‘What is it?’ she said.
‘Revolting,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Polly.’
‘I’m the Maharajah of Inverness.’ She laughed, embarrassingly loudly. ‘My real name’s Robert,’ he said.
‘What do you do?’
‘I work in a firm that makes instruments.’
‘What sort of instruments?’
‘All sorts. Just instruments.’
‘Why aren’t you at the university? You aren’t thick, are you?’
‘No. I didn’t fancy it. I wanted to get out into the real world, and do some work.’ How incredibly pompous. Any minute now she would go. He didn’t want her to go. She was attractive. Dumpy, half-way towards being fat, with big breasts. Her nose was squashed, her mouth big and lazy. She was sexy in the way that Christmas pudding was appetizing. ‘I’m sorry. That sounds rather pompous,’ he said.
‘Not particularly.’
‘I’ve been in the army. National Service.’ How utterly boring. ‘One day, when we’re married, I shall tell you my amusing experiences.’ How ludicrously twittish and coy.
‘Were you an officer?’
‘God, no,’ he said, making a face – rather an effective face, he thought. He had been to a public school. His parents had been well off. He hated privilege and rank.
‘Daddy’s an admiral,’ she said.
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes.’
She still hadn’t gone.
‘What do you do?’
‘I paint.’
‘I’d love to come and see your pictures.’
She chortled, embarrassingly loudly for a chortle, though not as loudly as her laugh.
‘I’ve heard that before,’ she said. ‘You want to get me alone in my room.’
‘Can’t anyone be interested in you and your work without being accused of being a sex maniac?’ he said. She would like that. She would begin to realize that he wasn’t just like all the others, that he had finer feelings.
‘Excuse me, there’s Bernie,’ she said.
He wandered into the kitchen, slowly, trying to look both calm and purposeful. There was still a little punch left. He fished out a cigar and poured two glasses. A very drunk man asked him if he was of Rumanian extraction. He said he wasn’t. The drunk accused him of being a liar. He pushed the drunk against the wall, and went back into the main room. Doreen gave him a cheerful hullo. He scowled back. The room smelt of cigarette smoke and sweat. A nervous young man with glasses was describing the sexual habits of an African tribe to five girls. Over by the mantelpiece stood a tall girl, unattractive but alone. He leapt across at her.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he said.
‘Yes, I am. Who are you?’
‘The Maharajah of Inverness.’
She recognized this as a piece of invention and accepted it with a lack of amusement so deep and unpretentious that he vowed never to invent a false name again.
‘Robert.’
‘Sonia.’
‘Hullo.’
‘Hullo.’
He must make some brilliant remark, to capture her interest.
‘What do you do?’ he said.
‘I work for a publisher. And you?’
‘I make China models of the leaning tower of Pisa.’
‘Is there much future in that?’
‘Possibly. At the moment they’re a failure. They keep falling over. But I’m working on it.’ He sipped his drink, tasting it carefully. ‘A cross between Spanish Burgundy, Merrydown cider and a rather immature Friars Balsam. Have some,’ he said.
‘Well, the thing is, I’m with someone. He’s getting me one. Give me a ring. Bayswater 27663.’
What use was that? He was alone again, drowning. Nobody here knew that a woman had given him her phone number.
‘Hullo, love,’ said Brenda. ‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘No.’
‘Dance with me.’
‘No.’
‘Come on.’
She dragged him into the middle of the room. It was packed solid. People weren’t dancing, they were just marking time sexily.
‘No luck?’ she said.
‘No.’
He resisted telling her about the phone number. Sonia seemed too mature to be boasted about.
‘And you?’
‘No.’
He pressed his body against her, but felt no thrill. In any case she lived in the same house. Mr Mendel had said: ‘Why don’t you make for our Brenda? She’s a nice girl.’ ‘Too close,’ he had said.
‘Excuse me, will you, love? There’s a feller over there I want to work on,’ she said now.
He went into the kitchen. The punchbowl was a mass of leaves and red silt and sodden butt ends. He opened a bottle of light ale.
‘Oh, there you are. Sorry about that,’ said Polly.
He gave her his glass of light ale and opened another bottle. The drink would be running out soon.
‘He’s someone I know from art school. I want him to do something for me. Carry some heavy paintings.’
‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘Nothing, but I like you.’
He must say something amusing. But nothing came. He fell back upon his memory.
‘This man was carrying a grandfather clock down the street,’ he said. ‘And he knocked over this man with it. The man got up, looked at him very crossly, and said: “Why can’t you wear a watch like everyone else?”’
‘We’ve got rather a super grandfather clock at home,’ said Polly.
‘Have you?’
‘Daddy would die if he could see me here. He’s an admiral.’
‘What attitude does he take to your being a painter?’
Polly did a loud and for all Robert knew wickedly accurate impersonation of her father. A group of people, entering the kitchen, were amazed to hear her say, in a gruff naval roar: ‘Well, it’s your choice, little Polly Perkins. All I’ll say is this. Make a success of it. Be a good painter, and we’ll be damned proud of you, the bosun and I.’
He smiled, not without a nervous glance at the new arrivals. He put a hand on her muscular arm and steered her back into the main room. Her flesh was cold and flaccid.
They began to mark time.
‘Will you be a good painter?’ he said.
‘Extremely,’ she said.
He flung his mouth on hers, too violently. She shook it off.
‘We’re supposed to be dancing,’ she said.
‘There isn’t room.’
‘Then we’d better talk. Ask me about my grisly family.’
‘Tell