The Marrying Game (18 page)

Back on the other side of the glass door, in the sharp February wind, Rufa laughed shakily. ‘I don’t believe it. Our first proper invitation.’

Nancy took a Twix from her immaculate new handbag. ‘Now perhaps you’ll stop going on about money, and buy those little chairs – go on!’ She had seen two tiny wooden rocking chairs in the window of a toyshop, and was working on Rufa to buy them for Linnet.

‘We mustn’t be silly,’ Rufa said uncertainly.

‘Go on, Ru – you know you’re dying to. They’re the perfect size for the Ressany Brothers. Imagine her face, when she opens the parcel.’

‘Oh, all right. All right,’ she began irritably, then started laughing. ‘Are you going to get the bears to order them from a bears’ catalogue, like you did with the tea set?’

‘No, I thought I’d add a dash more drama this time,’ Nancy said. ‘The night before the post comes, I’ll phone Linnet, and do the Ressanies complaining that there’s nowhere nice to sit, and they’re wearing away the fur on their bums.’

‘And then she’ll get the parcel,’ Rufa said, relishing the thought. ‘Perhaps I could make a couple of little cushions. But do let’s be careful – we mustn’t get carried away, just because you’re meeting someone who fancies you. I don’t quite see what you’re hoping to achieve just by seeing Berry again.’

Nancy’s lotus-eating lips bit into the Twix. ‘My wedding, darling. Call me a traditionalist, but I’ve always fancied myself as a June bride. We could have one of those stripy tents in the garden.’

‘I still think it’s a waste of time,’ Rufa said. ‘Berry’s engaged to that girl in the gallery. He’ll never dump her for you.’

‘Why not, pray? What the hell’s wrong with me?’

‘It’s nothing to do with you. He’s not the type to go back on his word.’

‘Bum,’ Nancy said airily. ‘All men are the type.’

Berry had not been looking forward to the evening. Left
to
himself, he would have gone home to the Fulham flat he shared with Polly, and eaten something comfortable in front of mindless televison. Instead, he was doomed to hours of holding in his stomach, smiling until his face hurt, and trying not to guzzle too many tiny sausages. Thank God Polly was giving up her job when they married, and he would never have to stand through another private view.

‘Victorian watercolours,’ Adrian mused, from the other side of the enormous Daimler. ‘They always make me think of tablemats. But Naomi took her divorce settlement in paintings, and my sweet young decorator insists I need something uncontroversial for my walls.’

‘This is really good of you, Adrian,’ Berry said.

He had been amazed when the formidable director of his merchant bank had agreed to come to the opening. Adrian Mecklenberg was ludicrously rich, and a famous collector of beautiful objects. Polly said he was bound to buy something, since it was well known that his third wife had taken enough paintings off him to fill the Hermitage. She said that if Mecklenberg bought significantly, Jimmy Pellew would give her the Edward Lear parrot she had coveted for ages, as a wedding present. Being Polly, she already knew where she would hang it, in the Chelsea house she did not yet own.

The car slowed outside the gallery, and Berry stole a quick glance down at his shoes. How had they collected those splodges of coffee, when he had polished them like a maniac? Somehow, everything about him turned dingy and grubby when he was near Adrian. His ties unravelled, his collars wilted, his stomach popped through his shirt buttons.

Adrian sucked all available elegance from the atmosphere. He appeared taller than he was, because his lean figure was perfectly proportioned. His clothes sat upon him without creasing, as if his flesh were made of something hard and chilly. The crotch of his trousers never got concertina folds at the end of the day, as Berry’s did. His thick grey hair lay as sleek as a sheet of steel. Berry’s brown hair was standing up like the crest of a cockatoo, despite being plastered down with a ton of fragrant gunk from Jermyn Street. He resisted an impulse to fiddle with his tie.

