The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets (18 page)

‘To
unimaginable happiness,’ we all repeated, but I saw Marina edging herself round
so that she could keep tabs on where Harry had gone.

‘Listen,’
she ordered, beckoning us in to hear her whisper and swamping us in Chanel No.
5
and hairspray. ‘I hate the idea that Harry’s taken it badly,’ she murmured.
‘You know me, fickle as anything,’ she went on, forgetting that we didn’t know
her at all. ‘Harry
thinks
too much. He certainly thinks too much of
me,
she added, her face completely straight. Then she said, ‘Look after him,
will you?’ leaving me dumbstruck, but Charlotte laughed.

‘Does
he indeed? Gosh, but that’s an interesting theory. Penelope’s not one of our
family anyway, are you?’

There
was a short silence while Marina absorbed this news. I could almost hear the
whirring of her mind as she tried to figure out exactly what this made me.

‘I
thought — I thought she was your sister,’ she said finally.

‘Penelope?
If
only,’
said Charlotte. ‘No, she’s my friend. She’s Harry’s — er —
friend too.’ She let the word ‘friend’ hang ambiguously in the space between
us. I blushed.

‘Friend?’
demanded Marina.
‘Friend?
I thought you were all related.’

‘Oh, we
only met recently.’ I said hurriedly. ‘Very recently indeed.’

Marina
opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by her mother gliding
towards us towing a horsefaced girl in green sequins.

‘Marina!
The Garrison-Denbighs are here! Look at Sophia’s rubies: aren’t they superb?’

Marina
tutted with irritation. ‘I’m talking, Mother,’ she hissed, shooting poor Sophia
Garrison-Denbigh a look that only just stopped short of loathing.

‘It’s
quite all right, Marina, we’ve monopolised you for long enough,’ said Charlotte
smoothly. I smiled at Sophia.

‘Your
necklace is beautiful,’ Charlotte said to her, truthfully.

I
pulled Charlotte away and announced that we should go and see what the
Hamiltons had done to the gallery.

The Picture Gallery ran
off the saloon and had been altogether abandoned in the FitzWilliams’ day. I
remember Mama telling me about the tired, red fabric walls that were covered in
darker red rectangular patches where every single painting had been taken down
and sold. I laughed out loud when I saw how the Hamiltons had covered up every
one of these unfortunate areas with new pictures, paintings in bright colours
with bold lines the like of which I had never seen before. In the centre of the
room stood a perplexing piece of sculpture in the shape of what looked like a
man with a square head shielding his eyes from the sun. Several people clustered
around talking about it and using words like ‘intelligent’ and ‘priceless’ and ‘daring’
while in the corner of the room the jazz band played.

‘New
York Movie, 1939.
She looks a bit like you,
Penelope,’ said Charlotte, squinting at the painting in front of her of a
blonde woman standing on her own in the cinema.

‘Who
dunnit?’ I asked.

‘Man
called Edward Hopper, apparently.’ The Hamiltons had taken the liberty of
labelling their art as though we were in a museum. I daren’t even imagine what
Aunt Clare or Mama would have to say about this.’

Charlotte’s
eyes lit on the next canvas. ‘Now
this
is remarkable. Mark Rothko.’ It
consisted of an orange square with a dark orange bit at the top and bottom.
Something about it unnerved me. I wasn’t sure that I understood it, but I found
it hard to drag my eyes away.

‘It’s
amazing what some people pass off as art nowadays, ‘observed the good-looking
man next to us.

‘I
think it’s brilliant,’ said Charlotte quickly.

‘My
nine-year-old son could have painted it.’

‘Ah,
but he
didn’t,
did he? That’s the point, isn’t it?’

The man
laughed and raised his glass to Charlotte. ‘You’re right, you know. You’re
absolutely
right.’

‘Do you
really like it?’ I asked her when he was out of earshot. ‘The only thing I know
for certain is that I want to think the opposite of what
he
thinks,’
said Charlotte with feeling.

