The Summer House Party

by Caro Fraser

  ‘I saw you dive in here and wondered if anything was the matter,’ said Diana.

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  At that moment Mrs Cunliffe bore down on them. ‘There you two are! Come – I want to show you my portrait.’ She led Meg and Diana along the hall, and into the library. Dan was still there on the sofa, smoking a cigarette. Meg avoided his eye.

  ‘Dan, what are you doing hiding away in here?’ said Elizabeth Cunliffe playfully.

  ‘I wanted a few quiet moments to contemplate the great man’s work,’ said Dan with a smile. It was only in the past minute, while his mind was disentangling itself from thoughts of Meg, that he had noticed the picture of Elizabeth hanging over the fireplace.

  This pleased Elizabeth enormously. ‘It is rather fine, isn’t it? That sounds immodest, but I do think he has caught something.’ The girls gave murmurs of agreement, then a silence fell as they all contemplated the picture. Elizabeth gave a little sigh. ‘To think it was his last work.’

  Dan thought of the painting of Madeleine, the one he had turned to the wall on the day of Haddon’s death. Why had he done that? To obliterate the events, shut them out, so that nothing need be acknowledged.

  ‘Well, now,’ said Elizabeth, ‘I believe some of my guests are leaving, so I must go and say farewell.’ She made her exit from the library.

  ‘I think that was our signal to get going,’ said Diana. ‘What say we go and find dinner somewhere? It’s past nine and I’m simply starving. Let’s see what Paul says.’

  Paul was all for the idea, as were a few others. ‘We’ll have to take a couple of taxis,’ said Paul. ‘How about Kettner’s?’

  ‘I think I might sit this one out,’ said Dan. ‘I’ve had something of a long day.’ The thought of having to see Paul and Meg together was too much. He realised he was absurdly jealous. How was it possible that she had this effect on him?

  ‘Oh, Dan, darling, please do come!’ urged Diana. ‘It won’t be half as much fun without you.’

  Dan shrugged and gave in. He saw Meg say something to Paul in a low voice, and wondered if she, too, was trying to duck out. But Paul murmured something reassuring in reply and gave her arm a squeeze, which seemed to settle the matter.

  Kettner’s, it turned out, was full to bursting, and without a reservation they had no hope of a table before midnight. The story was the same at the Criterion and the Café Royal.

  ‘I vote we chuck this and go back to ours for a supper. We have plenty of eggs to scramble, and heaps of champagne,’ said Diana, as they stood on Regent Street, cold and disconsolate. ‘What do you all say?’

  Everyone was tired of traipsing from restaurant to restaurant, and agreed enthusiastically. More taxis were found, and they headed to Diana and Paul’s Kensington apartment. Diana took immediate charge of the gramophone, and Paul went in search of champagne and glasses. Chairs were pushed back, and a few people began to dance.

  ‘Come on, Dan.’ Diana slipped her hand into Dan’s and they drifted into an easy foxtrot. Meg, who had retreated to a sofa with the beginnings of a headache, watched them as they danced. They made a handsome couple, moving in careless harmony, murmuring and laughing. She stared at Dan’s long, strong fingers resting on Diana’s willowy back, and suddenly she longed to feel them again on her body. She jumped up restlessly from the sofa and went in search of Paul, almost bumping into him as he came through with two bottles of champagne.

  ‘I say – watch out!’ he laughed.

  ‘I thought I might make a start on those scrambled eggs.’

  ‘Wonderful! Eggs are in the larder, I believe. You know where everything else is?’ Meg impulsively drew him towards her and kissed him. He didn’t resist, but his response was mechanical. ‘What was that for?’ he asked with amusement as they drew apart.

  Meg shook her head. ‘Nothing.’ She let him pass with the champagne and glasses, and went into the kitchen.

  She was glad of something to occupy her, and tried not to think of Dan as she beat the eggs, found plates and cutlery, and put bread on the grill to toast. While she was in the middle of her work, Paul reappeared. He held out a glass of champagne. ‘For the busy cook.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I like to see you in my kitchen, in your apron. It makes me feel happy. It looks right.’