Polly was waiting, fresh and dustless in her green cocktail dress. She swept aside one girl holding a pile of glossy catalogues, and another bearing a tray of champagne. She kissed Berry. She kissed Adrian. She provided them both with drinks, and whisked Adrian away towards Jimmy Pellew, who was standing casually beside the most expensive paintings.

Berry’s stomach leapt, with a terrible pleasure that was almost pain. Silhouetted against a faded pastoral landscape, he saw Nancy Hasty. Instantly, the whole world took on a new intensity.

Oh, God. Nancy.

What on earth was she doing here? This was delicious, and it was also dangerous. Since Christmas Eve he had flogged himself guiltily into never thinking of Nancy (except when masturbating, which he absolutely could not help). Now, two months later, he had almost trained himself not to dream about her. And all that hard work was undone in a second. She was wearing a jacket that did not show her nipples. A tidal blush swept from his groin to his hairline.

‘Berry – hello.’

A soft voice cut across the upheaval. He turned, and was glad to see Rufa, whose beauty was of the distant, untouchable sort. She kissed his flushed cheek.

‘Didn’t Polly tell you we were coming?’

‘No – she must have – she gets into the most tremendous state before an opening.’ Rufa was blessedly easy to talk to, and Berry found himself relaxing a little. ‘How are you all? How’s my friend Linnet?’

Rufa smiled. ‘In fighting form, when I spoke to her last night. Nancy and I have to phone her every evening. Nance has to do a voice for Trotsky.’

‘Trotsky?’

‘The guinea pig Ran gave her. He’s rather witless and obese, but she hasn’t noticed yet. How are you?’

‘Oh – witless and obese as ever, thanks,’ Berry said cheerfully. ‘Do give them all my love, won’t you?’

‘Of course. Mummy loved the flowers, by the way.’

Berry laughed. ‘I wanted to send something she could eat or smoke, but I couldn’t make Polly understand.’

‘You gave us quite enough to eat. That hamper saved our lives.’

‘I take it things are – I mean, you both look –’ Berry was struggling to be delicate.

Rufa helped him. ‘We’ve come into a little bit of money since then.’

‘Marvellous. So you moved to London.’

‘Yes. We’re staying with an old friend.’

In Berry’s world there were always bits of money, and useful old friends. He was sincerely delighted to hear that the Hastys were, apparently, still hovering above the vortex. ‘Business or pleasure?’

‘Mainly pleasure,’ Rufa said, ‘but I wouldn’t mind finding some work. I’ve done a lot of cooking for dinner
parties
– I don’t suppose you know anyone who needs an occasional caterer?’

‘I’m sure I do. Polly certainly does.’ Berry manfully ignored a second wave of blushing. ‘Give me your number, and I’ll ask her.’

‘Well, look who it is,’ Nancy said, stepping between them.

Berry squeaked, ‘Hello.’

Nancy appeared not to notice the sudden falsetto. ‘Is Ru soliciting for work again? Don’t listen to her. She does far too much as it is. She can’t stop cleaning things.’

‘Do excuse me –’ Polly appeared, apparently from nowhere. She took Berry’s elbow, and pulled him away from the Hasty sisters. He experienced one split second of pure terror (had she noticed? Could she tell?) then saw that her mind was firmly on business.

He managed to say, ‘What’s up?’

‘It’s Adrian. He’s ignoring the paintings. All he wants to do is stare at Rufa Hasty.’

‘At – Rufa?’

‘Yes, you twit. Everyone but you can see she looks like a supermodel. You have to introduce them.’

‘Of course.’

‘Now! Do it now!’ Polly glided away, to direct her determined sparkle at a gaggle of jewelled dowagers.

Berry snatched two prawn pastries from a passing tray, and returned to the Hastys. His guilty conscience made him brisk. ‘Rufa, do come and meet the big cheese from my bank. He’s the most tremendous thrower of dinner parties.’ Not trusting himself to look at Nancy again, he steered Rufa through the press of people. ‘His name’s Adrian Mecklenberg,’ he whispered into her ear.
‘And
he’s the richest person here. Think of my home life – beg him to buy something.’

