Diana was about to finish her make-up when she noticed that her left hand was still unadorned. She got up and rummaged inside her handbag until she found her wedding ring. She contemplated it for a moment, then opened her jewellery box, dropped it in, and closed the lid. Then, in a series of swift, deliberate movements, she applied her lipstick, blotted it with a tissue, gave her nose a last dab of powder, and adjusted the neck of her evening dress. Gathering up her bag, gloves and coat, she locked the door of the flat behind her, and went out into the street.
The party was in Mayfair, at the home of Jock Anderson, an admirer of Lally’s, for whom Diana had worked at Wormwood Scrubs. She asked the taxi to stop at Piccadilly Circus. It was a warm evening, her new shoes weren’t pinching too much, and she wanted to compose herself a bit before entering a room full of people - somehow, the cab ride hadn’t quite done the trick. She was gradually getting used to arriving at places unaccompanied, but she still felt diffident about it. The parties she’d attended with Guy were full of people of his age, not hers, and she’d usually found them pretty dull. The parties she went to now were much more lively. There was always someone to take you on to a nightclub afterwards, and somehow the age of the guests no longer seemed to matter. She supposed that was because of the war: the feeling that one might as well have a bit of fun while there was still time. The thought of invasion frightened her, as it must, she thought, frighten most people, but it didn’t do to talk about it.
She wondered who would be at Jock Anderson’s party. Lally certainly, and, she hoped, Colonel Forbes-James. He’d been so pleased with her on Sunday when she’d gone to Dolphin Square to report on her introduction to Mrs Montague. She allowed herself to bask for a moment in the memory of how he’d nodded and smiled and pushed a wrapped present into her hand as she’d left his flat. It had turned out to be a jar of bath salts. She suddenly wondered how he’d come by it. It was impossible to think of him doing anything as frivolous as wandering about Selfridges selecting gifts, but how else would he have acquired such an item?
It was at this point, as she passed the entrance to the Royal Academy, that Diana became aware, although she couldn’t have said quite how, that someone was following her, and that, judging by the footsteps, it was a man. She tried to persuade herself that this couldn’t be the case, and when that failed, decided to put it to the test. She slowed down. He slowed down. She quickened her pace. He quickened his. When she turned right into Old Bond Street he turned, too. Putting all thoughts of the white slave trade, if it actually existed (people always knew someone who knew someone), out of her mind, she crossed the road and turned left into Stafford Street. He followed, and when she turned left again, into Albemarle Street, he stayed with her. With her destination now in sight, she was no longer worried. She marched confidently up the steps, rang the bell, and stood back to wait. Surely, she thought, he must give up now.
He didn’t. In a matter of seconds, he was standing right behind her. She felt a prickle of fear. What the hell did he want? I’m not turning round, she thought. He can do whatever he likes, but I’m not going to pay any attention. In any case he’d look pretty stupid when Jock appeared - she just wished he’d hurry up - and gave him his marching orders.
She saw the door open, acknowledged Jock’s smile, and then, before she could speak, he looked directly over her head and said ‘Ventriss! Delighted you’re here. Come on in.’ Turning to Diana, he continued, ‘I didn’t know you two knew each other.’
‘We don’t,’ said Diana, covering her embarrassment in the twin actions of handing her coat to Jock’s elderly manservant and fussing, quite unnecessarily, with her evening bag. When she did look up - quite a long way up, because the man was very tall, even to her five feet seven plus high heels - she found herself staring into a pair of twinkling brown eyes. The man was older than her, about thirty, so ridiculously good-looking - and obviously aware of the fact - and so immaculate in his dress that she felt her chin lift automatically. ‘This is Mrs Calthrop.’ Jock sounded amused. ‘Claude Ventriss.’
Diana drew off her glove, extended a deliberately limp hand, and murmuring, ‘How d’you do?’ swept down the hall without waiting for an answer. Spotting Lally in the crush of the front room, which was smoky, and, because of the blackouts, phenomenally hot, she secured a drink and, drawing the other woman aside, said, ‘I’ve just been introduced to the most extraordinary man.’
