Out Late with Friends and Regrets (21 page)

Fin moved towards the trestle-tables which formed the bar, looking around for Ellie but feeling that, this time, she didn’t actually need her in the same way as before. A couple of drinks on she would feel quite capable of accosting a stranger with, ”Hi, I’m Fin, what’s your name?” Easy. Well, fairly easy. She wouldn’t be sitting on her own on one of those hard chairs around the perimeter, watching the action tonight. Her time as an observer was over.

She noticed an animated group towards the end of the hall, and shuffled through the partygoers towards it. If her host was at its nucleus, she could introduce herself, hand over her gift, and retreat to the bar for a drink before beginning to work the room. She didn’t wish to appear mean, but after considering Ellie’s suggestion she had thought a bottle of malt might be over-extravagant for someone she didn’t even know. And
half
a bottle, even if available in one of the better brands, would look worse than nothing at all. She had settled for a set of four vellum bookmarks, hand-decorated in iron red, ochre, peacock and gold. Quite presentable; about the same price as half a bottle of short-lived water of life, and useful, too.

She pushed through an ever more densely-packed throng in a polite, smiley way, and was soon able to see the woman of the hour. Annette Harney was dressed in black, and had a weathered complexion, as Fin had imagined she would. In fact, it was quite gratifying to see how closely the professor resembled the figure in Fin’s imagination, right down to the harsh-textured grey hair. What she wasn’t expecting was the legend on the T-shirt, which declared: “Inappropriately Sexy”.
 
She grinned, and made her way to the front of the audience. Two women were earnestly trying to monopolise the professor between them, but the slight nods and wandering eyes of their target told Fin that she might provide a welcome diversion.

“Professor Harney?” she almost shouted, wondering at that split second what the hell she could possibly say if the woman wasn’t the professor.

“Yes.” The woman looked up from where she was sitting, one buttock on the edge of a trestle table. The gaze was very direct, and put Fin unnervingly in mind of Sister John Bosco from school. If the professor had then demanded whether Fin had any reason to examine her conscience, it would not have come as a total shock.

Deep breath.
 
Committed now.

“Happy Birthday, professor,” she said, “I’m delighted to see you’re wearing my T-shirt!”

“Really?” She had the voice of a corncrake, with a Northern accent.

“Special order – I design them - someone obviously knows you rather well!”

Too far? No, there it was, a big smile, softening the aquiline features. It was OK.

“And your name? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“Fin Hay. Gatecrasher of this parish.”

Harney snapped her fingers in a gesture of recognition.

“Ellie’s friend! Yes, I remember.” The eyes opened marginally wider. “I’ve heard all about you!”

Oh. Star of common- room gossip, it seemed.
 
Present. Hand over the present.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

Fin was a little disconcerted that she was unable to withdraw discreetly without causing major disruption as the present was unwrapped. Now she almost wished that she had stumped up the extra for a bottle, as the press of bodies closed in, sharing in the moment. She could feel the blush coming on. Oh shit. She noticed a striking woman, rounded but shapely, who had been standing touch-close to the professor, put her chin on the shoulder of the special order T-shirt, to get the first look at the gift. Possibly in her forties, she could have been an extra from Brideshead Revisited. Her shiny black bob, rope of jets and T-strap shoes were pure twenties, and she wore a drop-waist black dress with a pattern of orange Chinese lanterns. Her vermillion lipstick stood out against her pale complexion, in a face more arresting than beautiful.

In that fraction of a second Fin registered the thought that if an old bat of an archaeologist could get it on with a succession of women of that kind of quality...

Very quietly, Annette Harney said: “Very thoughtful. I shall use them. Thank you.”

Brideshead woman stroked the surfaces of the bookmarks with one finger, before looking up to smile at the giver. Fin was already edging away from the table through the crowd, and then made for the bar.

Her whole body felt as if burning up, so she ordered a vodka and tonic, with as much ice as the tall glass would take. She leant with her back against the wall near the entrance, where the draught felt good, and sipped her drink.

“Wotcher!”

“Archer! Hi there, good to see you!”

“How’s it goin’?” Archer beamed affably over her pint.

“Great, thanks. Definitely in the mood for a party.”

“Me too, Fin, is it? Yeah, takin’ the night off in honour of the old girl,” said Archer, nodding towards her beer. A DJ had set up at their end of the hall, and the compilations which had been playing at moderate volume over the PA system now gave way to big-bass pop classics. Archer jerked her head towards the double doors, mouthing that they wouldn’t be able to hear each other speak with those bastards (she indicated the considerable speakers) next to them. She led the way, pushing her way without ceremony through the smokers, till they reached a clearing.

“Saw you up there with the prof – d’you know her?”

“First time we’ve met – just handing over a small gift.”

“What you get her?”

“Bookmarks. Probably should have got a bottle of malt –”

“Nah. Did you see the table behind her? She could set up shop! Bloody cases of the stuff. She’ll be dead of cirrhosis before she retires, I reckon.” She put a hand across her heart in the style of a mourner; “Mind you, it’s what she would have wanted, poor old soul,” she intoned solemnly.

Fin laughed.

“She was wearing one of my T-shirts,” she said.

