Party, Party

26

Party, Party

    Panda held rather tightly to Wal’s hand.

    “Through here, I think,” he said.

    “Yes,” she said in a tiny voice, wondering why the lady had asked Dad to her dressing-room at all.

    They went under the arch through which the flying ASM who’d brought them Livia’s message had vanished.

    “Did she go up there?” asked Wal, looking dubiously at the staircase.

    “Um—I think so.”

    At this moment three laughing young people with considerable traces of make-up round the eyes and in one case blueish hands and in another case silver hair came down the staircase in a squashed bunch, so Wal said: “Excuse me, are we on the right track for Miss Wentworth’s dressing-room?”

    “Yeah, that’s right!” said the blue-haired one cheerfully.

    “Turn left at the top of the stairs!” added the silver-haired one cheerfully.

    “Right; thanks,” he said.

    They went on their way and Wal mounted the stairs and said dubiously to his daughter: “What sex was that one with the silver hair?”

    “Da-ad! A boy!”

    “Oh,” he said humbly.

    ... “You can’t go in there!” she gasped, grabbing his arm.

    “Well, there isn’t anywhere else,” he said, looking without interest at the mass of heaving tulle and female flesh.

    “Don’t look!” hissed Panda, pulling at his arm.

    “I can’t help looking, if I’m looking for Livia. –These all look like kids,” he determined.

    Panda was in agony.

    Wal went on peering round the large, crowded room and after a few moments a shortish, plumpish, very hot-looking middle-aged woman came up to him and said in a steely voice: “I’m afraid you can’t come in here, this is the girls’ dressing-room. May I help you?”

    “No, thanks, I’m capable of standing here getting an eyeful by myself,” replied Wal nastily.

    “DAD!” screeched Panda.

    The woman gave her a dubious look and said: “Uh—were you looking for your daughter? What’s her name, perhaps I can find her for y—”

    “No, I’m looking for Miss Wentworth,” he said in a bored voice. “Is this the wrong place?”

    “Um—no, but she— Is she expecting you?” she ended weakly.

    Before Wal could speak a squashed-looking yellowish woman of about the same age who’d been hovering for a bit came up to the plump, hot one’s elbow and said: “Livia did invite some guests, Maisie.”

    “Yes, me, for instance!” said Wal impatiently. “Look, is this the right place, or not?”

    The plump one opened her mouth but the yellow one said: “What name, please?”

    “Briggs,” said Wal through his teeth.

    “Oh, yes: Oll— Livia is expecting you!” the yellow one said in a gasp, for unknown reasons turning maroon. “Please come— Oh, is this your little girl? Hullo, dear,” she said before either of them could speak. “Livia’s over here, in the corner: quite commodious, really; I must say they’ve managed very well, considering.” She led the way.

    Wal rolled his eyes madly at his daughter and followed. He’d only taken a few steps before she grabbed his hand.

    … “Gawdelpus,” he said. Livia’s cubicle was a seething mass of bouquets, but underneath this surface confusion it was terrifyingly regimented, with ranks of gigantic dresses hanging from a very professional-looking trolley affair to their left, a full-length mirror over in the corner, an aged sofa to the right, against the black screen which separated the cubicle from the big room, and a large bench complete with light-ringed mirror, ranks of make-up, cottonwool, little towels, you name it, opposite the entrance screen. Livia was seated before the dressing table, clad in a flowing white satin robe lavishly embroidered with multi-coloured flowers, birds and butterflies. Being an Antipodean, Wal knew you picked those up for a song in Singapore or Hong Kong, in fact he’d bought one each for his older daughters last time he’d been in Singapore (though not for Panda, he’d thought she’d appreciate the waterproof digital watch with the built-in calculator, and indeed she had: well, she was wearing it, huge black strap and all). However, he fully appreciated the effect of this garment on Livia. That and the fact that she’d intended the effect, naturally.

    “There you are!” she cooed. “Thank you for the lovely flowers, Wallace!” She waved at the bunch on her dressing table, and fluttered her eyelashes.

    Wal could feel his daughter goggling. He didn’t look in her direction but said: “Oh—those mine? Look all right, eh? You never know with these bloody florists’ shops.”

    “No, exactly, darling! But they’re beautiful!” Livia directed a dazzling smile at Panda and cooed: “Now, let me guess! I think this must be Panda, is that right?”

    “None of the rest of ’em get round in bovver boots and Levi’s, so it must be,” he agreed.

