove that she wasn't as bland and conformist as Provender clearly thought she was, and told him of her three-day-eventing escapades, the nasty tumble she had taken just the other day at Hickstead, and her ambition to run a stud farm once she retired from competitive riding. She could see his interest waning by the second, and her opinion of him, at the same time, coagulated. He really was as stuck-up as everyone said. Not just Family-arrogant - intellectually arrogant. Thought he was smarter than everyone else, and thought that made him better than everyone else.
She was therefore relieved when Cynthia Gleed arrived with another girl for Provender to meet. Provender, likewise, was relieved ... although his relief turned to dismay soon enough, as he was forced to spend the next hour in the company of Blaise Wynne.
Blaise made no bones about it: she wanted to marry into a Family. She didn't care which one and she didn't care whom she married. Provender Gleed would do as well as any.
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