Getting It Right (11 page)

‘Leave him alone! He’s got a right to his own life, hasn’t he?’

‘I never said he hadn’t. I only asked.’

‘If you was all dressed up for a party, you wouldn’t thank people for prying into your affairs. Now would you?’

‘I ought to go really. Mustn’t be late.’

‘See what you’ve done? Driven the boy out with your nasty inquisitive questions.’

‘It’s all right, Mum. I don’t mind him asking. It’s just I don’t know where the party is.’

‘You see?’ A thought struck her. ‘You’re going to a party and you don’t know where it
is
? How can you do that? What sort of party can
that
be?’

‘I don’t
know
, Mum. Harry asked me to go with them.’

‘Them? Who’s them?’

‘Winthrop, Mum.’

‘And who’s them beside Winthrop?’

‘
Harry.
Winthrop and Harry.’

‘No need to raise your voice with me.’

‘Who’s asking questions now?’ Mr Lamb was enjoying the turned tables. He should have known better. She rounded on him. ‘I only wanted to know. And who started it? Gavin
didn’t mind me asking, did you, Gavin? I only asked. Don’t you take that tone with me. You surprise me sometimes, you really do, with your nasty nature, I wonder where it all comes
from.’

Gavin met his father’s eye warningly. Then he leant down and gave his mother a quick kiss. She jumped.

‘Now look what you’ve made me do!’ She held out a little horny thumb on which a bead of scarlet blood was forming. ‘Two inches further down and a bit to the left and I
might have had lockjaw! Where are you off to?’ Mr Lamb had levered himself to his feet.

‘Get the iodine.’

‘Sorry, Mum.’

‘All this fuss about a little prick.’ But she was appeased, and Gavin was able to make his escape.

On his scooter, he reflected that really his mother was an excitable person who was short of excitement. She could do all that she had to do with one hand tied behind her back, in half of her
day, and then she was left with solitary hours that neither her upbringing nor her intellect had equipped her to fill. He wondered how many people were bored without realizing it. Because surely
anybody who recognized their boredom could do something about it? Perhaps that was much more difficult than it seemed. Boredom might be a kind of evil, ubiquitous secret that people called by any
other name that suited their nature and view of themselves. Discontent, dissatisfaction, being a square peg in a round hole, envy – wanting, while still themselves, to lead someone
else’s life, unhappiness . . . he felt less sure of unhappiness as he did not know enough about it. His knowledge was gleaned chiefly from reading – from opera and the theatre, and
again none of that was exactly like life: although, if good, it gave the appearance of it, at the same time confirming that it did not matter so much what you did, or even what happened to you, so
much as it mattered how you felt about it. Unhappiness in real life must be largely a matter of feeling that you were struck and caught by some circumstance that you were unable to escape from or
resist. And he supposed that if you went on being unhappy about the same thing in the same way some kind of boredom would ensue. Boredom, in fact, seemed to have something to do with lack of
movement. But then, people could have what seemed to be very boring lives and not be bored by them. Look at him, for instance. He was just a hairdresser still living at home with his parents with
two weeks’ holiday – well, three now – a year – nobody could say that his was a very exciting life.
He
wasn’t bored. On the other hand not enough happened for
him to be unhappy in any sense that he understood what was meant by that. He wondered whether he could bear it if he was, but he was approaching Havergal Heights, and all the known – and,
worse, unknown – possibilities that attached to a party were really upon him now. He dismounted his bike with a dry mouth and the feeling that he had lost the knack of breathing properly.

He felt momentarily comforted by the sight of Harry who was looking friendly and smart in his purple shirt with a pale pink scarf round his neck and his hair sleeked back.

‘Welcome, dear boy. The others haven’t arrived yet and Winthrop’s had trouble with his jeans. I
told
him they were too tight when he bought them. “You’ll
do yourself an injury,” I said when he tried them on, but his Lordship’s vanity prevailed so we shall all have to hope for the best.’

The room looked very tidy with bowls of peanuts and Twiglets on the black glass table and all the cushions carefully askew on the chesterfield.

‘You’re looking very good, if I may say so. Sit down, dear boy, I’m going to get us a little drink.’

Gavin sat down and ate a peanut to take his mind off things. The windows on to the balcony were open, but the curtains, that looked as though they were made of yellow fishing nets, hung
motionless. Another thing about parties, he recalled, was that he nearly always felt too hot at them.