  Meg pushed a curl of hair from her eye and wiped a hand on her apron. She set the glass down. She came close to Paul, running her hands beneath the lapels of his jacket. ‘Paul, do you love me?’

  ‘You know I do.’ He kissed her forehead lightly, then the tip of her nose. ‘I’ve told you so a hundred times.’

  ‘But I mean – do you love me passionately, madly? Would you die without me?’

  ‘I say – steady on.’ He gazed into her eyes, as if trying to decipher what she wanted. ‘My dearest, darling girl – if that’s what you want me to say, I’ll happily say it. I love you so much I would die without you. There – that do?’

  Meg moved away. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being silly. Too much champagne. Or maybe not enough.’ She picked up the glass and drained it quickly.

  ‘Your toast’s going to burn if you don’t watch out,’ added Paul, nodding in the direction of the grill.

  ‘Oh!’ Meg darted to rescue it. She bent down and took warm plates from the oven, and then a big bowl of scrambled eggs. She handed Paul a heap of cutlery. ‘There – you can put those on the dining-room table and tell everyone supper’s ready.’

  People fell on the eggs and toast with relish. The meal was haphazard and jolly. Diana had lit candles around the dining room and in the centre of the table, and the atmosphere was that of a midnight feast. The available champagne had been finished, and Paul opened bottles of wine. Diana dragged people back to the drawing room and wound up the gramophone in preparation for more dancing and fun.

  At the table, over the mess of toast scraps and eggy plates, Meg yawned. ‘Doesn’t Diana ever get tired?’

  ‘She’ll keep going till dawn,’ said Paul. He and Meg were alone at one end of the table. A few others, including Dan, were chatting at the other end. Paul absently stroked the back of Meg’s hand. Meg gazed at his fingers on her skin, thinking how she would feel if the touch were Dan’s, the fire it would light within her, whereas Paul’s touch awoke no such response. The gesture was friendly, reassuring, possessive perhaps, but it contained no sexual current. A feeling of cold despair, such as she had never felt, hit her hard. It shocked her, and for a moment her mind went horridly blank. She pulled her hand away and began to pile up the dirty plates.

  ‘No need to do that just yet,’ said Paul. ‘Stay and talk.’

  ‘I hate to see dirty plates lying around,’ said Meg. ‘I’d much rather clear them up now than later.’

  She took the plates to the kitchen and dumped them by the sink. For a few seconds she stood there, motionless, waiting fearfully to see if that bleak, empty feeling would return. She saw a half-full bottle of gin standing on the side and, remembering the fiery comfort it had given her that night when Paul first brought her here, she opened it and poured a couple of inches into a glass. She knocked back half of it, then gasped, shaking her head. She leaned against the sink, feeling the warmth of the alcohol pool in her stomach. That was better. Her thoughts seemed clearer, stronger. To hell with the washing-up. She had done enough for one evening. She went back through to the dining room. Paul had moved to the end of the table to join Dan and the others, and Meg came up behind him, slipping her arms round his shoulders, and leaning down to nuzzle against him. Paul reacted with slight embarrassment; sensing it, she said, ‘Come and dance with me. You never dance with me.’

  ‘Excuse me, chaps,’ said Paul, getting to his feet with a smile. ‘Duty calls.’

  Dan watched them go. If she wanted to carry on deluding herself about Paul, then let her. No doubt she would get what she wanted out of it – social position, money, an easy life. If she was shallow enough to content herself with that, he was better off without her. He reached
for the wine bottle and refilled his glass.

  A moment later, Diana came in search of him. ‘Come on, my absolutely favourite dance partner. I can’t let you hide away in here with these rotters!’ To exclamations of protest from the others, Diana hauled Dan back into the drawing room, where the gramophone was blasting out Dixieland music.

  ‘I can’t dance to this,’ Paul said to Meg. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to sit it out.’