‘You
know him?’

‘Oh
yes. Patrick Reece, former lover of Aunt Clare’s, circa forty-seven. He took me
and Harry to the theatre a couple of times. I remember in the interval of
Blithe
Spirit
he asked us if we’d like to try a little pot.’ Charlotte shook her
head. ‘Can you
believe
that? Of all the nerve! Harry had the presence of
mind to steal his entire supply of the stuff in the second half of the play and
sold it to another of Aunt Clare’s devotees the next afternoon.’ She frowned at
the memory. ‘Thank goodness he didn’t recognise me out of my school uniform.’

‘Do you
make this stuff up?’

Charlotte
looked at me in surprise. ‘No, worse luck. Oh,
do
look over there!’

It was
Harry. He was sitting on a hard-backed chair just behind the band, his eyes
half closed, his whole being absorbed by the music. Girls with red lips,
perfect hair and swoonsome perfume laughed around him, boys drank around him,
one man in a beautiful pinstriped suit actually flicked the ash from his
cigarette on to the top of Harry’s head without either party’s noticing.
Charlotte grabbed two more drinks from the nearest waiter.

‘These
are Sidecars, apparently.’ she said. ‘And if anyone tries to tell me where they
originated, I may well murder some-one.

‘With a
Screwdriver?’ I suggested, taking a huge gulp.

‘Isn’t
she unbelievable? What on earth do you think she and Harry ever talked about?’

‘Maybe
she was tickled by stories of Julian the Loaf?’

‘Highly
unlikely. Oh, do look. The princess is wearing even more rubies than that
unfortunate Sophia girl.’

‘Should
we go and talk to Harry?’

Charlotte
giggled wildly. High on rum, I made my way through the crowds and across the
room to Harry’s chair. He didn’t see me at first, so I stretched out a hand and
touched him lightly on the shoulder.

‘Hello,’
I said brightly. ‘Want to get another drink?’

He
looked up at me, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Candlelight and jazz
suited Harry. His strange eyes with their heavy lashes set him apart, his
skinny frame lengthened by his dishevelled black suit.

‘Huh?’
he said. ‘Oh, it’s you, Penelope. Here.’ He removed the cigarette from his lips
and passed it to me. I took a puff. It had a strange flavour and smell and made
me feel even more dizzy than I already was.

‘Are
you all right?’ I asked him, feeling foolish. What was it about Harry that
always
made me feel foolish?’

‘Shall
we play Dead Ringers?’ he asked me, pulling up a chair next to him. ‘Sit down.
I’ll tell you how.’

I
flopped down on the chair next to him.

‘Finish
this off,’ he said, handing me his cigarette again, and I took another three
puffs and chucked the stub into his empty cocktail glass.

‘Right,’
I said dreamily. ‘How do you play?’

‘The
idea is to point people out who look like famous people and for the other
person to guess who you’re thinking of. You’ll soon pick it up.’ He leaned in
towards me. ‘I’ll start.’ His eyes scanned the room.

‘How
about her — that woman, the one to the left of Charlotte, in the green and
white dress.’

I
thought for a moment. ‘Fanny Craddock?’ I giggled. Harry laughed. Absolutely
and utterly right. Your go. ‘All right, all right.’ My eyes swam around the
room. It really was the most gorgeous party. Sitting there with Harry, watching
everything and everyone, gave me the sensation of being in the cinema.

‘How
about the man there, playing the trumpet, in the band,’ I hissed.

‘Louis
Armstrong?’

‘Yes!’
I squealed. ‘And isn’t it funny that he’s playing the trumpet too!’

‘Penelope,’
said Harry heavily, ‘that
is
Louis Armstrong.’

‘Oh my
word!’ I exclaimed and collapsed giggling. Really, I couldn’t help it.

‘You’re
one of those girls who gets silly after one puff, aren’t you?’ sighed Harry.

‘One
puff of
what?’

A stout
man with a schoolboy’s smile and immaculately combed blond hair was bearing
down on us. Harry struggled to his feet.’