‘What’s he called?’
‘Ventriss. I didn’t catch his first name.’ This was a lie, but Diana felt entitled to it. After all, the man had followed her quite deliberately - he must have known jolly well where Jock’s house was - and he was far too handsome for his own good. Lally laughed. ‘His name’s Claude. Works for us. I’m surprised you haven’t come across him before, but now that you have . . .’ she leant forward conspiratorially, ‘Whatever you do, don’t fall in love with him.’
‘That’s not very likely,’ said Diana, with as much hauteur as she could muster.
‘Isn’t it?’ asked Lally, innocently. ‘Most women do. One sees it all the time.’
‘Perhaps one does,’ retorted Diana, ‘But one’s certainly not going to see it now.’ As put-downs went, it wasn’t exactly a trump, but it was the best she could manage in the circumstances.
Lally looked sceptical. ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Before Diana could think of a response to this, they were joined by Forbes-James and several other people and the conversation, mercifully, took a different tack.
After a couple of hours, when she’d stopped feeling ruffled and was enjoying herself, Diana felt her arm being stroked. A deep voice said ‘Excuse me,’ and, as she was propelled around to face the speaker, a hint of conspiracy in the eyes of the man she’d been talking to - alarmingly similar to Jock’s face in the hall earlier - told her exactly who the caresser was going to be. He said, ‘I’ve been finding out all about you.’
‘Have you really?’
Ventriss nodded. ‘Really. I’m very impressed.’
‘I’m so glad,’ said Diana, sarcastically.
‘You’re quite the pin-up girl, aren’t you?’
‘Am I?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Diana wasn’t sure what to say next. She wished he wouldn’t look at her with such a particular expression of dreamy greediness. She’d seen it on men’s faces before, but they usually pretended to turn their attention elsewhere for a few seconds from time to time. Ventriss’s gaze, continuous and unabashed, made her feel uncomfortable, and she knew that he wasn’t going to be thrown off by mere
froideur
. ‘Yes,’ he repeated thoughtfully, glancing down at her naked left hand, ‘Old F-J is very taken with you, Mrs Calthrop.’ Remembering the sequence of events that had led her to consign her wedding ring to the jewellery box, Diana blushed. Hating herself for it, and trying to recover ground, she said, ‘You know Colonel Forbes-James?’
‘Of course,’ he said absently, and carried on staring at her.
Diana pulled herself together. ‘Why were you following me?’ she challenged. ‘You must have known I wasn’t going the right way.’
‘I liked the look of you.’
‘You couldn’t see me.’
‘I couldn’t see your face. But I promised myself that if you were a tart, I’d buy you, and if you weren’t, I’d take you out to dinner.’
‘You can’t buy me that way, either.’ Determined not to appear more rattled than she already was, Diana asked, ‘Why did you think I might be a tart?’
Ventriss shrugged. ‘It’s not easy to tell from a woman’s back. An expensive tart, of course,’ he said, as an afterthought.
Diana tried to check herself - why was she even engaging in this ludicrous conversation? - but the words came out anyway. ‘I might have been hideous.’
Ventriss shook his head. ‘I knew you’d be lovely. Only beautiful women walk like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘With assurance. You know damn well people are looking at you.’
This, she thought, was a quite extraordinary thing to say; she’d been brought up to believe that it was wrong to think one was attractive or, indeed, noticeable in any way. ‘Nobody will be looking at you, dear,’ was how her Nanny had always put it. ‘No I don’t,’ she said.
‘Really?’ Ventriss raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t believe you.’ After a moment’s pause, he added, ‘I’m going to leave you to your friends. I’ll come and find you later, and we can have dinner.’ He turned abruptly and disappeared into the throng.
Lally materialised at Diana’s elbow. ‘Fallen in love yet?’ she asked.
‘Certainly not.’
‘Well, in that case, do you want to come on to the 400? Davey Tremaine’s getting a party together. Unless you have other plans, of course.’
‘No,’ said Diana, firmly.
‘You’ll come, then?’
‘Why not?’