    “Don’t be silly, Wallace, she looks very In. Just right for a young person,” said Livia firmly.

    To Wal’s astonishment she then actually got up, and said: “Come and say hullo, Panda, and let me look at you.”

    Panda came up looking agonized and growled: “Hullo.”

    Livia smiled at her again and said: “Wallace has told me a lot about you, Panda. It’s lovely to meet you.”

    Panda gulped.

    “Can I give you a kiss, or would that be a norful faux pas?” asked Livia with tremendous charm.

    “Aw—all right,” she growled, bright scarlet, shuffling the boots.

    Livia embraced her delicately. It was a real kiss, though. “Darling, what a skin, aren’t you lucky!” she gasped, patting it.

    “Uh—yeah, I s’pose so. Never really thought about it,” growled Panda.

    “I had the most dreadful spots at your age—dreadful! But of course my mother knew nothing about diet—well, no-one did in those days, did they, Wal?” she laughed.

    “No. Well, Sister Anne certainly didn’t. Fed us on a mixture of shepherd’s pie, chips, and boiled pumpkin, far’s I remember. With white bread and peanut butter or jam for snacks.”

    “Well, exactly, darling!” she cried. “Mummy’s idea of a nourishing dinner was fried bread, fried chips, and fried steak—all done in lard—followed by jam roly-poly pudding!”

    “Heck,” said Panda numbly.

    “Yes: guaranteed to give one the most ghastly spots. And virtually no roughage, of course. It took my skin years to recover from it. And of course I still can’t really eat chocolate.” She eyed the big box that was open on her dressing table, and sighed.

    “You look great, now,” said Panda firmly.

    Livia smiled and sighed. “Thank you, darling. But it takes work.”

    Wal shoved a bunch of flowers on the floor and sat down on the sofa. “Work and American dollars.”

    “Naturally: I’ve never tried to hide that,” said Livia with dignity, sitting down. “But when one’s face is literally one’s fortune, not to say one’s bread and butter,” she added with a deprecating face at Panda, “one has to make the best of it.”

    “Yes. Um—you were great in the play!” she gasped.

    “Thank you, darling. Only I’m afraid I wasn’t. Shakespeare is quite beyond poor little me, as I’m sure your father would be the first to admit.”—Panda went very red and looked at him nervously, but Wal merely looked dry.—“But I did my poor best; and I do think I looked all right; what do you think?”

    “Yes, you looked lovely!” agreed Panda enthusiastically.

    “Yeah; were those dresses actually meant to show yer tits?” asked Wal with kindly interest.

    Livia gave him a reproving look. “They were certainly meant to be suggestive; yes, dear. Mac sees the relationship between Oberon and Titania as a sexually dynamic one, you know.”

    “Sexually dynamic,” he muttered. “I see.”

    “Um—were you embarrassed?” gulped Panda, turning scarlet again as she did so.

    “Oh, no, dear. We actors see our bodies as mere machines, you know.”

    “I get it,” she said numbly.

    Wallace leaned back on the sofa and said: “Yeah. Is this Amy?”

    Livia jumped, and gasped, and cried of course, he hadn’t— Oh, dear, how rude! She introduced them all and Amy wrung Wal’s hand, turning maroon again.

    “Well, I really must change!” she trilled. “No, Panda, dear, don’t go, I’ve just got to slip into my dress.”

    “That’ll make the seventh change tonight, by my reckoning,” said Wal drily.

    “Yes. Turn your back if you feel shy, dear,” she said.

    Wal’s jaw went all saggy. Then he caught sight of his daughter’s anxious face. Heaving a loud sigh, he turned his back, as Amy bustled up all ready to help.

    “C’n I turn round?” he whinged eventually.

    “Just a minute, dear—there!” she panted.

    He turned round and grinned a bit. Livia was all blue. Well, fair enough: she hadn’t worn blue all evening. The dress was sort of crinolined—full-skirted, anyway—layered blue tulle, mostly royal blue but shading to almost black at the hem. A huge blue poppy with a black centre perched at the lowered waist. The satin bodice was of course very tight and very low as well as strapless. However, there was one sleeve, a long tight sleeve, also in blue satin, which came to the level of the bodice top. It was on the same side as the poppy—Livia’s right. Wal squinted at it a bit. Ye-es... yes, would have looked worse on the other side.

    “It’s lovely,” said Panda in a nervous voice.

    “A real knock-out,” he agreed, grinning.

