Hotel de Dream (20 page)

“I'd like you to meet my bride, Lady Kitty. This thunder has indeed plagued the day.” Mr Poynter nodded meaningfully and Mrs Houghton joined in. “Our wedding was almost spoiled by it, you know!”

Miss Briggs came up to her hostess and held out her hand. She was in evening dress but not, Mrs Routledge was thankful to note, with accompanying sash and garter. Could it really be true that sanity had returned to the Westringham,
that Miss Briggs no longer thought she was the monarch, that Mrs Houghton would triumph over the disgusting Miss Scranton and Cridge would remain a paragon of cleanliness and humility? Mrs Routledge wiped away a tear with a monogrammed handkerchief and beamed at the newly married couple.

“Many congratulations!”

“A marriage late in life. I consider that very beautiful,” Mr Rathbone said. Mrs Routledge felt his eyes bore into her profile and she simpered. “I lost my dear wife some time ago, and I dream always of finding a true mate, a replacement for something that can never be replaced, and yet, one never knows …”

“Mrs Houghton,” Melinda said loudly, stepping up to the novelist bride and taking her by the arm. “Johnny and I want to talk to you. To come to some compromise …”

“Here is Her Majesty,” Miss Briggs breathed. “Oh, doesn't she look wonderful tonight?”

Mrs Routledge flinched. Cridge was standing by the tall panelled door and he was bowing low. A hush fell over the room and Mr Rathbone stood back, encircling Mrs Routledge's waist with his arm as he did so. A mixture of emotions conflicted in Mrs Routledge. If she really was Lady Kitty, then she could greet the Queen and the party would be remembered as the most successful she had ever thrown. Mr Rathbone would almost certainly propose and they would live happily ever after in this delightful house. Only Miss Scranton and the scruffy looking characters Mrs Houghton seemed to have invited would find their dreams unrealised—and not everyone can have what they want all the time. But Mrs Routledge was not quite sure of herself yet. Suppose, on her way over to the door, the walls of the Westringham dining room made themselves apparent again … suppose, as she made her low curtsy, the smell of the basement came up to meet her nostrils—and those of her sovereign—and the greasy doorhandle, clasped in Cridge's filthy hand, was
the first thing she saw on coming up from her obeisance. Or to find, on looking shyly into the Queen's eyes, the unworthy gaze of Miss Briggs … Mrs Routledge was cautious by now; and contented herself with writhing delicately in Mr Rathbone's embrace, waiting for events to unfurl themselves, for Lady Kitty's house to remain as it was and not sink back into the Westringham just at the moment of her glory and her power.

“Her Majesty the Queen!” said Cridge in a loud announcer's voice.

“Please, Mrs Houghton,” said Melinda. “We've no time to lose over this!”

Lady Kitty's drawing room held steady as Cridge led the monarch over to Mrs Routledge and retired in deference from the meeting. The chandelier seemed to throw a stronger, richer light, the brocade panels could now be seen to be hung with Old Masters—though Mrs Routledge, in the second's flash she had of them before going down into her curtsy was appalled by the hideous, disfigured faces of the great portraits—a sofa upholstered in cherry velvet appeared at a convenient distance and was clearly where Her Majesty would hope to sit when the introductions were over. Miss Briggs greeted the Queen with soft reverential familiarity. Mr Rathbone bowed and was told in the sweetest tones that the knighthood, although performed under difficult circumstances (the thunder was blamed again here) was perfectly valid and that he was Sir Geoffrey for all the world to know. Mr Poynter—and this was odd, Mrs Routledge thought—welcomed the Queen to his City and said he hoped she would find herself comfortable in her new quarters; Mrs Houghton affirmed this, expressed her pleasure at having so august a neighbour; and invited the Queen and Miss Briggs to tea on Wednesday week. Mrs Routledge began to feel a little confused and worried, but reminded herself that things were going better for her than they ever had before, and she mustn't complain if Mr Poynter and Mrs Houghton's snobbery
had got rather out of hand for the time being. She settled on a hardbacked chair near the monarch and awaited her turn to make conversation, while Mrs Houghton, she was glad to see, was in the process of telling her two unwanted guests to leave the party, and at once. The only strange thing, Mrs Routledge thought, was the language she used; but it seemed to be having the desired effect, and the travel-stained characters stood pale in front of the author, both clearly on the point of leaving Lady Kitty's house for good.

