‘Slept with? You don’t mean…?’
‘Oh, please, don’t be shocked. That sort of thing’s par for the course these days, my dear. Whilst they’ll sleep with absolutely anybody, these socialites only fall in love with heiresses. But at least they are polite, which these days has to be admired. Immaculately dressed too. Most wear pristine white gloves so as not to mark your best silk dress with sweaty hands. Very commendable, what? Even their socks are beyond criticism, I’m told.
‘Then there’s the academic. Utterly boring. Can you imagine anything more tedious than discussing a collection of specialist books on the impact of treacle on furry worms, for instance?’
Henzey chuckled. ‘What a lark, Margot! You must get about a bit. What other sorts are there?’ She was beginning to enjoy Margot’s dissertation on today’s young men.
‘Well, I suspect the nightclub goon is worthy of mention.’
Henzey laughed. ‘The nightclub goon?’
‘You know the type. Tries to make himself look exactly like Ramon Novarro, or Ronald Colman. Hair sleeked down with hair-oil, perfumed like the inside of a whore’s handbag. Frankly, I fail to understand this fixation for emulating such people. Mind you, Henzey, the nightclub goon was doing the Charleston long before the rest of us had even heard of it. I must confess, I’ve panted with nightclub goons on many a dance floor.’
‘What about those with cars?’ Henzey asked out of self-interest, for Andrew had a car.
A man nudged Margot, placed a cigarette in her cigarette holder, and deftly lit it with a silver lighter as she put it to her lips. He smiled, looked Henzey up and down, and just as deftly moved on without a word. She drew on the cigarette as though her life depended on it, exhaling smoke in great billows. Henzey was reminded of a fiery dragon.
‘Frankly, the youth with a motor car is the worst of the lot. Absolutely reeks of engine oil. Usually got a horrid, grubby bandage on at least one finger. Conversation’s rather limited too – to carburettors and magnetos usually. And the only thing he’ll ever drive you to is drink. All he ever reads is motoring magazines, and his favourite pastime is to disappear into a smelly garage for hours on end with an equally smelly chum to hot the blessed vehicle up.’
‘What about his girlfriend?’
Margot sucked earnestly at her cigarette holder again. ‘I should say the jolly old girlfriend has to be rather slim to fit in the damn thing – like you. But whatever car he’s got, he’ll scare you rigid with his driving.’
At that, Andrew came along with a fresh pint of beer in his hand. ‘Ah, I shee you two have met,’ he said with some difficulty. ‘Margot is George’s shishter, you know. Up from Windsor for the weekend.’ He went to put his glass to his lips and slopped some over himself, which he tried to pat away with the flat of his hand.
‘Charming gel you have here, Andrew,’ Margot said. ‘Henzey and I are confidantes. Her opinion of men concurs generally with my own. What was it you said, my dear? Men are only interested in getting their oily hands up our frocks. That was it, more or less, was it not? I trust it’s not true of you, Andrew.’
Margot laughed like a donkey, and Henzey chuckled at her infectious sense of humour.
‘I’ve come to drag her away from you, Margot,’ Andrew said, a little wobbly on his legs. ‘I want to show her off to Nellie.’
‘Ah, Nellie. So be it. I’ll circulate.’
Henzey was still laughing, but stiffened a little at hearing Nellie’s name. She was longing to get a closer look at her hair, how she applied her make-up. Still holding her empty glass, she turned to follow Andrew. He led her into the breakfast room, and there she saw Nellie and her godlike companion talking and laughing with a group of people, some of whom she recognised from the roller skating rink.
But Henzey was feeling hot and light-headed. Her thoughts were becoming unfocused. ‘Andrew, would you get me some more lemonade first, please? I’m feeling a bit peculiar.’
He took her glass biddably, and was soon back at her side with a refill. She took a long drink, hoping it would clear her head. The last thing she wanted was to go down with a bout of flu.
‘Are you ready now?’
‘Yes, I’m ready.’
‘Helen, I’d like you to meet Henzey. Henzey…Helen.’
‘Nice to meet you, Henzey,’ she said with a smile.
Henzey smiled back. ‘Nice to meet you, too, Nellie.’ She tried to take in Nellie’s technique with make-up, but the handsome companion was proving a greater attraction. Her eyes swivelled towards him, and she smiled coyly in anticipation of the introduction. His eyes lit up in response, and Nellie witnessed the exchange.
‘Excuse me,’ she said severely, drawing Henzey’s attention again. ‘Was I not introduced as Helen?’
‘Helen?…Oh, sorry. I thought everybody called you Nellie.’ She blushed deeply at her blunder.
Nellie smiled, but too sweetly for it to be sincere. ‘Only family and close friends call me Nellie.’ Then her expression changed to frozen marble. ‘You’ve reached the status of neither…nor are you ever likely to, unless I’m very much mistaken.’
Henzey’s head was swimming, and Nellie’s aggressive attitude unnerved her. It seemed so unnecessary. She began trembling with embarrassment and disappointment.
He looked at Henzey with some sympathy. ‘That’s a bit unkind, Nell.’
‘Oh, er…this is Billy Witts. Nellie’s…er, Helen’s boyfriend,’ Andrew said meekly.
She looked at Billy Witts again, but this time in bewilderment. Her smile had disappeared, her blue eyes told of the hurt and humiliation she felt inside. Floundering, she looked to Andrew for support. But none came. He was too drunk to think straight. People were milling past Henzey, and the noise from the party seemed strangely overpowering. She was feeling queasy, hot, and her legs were shaking now.
‘Please excuse me.’ She turned away and heard Billy remonstrate with Nellie.
Andrew caught up with her. ‘Take no notice of her, Henzey. She’s probably jealous of you.’
‘Why should she be jealous of me? I’ve done nothing. All I did was call her by the name everybody else calls her by. She’s rude, your sister, and I thought she was so nice.’ Tears flooded her eyes. ‘I don’t feel very well, either.’
As she walked unsteadily past the kitchen, something clicked ominously in her mind. Something. She wasn’t sure what. It had some vital significance, but she could not pinpoint it in her perplexity. In the hall, she sat on the stairs and put her head in her hands trying to remember, trying to overcome the unaccountable swimming sensation in her mind.
Andrew said, ‘I’ll get you another glass of lemonade, shall I?’
She wanted water, but she was finding it difficult to form the words to say so. Lemonade would have to do. She closed her eyes and her head seemed to spin. With a start she stared around her and shook her head violently in an attempt to stem the awful sensation of giddiness. But she was so thirsty as well. Something was radically wrong. She must be ill. Andrew returned from the kitchen with another full glass and handed it to her. She quaffed the lemonade, staring vacantly.
‘I say! Are you all right? You look jolly pale.’
‘Oh Andrew, I feel terrible. I’ll have to get some fresh air. I think I’ll have to go home.’
He took her glass, put it down on the telephone table and helped her to