'Oh, I see you've met Nicola, Jane,' smiled Amanda. 'Works with Peter. Married to Ivo, who's sitting down over there next to Tally.'
'Yes,' said Jane. She was furnished with all the information already. Nicola had rapped it out before lapsing into a sullen silence. She had pointedly not asked Jane any questions at all. Jane cursed herself for having let Amanda plonk her down here. Her hostess had seemed determined she should stop talking to the dark-haired American still standing with Peter over by the piano. They'd arrived at the same time and he'd introduced himself as Mark Stackable, a banker from the same firm as Peter.
He was so handsome she hadn't even sniggered at his name. She stared over the room at him now. He was gorgeous.
And smart.
His expensive-looking suit gave way to a crisp white shirt which set off a tan just the right side of improbable. He looked, Jane thought, as if he could show a girl a good time. Though which girl, if it came to a choice between herself and Tally, remained to be seen.
She looked across at Tally, still valiantly trying to kick-start a conversation with Ivo. As instructed, she had made an effort, and as a result her usual eccentric appearance
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was so toned down it could even pass for classic-with-a-twist. The classic was the perfectly-cut black dress which looked like one of Tally's more successful raids on her mother's wardrobe. It showed off her long legs to perfection, and played down the broadness of her shoulders so that her bare arms looked elegant and endless. The twist was the battered fuchsia feather boa that Tally clutched and tore at nervously with her long thin fingers, but this, Jane noted approvingly, actually reinforced the bohemian-aristo air of Bloomsbury that hung about her milk-white skin, piled-up hair and huge grey eyes. Tally looked, in short, unprecedentedly presentable.
Jane shifted uncomfortably in the black silk shirt and narrow cigarette pants she had hoped trumpeted to the world her recent weight loss. She had looked positively svelte in the full-length mirror (a first), and had felt sufficiently emboldened to slick on a mouthful of Mon Rouge. Now, compared to a Tally bordering on the beautiful, she wondered if she'd made enough of an effort. After all, it was a two-horse race now.
'Nicola's the top woman at Goldman's.' Amanda yanked her back from dreamland and deposited her next to the blonde again. 'She's
terrifyingly
successful!'
Why not just give me her CV and have done with it? thought Jane, expecting to hear Nicolas bra size next. Not that she looked like she needed one. Nicola was so flat-chested, Jane thought waspishly, her only possible use for bras would be for the identification of sex in the event of an accident.
'What do you do?' asked Nicola languidly, obviously already uninterested in the reply. Jane stared regretfully at her empty gin and tonic glass and prepared to address the heart-sinking question. In her book, 'And what do you
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do?' came second only to 'Have you discovered the love of Jesus?' as a conversational show-stopper.
'Jane's a journalist,' said Amanda brightly. 'Be careful what you say to her,' she added gaily as she strutted off across the carpet towards Sholto. 'You know what these wicked journalists are like.'
Sholto, catching the end of the sentence, beamed at her. 'You
are
a tease,' he said admiringly.
'I work on
Gorgeous?
Jane admitted, blushing. She could imagine the contempt with which Nicola, who had probably smashed more glass ceilings than the Crystal Palace demolition gang, would regard a society glossy.
Nicola stared at her. Jane shrank from her gaze.
'The one with the Champagne D'Vyne column, isn't it?'
Jane blushed again and nodded, embarrassed. She was surprised Nicola had even seen Champagne's column. Surely she was too busy being a Mistress of the Universe to read anything other than the share prices.
To her amazement, Nicola melted. 'Oh, but I
love
that column,' she gushed. 'It's wonderful.'
'So do I,' piped up Amanda, making a return circuit with a bowl of pistachios in one hand and the rescued bowl of Elizabethan Rose in the other. She proffered the pistachios. 'I
adore
it. And
so
interesting you should be talking about that, because tonight someone who knows—'
'It's true that she doesn't
write
it, isn't it?' Nicola interrupted.
Jane jolted with shock. Did people actually know then? Was recognition round the corner at last?
'I heard she doesn't write a word,' Nicola persisted.
