The Marrying Game (16 page)

The band stopped playing. There was scattered applause, and a general surge towards the tables. After the mortification of Sheringham House, it was very
pleasant
to find place cards bearing their names. At the centre of each plate, on top of a folded napkin, was a programme with a gold tassel.

Rufa laid her napkin across her lap, and opened the programme with polite interest. ‘Welcome to the 37th Cumbernauld Ball, dedicated to raising funds for the Cumbernauld Foundation. Each year, the Foundation sponsors vital research into the diseases of old age. Money raised tonight will also help with the day-to-day running of five Cumbernauld Homes.’

Nancy was less interested in the good cause. She was studying the menu. ‘Yum – smoked salmon terrine, lamb chops and raspberry mousse. And here’s a list of the stuff they’re auctioning.’ Besides the Lupovnik diamonds, this included dinner for two at Thwaite Manor near Guildford, a week at a villa in Greece and someone’s signed knickers.

‘I’d pay a considerable amount not to be lumbered with those,’ Roshan said. He was suddenly still and alert, staring at the next table. Without shifting his gaze, he laid his hand on top of Nancy’s, and quietly said, ‘There.’

A tall, broad man, in black tie and a loud brocade waistcoat, was taking his place. Nancy and Rufa beheld Tiger Durward, in the considerable flesh. He had the physique of a rugger player, poised to bloat and soften as soon as the rugger ceased. His ruddy, blunt features permanently hovered on or around an inane, face-splitting grin. His laugh honked, his voice made the glassware rattle.

Uncertainly, Nancy murmured, ‘Is he good-looking?’

‘No,’ Rufa said.

Roshan said, ‘Yes, in a way. That sort of energy can be
very
compelling. And you must admit, his body’s excellent.’

‘Nance –’ Rufa leaned across Roshan. ‘You don’t have to go through with it.’

Nancy was looking thoughtfully at Tiger, trying to fit him into mental pictures of romance and marriage. ‘If I lose my courage at this stage, what the hell are we doing here? And I really think he has distinct possibilities.’

‘Are you sure?’ Rufa could not imagine many things more ghastly than being yoked to Tiger Durward.

‘You know me. I actively prefer the simple ones. They’re usually kind-hearted.’

Roshan filled their glasses with white wine from one of the bottles on the table. ‘Yes, in an animalistic sort of way – like a big dog that slobbers all over your shoes.’

Their hostess, Anita Lupovnik, arrived at the table, dressed in blue lace with a blazing diamond collar. She greeted Nancy and Rufa with an easy kindness and lack of condescension that made Nancy privately determined never to hang out in the top drawer again, if she could possibly avoid it – the slightly lower drawers seemed to attract a far better class of person.

Dinner passed pleasantly, though it was impossible to forget they were here on business, with Tiger’s loud laugh honking out every few minutes. By the time the raspberry mousses arrived, he was barking drunk behind a forest of bottles.

Coffee (tepid and sour) appeared, and the band started up again.

Roshan signalled to Pete, who was smoking and looking bored on the other side of the table. ‘We’ll want some pictures of the girls dancing – with Tiger, if he can still stand up.’

The younger, noisier guests were running on to the dance floor. At the next table, Tiger stood, and gaped around him, swaying slightly.

Nancy tipped a saucer of foil-wrapped mints into her bag, to send to Linnet. She rose. ‘I think this is my cue to introduce the notion of dancing into that solitary brain cell, before it shuts down.’

Pete grinned, taking the cover off his camera. ‘If he gropes you, I’ll deck him for you.’ Upper-class women were an aggravating mystery to him, but he had decided he liked Nancy.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘It’s nice to know there’s someone to defend my honour.’

Rufa watched, fascinated and fearful, as Nancy shimmered across the few yards of carpet to Tiger’s side. All she had to do was brush against him, and murmur, ‘Sorry –’

Tiger made a series of dazed, effortful faces, drawing her into focus. Nancy walked in slow motion, waiting for the thought to form.

He put out his hand. ‘Hi. Want to dance, or something?’

And it really was as simple as that. Nancy introduced herself. Tiger, not listening, took her elbow, and steered her out on to the floor. Roshan and Pete sprang up, to bag the star shots of the evening. The band was playing ‘Red Red Wine’. Tiger, as if someone had pressed a button inside him saying ‘Dance’, instantly began thrashing and leaping. Nancy caught Rufa’s eye. She was laughing, ducking Tiger’s windmill arms. Rufa was glad she found it amusing. It had been easy, back at home, to theorize about putting up with unattractive men. The reality of it was another matter entirely.

