Their little alcove was in a corner, well tucked away from the main throng. More people had now arrived and the hubbub of talk rose as the drink went down; the cultured talk of the middle classes at play. He caught brief snatches of conversation - which, for all Rafferty knew to the contrary, sounded like knowledgeable references to Mahler and Leonard Bernstein, the latest books which had been well-reviewed in the broadsheets, the latest play that was wowing them in the West End theatres. Rafferty, with only his fading knowledge of Sixties and Seventies pop music to help him keep his end up would have felt out of it but for Jenny. They might have been quite alone. Rafferty found himself wishing they were.
Unfortunately, their little idyll was brought to an abrupt close as Simon Farnell swooped towards them. ‘Now, now, what's this? We can't have you hiding yourselves away.’ He gestured back towards the door. ‘Caroline's sent me to tell you to mingle, dears. So come along.’
Simon took hold of Rafferty's arm in a vice-like grip and led him to a small mixed group. He introduced him and then left him to make conversation.
After a while, the conversation being the mix as before and above his head, Rafferty glanced round, looking for Jenny. He couldn't see her. Instead, his gaze was caught and held by Isobel, the agency receptionist. Isobel had removed the concealing wrap in which she had arrived. She was dressed to kill in a little black number; sleeveless, strapless and almost bodice-less, her bosom swelled out in lush, white curves. Few of the men could take their eyes off her, Rafferty included. She gave him a ‘come hither’ smile. Beside him, the man whom Simon Farnell had introduced as Dr Lancelot Bliss, the well-known TV Doctor, nudged Rafferty and murmured in his ear.
‘Look, but don't touch is the best advice there, old man. Isobel's determined to get some poor fool up the aisle – the richer the better. She's had her eye on Guy, but as he said, she's all right to bed, but not to wed. Anyway, he wouldn't waste himself on Isobel even if he wasn't already married to Caroline, especially with the funds his late first wife left him.’
Rafferty was astonished to find himself the confidant of gossip; it seemed singularly inappropriate from a medical man, though the inappropriateness of his behaviour didn't seem to trouble the doctor. But then the well-known Bliss had presented his TV Doctor show for a number of years. No doubt mixing with the lovies, their behaviour had rubbed off.
Clearly, Dr Lancelot Bliss and loviedom were as natural a pairing as rock stars and hard drugs. In creating his stir he held centre-stage; a place that was obviously his preferred location. Rafferty had already noticed the little attention-seeking gestures. Every minute or so, Bliss would let his thick, straight dark hair flop engagingly onto his forehead and just as regularly he swept it back. The gesture drew attention to both the shining thickness of the hair and the beauty of his hands, which were long, slender and artistic. His clothes were from the dressing-up-box of the born show-off. The suit, though appearing plain at first glance, was a three-piece rather than a two-piece, the waistcoat and jacket silk-lined in a bright peacock blue at odds with the outward look of conservative sobriety. He even wore a fob-watch, an expensive bauble of exquisite beauty and workmanship.
Bliss broke into his thoughts. ‘Isobel's father made several disastrous investments when she was around twelve and lost most of their money. Then, in the way of these things, the good money chased the bad. Guy Cranston let this out a few weeks ago after a few drinks too many.’
Rafferty was surprised. Guy Cranston didn't seem the type to turn garrulous with drink.
‘Her mother persuaded Guy to offer her the agency job in the hope she'd snare a rich husband. So if you've got a few shekels, dear boy, take care. They're on the brink of losing the house - Latimer Court in Suffolk. Beautiful place, or it was – needs a fortune spending on it now. You've got to give it to Isobel. You'd never guess the family's problems from looking at her. She does rich very well.’
Rafferty said, ‘Thanks for the tip. I'll steer well clear.’
Under his lashes, Rafferty let his gaze rest on Isobel, who was being very touchy-feely with a man of Mediterranean appearance. She threw back her head and laughed, displaying her long, white neck and rounded bosom to advantage. Isobel was dressed in what Rafferty presumed must be designer gear. And though there wasn't much of it, the scrap of material was clearly not ‘off-the-peg’ and had presumably cost as much as his borrowed and ill-fitting suit. Diamonds glittered at her ears and throat. If she was wearing the last of her family's money as an ‘investment’ she hid it well. Rafferty would never have guessed her to be desperate. In spite of the indiscretion about Darius's little drugs business that Rafferty remembered, it seemed Isobel could be discreet when it mattered to her.