Rufa asked lightly, ‘How rich is he?’

‘Rolling in it. He usually buys Picassos. And when his ex-wives make off with them, he buys more Picassos.’

‘Is he married at the moment?’

‘No,’ Berry said. ‘He’s just got shot of Number Three.’

Adrian’s pale grey eyes were studying Rufa, with the avidity of the expert collector. During Berry’s introduction he held her hand a little longer than necessary, as if checking its weight and texture.

He said, ‘Hello, Cinderella.’

Her polite smile disappeared. Her ears burned red. ‘You— you’re the man who rescued my shoe. Oh, God.’ The watchful man, who had seen her being thrown out of Sheringham House. Would that mortifying experience never cease to haunt her?

‘I thought it was you,’ he said. Her confusion and embarrassment appeared to please him. ‘I’m not at all surprised to learn your name. I thought I recognized you, at that tiresome concert. You could only be the daughter of poor old Rufus.’

Forgetting her embarrassment, Rufa broke into a smile like the sun rising. ‘Oh, did you know him?’

‘I certainly did. I’m so sorry I couldn’t come to the funeral. I hadn’t seen him for years – I was his fag, at school.’

She laughed tremulously. ‘You’re the boy who refused to make toast.’

‘The same. Though actually, I admired Rufus enormously. I think I rebelled purely to impress him – not that it worked. I can’t get over how much you look
like
him. You’re his feminine counterpart. You make me remember him with alarming exactitude.’

Berry had never seen Adrian so animated. The man had a reputation for charm, which he had assumed was simply the kind of all-purpose compliment paid to the very rich. This was the charm at work, however. And it was working on Rufa.

Berry glanced round furtively at Polly, to check that this was part of the plan. Across the room, she smiled at him, and mouthed a kiss. Good.

Adrian was placing his red dot. As far as he was concerned, Rufa was sold.

Adrian saw them into the taxi. The moment it had swung round the corner, Rufa murmured, ‘My God, I’ve scored a lunch!’

‘Not with him?’ Nancy, in the flashes of light from the streetlamps overhead, looked alarmed. ‘Oh Ru, you’ve got to be kidding. He’s ancient.’

‘You’re just jealous, because I’ve got the first real date. With a properly available man.’

‘Jealous? You’re welcome to him—’

Over his shoulder, the taxi driver called, ‘Where to, love?’

‘Sorry, Tufnell Park Road, please,’ Rufa said. To Nancy, she added, ‘I couldn’t say the address in front of Adrian. Was that very dishonest of me?’

‘No, just incredibly snobbish – this marrying lark doesn’t bring out your noblest side, old girl.’

Rufa, used to the highest moral ground, stiffened defensively. ‘What’s wrong with being asked out to lunch, and accepting? I like him. He knew the Man.’

‘He gives me the creeps,’ Nancy said.

‘He’s rather nice. I think I’m looking forward to it. And I can’t help feeling he’s a much better bet than Berry.’

‘Rubbish. Berry’s worth ten of him. He doesn’t sleep in a coffin or avoid mirrors, for a start.’

‘Oh, ha ha. Adrian’s charming,’ Rufa said crossly. ‘Yards better than the sort of man we imagined when we started.’

‘I’d just like to know what the first three wives died of.’

‘Well, you don’t have to worry about him. I think he’ll be perfect,’ Rufa declared. ‘For one thing, he’s obviously a man of taste. I won’t have to explain why Melismate is so important.’

Nancy groaned softly. ‘You can’t marry a man like that. You’ll be miserable.’

‘That’s entirely my business.’

‘Being miserable wasn’t part of the deal. You know your trouble, Ru? You don’t know anything about love.’

‘The Marrying Game isn’t about love,’ Rufa said stubbornly.

‘Oh, I know it’s not about romance, or wild passion,’ Nancy said. ‘But when we started, I assumed we’d be looking for men we could be – I don’t know – fond of.’