Getting It Right (12 page)

‘Why, Gavin, it’s wonderful to have you here,’ she said, in a throaty voice whose accent reminded him of someone out of a play by Tennessee Williams. At least she wasn’t
young: at least he wasn’t alone with her. He had spoken too soon. She linked an amazingly muscular arm in his and saying simply, ‘Come with me,’ bore him off – away from
Harry and Stephen, and even Noel – anyone he knew at all.

‘Have you a drink? Oh dear! Where are those Filipinos? I have them for big parties, because they can burrow through the crowd more easily. Either you have to be small, or else like me, and
I’ve never found any decent waiters my size. Anyway, we’re heading in the right direction for a proper drink.’

They had reached the hall again, which Gavin now saw was extensive with a great many doors leading off it. Joan steered him through one of them into what looked like some kind of study. A
regiment of bottles stood on a table at one end of a sofa. She shut the door.

‘Now: you can have anything you like, but I’m going to have a brandy and ginger ale on the rocks.’ As she moved away from him, Gavin saw that she really
was
tubular:
she seemed to be corseted from just below the neck to just above her knees. She had long rather elegant masculine legs (Barry Humphries as Dame Edna came to mind) and long, pointed court shoes with
very high heels that seemed to be made of multi-coloured sequins. When she had poured her drink, she opened what looked like a pineapple made of solid silver and put three blocks of ice into her
glass. Then she turned to him. ‘Now – and this is going to force you to speak – what will you have?’

‘Perhaps I could try what you’re having. I’ve never had it.’

‘A pioneer drinker: I like that. You have this; I’ll make another. Then we can sit soft for a while and you can tell me things. Or,’ she added, as she turned back to the
bottles, ‘if you think that idea devastating, I’ll tell
you
things. I always find that general conversation is a bit of a strain with a stranger.’

There was another sofa near a second open door in the room and she went and sat upon it. It was clear that she intended Gavin to join her, and after a moment’s hesitation (but what else
could he do?) he joined her. She took a swig of her drink and motioned him to do the same. Then she said: ‘You don’t like parties, do you?’

Mesmerized by her directness, he said no, they made him nervous . . . The moment he had said that, he felt slightly – but not much – more at ease.

‘How’s the drink?’

‘Very good. Pretty strong, though, isn’t it?’

‘I hope so. Let it steal through your veins, as they say in adventure stories.’

Gavin drank some more: it managed to taste exactly half of brandy and half of the ginger ale and it was certainly true that he could feel it warming him inside.

‘Have you ever played a game called Secrets?’

He shook his head, and something of his alarm must have shown, because she smiled and said: ‘Oh, it’s risky all right, but there’s a kind of balance of power about the risk and
that lowers the price.’

This didn’t strike him as reassuring. ‘Look – it’s very kind of you to take so much trouble about me, but won’t the others miss you? I mean, it is your party
– ‘

‘Oh – they’re all as happy as clams! They don’t come to see me: nobody in their senses would do that more than once. I picked you because I was watching you because you
were the only person I could see who clearly wasn’t enjoying himself. I’m a hostess and you struck me as something of a challenge. Have another swig, because we’re going to play,
and I’ll begin. The rules are that I have to share one secret about myself, and one secret about you.’ There was a brief silence during which, as she did not look at him, he felt able
to look at her. Her hands, folded round her glass, were trembling.

‘I weigh nearly fifteen stone. When I first saw you, I thought you were homosexual.’

There was another pause, and she said gently: ‘It’s better to play fast.’

‘I’m thirty-one and I’ve never been to bed with anybody.’ To his own amazement, as he said this, it was as though he had released some vociferous prisoner trapped and
gabbling from within; somebody who was much better out. They had turned towards each other and she was gazing at him with impassive attention. He said: ‘I thought you were terrifying.’
With an effort, he added: ‘I mean I thought you might be a man in drag.’

She lifted her glass to him and they both drank. Then she said: ‘The only sex I’ve had in my life I’ve paid for. I thought: I suppose you’re another hanger-on. I wonder
what lies you’ll tell.’

‘I pretend that no one’s good enough for me because I’m such a coward. I get spots all the time and I’m afraid that she would laugh at me. Is that too much?’