‘As I said, Guy only gave her the job as a favour to her mother; he knew the family through his late wife. Though I think Guy's rather regretting it now. He says Isobel's becoming a pest, always ringing him, telling him she loves him. She's set her cap there all right.’
Between all the introductions, the wine and Lancelot Bliss's gossip, Rafferty lost the thread, forgot he was meant to be a smooth, sophisticated, urban professional, and blurted out, ‘but I thought you said he was married to Caroline?’
Lancelot stared at him as if astonished that his confidant should have turned out to be a naive provincial. ‘Usual thing, Nigel,’ he explained with a patronising air that was reminiscent of Rafferty's cousin. ‘Caro and Guy have what you might call a semi-detached marriage. It seems to work okay for them. But keep it under your hat. It wouldn't do for it to get out, not in their line of work. Some clients might feel let down. It's what made Isobel think she might be in with a chance of turning Guy from semi-detached to detached and available.’
Rafferty raised what he hoped was a sophisticated eyebrow to enquire, ‘And how did Caroline take that?’
‘Didn't turn a hair of that immaculately groomed head, though I believe Isobel has since felt the nip of Jack Frost. Caroline keeps Guy on a long leash and lets him roam. That way he always comes back. Caro knows her man. Guy loves ‘em and leaves ‘em. But I imagine he finds marriage to Caroline way too convenient to leave her. It keeps him safe from the predatory Isobels of this world, do you see?’
Rafferty did see, though the seeing deflated him a little. If Lancelot Bliss was to be believed, the agency wasn't immune from the lying, cheating and betrayal so prevalent elsewhere. Perhaps he'd wasted his money paying for what was already so freely available. But then he remembered Jenny Warburton. The memory gave him a warm glow that had nothing to do with the sultry weather.
‘Poor Isobel, one has to feel rather sorry for her. Because she has not only that costly designer outfit on her back, she's got her family perched there as well.’
Lancelot plucked another glass of wine – his sixth by Rafferty's counting – from a passing waiter and knocked half of it back. It served to make him even more garrulous. ‘So if Isobel finally gets the message that Guy's giving her, she'll be man-hunting elsewhere with even more desperation.’
From Rafferty's other side, a man he recalled being introduced as Ralph Dryden, commented, ‘Poor girl's deluded. Didn't you say her father suffered from a similar affliction, Lance?’
Bliss nodded. ‘Runs in the family, according to Guy. He told me her father's convinced he's the next Richard Branson. Considering he apparently gets involved in one idiotic money-losing scheme after another, his delusions must be of the certifiable variety.’ He looked at Ralph and added, ‘Still, we all know what they say about a fool and his money.’ For some reason this comment caused Ralph Dryden's plump face to flush hotly.
Whether Ralph had become unwisely entangled with Isobel, Rafferty didn't know. But of one thing he was sure – dressed as she was, Isobel looked no man's idea of a suitable girl to take home to mother, never mind marry. She looked strictly mistress material. Jenny, on the other hand, although like Caroline and a number of the other women, dressed in a sleeveless little black number with a hint of cleavage, still managed to give off a demure air. It had appealed to him from the moment he had met her.
Lancelot Bliss must have exhausted his gossip for he fell silent. Now Ralph Dryden, drawled loudly in Rafferty's other ear.
‘So what is it you do, anyway, Nigel?’
‘Property,’ Rafferty answered as briefly as politeness permitted. But his interrogator probed further.
‘What area? Only I'm in a similar line myself. My firm designed and built Elmhurst Heights, the new apartment development by the docks.’
An unfortunate coincidence, as Elmhurst Heights was the apartment block Rafferty's cousin, Nigel lived in. With its futuristic concrete and metal design it was the sort of modern development Rafferty most loathed. He was wondering whether some sort of compliment was expected and was still trying to come up with one that sounded vaguely sincere when Dryden saved him the trouble.
‘It's featured in most of the top architectural journals, both in this country and abroad,’ he boasted. ‘Rory here did a rather good TV piece on it.’