  Meg quickly found another partner, and threw herself into the dance. She felt exhilarated; the gin had given her energy, and blotted out the cold anxiety she had felt earlier. From the corner of her eye she saw Diana and Dan dancing together, Dan leaning in to say something over the music, and Diana throwing her lovely head back in laughter. Meg was hit by a sudden painful spasm of jealousy. When the song ended, she left the room and went back to the kitchen. The piles of plates and cutlery still stood by the sink, and the gin bottle was where she had left it. On impulse Meg uncapped it, and toppled another couple of inches into the glass. This time she drained it all. She stood with her hands on the sink, breathing heavily, letting the liquor sink down and then float her upwards. When she moved, she stumbled a little, and had to steady herself against a chair. Then she took a couple of deep breaths and went back to the drawing room. The music had stopped; people were taking a breather from dancing. Paul was deep in earnest talk with one of his friends. Meg thought of joining them, but she knew she would only be interrupting some discourse about politics, or business, or high finance, and that they would simply, in their well-meaning way, change the subject to something more suitable for a brainless young woman. She was tired of being patronised. She felt a sudden regret about Dan; she wanted to say something to him – what, she wasn’t quite sure, but something to put things right. She looked around the room, aware that her brain wasn’t quite keeping up, and that she was rather drunk. In fact, she felt faintly nauseous. Objects swam in her view. She leaned against the door frame, aware that Paul was looking in her direction. She didn’t want to be with him or talk to him right now. She turned around quickly and left the room, hoping to find somewhere she could sit and be alone, and wait for this feeling to pass.

  Further down the corridor she saw the door of a room ajar, a light on inside, and she pushed it open. What she saw heightened her nausea. Dan and Diana were together on a bed, half-sitting, half-lying, locked in an embrace, kissing. Diana’s skirt was pushed up – Meg could see her stocking-tops – and Dan’s hand was caressing her breast through the bodice of her dress. Neither of them was aware of Meg’s presence; they were too lost for that.

  Meg stepped back into the passageway, and lurched quietly in the direction of the lavatory, where she was copiously sick.

  *

  When she woke the next morning, it took Meg a few minutes to work out her surroundings and recall the events of last night. Never in her life had she felt so ghastly. She recognised the room she was lying in as one of the spare rooms in Paul and Diana’s flat. She lay for a long time staring at the pattern on the curtains, hazing it into faces and animal shapes as she had done as a child, trying to let her mind go blank so that she wouldn’t have to reflect on her disgrace. Her eyes felt gritty and her mouth dry. After a while she hauled herself up and put her feet on the floor. She sat inert, heavy-limbed, gazing down at the nightdress which, she recalled, Diana had lent her. At least she could remember that much. She also remembered being violently sick, and that recollection induced a new wave of nausea. She lifted her head, wondering if she was going to be sick again, then swallowed, waiting. She could hear the faint sounds of a radio somewhere in the flat. Shivering, she got up and took from the hook on the back of the door a dressing gown which Diana had thoughtfully hung there, then opened the bedroom door and ventured out.

  She found Diana in the kitchen. When she saw Meg she exclaimed, ‘Gosh, you look rather the worse for wear. Would a cup of tea help? I’ve just brewed some.’ She poured cups of tea, and the two of them sat down at the table.

  Diana lit a cigarette. ‘Hung-over?’ she asked sympathetically.

  Meg nodded. ‘Too much champagne.’ She wasn’t going to mention the gin. She glanced across the kitchen and saw the bottle, one-third full, still on the counter. She gave an involuntary little shudder and looked away. ‘I’m sorry. My behaviour last night was unforgivable.’

  Diana laughed. ‘My dear, it was immensely forgivable. You’re hardly the first person to get a bit tight within these hallowed walls. Let’s face it, we did make rather a night of it.’

  ‘Where’s Paul?’

  ‘At his club. He’s meeting some racing car chappie for lunch.’

  Meg looked up at the kitchen clock and saw that it was past noon. She suddenly remembered that today she and her mother were meant to be taking Christmas presents to relations in Reigate. ‘Oh Lord, I must get home. I’m catching a train at half one.’

  Diana put out her cigarette and untied her apron. ‘I’ll drive you back. I have some errands to run anyway. Off you go and get dressed.’

  In the car Diana chatted about the Cunliffes’ party. ‘So many people I hadn’t seen in an age. Dan Ranscombe, for instance – it was fun to catch up with him.’

  ‘You certainly seemed to be making the most of one another.’

  Diana gave her a glance. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I happened to see you both – you know, later on,’ replied Meg shortly. ‘In one of the bedrooms.’