“One of yours, eh?” said Archer. “That musta been June ordered that. Gotta hand it to the prof, she’s always got plenty admirers. Sexy is right, appropriate or not.”

“I didn’t know who it was for, at the time, of course. The order said it was an archaeologist and a 60
^th
. Birthday – the purchaser turned down “Archaeologists get down and dirty” and “Archaeologists do it with very small tools”!”

Archer snorted into her beer.

“June’s the woman with the black hair and orange lippy, is she?” Fin asked.

“Yeah. She and Annie have been an item for a while now. Some woman, June. Knows everybody and everything. All the goss.”

“So don’t tell her your secrets?”

“Definitely not!
 
Hey, you ready to go back in?”

Archer’s drink had dwindled to a dark half inch, so they re-entered the hall, where the light was now low, and raked by strobes. Fin adjusted her eyes to the conditions, and drank in the scene.
 
She found that by blurring her vision she could enjoy a blinking, shifting pattern of colour and light, as the thrum of medium-weight metal provided a counterpoint to the rising descant of starling babble.
 
Nobody seemed to be up and dancing yet; it was evidently too early. Fin wondered if there was a point at which an ultrasound signal, audible only to certain core revellers, would summon them to the floor and thereby indicate a free-for-all.
 
Silly, she thought, it’s going to be when everybody’s had enough to drink. Another half-hour or so, perhaps. Then she could cruise the edges of the room and start asking women to dance. The fact that many – most, even, to be fair – would be straight, oddly failed to blunt her anticipation. It was, after all, Annie Harney’s party, so invitations would not be thought strange, and neither would a refusal offend.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked Archer, who appeared to be standing on tiptoe and craning her neck to see above the heads around her.

“Yeah. No! Sorry, Fin, Just spotted
 
someone I gotta see. Catch ya later, OK?”

“Sure, no problem, Archer. See you.”

True to her intention, she greeted many of the people still standing in knots talking, some of whom she was certain had been at Rachel and Dave’s; and in general most responded in a friendly fashion. She was absurdly pleased when one or two remembered her name, especially Trish, although there was no sign of Jackie by her side. Fin was thinking of enquiring after her, but thought better of it. She would have needed to bellow, and supposing all was not well with the relationship, it could be awkward. Of course, her partner could simply have been in the loo, but better safe than sorry.

The music stopped, and there was some whistling and blowing from the P.A.

“Testing, testing.”

The lights went up, and the professor could be seen slapping away hands trying to help her up on to the dais. A grey-faced man with wild hair framing a shiny bald dome began a waffling introduction, much distorted by the imperfectly tuned system, and interrupted by calls of “Speech!” and “C’mon, Annie!” When the impromptu MC had elongated his moment to the longest that the crowd could be expected to tolerate, and catcalls had begun to get slightly personal, to the point that a young female voice just in front of Fin called out “Gerroff, slaphead!”, the professor stepped up to the mic and began to speak. She was obviously well used to addressing students in lectures, and spoke conversationally, without notes. However, the content was full of names, events and references with relevance only to those in the club, and the laughter and bursts of applause of the audience began to sap Fin’s fragile sense of belonging.

As unobtrusively as possible, she moved to the back of the hall, watching and waiting.

“Hello there!” said a voice by her side.

The greeting was emphasised by a conspiratorial dig in the ribs from the Voice’s elbow. She turned, to see a smallish, bearded man in a classic tweed jacket, head slightly on one side to draw attention to what was presumably intended to be a winning smile.

“Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he opened, proffering a soft hand, “are you one of Annie’s lezzie girls?”

Taken aback by the total unexpectedness of the question, Fin allowed her hand to drop before making contact, and the words were out of her mouth before she had even thought them.

“I
beg
your pardon?”

Her rational self immediately gave her a mental shake. Acting like a latter-day Lady Bracknell was particularly stupid in this easygoing gathering. A gathering with a high percentage of lesbians. Of which she herself was one. God, Fin...

“No offence, dear, I’m sure,” responded the man, “she’s got
so
many fans, and I thought such an attractive young lady as yourself must be one of the favoured.”

Fin lifted the still-extended hand briefly, and responded sweetly: “Not actually a friend of Annie’s. How do you do? I’m Fin.”

“Henry Moffet, the bearded prophet,” he grinned, with evident satisfaction at what was obviously a trademark introduction.

“I’m History,” he added, without a trace of self-aware irony, and Fin couldn’t help smiling. This cost her ten long minutes of glaze-over, as he held forth on the history department, its running, its staff, and his own place at the very hub of things. Then Archer stepped out from behind him, with, “Oi, Henry, you boring old bastard, bugger off will you? Fin needs to meet some new friends.”

Henry drew himself up. “Now, Wendy, I don’t think there’s any need to be like that, is there? Good manners cost nothing. I have someone to see anyway.” And he turned away.

“
Wendy
?” asked Fin, trying not to laugh.

“Yeah, ‘fraid so,” replied Archer with a grimace. “Parents must have had a hell of a sense of humour. Me brother’s a big hairy hetero, and they called him Aubrey! Poor bugger had a real bad time at school. H the BP’s the only one who calls me Wendy because he knows it winds me up. Annoying little bastard.”