Ralph droned loudly on. Rafferty succeeded in tuning him out until Ralph remembered his earlier question and, in the roar necessary to be heard above the music and assorted drink-fuelled conversations, he reminded him, ‘but you still haven't said what exactly it is that you do.’
‘I'm an estate agent,’ Rafferty roared reluctantly back into a sudden lull in both music and conversation. A number of heads turned in his direction and scrutinised him. The revelation brought several seconds’ more silence. He looked round the circle of faces; boastful Ralph Dryden, Property Developer Man; Rory Gifford, the dark, thrown-together, Bohemian-looking TV producer friend of Lancelot Bliss whom he had learned produced Lance's TV programme; Adam Ardley, the website designer; Toby Rufford-Lyle, the London barrister; the lowering-browed Tony Something who worked ‘in the City’. Even Lance, the gossipy TV Doctor seemed to have run out of chat.
To be fair, perhaps, as he had, their little group had all experienced estate agents’ more underhand tricks. Sensing the group was itching to top each other's buying and selling horror stories which his presence prevented, he said, ‘Excuse me, must do some more mingling,’ and took himself off to the other side of the room from where he was amused to see their discussion became animated. He caught several glances and knew they wouldn't forget him in a hurry.
Simon Farnell appeared at his elbow. ‘All alone, dear?’ he asked. ‘Let me introduce you to some other people.’ Before he could drag him off to another group, Rafferty said, ‘I thought I'd get another drink first.’
‘Dutch courage, is it? Go on then.’ Like the mother-hen to which Caroline Durward had likened him, Simon shooed him off towards the bar, then hurried to catch him up, to whisper, ‘By the way, dear, the accent's slipping.’
As he stood at the bar, he studied the women covertly; as he reminded himself, finding a partner was the reason he had come. Though, apart from Jenny, none of the other women appealed to him. All were discreetly made up and attractive in an understated way, but to Rafferty they all looked alike. Mostly blondes in little black numbers that contrasted so well with the perfect skin and shiny hair. Their bosoms, too, seemed to come in regulation sizes; Isobel aside, none were too voluptuous or too meagre. Even their voices sounded similar, well-modulated, nothing too strident. Caroline Durward, although a good ten years older, shared the blonde, unlined, well-groomed look. It occurred to him that he could be attending a plastic surgeons’ convention where the greatest successes were paraded. Briefly, Rafferty wondered where the failures were stored. Up in the attic, presumably, where, like Dorian Grey, they could do their time-withered bit out of sight. Rafferty preferred the more natural beauty of Jenny Warburton.
As people and conversations moved around him, he learned that most had names that ended in the up-market ‘a’ sound. It accorded with his theory that the names of the common herd tended to end in an ‘i’ sound, such as Kylie, Shelley, Tracey, Tiffany, Kimberley, Tammy, Billie and so on, and mostly applied more to girls. Up-market names ended in an ‘a’ sound, such as Lucinda, Lydia, Fiona, Diana, Miranda, Emma and Amanda and the really posh ones followed no rules at all - just like the more free-spirited of the working classes. Both often still gave their kids Biblical, classical, historical or royal names, such as Adam, Anne, Andrew, Elizabeth, Matthew, Luke, Mark, John, Charles, Edward, George and William as opposed to the designer gear wearing, celebrity-aping working class, who favoured names such as Kylie and the like.
Was it a coincidence, Rafferty wondered, that his cousins, Jerry and Terry shared the down-market ‘i’ sound? At least – as a Joseph, I'm as biblical as the aristos, he was able to comfort himself, until he realized his theory fell down because Jerry was actually Jeremiah, which put him in the up-market name area.
Of course, being his theory, it fell far short of proof. No doubt, if he mentioned it to Llewellyn, he would soon put him straight on it much as his did with most of his too-ready murder theories as to who had dunnit.
Two hours later Rafferty decided he'd done more than enough mingling and sought out Jenny again. He glimpsed her through the crowd. She wore a glazed look as some man with a supercilious expression shouted in her ear above the noise. Rafferty, about to butt in, was saved the trouble, as she put down her empty glass, said a few quiet goodbyes and made for the door.