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Authors: David Roberts
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greeted Edward as though he had been in just a few days before, though it was at least a year since he had been ‘out on the tiles’, as he put it. He bought a buttonhole from the one-legged man at the door and they made their way through a throng of dancers to a table well back from the dance floor.
Verity went off to ‘powder her nose’. The ladies’ cloak-room was fitted out with marble basins and gold taps. Looking at herself in the mirror, she thought Edward had no need to be ashamed of his wife. Her new dress, sensuous blue silk that hugged her body, made her feel desirable. Maybe she wasn’t as smart as the expensively dressed women making up their faces on either side of her – and talking across her as though she did not exist in harsh, high-pitched voices – but she did not envy them. Their air of extreme boredom and consequent discontent, though possibly adopted to convey worldly wisdom, made their eyes hard. The powder with which they covered their faces turned their skin a deathly white so that, in the bright artificial light, they appeared to be wearing masks. She thought she recognized one or two of them but they belonged to a world of which she had never been part. She might be Lady Edward Corinth but she knew – or thought she knew – that these idle, wealthy women would despise her as a parvenue if they ever deigned to notice her.
Her ears pricked as she heard the name Byron Gates. She would hardly have imagined that – being neither rich nor titled – he would be known to such women but it appeared she was wrong. One of the women was saying that her sister worked at the BBC – ‘ too amusing, my dear, but if the war comes we’ll all be expected to do our bit, I suppose.’
‘I wouldn’t mind having a job,’ the woman on Verity’s left put in. ‘It might be rather exciting driving officers round London. Men look so much more manly in uniform, don’t you think, Babs?’
‘Not my Reggie. He’s a dear but not even a field marshal’s uniform would make him – how did you put it? – manly. As for Byron dressing up to look like Oscar Wilde, it might have been amusing in the twenties but how he manages to look louche without being attractive, I can’t think. And he hasn’t got any money.’
‘You don’t really think that, do you, darling?’ one of the other women said. ‘I think he’s so handsome and he dances divinely.’
‘Well, why don’t you ditch him, Babs? Reggie, I mean,’ the woman on Verity’s right suggested.
‘But how would I support myself without Reggie’s millions? There seem to be so many fewer unattached rich men in London nowadays.’
‘But, Babs, you promised to tell us about Merry,’ another woman said.
It appeared that Byron had taken ‘Merry’ – who, Verity deduced, was Babs’s younger sister – to the Embassy and then abandoned her for ‘some tart’, leaving her without the money to get a taxi home. ‘I mean, what a cad! Luigi had to sub her a pound,’ Babs finished.
‘How perfectly frightful! Well, of course he’s not a gentleman,’ one of the women said, powdering her nose with ferocity.
‘No, but he’s a poet and jolly good-looking,’ another of Babs’s friends said with a giggle.
‘Still, Merry’s learnt her lesson,’ her sister added, painting her lips a deeper shade of red. ‘She told me she’s thinking of becoming a lesbian – so amusing. Apparently the BBC is full of queers.’
‘If he did that to my sister, I’d get Ronald to give him a thrashing,’ her friend said, blotting her crimson lips on a paper towel.
Edward rose as Verity reappeared at the table. She apologized for being so long. ‘I just couldn’t drag myself away. I was eavesdropping on a conversation about Byron Gates. I gather he brought a girl here and left her without a sou while he went off with another girl. You men!’
She sank on to the banquette beside Edward and sipped at her champagne. Harry Roy’s band was playing dance music and
Verity went off to ‘powder her nose’. The ladies’ cloak-room was fitted out with marble basins and gold taps. Looking at herself in the mirror, she thought Edward had no need to be ashamed of his wife. Her new dress, sensuous blue silk that hugged her body, made her feel desirable. Maybe she wasn’t as smart as the expensively dressed women making up their faces on either side of her – and talking across her as though she did not exist in harsh, high-pitched voices – but she did not envy them. Their air of extreme boredom and consequent discontent, though possibly adopted to convey worldly wisdom, made their eyes hard. The powder with which they covered their faces turned their skin a deathly white so that, in the bright artificial light, they appeared to be wearing masks. She thought she recognized one or two of them but they belonged to a world of which she had never been part. She might be Lady Edward Corinth but she knew – or thought she knew – that these idle, wealthy women would despise her as a parvenue if they ever deigned to notice her.
Her ears pricked as she heard the name Byron Gates. She would hardly have imagined that – being neither rich nor titled – he would be known to such women but it appeared she was wrong. One of the women was saying that her sister worked at the BBC – ‘ too amusing, my dear, but if the war comes we’ll all be expected to do our bit, I suppose.’
‘I wouldn’t mind having a job,’ the woman on Verity’s left put in. ‘It might be rather exciting driving officers round London. Men look so much more manly in uniform, don’t you think, Babs?’
‘Not my Reggie. He’s a dear but not even a field marshal’s uniform would make him – how did you put it? – manly. As for Byron dressing up to look like Oscar Wilde, it might have been amusing in the twenties but how he manages to look louche without being attractive, I can’t think. And he hasn’t got any money.’
‘You don’t really think that, do you, darling?’ one of the other women said. ‘I think he’s so handsome and he dances divinely.’
‘Well, why don’t you ditch him, Babs? Reggie, I mean,’ the woman on Verity’s right suggested.
‘But how would I support myself without Reggie’s millions? There seem to be so many fewer unattached rich men in London nowadays.’
‘But, Babs, you promised to tell us about Merry,’ another woman said.
It appeared that Byron had taken ‘Merry’ – who, Verity deduced, was Babs’s younger sister – to the Embassy and then abandoned her for ‘some tart’, leaving her without the money to get a taxi home. ‘I mean, what a cad! Luigi had to sub her a pound,’ Babs finished.
‘How perfectly frightful! Well, of course he’s not a gentleman,’ one of the women said, powdering her nose with ferocity.
‘No, but he’s a poet and jolly good-looking,’ another of Babs’s friends said with a giggle.
‘Still, Merry’s learnt her lesson,’ her sister added, painting her lips a deeper shade of red. ‘She told me she’s thinking of becoming a lesbian – so amusing. Apparently the BBC is full of queers.’
‘If he did that to my sister, I’d get Ronald to give him a thrashing,’ her friend said, blotting her crimson lips on a paper towel.
Edward rose as Verity reappeared at the table. She apologized for being so long. ‘I just couldn’t drag myself away. I was eavesdropping on a conversation about Byron Gates. I gather he brought a girl here and left her without a sou while he went off with another girl. You men!’
She sank on to the banquette beside Edward and sipped at her champagne. Harry Roy’s band was playing dance music and
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