  ‘Oh.’ She didn’t like the idea of having been observed by Meg one tiny bit. But she merely shrugged. ‘Well, that’s Dan for you. He takes his pleasure where he finds it. As do I. I’m afraid we’re both probably rather shallow creatures by your standards.’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Diana shifted gear somewhat crossly. ‘It’s what people do at parties. Dance. Get drunk. Kiss. As you’ve discovered.’ They drew up outside Meg’s house. ‘Here you are. Now, don’t forget you’ve promised to come to supper at the flat on Christmas Day. Apparently Paul has some wonderful present for you – I’m sure I can’t think what.’

  ‘I won’t forget. Thanks for the lift.’

  Diana watched her make her way to the front door. That nonsense last night with Dan had been very much a spur-of-the-moment thing, provoked by her own flirtatiousness and too much to drink on both their parts. A kiss and fumble in the dark didn’t exactly amount to much in Diana’s book, but evidently it had upset Meg – if upset was the right word. Perhaps she harboured some crush on Dan from last summer. In which case, it would be best all round if she was safely married off to Paul sooner rather than later.

  *

  Dan lay in his bed in Bloomsbury, reflecting on the events of the previous night. That interlude in the bedroom with Diana had been a bad idea, a very bad idea. He blamed the fact that he’d been half-cut and somewhat fired up from those moments with Meg on the Cunliffes’ sofa. Every time he thought about it, about her, he struggled to make sense of what he felt. It was more than mere desire. No girl had ever had this effect on him. Was it possible he had fallen in love with her? He’d never been in love with anyone before, and had always taken the view it was something best avoided, if one could help it. But what if it was something one couldn’t help?

  He closed his eyes, reliving those erotic moments in the library. The thought of her marrying Latimer was ridiculous, unbearable. If he wanted her, he was clearly going to have to fight for her. He would undertake a sustained campaign, and he would start tomorrow by going round and apologising for the way he’d behaved and the things he’d said, even though what he’d said had been true – Paul was utterly the wrong man for her. She couldn’t possibly be foolish enough to marry him. But then, there was no end to the foolish things women could do.

  *

  Meg was alone in the house, kneeling on her bedroom rug and struggling to wrap Paul’s Christmas present, when the maid came to announce that a Mr Ranscombe was downstairs to see her. Meg thought of asking
Dora to tell him she wasn’t at home, but instead she said calmly, in spite of her racing heart, ‘Thank you, Dora. Show him into the drawing room, would you? I’ll be down in a moment.’

  Meg waited for a few minutes, trying to compose her thoughts. She put down the scissors and Scotch tape and got to her feet, checked her hair briefly in the mirror, and went downstairs.

  The drawing-room door opened, and Dan, who had been inspecting Christmas cards on the mantelpiece, turned round. He hadn’t quite known what kind of reception to expect, but the chilly look on Meg’s face wasn’t promising.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Hello,’ replied Meg, closing the door. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I came to apologise.’ She gazed at him, saying nothing. ‘For my behaviour on Saturday.’

  ‘Your behaviour with me or Diana?’ The question took Dan aback. ‘I saw you together, in one of the bedrooms. I suppose you just move from one girl to another, don’t you?’

  This wasn’t helpful, but he tried to brush it aside. ‘It meant absolutely nothing. It was just – well, flirting, I suppose.’

  ‘Flirting? It looked like rather more than that. And to think that only an hour earlier you were trying to seduce me, to persuade me that Paul – who is a more decent man than you could ever hope to be – doesn’t love me. You’re unspeakably low.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. When Diana and I… Look, I was drunk. Everyone was drunk – even you.’

  ‘I was not!’

  ‘Speaking of which, do you think I could have a drink?’

  Meg, her expression still cold, moved to the drinks trolley. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘A Scotch and soda would be fine.’

  Meg poured him his drink. She hesitated, then poured herself a small sherry and sat down in an armchair. Dan, taking his cue, sat down opposite.

  ‘I’m sorry if anything I said upset you.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly care less.’

  Dan took a swallow of his whisky. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Don’t you? Frankly, Dan, when it comes to believing people—’