She shrugged, but her attention did not waver. ‘Feel free.’

‘I do.’ It was a discovery. ‘I pass about you,’ he said.

‘You can’t do that, rules.’

‘
Orange
hair. Why on earth do you have orange hair?’

‘It’s a wig. When I’m very unhappy I drink so much I’m sick. Or I buy things. You may be a prig.’

‘I don’t think you should say I might be; I think you should say I am.’

‘Right. I think you are.’

He finished his drink. Then, with a final effort, he said: ‘I invent girls who are in love with me. Girls who’ll do anything I want. You’re the kind of person that, in a
different way, I’m afraid I am.’

‘I’m grotesque. I underline it, so that everybody else will know that I know I’m grotesque. I make the most of a bad job. I love men – particularly beautiful men –
and I’m sorry for myself. When I saw you, I wondered what you’d cost.’

There was a silence between them during which Gavin became conscious of his total absence of fear. He could look at the figure before him – at the orange hair and orange mouth painted on
to a dead white face, the plate-glass diamanté spectacles, the corseted bulk of the silver lamé – simply as part of the pieces of declared truth about her which neither of them
felt the need to judge or disclaim. It was as though she had made herself transparent; as though what ordinarily constituted the brick walls of personality had become like glass – or even
clear water. Had he become like that for her? Had she accepted those fragments of truth about him, and if she had, what might happen next? Some of his exhilaration ebbed and he felt a familiar
spasm of fear.

She seemed to sense where he had got to, as she said: ‘It’s your turn, but we can stop if you like. Would you get me another drink?’

He took her glass. While he looked for and found the right bottles, he asked: ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’

‘I forgot to tell you the other rule: no post-mortem.’

‘I don’t think that what I want to ask would be that. If it turns out to be, you needn’t answer.’

‘I don’t
mind
,’ she said, ‘and I shan’t, if it is.’

‘You’ve played before?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘Well – ’ but, before he could find the right way to ask, she said: ‘But it’s odd – it’s never in the least the same. It’s more as though certain
kinds of truth attract one another. Was that what you meant?’

‘Yes.’

‘Otherwise it wouldn’t be fair on the new player.’ She accepted her drink and added: ‘It isn’t a game you can play with anybody.’ It was difficult to see her
expression behind the glasses, but her voice sounded weary, as she went on: ‘Most of the people here, for instance.’

He thought of Noel in the car, what seemed like hours ago.

‘Don’t you want another drink? There’s a lot of food laid out in some of the rooms. I’m not trying to get you to go away and eat it: I just thought you might like to
know.’

Before he could reply, there was a frenzy of tapping on the door and one of the Filipinos appeared. He looked very agitated. ‘Please, Madame, come,’ he said.

She got to her feet. ‘I shall have to, because he hasn’t enough English to tell me why.’

‘Is there a bathroom somewhere?’

‘Dozens. The nearest is through there.’ She indicated the door behind them: the sounds of the party – like distant good-natured roaring – were again to be heard, making
him realize that he had forgotten that there was one. Joan had gone, but she had left the door open. After a moment’s thought, he went and closed it. He did not feel like rejoining the party
yet, and leaving the door open might mean that some of it would join him. He looked at the room. It was furnished as a kind of study/library in a rather theatrical manner more as though it had been
designed to suit its name than its calling. There
were
books – on the whole of one wall – but they seemed all to be sets bound in leather with gilded lettering. His own books
that he used and read did not look at all like that. Apart from the two sofas, one each side of a fireplace where no fire would be likely to burn, there was a large leather-topped kneehole desk,
empty, except for silver and leather desk-furniture upon it – a blotter, writing paper holder, ink stand, a pair of lamps with green glass shades and a large photograph in a silver frame. He
looked at the photograph. It was a head and shoulders studio portrait of a man whose swashbuckling good looks made him think of Errol Flynn playing one of the Three Musketeers. It was inscribed in
writing like an exuberant spider with spurting black ink: ‘Joan – all my affection – D M I T R I’. The ‘Dmitri’ was twice as large as the rest of the writing. He
went through the door that she had indicated led to a bathroom.