A little anxious about Nancy, but generally satisfied that the evening was going according to plan, Rufa rose, and made her way back up the staircase towards the ladies’ cloakroom. There was not much for her to do now, except pose for another photograph. How long they would have to stay here depended upon Tiger, and how much he liked Nancy. This was difficult to judge – Rufa only hoped his romantic technique was better than his dancing.

The ladies’ cloakroom was large, and as brightly lit as was consistent with flattery. There was a long row of pink cubicle doors, facing a row of gleaming sinks and mirrors. Half a dozen women stood in front of these, repairing elaborate make-up and unfamiliar hairstyles. The carpets were thick, there was a strong, powdery smell of mingled scents and air-freshener. Here, the noise of the ball was reduced to a muffled thrum.

Rufa emerged from her cubicle, and faced one of the mirrors. Her hair was still fine, but her lipstick needed attention – Roshan had insisted on a stronger, redder shade than she normally liked. Frowning slightly, she leaned forward to apply the overpriced stick to her lips.

A cubicle door banged, and a lanky, middle-aged lady with neat grey hair took the sink beside Rufa. In the mirror, their eyes met. Rufa froze.

Lady Bute, wife of the Abominable Doctor Phibes, gaped at her for a moment. Her expression of shock hardened into one of righteous outrage.

She hissed, ‘You!’

‘Hello –’ Rufa did not know what else to say.

‘Well. Rufa Hasty. I must say I’m surprised to see you here.’ Lady Bute unscrewed a lipstick, in a vicious shade of pink. ‘It’s not where I’d expect to see the
daughter
of someone apparently too poor to pay a debt.’

Rufa stiffened furiously. How dared she bring this up? The Man had always maintained that the Butes were essentially vulgar. ‘We are poor, Lady Bute. Thank you for reminding me.’

‘Your father owed us the cost of an expensive saddle, not to mention a pair of jodhpurs, after that disgraceful incident at that Boxing Day meet. He refused to pay – with an astonishing lack of civility.’

‘My father is dead,’ Rufa said.

‘Yes, and that’s the only reason my husband didn’t pursue the matter. He heard you were selling up, and decided there was no point. But if you have enough money to swan around at a ball, in an obviously expensive dress – well, that puts a different complexion on the matter, doesn’t it?’

Rufa’s voice was tight with anger. She needed the anger, to boil away the threat of tears. ‘I didn’t realize there had been a demand for money. Tell Sir Gerald to put it in writing. We’ll add him to the list of creditors.’

‘Will there be enough to pay the creditors?’

‘No.’

‘You’re as rude as he was,’ Lady Bute snapped. ‘He was a very rude man, and I don’t see why we should all pretend to forget it, simply because he’s dead. He had nothing but contempt for his neighbours. That anti-hunting pose of his –’

‘It wasn’t a pose.’

‘Rubbish. It was calculated to annoy, and to cause trouble.’

The door of a cubicle opened behind them. Anita Lupovnik emerged, rummaging in her sequinned
evening
bag for a lipstick. Rufa and Lady Bute fell into shaking, incandescent silence.

Anita was plump, with vivid, humorous dark eyes. ‘I couldn’t help hearing, and now I have to know – what was the disgraceful incident?’

Lady Bute bridled, and pointedly said nothing.

Rufa said, ‘My father put superglue on her husband’s saddle.’

Anita stared for a moment, then let out a shriek of delighted laughter. She leaned against the sink, and laughed until her mascara began to bleed.

White with rage, Lady Bute swept out of the cloakroom.

Rufa found that her back and shoulders were knotted with tension. When Lady Bute had gone, she relaxed, and some of her fury fizzled away. Enough was left, however, to give her a feeling of lightness and power. If it hadn’t been for Anita, she might have melted into tears – she felt like kissing the woman. Instead, she smiled. ‘Her husband’s the master of our local hunt. My father didn’t approve of hunting. He said glueing up Sir Gerald’s arse might stop him talking through it.’

