Read Online This Private Plot by Alan Beechey - Free Book Online Page A

traffic.”
    â€œStill, better it’s us that’s ‘late’ than any of you girls, eh?” said his companion, with a general leer for the room. “Know what I mean?” he added unnecessarily, but the sisters’ laughter was apparently genuine. Lucinda whispered an explanation into Quilt-Hogg’s ear, and he nodded, muttering his favorite phrase again.
    â€œOh, Eric,” cried Davina, taking the newcomer by the arm, “for Jesu’s sake, forbeare. Come and meet the new arrivals.”
    â€œAt your cervix, dear madam,” the young man declared. He was introduced to Quilt-Hogg, Ben, and finally to Effie, to whom he bowed with comic gallantry.
    â€œNice one, Olls,” Eric said, nudging Oliver and indicating Effie with a sideways nod of his head. “Like the hair.”
    Oliver smiled politely, wishing he had Wendy Bennet’s talent for signaling utter contempt at the same time. Eric Mormal (Tesco, black cotton) was an old school friend of Toby’s, a lean, pale specter, who looked like a stretched thirteen-year-old, complete with residual acne, a pubic moustache, and a mind permanently in the gutter—not so much for the filth to be found there, but because it was the best place to metaphorically look up women’s skirts. He worked for a nearby cooperative farm, but his bliss was to become a full-time rock legend as evidenced by spiky dyed-blond hair, tattoos, and a collection of hoops in his ear that made it look like a shower curtain.
    â€œSo who are you fronting now?” Oliver asked, trying to remember what Toby had last told him about Mormal’s musical career. “Is it still The Gong Farmers?”
    â€œNah, we have a new lineup now: we’re called ‘Mrs. Slocombe’s Pussy.’” He tried to toss a stuffed olive into his mouth, without success. It rolled under a sofa.
    What was Mormal doing here? Oliver wondered. For girls of the Bennets’ micro-class—Orwell would have stuck them in the lower-upper-middle bracket—the provincial dinner party was still the primary lek , the gentrified equivalent of the singles bar. No doubt it was at some similar, very soft society event that the Honorable Donald had been strutting his well-tailored but fraying plumage when Lucinda, scenting an aristo, had wafted a few choice pheromones in his direction; thus the Hon. Don was undone. But Eric Mormal was the barrel’s scrapings, the living reason why “uncouth” has no antonym. Surely Wendy wasn’t this desperate?
    Ben had been invited to squeeze onto an unyielding settee between the Bennets’ only twins, Clarissa and Catriona (both loose blonde curls, yellow Lanvin and blue LaCroix, respectively) and was asking them politely where he might have seen them before when a young woman in an ill-fitting housemaid’s uniform belted a gong beside the fireplace, a fearful summons to the dining room. He got up gratefully from his Bennet sandwich, and the two girls followed silently in his wake.
    The customary separation of couples at the dining table didn’t seem to apply to Lucinda and the Honorable Donald, presumably so that if the urge to propose came over him during the meal, he could skip the legwork and drop to one knee straight from his chair. Effie, however, was squashed between Quilt-Hogg on her right and Mormal on her left, while Oliver was consigned to the other side of the table. He had squeezed her elbow reassuringly as they entered the dining room. “Just signal if I start to drink the finger-bowl,” she had whispered, nervously scanning the ranks of silverware that bordered her tablemat.
    â€œDid you meet Oliver up at Oxford, Effie?” Xanthe Bennet (blond chin-length hair, gray Chanel) ventured from across the table, after they had taken their seats.
    â€œNo, but I met him in Oxford, once,” said Effie with a smile, and immediately watched her witticism sail effortlessly over