Claude Ventriss appeared in the hall as Davey Tremaine was assisting Diana and Lally with their coats. ‘You’re ready,’ he said. ‘Good. We should be just in time for Sovrani’s.’
‘I thought you didn’t have other plans,’ Lally murmured.
‘I don’t.’ Diana turned her back on Ventriss and mouthed, ‘Help me.’
Lally shrugged. Diana glared at her, and turned to face Ventriss again. ‘I don’t want to have dinner with you,’ she said.
‘Yes you do,’ said Ventriss calmly. ‘You’ll enjoy it.’
‘I shan’t.’
‘Don’t be childish. Of course you will.’
Diana glanced at Lally, who was patting her hair in front of a mirror and giving a very bad imitation of someone who wasn’t listening. ‘Escalope de Veau,’ intoned Ventriss. ‘Sûpreme de Volaille. Homard Thermidor. Sauté de Boeuf Stroganoff.’
‘Do you know the entire menu by heart?’ Diana snapped.
‘Yes,’ said Ventriss. ‘And it’s all delicious. Stop prevaricating and come with me.’
‘No, I bloody well won’t.’
‘Huîtres Mornay. Coupe Jacques. Yes you bloody well will.’
‘Have fun,’ said Lally, sardonically.
Davey Tremaine winked. ‘Pêche Melba,’ he said. ‘Crêpes au Citron.’
‘Not you as well,’ said Diana.
‘You know you want to. Anyway, we’re off. Enjoy yourselves!’ Taking Lally’s arm, Tremaine ushered her out of the front door and down the steps. Out-manoeuvred and cursing herself for being feeble, Diana decided it wasn’t worth making a scene - she was pretty hungry, after all - and accompanied Ventriss into the street. ‘Do you ever take no for an answer?’ she asked.
Ventriss shook his head and stepped into the road to look for a taxi. Watching him, Diana thought, he probably doesn’t get no for an answer - at least, not from women. Meekly, she allowed herself to be helped into the back of a cab, which had materialised as if by magic. (It would, she thought.)
‘You’ll have a lovely time,’ said Ventriss, offering her a cigarette. ‘Excellent food, and lots more people to admire you.’
‘I told you, I don’t want people to admire me.’
‘No you didn’t, you said you weren’t aware of people looking at you. That wasn’t true, either.’ He smiled at her. ‘No point in being beautiful if nobody’s there to notice. It’s wasteful.’
Diana was about to retort that she bet people noticed him all right when she realised that this would imply a compliment that she wasn’t prepared to pay.
‘No need to be coy about it,’ he continued. ‘You must know how lovely you are.’
‘You sound like one of those stupid novels by men where the heroine looks in the glass and admires her beauty. It simply isn’t like that. When a woman - any woman - looks at herself, all she sees are the things that need putting right. Now, can we please talk about something else?’
‘Anything you like, Mrs Calthrop.’ He glanced down at her (now gloved) left hand.
Feeling that it would be unbearable to go on like this for the rest of the evening, she said, ‘Diana.’
After a slight pause, during which she prepared herself for something silly about goddesses or huntresses, Ventriss said, simply, ‘Claude.’
‘Are you French?’
‘My mother. My father was English. Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?’
She didn’t answer immediately. She couldn’t. Such a direct question was better than a lunge, she supposed, but not much. She looked at his handsome face and experienced, despite her best efforts to quell it, a sharp and disturbingly localised pang of excitement. For a split second she contemplated telling him that she was widowed, but refrained. However disappointing her marriage had turned out, to say that Guy was dead would be too much like wishing it, and she didn’t. The other reason, much to her disgust, was a practical one: if he wished, Ventriss would easily be able to find out that Guy was still alive. She chose another lie. ‘I’m afraid it was lost.’
‘Oh?’ Really, she thought, he might at least try to sound as if he believes me. Remembering Forbes-James’s dictum about lying (tell a good one and above all stick to it), she looked Ventriss squarely in the eye. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it went down a drain. I think my hands must have got thinner, because it just slipped off while I was washing them.’