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Authors: Jon Cleary
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knew, as only the truly ambitious can tell themselves, that from now on she was safe from the dole queue. Though it was only the beginning of February even the sun broke through. True, it did only shine for an hour, as if it had come by to see if Britain was still there, but it was an omen.
Then a small package was delivered from Cartier in Bond Street. In it was a gold pen and a note written in a copperplate hand: âA small thanks for your splendid story. Our lease has been renewed for another 99 years. Do come and have tea with us again.â
The year looked as if it was going to be a good one. She rang home and told her father so. âIâm on my way, Dad.â
âGood for you, sweetheart.â But he sounded disappointed, as if he had lost something or someone.
3
I
JOHN CRUZE , Lord Cruze of Chalfont St. Aidan, was tired of the Swinging Sixties. He wondered why he had bothered to go to tonightâs party at the country house of Saul Petty; it had made him feel old, a state of mind that he tried to avoid as much as he did the thought of cancer. Everyone at the party, with the exception of himself and the host, had either been under twenty-five, or if they werenât, had tried to look under twenty-five. He thought there was nothing more pathetic than middle-aged swingers: they might try to put the clock back but their faces showed the true time. Tonight there had been men of his own age, fifty, pillars of the City looking decidedly shaky on their Twisting legs, the creaking of their bones competing with the clanging of the gold chains and medallions round their necks; there had been so many gold medals, he had felt he was at some geriatricsâ Olympiad. There had also been their wives and mistresses, dressed in Chelsea boutique clothes that made them look as if they had looted their daughtersâ wardrobes. The girls under twenty-five, in hot pants and mini-skirts, had worn make-up that wouldnât have looked odd on a tribe of New Guinea hillmen; he reckoned there must have been enough mascara on display that night to have painted the hull of the QE2. Their escorts, hipless, chestless, shoulderless, the new fashion, looked as if they had been dressed by Cecil Beaton for the girlsâ parts in a revival of the Gaiety Girls; he had never seen so many ruffles. The band, six hipless, chestless, shoulderless hairy wrecks, all wearing dark glasses against the glare of the Chinese lanterns strung around the terrace of the house, were playing so loudly, it sounded as if they were also playing for a party in Brighton, some fifty miles away.
âYou were bloody sour this evening,â said Felicity Kidson. âYou didnât move out of your chair, just sat there like the bloody Archbishop of Canterbury all night.â
âIâm bloody sour now. I thought that was the Archbishop of Canterbury you were dancing with, till I saw it was Saul. Whatâs he doing, getting dressed up like that at his age?â
The glass partition of the Rolls-Royce Phantom was up and Sid Cromwell, the chauffeur, could not hear their conversation. Lord Cruze never worried what his servants thought about his actions, that would have put too much of a curb on his sex life; but he had never learned to ignore them when he conversed in front of them. Which was another reminder that he was not a true aristocrat, just another life peer.
âI donât know how Saulâheâs what? Seventy-seven?âgets a kick out of something like tonightâs bedlam. I noticed he wasnât wearing his hearing-aid.â
Felicity sighed and sank back into her long bright-red feather boa. She was wearing white satin jodhpurs, white boots and a sequined blue silk shirt open to the bottom button; with her bright red boa, he privately thought she looked like a French hairdresser on his way to an international rugby match; but he had given up making any comment on the way she dressed these days. Beside her, in his
Then a small package was delivered from Cartier in Bond Street. In it was a gold pen and a note written in a copperplate hand: âA small thanks for your splendid story. Our lease has been renewed for another 99 years. Do come and have tea with us again.â
The year looked as if it was going to be a good one. She rang home and told her father so. âIâm on my way, Dad.â
âGood for you, sweetheart.â But he sounded disappointed, as if he had lost something or someone.
3
I
JOHN CRUZE , Lord Cruze of Chalfont St. Aidan, was tired of the Swinging Sixties. He wondered why he had bothered to go to tonightâs party at the country house of Saul Petty; it had made him feel old, a state of mind that he tried to avoid as much as he did the thought of cancer. Everyone at the party, with the exception of himself and the host, had either been under twenty-five, or if they werenât, had tried to look under twenty-five. He thought there was nothing more pathetic than middle-aged swingers: they might try to put the clock back but their faces showed the true time. Tonight there had been men of his own age, fifty, pillars of the City looking decidedly shaky on their Twisting legs, the creaking of their bones competing with the clanging of the gold chains and medallions round their necks; there had been so many gold medals, he had felt he was at some geriatricsâ Olympiad. There had also been their wives and mistresses, dressed in Chelsea boutique clothes that made them look as if they had looted their daughtersâ wardrobes. The girls under twenty-five, in hot pants and mini-skirts, had worn make-up that wouldnât have looked odd on a tribe of New Guinea hillmen; he reckoned there must have been enough mascara on display that night to have painted the hull of the QE2. Their escorts, hipless, chestless, shoulderless, the new fashion, looked as if they had been dressed by Cecil Beaton for the girlsâ parts in a revival of the Gaiety Girls; he had never seen so many ruffles. The band, six hipless, chestless, shoulderless hairy wrecks, all wearing dark glasses against the glare of the Chinese lanterns strung around the terrace of the house, were playing so loudly, it sounded as if they were also playing for a party in Brighton, some fifty miles away.
âYou were bloody sour this evening,â said Felicity Kidson. âYou didnât move out of your chair, just sat there like the bloody Archbishop of Canterbury all night.â
âIâm bloody sour now. I thought that was the Archbishop of Canterbury you were dancing with, till I saw it was Saul. Whatâs he doing, getting dressed up like that at his age?â
The glass partition of the Rolls-Royce Phantom was up and Sid Cromwell, the chauffeur, could not hear their conversation. Lord Cruze never worried what his servants thought about his actions, that would have put too much of a curb on his sex life; but he had never learned to ignore them when he conversed in front of them. Which was another reminder that he was not a true aristocrat, just another life peer.
âI donât know how Saulâheâs what? Seventy-seven?âgets a kick out of something like tonightâs bedlam. I noticed he wasnât wearing his hearing-aid.â
Felicity sighed and sank back into her long bright-red feather boa. She was wearing white satin jodhpurs, white boots and a sequined blue silk shirt open to the bottom button; with her bright red boa, he privately thought she looked like a French hairdresser on his way to an international rugby match; but he had given up making any comment on the way she dressed these days. Beside her, in his
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