False Scent. Ngaio Marsh

I can ill-afford to get myself the reputation of being difficult. After all, my contract isn’t signed, Bertie.’

      ‘It’s as clear as daylight: magnanimity must be our watchword.’

      ‘I’ll be blowed if I crawl.’

      ‘We shan’t have to, dear. A pressure of the hand and a long, long gaze into the eyeballs will carry us through.’

      ‘I resent having to.’

      ‘Never mind. Rise above. Watch me: I’m a past master at it. Gird up the loins, dear, such as they are, and remember you’re an actress.’ He giggled. ‘Looked at in the right way it’ll be rather fun.’

      ‘What shall I wear?’

      ‘Black, and no jewellery. She’ll be clanking.’

      ‘I hate being at enmity, Bertie. What a beastly profession ours is. In some ways.’

      ‘It’s a jungle, darling. Face it – it’s a jungle.’

      ‘You,’ Pinky said rather enviously, ‘don’t seem to be unduly perturbed, I must say.’

      ‘My poorest girl, little do you know. I’m quaking.’

      ‘Really? But could she actually do you any damage?’

      ‘Can the boa-constrictor,’ Bertie said, ‘consume the rabbit?’

      Pinky had thought it better not to press this matter any further. They had separated and gone to their several flats, where in due course they made ready for the party.

      Anelida and Octavius also made ready. Octavius, having settled for a black coat, striped trousers and the complementary details that he considered appropriate to these garments, had taken up a good deal of his niece’s attention. She had managed to have a bath and was about to dress when, for the fourth time, he tapped at her door and presented himself before her, looking anxious and unnaturally tidy. ‘My hair,’ he said. ‘Having no unguent, I used a little olive oil. Do I smell like a salad?’

      She reassured him, gave his coat a brush and begged him to wait for her in the shop. He had old-fashioned ideas about punctuality and had begun to fret. ‘It’s five-and-twenty minutes to seven. We were asked for half-past six, Nelly.’

      ‘That means seven at the earliest, darling. Just take a furtive leer through the window and you’ll see when people begin to come. And please, Unk, we can’t go while I’m still in my dressing-gown, can we, now?’

      ‘No, no, of course not. Half-past six for a quarter-to-seven? Or seven? I see. I see. In that case …’

      He pottered downstairs.

      Anelida thought: ‘It’s a good thing I’ve had some practice in quick changes.’ She did her face and hair, and she put on a white dress that had been her one extravagance of the year, a large white hat with a black velvet crown, and new gloves. She looked in the glass, forcing herself to adopt the examining attitude she used in the theatre. ‘And it might as well be a first night,’ she thought, ‘the way I’m feeling.’ Did Richard like white? she wondered.

      Heartened by the certainty of her dress being satisfactory and her hat becoming, Anelida began to daydream along time-honoured lines. She and Octavius arrived at the party. There was a sudden hush. Monty Marchant, The Management in person, would ejaculate to Timon Gantry, the great producer, ‘Who are they?’ and Timon Gantry, with the abrupt grasp which all actors, whether they had heard it or not, liked to imitate, would reply: ‘I don’t know, but by God, I’m going to find out.’ The ranks would part as she and Octavius, escorted by Miss Bellamy, moved down the room to the accompaniment of a discreet murmur. They would be the cynosure of all eyes. What was a cynosure and why was it never mentioned except in reference to eyes? All eyes on Anelida Lee. And there, rapt in admiration, would be Richard.…