‘Close, isn’t it? Thunder about, I think. Now, you can have whisky, or my little concoction. Winthrop and I got rather attached to it when we were in the South of France.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s called Kir. Have a go and see how you like it.’ He poured a faintly pink liquid from a jug. Gavin tasted it. It was cool, a bit fruity and rather nice.

‘It’s just white wine with a spot of blackcurrant cordial. Like it?’

Gavin nodded, decided to have a Wilhelm II to calm himself and asked who were the others.

‘Just Stephen and Noel.’

‘Is the party here then?’ He began to feel better at the prospect.

‘No, no. They’re coming to pick us up – give us a lift. The party’s in some flat that belongs to someone who’s a friend of one of Winthrop’s friends but
he’s away. Somewhere off the Cromwell Road,’ he added as though this pinpointed it. ‘It’s a mixed party – it’s not just us. The field will be wide open, dear
boy.’

Gavin tried to smile, but he began quite wildly to wish that he was getting ‘flu, or, better still, was an asthmatic with an incontrovertible attack coming on.

‘Perhaps I’d better take my bike?’ This would mean that he had at least the means of escape. But before Harry could reply the buzzer went and Harry rushed to answer it.

Winthrop emerged from the bedroom while Harry was dealing with the door. He wore a black T-shirt with GET LOST in green on it, and the tightest pair of white jeans that Gavin had ever seen. This
made him move rather stiffly – like Frankenstein’s monster – and when he sat down, which he did at once, it did not seem possible for him to bend his knees. His auburn hair was
wet and hung in tight shiny ringlets.

‘Hi,’ he said amiably. ‘How’s tricks?’

Wondering what Winthrop might think his would be, Gavin said they were fine. Winthrop heaved himself into a position that enabled him to pour himself a drink. To Gavin’s surprise he chose
whisky – about two inches of it. He caught Gavin’s eye, and winked.

‘Barnet’s wet,’ he said: ‘don’t want to catch cold.’ He downed the drink just as Harry returned with the newcomers. There were three of them.

‘Bloody door’s gone wrong again.’ He looked flustered. ‘This is Stephen and Noel – and Spiro – from Greece. Gavin.’

‘And fucking little me,’ said Winthrop. He looked ominously at Harry. Harry blushed. ‘
You
know Stephen and Noel. I don’t have to introduce you.’

‘I don’t know Spiro. Do I, Spiro?’

Spiro, who was extraordinarily young and extraordinarily good looking, smiled so that Gavin could see that his teeth matched the whites of his eyes, tripped over to the chesterfield and shook
Winthrop’s hand.

‘Is British to shake,’ he said.

Stephen, who was short and rather bald, but wore sideburns and a moustache said: ‘He’s only been here a week, hasn’t he, Noel?’

‘Six days, Stephen, actually.’ Noel was Australian. He was wiry and with a crew cut and huge, pale blue eyes whose expression was alternately vacant and sardonic. There was a rather
wary silence while Harry got everybody drinks, and Gavin wondered how on earth he would be able to think of things to say when conversation did break out. Spiro had perched himself on the arm of
the chesterfield looking around him with frank curiosity and smiling if anyone looked his way. His mouth, when he wasn’t smiling, was curved and chiselled like the best Greek sculpture.
Indeed, Gavin thought, he was more than good looking, he was handsome to the point of beauty – probably the most beautiful creature that he had ever met in the flesh. He became aware of Noel
observing him.

‘Staggering, isn’t he?’ This remark seemed most unfortunately to focus everyone’s attention upon Gavin, and he felt his face getting hot. He mumbled something about Spiro
being very good looking, and Spiro, hearing his name, stood up, moved gracefully over to Gavin, and shook his hand. ‘Ello – Hav
in
,’ he said, and there was a friendly
murmur of approval from the others. Gavin felt that he was being propelled along what could only turn out to be a sexual cul-de-sac and that they would all turn on him when they realized his
dishonesty, but he also felt that there was nothing he could say to explain himself that would not sound wrong. Kind Harry rescued him.

‘Gavin’s not quite sure where he is, so don’t upset him: he’s one of my oldest friends. How about this party, then? Stephen, over to you.’