Jane nodded, feeling months of pent-up frustration
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prepare to pour itself out to a sympathetic audience. 'Absolutely,' she began.
'Not as much as a full stop,' added Nicola, inhaling half her cigarette in her excitement.
'Not even a comma,' Jane agreed. 'I—'
'No, her agent does everything,' said Nicola gleefully.
'What?' Jane felt the ebullience drain out of her, slide over the sofa cushions and disappear under one of Amanda's original-feature Georgian doors.
'Yes, I go to the same gym as her agent,' panted Nicola. 'Guy called Simon. Says he writes every word. Gets absolutely no thanks from Champagne either. Bloody ungrateful, I call it.'
'Bloody
ungrateful,' added a voice from the doorway. 'But I think you'll find the agent is prone to exaggeration.'
Everyone stared at the newcomer. Black-haired and handsome, he lounged confidently against the doorframe wearing a suit as sharp as a razor. His glittering, black eyes were fixed on Nicola, whose furious expression said louder than words that she wasn't accustomed to being argued with. His sensual lips were pursed in an amused, dangerous, Tybalt-like smile.
'This is Saul Dewsbury, everyone,' said Amanda, proudly. Dewsbury moved across the carpet like a panther, his eyes sweeping the guests. Did Jane imagine it, or did his glance, impenetrable as a tinted limousine window, linger on her a second or two longer than it did on the others?
Tm
terribly
sorry about Champagne,' Dewsbury said, turning his back to the fireplace and addressing Amanda across the room. 'She was
desperate
to come but she just had to stay in and write her column, I'm afraid.' He shot a look at Nicola. 'Deadlines, you know.'
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Amanda nodded eagerly. 'Oh, I'd hate my little dinner party to deprive the rest of the nation of their monthly treat,' she twittered. An explosion of choking filled the room. Are you all right, Jane?' asked Amanda, concerned.
'Oh, f-f-fine,' gasped Jane, conscious of Dewsbury's glitter-eyed interest. 'Just went down the wrong way. I'm fine, really.'
'A table?
announced Amanda in her best French accent, motioning everyone to head next door into the canteloupe-coloured dining room. Jane looked apprehensively at the thin, grey iron chairs, complete with finials and fragile-looking strips of purple crushed velvet running over the seat and up the back to serve as both backrest and cushion.
Sitting down, she found they were every bit as uncomfortable as they looked. Particularly the prime slot Amanda had waved her to, next to the barking Ivo. There was an empty place between herself and Amanda. Would she hit the jackpot and get Mark Stackable? Or the booby prize, the scary Saul? A flock of butterflies rose in Jane's stomach as she saw Stackable come towards her, and settled down again as he was steered firmly to a seat the other side of Amanda. And you're here beside me, Saul,' Amanda called coquettishly, patting the ribbon of velvet between herself and Jane.
Mercifully, Saul was assigned to Amanda for the coquilles St Jacques. Jane, meanwhile, prepared to dig for victory with Ivo. Fortunately, her long apprenticeship getting conversational blood out of a stone with Champagne had its uses.
'What do you do?' She hated herself for asking the dreaded question, but this was an emergency. She was even prepared to ask him about discovering the love of Jesus if it didn't work. Across the table, Tally flashed her a
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grin. Jane half scowled back. It was all very well for Tally to look so jolly. She'd landed the coveted seat on the other side of Mark Stackable, and they were already chatting away like old friends. Even more annoyingly, Tally now looked positively gorgeous. The alchemy of the candlelight wiped the redness from her nose, gave her eyes a velvety depth and threw a halo of soft gold about her hair. As she moved her elegant fingers about the stem of her glass, the Venery gold signet ring caught the light.
'I'm an artist,' Ivo said, or sputtered, simultaneously revealing a cavalier attitude to oral hygiene and more plums in his mouth than an orchard of Victorias.
'What sort of an artist?' asked Jane.
'I work with kens, mostly.'
'Kens?' Visions of Barbie's boyfriend and Mr Barlow from
Coronation Street
segued rather confusingly before her.