‘George!’
he said, offering him his hand. ‘Great party!’

So this
was George, I thought hazily. He was fatter and shorter and uglier than I
expected, but like Marina he exuded enough wealth and self-confidence to make
him curiously attractive. I sat tight and clapped hard as the band finished
their latest number.

‘How
are you, Delancy? And who’s this?’ George smiled at me and I swayed a bit.

‘How do
you do? I’m Harry’s — er — I’m a friend of— I’m his — his — friend.’ I beamed
at George, wondering why I could see three of him. His faces broke into a
series of wide smiles.

‘Ahh!’
he said slowly. ‘I see!
Well!’
He roared with laughter and looked at
Harry with new respect. ‘You know, Marina’s been worried about you, Delancy,’
he said in a low voice. I expect he thought that I wouldn’t be able to hear
him, but growing up with Mama trains one rather well in the eavesdropping
department. ‘… kept insisting that you’d, taken the news of our engagement
very hard. Advised me not to invite you tonight, would you believe! Now I see
she had nothing to worry about.’ He shot me an amused look. ‘Pretty little
thing, isn’t she?’ he added in an undertone.

‘Penelope’s
six foot,’ said Harry lightly. ‘That makes her three inches taller than you,
doesn’t it, Rogerson?’

George
looked livid for a second, then laughed. ‘And four inches taller than you, old
man,’ he said, grinning. ‘Well, enjoy the rest of the party. Have you heard?
Omelettes at dawn.’ He did a rather good mime of someone flipping a pancake,
slapped Harry on the back again and waltzed off.

‘Omelettes
at dawn,’ repeated Harry in brilliant imitation.

I
fought off another attack of the giggles and raised my glass to Hope Allen who
was being spun around the dance floor by Patrick Reece. When the band took a
break, she cantered towards me.

‘So
good-looking, don’t you think?’ she demanded breathlessly. grabbing
my cocktail from my hand. ‘Paddy Reece. Brilliant mind. Known him. since I was
twelve.’ She leaned in towards me with another one of her deafening whispers. ‘Used
to take me to the theatre and offer me cocaine in the interval.’

‘Really?’
I giggled.

She
drained the rest of my Sidecar. ‘Thanks,’ she said, handing me back the empty
glass and shooting a meaningful look in Harry’s direction. ‘I’m off.
Apparently. there’s someone playing the bagpipes on the stairs.’ She staggered
off in utterly the wrong direction.

‘Bastard!’
muttered Harry. ‘We were only ever offered lousy old weed. And
never
more
than once. I could have made a fortune from a bit of coke.’

Despite
being high on cocktails, I was genuinely shocked. Drugs were unthinkable to me,
something I had never talked about, and certainly never tried. ‘Gosh, Harry.
Have you no shame?’ I asked primly.

‘Absolutely
not.’

Just
then, the band struck up the first chords of
Shake, Rattle and Roll,
and
the whole room lurched and exploded around me. Charlotte was grabbed by a
good-looking boy with red hair (some cousin of Marina’s perhaps?) and Harry
turned to me challengingly.

‘Want
to dance?’ I think he expected me to refuse. ‘Of course!’

‘Come
on, then. And for goodness’ sake, kick off your shoes.’ I did, and we swayed
around the dance floor, Harry holding me very tight, which was just as well
because if he had let go I might very well have fallen over. It was the best
dance I had ever had, and Harry, for all that he was short and skinny and odd-looking,
was the best dance I had ever had. All right, he was practically the
only
dance
I had ever had, but what did that matter? Dorset House, newly rich, and
seething with youth, seemed to be laughing with us all. Models, actors,
royalty, beauty — and Harry and I — collided for three minutes of blissful
havoc on the Picture Gallery floor. Mark Rothko’s orange squares swam in front
of my eyes. It felt half holy to me.

I
closed my eyes and imagined that Harry was Johnnie Ray.

Chapter
8

ALL THE
HONEY