“She went and threw herself on her bed,” Mrs Houghton spat at them as they stood immobile before her. “She wept, she knew she could no longer live like this. Johnny came in once and she looked up at him in mute appeal, but he continued to throw his possessions into his suitcase … the shared tissue of their life together … the sacred objects … she scooped the pills from the bottle and pressed them into her mouth. Johnny left, doors slammed all over the house as he went, as if a strong wind had got up and was blowing him from her forever … on the shores of a distant lake she saw him standing before she went down for the last time, the haze from the drug came purple over her eyelids … Goodbye Johnny … Goodbye …

“
The End
,” Mrs Houghton said snappily when she had finished. “Now are you both satisfied? I have better things to do than plan out your futures for the rest of my life I can assure you. Now be off—and I don't want to see you again.” She leaned forward and began to engage the Queen in animated conversation, and Mrs Routledge nodded with pleasure at the sight of the bedraggled suicide and her boyfriend going dejectedly from the room. Now there was only Miss Scranton to dispose of—and a quick glance at Miss Scranton's corner showed that the schoolmistress seemed to be reaching the end of her tether and should be dealt with fast. She was sitting astride her chair and her bare thighs and legs—most unsuitable for meeting the Queen, and Mrs
Routledge had the uncomfortable feeling that if they were all to find themselves suddenly in the Westringham again it would be due to Miss Scranton's scandalous appearance—were thickly coated with damp sand; her hair seemed to have grown longer and thicker, and her eyes, wild and staring, were fixed on the sycophantic backs of Mr Poynter and his bride. Mrs Routledge cleared her throat and rose nervously. Skirting the recumbent figure of Marcus Tapp (she hoped the Queen had not seen him, but certainly no mention had been made of the irregularity of an evening spent in the presence of a sleeping revolutionary and republican), she went over to Miss Scranton and asked her politely if she had had everything she wanted at the party. Enough to drink? Had she tried the mouth-watering little canapés? Appearing at Mrs Routledge's side, the angelic Cridge handed plates, and a salver laden with glasses of champagne. But Miss Scranton made no answer, her eyes only seemed to grow wider and more mournful, and Mrs Routledge decided to take a firmer line.

“I'm afraid I have to ask you to go, Miss Scranton. This is a salon, you understand, and we encourage elegant conversation. I fear you must be at the wrong party, Miss Scranton.”

Just as with the other events in Mrs Routledge's miraculous evening, she had only to wish something for it to come true at once. Miss Scranton rose, and like a sleep-walker made for the door, which Cridge ran ahead to hold open for her. She did not look back once, and when she had gone Mrs Routledge found herself catching the eye of the Queen. A gleam of relief could be detected there. Now Tapp must be carried out into the street, and it would be a perfect party. Mrs Routledge made her way back to the little nucleus round the monarch and sat down demurely, hands folded. Mr Rathbone was ending a discourse on money and his audience was listening to him with the rapt, distracted expressions sometimes found on the faces of music lovers when a great concert is drawing to a close. Mrs Routledge assumed
this expression, and dreamed of her marriage to the financial genius, the town mansion where they would live in the season and the hunting box where they would spend the crisp autumns and romantic, snowy winters. She was glad her old abode, the Westringham, was due for demolition: it was clear that Mr Rathbone had no intention of allowing her to return to that squalid place, and would be quite masterful in his choice of their new home.

“So we must adopt the index system—as in Brazil for instance,” Mr Rathbone was saying. “You may reply, Your Majesty, that Brazil is an under-developed country and we are not, but unless we peg prices and incomes …”

The first peal of thunder sounded above the house. Mrs Routledge, trying to conceal it—there was something crude and uninvited about the sound—coughed and tittered loudly. Mrs Houghton turned to her with an air of concern.

“Don't you love thunder, Lady Kitty? I always think it's one of the few real reminders of Nature we get nowadays. So strong, so refreshing!”