'That's right,' said Ivo. 'Coca-Cola kens, baked bean kens, tomato kens, you name it. I collect them, crush them and make pictures out of them.'
'Do you wash them first?' asked Jane.
'Not always, etcherly,' said Ivo. Really, his voice was ridiculous, thought Jane. He was so grand he could barely speak. 'You can git some very interesting ifficts when the kens are still full. For instance, I orften put a bean ken in the road, wait for a car to run over it and spletter it, then scrape it up and stick it on the kenvess.'
Amanda placed the daube on the table, along with a bowl of what looked like grey mashed potato. Jane's heart sank. Oh no. Of all things in the world she could never digest. )
'Artichoke, Jane?' asked Amanda, digging into, and lifting, a huge chunk of the mixture and dolloping it in a heap in front of her. Fartichoke, thought Jane. They never
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had agreed with her. She looked warily at the grey pile on her plate. It had all-night stomach problems written all over it.
'So you're the famous Jane,' came a silky drawl at her side. I'm very glad to meet you at last. I've heard a lot about you, from Champagne.'
Jane looked into Saul's sharp, handsome face. His hooded eyes stared steadily back at her. He raised a single, elegant eyebrow and twisted his full, sensual mouth into the widest and most charming of smiles.
'Yes, well, I suppose I could say the same about you,' Jane said guardedly. She noticed he wore a watch chain. A sharply-folded handkerchief protruded like a knife blade from his waistcoat pocket. Jane took an enormous sip of nerve-steadying wine. 'You're very busy, from what I hear,' she blurted. She found the stillness with which Saul held himself intimidating, like a snake about to strike. 'What do you do to relax?' she added, trying to sound casual. It seemed wise on the whole to get him off the subject of his businesses, given that she had recently tried to ban Champagne from ever mentioning them.
'Oh, this and that,' said Saul, watching amusedly as Jane gulped back more of Peter's best Domaine de Vieux Telegraphe much too quickly. 'I'm quite keen on racing. I have an interest in a couple of racehorses, as a matter of fact.'
'Really?'
'Yes. One's called Dogfood so it knows what's in store for it if it loses. The other's called Knacker's Yard for the same reason.' Saul grinned wolfishly at her. Jane tried to suppress a shiver. He was so cold. She felt like the
Titanic
to his iceberg, but without the warmth and humour the word iceberg normally implies.
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'I'm also quite keen on fishing,' said Saul.
He was not the type Jane could easily imagine standing for hours on a riverbank. 'You are?'
'Yes, I'm very fond of getting my rod out,' Saul enlarged. 'At the moment, as it happens, I'm trying to develop the ultimate fly.'
Despite herself, Jane's gaze flashed involuntarily to his crotch.
'Fishing fly,' said Saul, sounding amused. His eyes were curiously expressionless beneath their hoods. 'I'm developing a type of fly which always catches a fish.'
Jane was still not sure if he was teasing her or not.
'The secret,' said Saul, locking her gaze with his own, 'is to attach a female pubic hair to each one.' Embarrassment coursed through her. Ivo, on her other side, was riveted.
'Fish can't resist the female pheromone,' Saul continued. 'And oddly enough, different colours of pubic hair attract different types of fish.' He paused, and raked Jane's fair crown with a meaningful look. 'Salmon, like gentlemen, apparently prefer blondes.'
Ivo sniggered.
Jane became aware that, the other side of Tally, Sholto's interest had now been engaged.
'I say, is that really true?' Sholto asked, his rather Hanoverian, bulging blue eyes protruding even further. His spongy scalp flushed pinker with excitement.
'How very interesting,' Jane muttered, thrusting her fork savagely into the pile of abandoned and cooling artichoke mash.
'Yes, isn't it?' Saul purred. 'I was trying to persuade Champagne that she should mention it in the column, as it must be of interest to a great many readers.'
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Something interesting in Champagne's column, thought Jane, would be a first in itself.
'But I understand from Champagne that, how shall I put it, that her column is subject to a certain amount of, er,
censorship!
Saul gave Jane a dangerous smile.