    “Thank you, darling,” said Livia with great composure. “Now, I think I might just visit the little girls’ room—do you need to, dear?”

    Panda accepted this offer with visible relief and off they went.

    Wal groaned and sat down.

    Amy fussed with the dresses. After a while she said nervously: “It really went off very well, didn’t you think, Mr Briggs?”

    Generously Wal didn’t reveal his true opinion. “Yeah, no real glitches, eh? The audience seemed to love it, judging by the applause.”

    “Oh, exactly!” she cried, tremendously pleased.

    Livia had gathered up a small blue bag and it really looked as if they were actually about to go when Adam McIntyre came ambling into the enclosure in nothing but his trousers and a sparkly whatsit bang in the middle of his chest. He made a hideous face and said to Livia without preamble: “Darling, this bloody diadem has stuck to the chest hairs, it’s agony, have you got anything that might help get it off?”

    “Adam, darling, you didn’t let them talk you into using GLUE?” she screamed.

    “Yes. And everybody else seems to have gone. Well, I was surrounded, you know what it’s like, and I could hardly strip to the jock-strap in front of the Vice-Chancellor’s wife—for God’s sake, Livia, have you got anything?”

    “What sort of glue is it, McIntyre?” asked Wal, very dry.

    Adam gave him a glance and drawled: “Oh, hullo, there.”

    Hurriedly Livia made introductions. Panda was visibly overcome, especially when Adam McIntyre actually shook her hand.

    Adam then revealed it was only the sort of glue they used tor false beards, but there was about half a pound of it in there mixed up with the chest hairs. Livia peered. “Ugh,” she said.

    “Cut it off,” advised Wal laconically.

    Amy gave a gasp of horror.

    “He doesn’t want a bald spot, Wallace, don’t be silly,” said Livia. She picked at the diadem gingerly and Adam gave an agonized gasp.

    “Would you lose half your public if you had a bald spot in the middle of your chest?” asked Wal with interest.

    “More than half,” said Adam firmly.

    Panda gulped.

    Livia picked at the diadem again and Adam gasped again.

    “Crikey, he’s not like he is in his films, is ’e?” said Wal to his daughter.

    “Dad!” she gasped agonizedly.

    Wal explained to Adam, poker-face: “We thought you were the type that could withstand five hours of unspeakable torture, escape from a locked cellar where you’d been up to yer ears in water for a further five hours, settle fourteen villains single-handed with a few karate chops, and then do the lady of your choice. All on one vodka martini and without letting your whiskers grow a millimetre, what’s more.”

    “Not a vodka martini,” said Panda faintly.

    “Same difference. –Well?” he said to the grinning Adam.

    “It’s the effort to stop the whiskers growing that millimetre: you go all effete and helpless,” he explained.

    Wal gave in and choked.

    Amy was rummaging in the depths of a suitcase, assuring Adam she knew there was something, and Livia was picking at the diadem again and Adam was gasping again, and Wal had picked up Livia’s nail scissors and was eyeing Adam thoughtfully, when a slim girl with red hair in a big fat plait came in and said: “Well, I thought Barbara had some meths but I can’t find it. Has Adam explained he’s all gummed up, Livia?”

    “Georgy, dear! There you are!” she cried. “Yes, he has explained, and really, short of cutting it off—”

    Wal gave an evil chuckle and brandished the scissors and Panda hissed in agony: “Stop it, Dad!”

    “No, don’t do that, Mr Briggs!” gasped Amy, emerging from the suitcase very flushed. “Here! White spirit!”

    “That’ll do it,” said Adam in relief. “Blessings on you, Amy!”

    “What if it’s incompatible with the glue, though?” worried the red-headed girl.

    “Then he’ll end up with a see-through chest, won’t he?” said Wal.

    “No—um—but what if it explodes, or something?”

    “In that case the university will be liable for thousands in damages. Hundreds of thousands, probably.”

    “Never mind, Briggs, you can represent my estate in the court case which will inevitably ensue,” said Adam blandly.

    “Only if he’s a lawyer,” said the red-headed girl dubiously.

    Adam and Wal both choked and Livia cried: “But of course! Oh, dear, of course you—” And introduced them.

    Amy then had the honour of applying white spirit to Adam McIntyre’s chest. Largely because everyone else was too chicken to. Well, the red-headed Georgy admitted frankly that she was—wasn’t Panda? Panda giggled and admitted she was. Then Wal admitted that he certainly was, he didn’t want to be lynched by millions of rabid fans. Livia pointed out that they were being silly, but nevertheless kept herself and her dress well away. The spirit worked and with only slight agony Adam was freed from his diadem.