Anita’s howls built to another crescendo, then subsided into giggles. ‘Oh, God, my make-up – I’m as pissed as a lemon.’ There was a frilled box of tissues in front of the mirror. She pulled one out, and began dabbing carefully at her eyes. ‘You look so bloody refined. I didn’t imagine you knew words like arse. It’s made my evening.’

Rufa laughed. ‘I’m glad, since you paid for our dinner. I was going to thank you later, but I might as well do it now – it’s awfully nice of you. We’re having a wonderful time.’

‘Don’t mention it. You’ll find more coffee and a brandy back at the table. I’ll join you when I’ve repaired the damage.’

Rufa sailed out of the cloakroom like Boadicea, warmed with the knowledge that the Man would have been proud of her.

At the top of the grand staircase, she met Roshan. He was breathless and agitated. ‘I’ve lost them.’

‘What?’

‘Nancy and Tiger – they went off together. I’ve scoured that dance floor like a fucking Brillo pad, and I can’t find them anywhere.’

‘Oh.’ Rufa considered this. ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? I mean, they must be getting on well.’

Roshan did not stop glancing round anxiously. ‘I don’t like losing sight of them. To tell the truth, Nancy didn’t look all that keen – she was making faces at me –’

‘She wanted to be rescued! Oh, Roshan, why didn’t you just run up and grab her?’

‘I tried, but they just vanished!’

Rufa gathered up her skirts determinedly. Nancy did not make rescuing signals lightly. ‘Show me where you last saw them.’

He led her down the stairs. Rufa, eyes narrowed, searched the writhing figures on the floor, and the people waiting for the auction at the tables.

She asked, ‘Exactly where?’

‘Exactly here. Next minute, they were gone.’

‘What’s behind the stairs?’

‘Just one of the service entrances, or something – oh, Rufa, don’t be silly –’ Roshan sprang to follow Rufa into the obscure shadowland under the stairs. ‘He’s hardly going to take her here!’

There was a pair of swing doors, covered with dark red vinyl. Taking no notice of Roshan, Rufa swept through them. They opened into a carpeted passage, meanly lit, with three doors on one side. (She guessed they were offices of some sort – yet again, she had ended up below stairs.)

‘No, for the last bloody time, I won’t – I will not give you “a snog”, you great slavering – let me go!’

It was Nancy’s voice, rising from irritation to anger. Rufa pushed open the nearest door. Nancy, pressed uncomfortably against a bare desk, was furiously dodging Tiger Durward’s fleshy sink-plunger of a mouth.

‘Look, I don’t want to knee you in the nuts, but if you don’t let me go—’

Rufa’s simmering anger flashed out like white lightning. Yelling ‘You bastard, you take your hands off my sister!’, she flew at Tiger’s back and dug her fingers hard into his eyes. He roared. Both his hands flew to his face, and Nancy wriggled free.

She hugged Rufa. ‘I never was so pleased to see you in my life – where the hell did you learn that?’

‘Edward, of course,’ Rufa said crisply. ‘He taught me basic self-defence when one of my dinner party men got fresh.’

Tiger, his fists still balled in his eyes, let out another bellow and blundered blindly across the room. Both sisters regarded him with disgust.

‘I couldn’t stop him,’ Nancy said, smoothing her hair. ‘It happened so fast. He’s as strong as a bloody ox. He just dragged me in here, and now I suppose my lipstick’s ruined.’

‘Nancy, if you marry this hideous baboon, I will
personally
stand up in church and contest the banns.’

‘Thank you, darling,’ Nancy said. ‘That won’t be necessary. Let’s just make sure my next target isn’t a lecherous piss-artist.’

Tiger groaned loudly. He shouted, ‘Bitch. That really fucking hurts!’

Roshan had been standing in the doorway, gaping. This insult snapped him into his senses. ‘It was meant to hurt!’ he hissed. ‘Dear God, you’re not fit to kiss the hems of their dresses! Girls, go upstairs and tell security – I’ll stay here with him. And you’d better call the police.’

Nancy took his arm affectionately. ‘Darling, you’re far too weedy and delicate to subdue this monster. And we don’t need to involve the emergency services. I’m fine, and he’s incapable. Let’s just go home.’

Tiger pulled his hands from his face. The first person his bloodshot eyes fixed upon was Roshan. He became still, and an eerie calm settled around him. There was a long moment of silence.

In a low voice, that was neither barking nor slurred, Tiger said, ‘I’ve been looking for you all my life.’

His eyes rolled back into his head, and he passed out.