Stephen, who had also looked kindly at Gavin, said that he’d got his car and he thought they could all fit in, but Winthrop said that he was taking his bike. ‘And I know who’s
going with me,’ whereupon Spiro positioned himself behind Winthrop, bent his knees and went ‘vroom vroom!’ This delighted him, and he repeated it several times until Winthrop
turned round suddenly and put his hand under Spiro’s chin, tilting his face upwards. There was a very short, loaded silence, and then Winthrop said, more gently than Gavin had ever heard him
speak: ‘Come on then,’ and they left the flat. Gavin looked at Harry, who wore an expression of stalwart gaiety, but all he said was: ‘I suppose he knows where the party
is?’ and Stephen said yes, he did, he knew the owner of the flat.

‘He knows Joan. He doesn’t know Dmitri, Stephen, actually.’

Gavin sat in front of the car with Stephen, who was driving, and Harry in the back with Noel. Gavin nerved himself eventually to ask Stephen what kind of party it was going to be.

‘Well, it’s a beautiful flat – a penthouse – and when Dmitri’s in town he throws pretty good parties, but he’s away, and Joan, that’s his wife, told
John to invite whoever he liked. They’re very generous – ’

‘They’re loaded.’

‘Yes, but they’re also generous, Noel. You have to admit that. People can be loaded and mean as hell, but Dmitri’s not like that – ’

‘It isn’t his money. It’s Joan’s money, Stephen, actually.’

‘Well anyway, they spend it. They’ve got a fabulous place in the country. Noel and I went for a weekend once. It was amazing. They’ve got an indoor pool and sauna, squash
court, colour TV in all bedrooms – the lot.’

Harry asked: ‘What does Dmitri do then, when he’s not at home?’

‘Something to do with interior design, isn’t it, Noel?’

‘That was Joan’s idea. She thought it would keep him at home more, but he got the idea of doing yachts so it hasn’t really worked. He’s always popping off to Monte or St
Trop and he’s away for weeks.’

Noel’s voice sounded as though the situation amused him, and Gavin felt uncomfortable. Stephen, who seemed to sense this, said: ‘Joan’s all right. She knew what she was in for.
She married him with her eyes open.’

‘She’s had to keep them shut ever since, Stephen.’

‘That’ll do, Noel. If you dislike her so much, you shouldn’t go to her parties.’

‘I like her all right. She’s a bit of a cow, but I don’t mind her.’

‘She’s a good cook.’

Harry said: ‘You should know. Stephen’s a chef,’ he added for Gavin’s benefit.

In the silence that ensued, Gavin wished desperately that he hadn’t just weakly
suggested
that he should take his bike; he should have
told
them he was going to; then he
would have been able to escape whenever he wanted, which, given his present feelings, would be about thirty seconds after he arrived.

‘Here we are,’ Stephen announced – quite suddenly.

It was a large, modern block of flats. Stephen pressed the buzzer and a voice instantly answered. They were through the plate glass doors into a carpeted hall and facing two lifts with heavy
bronze doors. Stephen pressed the top button and, without any sense of movement, presumably up they went. Harry gave him an encouraging grin, and Gavin tried to grin back.

The noise of the party – like human surf – burst upon them as the lift doors opened. The doors to the flat were open. Someone, the stature of a child, but with a doll’s face
and dressed in maid’s uniform flitted towards them to take their coats. Gavin parted with his windcheater; his anxiety had reached the point of recklessness; he felt he might never see it
again, but that that would be a small price to pay for not being too hot until the imminent instant flight that he knew might become necessary. Harry took his arm, and following Stephen and Noel
propelled him into the main room which seemed to be absolutely full already of people – of both sexes – although with a preponderance of men. A tray of drinks was offered them by a tiny
little man in a white jacket who looked as though he might be some relative of the person who had taken their coats. Both looked vaguely foreign, but Gavin could not place them at all. He saw that
the room, which seemed to be very large indeed, had glass doors that were open on to a terrace: there were people on that, but at least it would be cooler.

‘. . . Harry King, and this is Gavin – ’fraid I don’t know your other name. Gavin, this is our hostess, Joan.’

Immediately in front of and well above him was a vertical tube of silver lamé on top of which was a flaming head – like a shaggy chrysanthemum – of the most blatantly orange
hair even he had ever seen in his life. Orange lips were smiling from above (she must be well over six feet, he thought), and a pair of diamanté spectacles that seemed to be glazed with
plate glass were beaming down at him.