It didn’t seem to, at first. It was obviously her bedroom and smelled of chocolates and flowers. It was decorated all in rose and white; again the theatrical decor for a romantic young
girl’s bedroom – he thought of
Spectre de la Rose
. The lights were shrouded and very low, but he had a general impression of drifts of white muslin – round the dressing
table and the window; a rose-coloured carpet stretching in all directions; bowls of white pinks, a very long striped day bed, what looked (could it be?) like a Marie Laurencin in an alcove between
two doors or cupboards and, in the far corner, an enormous bed – a four poster with elaborate hangings – swags of pink silk curtains edged with white fringe and an immense rose-coloured
coverlet in considerable disarray. Indeed, the bed looked as though it had been romped in and abandoned – bedclothes humped, pillows scattered. Perhaps the doors
weren’t
cupboards: he went to see. The left-hand door opened and he walked into a palatial bathroom – with black marble and silver walls, taps shaped like dolphins and a carpet that seemed to be
embroidered with them. This, too, had two doors (he began to realize that the flat must occupy the whole of the top of the block – was probably two, or even three, apartments thrown into
one). Again he chose the left-hand door, and there was a lavatory – entirely black: luckily, he never had to search for any lights as they were always on. When he had relieved himself, he
decided to wash his hands and put a comb through his hair. This was partly because he had never been in such a bathroom before in his life and felt it would be a pity not to make some use of it. He
wasn’t sure if his face looked the same, but he felt different about it. His eyes looked very bright, and his newly washed hair actually shone. From somewhere inside him, a voice muttered:
‘You’re all right.’ It was unusual – and encouraging. Exhilaration – a touch of excitement and finding himself where he was and feeling all right about it – gave
him the courage to explore. He tried the second, right-hand door. It opened on to a yet more amazing bathroom, whose floor, walls and ceiling were all of glass. In the middle of it was an oval
sunken bath, and in the bath were Winthrop and Spiro, Winthrop lay on his front and Spiro was astride him soaping his back. With the glass this scene was repeated all over the room with variations
of angle that gave the impression of a piece of film. Their heads were both turned in his direction, and, seeing him, Spiro smiled his smile betokening angelic jolly mischief and said: ‘Ello,
Hav
in
! Vroom, vroom!’ and then collapsed laughing.

Gavin said: ‘Sorry! Sorry to have barged in – ’ He couldn’t think of anything more to say.

Winthrop smiled amiably: ‘Think nothing of it. We got a bit sweaty, one way and another, and Dmitri’s bathroom is always good for a wash and brush up.’

Gavin reiterated some muttered apology and retreated, shutting the door behind him. Back in Joan’s bathroom, he sat on the edge of the bath a moment to recover. They had given him a fright
as well as a shock. Then he thought of Harry and his fright turned to anger with Winthrop – going to a party with Harry and behaving like that.
Anybody
might have gone through the
door: Harry might have! He had an obscure feeling that, since they could so easily have locked it, they must have left it unlocked on purpose.
They
hadn’t looked shocked when he
walked in. They’d looked almost as though they’d liked it! He found himself wondering what Joan would think; then he wondered whether, by any chance, she had returned to the
study/library to find him. If she hadn’t he supposed he ought to join the fray. He went back to the rosy, scented bedroom, thinking – rather defiantly – that he might as well see
if it was a Laurencin – well, of course it would be that, but whether it was a reproduction or the real thing – but as soon as he got into the bedroom, he realized that something else,
disturbing, but quite different, was going on. Somebody, unmistakably feminine, was sobbing. The sobbing came from the bed. As he turned round from the Laurencin to face it, the hump of disarranged
bedclothes moved and a girl sat up holding a good deal of rose silk coverlet round her. When she saw him, she gave a little wail of disappointment – it almost sounded like rage – and
cast herself back on to the bed. Gavin suddenly felt that this was too much. Men cavorting in Dmitri’s bathroom was one thing, but
girls
in poor old Joan’s actual bed was
surely another.

‘Look here,’ he said – unable to recognize his own voice and proud of it, ‘what on earth do you think you’re doing?’