“Of course, of course,” said Mrs Routledge quickly, as Mr Rathbone broke off his talk and looked enquiringly up, as if to find the source of the thunder in the chandelier (which was, rather worryingly, swaying: Mrs Routledge wondered if something terrible was happening upstairs—Miss Scranton's madness, or a battle between Mrs Houghton's unwanted guests). Another peal followed, and then another. Miss Briggs gasped, and covered her cowardice by calling Cridge and asking for more champagne for the monarch. Mr Poynter rose to his feet, divested himself of his dinner jacket and threw it on the floor in front of the Royal Personage, as if expecting the inevitable downpour to flood into Lady Kitty's rooms; and Mrs Routledge, remembering her role as anxious hostess, ran to the window, pulled aside the heavy damask curtains and looked out. When she saw what she saw she screamed. And in the ensuing confusion Marcus Tapp woke, to find Rathbone and Poynter trampling over his legs and a woman who
appeared to be the Queen of his country staring at him with icy disapproval. The lights in the chandelier went out and the whole glassy contraption fell to the ground. A stunned silence was succeeded by a babble of hysterical sound. Rathbone was the first to recover his composure, and a commanding voice rang out in Lady Kitty's uncertain drawing room.

“Everyone keep their heads! An explanation must be found for all this. First, what is that crowd doing out there? And secondly, where the devil are we? My apologies for the language, Ma'am.”

“Excuse me.” Mr Poynter sounded faint and frightened in comparison. “But if I may … this is my City, you see … I recognise these streets … at the back of HQ, yes that's where we are. Not Lady Kitty's part of the City at all … I'm afraid I simply can't understand that at all …”

“The back of HQ? Now what's the man talking about?” Mr Rathbone demanded tersely. “Is he dreaming or something? These crowds don't look too happy to me. Better go out and see what they want!”

“No!” Mrs Routledge reached out a protective arm in spite of herself. “You might get hurt, Mr Rathbone!”

“If this is Mr Poynter's City,” the Queen made herself heard for the first time, “then he should deal with the insurrection. Mr Poynter, what are you going to do about this state of affairs?”

At this point the thunder reached deafening proportions. The windows blew open and a gust of crowd air and rain came in on the guests. Mr Poynter ran from the room and opened a window, leaning out and then going in again like a weatherman. The crowd gave a low roar and then fell back into its placid, expectant quiet. Mr Poynter reappeared in the salon, stumbling amongst the unfamiliar furniture (for upstairs had been strangely like his bedroom at the Westringham, and he had expected, instinctively, to come down to the bulging cupboard and rickety tables of the dining room). Lightning streaked across the sky outside. The atmospheric
pressure of the two great masses—the crowds in the black streets gathered and breathing and waiting, and the lunging, heavy clouds above—were intolerable by now, and Miss Briggs went down in a dead faint without a warning murmur. It was while she was being tended by the Queen and Mrs Routledge, her boned dress loosened and the modest tiara taken carefully from her head, that Marcus Tapp ran to the window, leapt out and disappeared into the crowd. A shout went up from Rathbone and Poynter, but he had gone. Trembling, Mr Poynter closed the windows and addressed the guests in the collapsing city of his dreams.

“This is a state of emergency, Your Majesty, ladies and gentlemen. The escape of that ruffian may mean a civil war too terrible to contemplate. And,” he peered round the darkened room and his voice grew shrill, “and Miss Scranton? Where is she?”

“I sent her away,” Mrs Routledge said. “She was spoiling the party, Mr Poynter!”

“You fool! So she's loose too!” Poynter's shoulders sagged and for a moment he looked an aged man, outlined against the window and the waiting crowd and the harsh light from the street lamps. His new bride shrank from him, and it was Mrs Routledge's task to put out a comforting hand.

“We must prepare for disaster,” he continued when the despair had partly passed. “We must hide in the cellar and hope for a merciful end.”

“Certainly not!” the Queen put in at this point.

Outside a low moan went up from the people. The eyes of Mr Poynter's victims went reluctantly to the sky above the crowd, and a shocked murmur ran round the remains of Lady Kitty's party, even Cridge expressing surprise and wonderment at the apparitions to be seen now the thunder clouds had rolled back. The cloud women straddled the heavens. Their warlike, wispy faces stared down, it seemed, right into the room; their eyes, balls of indigo vapour, glowered in terrible accusation. Shafts from their cirrhus
bows shot across the dark backdrop and made wide girdles round the moon. Then the thick mass of cloud moved over them once more and they were obscured from view. The crowd let out a thunderous sigh. Miss Briggs struggled back to consciousness and demanded to be told what she had missed. Mr Poynter opened his mouth to explain, and was silent.