    “Ugh, you’ve got an awful red patch,” said Georgy, investigating.

    “Haven’t I?” he agreed.

    “No one made you use the glue, Adam!” she said spiritedly.

    “No-one tied me down and applied it forcibly, this is true,” he corrected. “—No-one light a match, by the way.”

    “Go and wash it, Adam, dear. With plenty of soap,” said Livia. “Here,” she added on second thoughts, handing him a pristine cellophane-wrapped packet from the dressing-table.

    “‘Rose geranium?’” he read faintly off the label.

    “Just GO, Adam!”

    Adam crept off to the ladies’ toilets.

    “We’ll all go over to the party together, that’ll be nice, won’t it?” decided Livia in his absence, smiling at Georgy.

    “Ye-es... I think Adam’s lost his nerve,” she admitted.

    “Oh, never mind about that, Georgy, dear, I can cope with that!” she laughed.

    Georgy, registered Wal Briggs, looked about as pleased by this remark as he himself felt.

    The seething mass of flesh and dinner-suits in the S.C.R. was more or less dominated by Mac, exuding affability.

    “Ugh,” said Georgy faintly in the doorway, taking a step backwards

    Adam grabbed her arm. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends.”

    “Why do I feel I’m slated to end up as one of the English dead?” she muttered.

    Wal choked.

    “Nonsense, dear, you look very nice!” fluted Livia. –Partly because, Wal was in no doubt, some of the credit for the niceness was hers, she herself having combed out the girl’s hair before they left the dressing-room.

    “Yes, that’s a really pretty dress,” said Panda shyly.

    Georgy looked down at her white broderie Anglaise and made a face. “Adam said I had to get changed.”

    “He was quite right: well done, Adam, darling, I’m glad someone had the sense to look after little Georgy!” Livia approved.

    Wal shot her a dubious glance. However, McIntyre hadn’t reacted, so presumably he didn’t mind Livia patronising his girlfriend unmercifully. Presuming she was the Anglo-Saxony one? Yes, must be.

    “Well, shall I flourish the trumpet?” he said heavily.

    “Dad!” hissed Panda turning puce.

    Livia ignored this superbly, took Wal’s arm in a grip of steel, and sailed in with a terrifically long, tinkling laugh. Not directed at anyone, but it did the job. Everybody turned round and gasped and began to shower her and Adam with acclaim...

    “See?” muttered Ariadne.

    “Rats, it’s good! Come on, old girl, drink up!” Keith refilled her glass. “Look, that kid over there’s got a green face!”

    “Probably eaten too many of those,” said Ariadne pointedly, looking at his second plateful of cholesterol-laden savouries.

    “Not that sort of green. A fairy? Hang on, I’ll ask her!” He was off before his wife could stop him.

    “Green lizard!” he reported, beaming.

    Ariadne sighed heavily.

    … Melinda tottered to a chair next to Phyllis Harding. “Why didn’t someone tell me Polly Carrano apparently knows all there is to know about maths?” she moaned.

    Phyllis gave a rather dubious giggle. “Yes, she does: she’s terribly clever. I must say, I don’t quite understand it myself, but the maths is something to do with the linguistics.”

    “Statistical linguistics,” said Melinda on a grim note.

    “Oh.” Phyllis looked dubiously over at where Polly Carrano, extremely sinuous, not to say nubile not to say downright seductive in tight green-gold lamé was locked deep in mathematical converse with Christopher Black and a tall, burly, florid man who was, so Melinda had recently learned, the head of the university’s Department of Mathematics.

    Melinda followed her gaze. “Something else I didn’t know before is that maths could be so amusing,” she said grimly, as they all flung back their heads and roared with laughter and the burly mathematician put his arm very casually around Polly’s sinuous green-gold waist.

    “No,” said Phyllis weakly. “I’m sure there’s nothing in it; dear Polly’s like that.”

    “Where’s yours?” asked Melinda, relenting slightly.

    “What? Oh—John. Over there with Gavin Wiley, talking about boats,” she said dully.

    Well, at least he wasn’t flirting like a particularly dim twenty-five-year-old with dratted Polly Carrano! thought Melinda grimly. Not that she really minded the flirting—well, not much. It was more the fact that she herself had been unable to understand a blessed word the three of them had said...

    Meanwhile, the genial Sir Jake was in a flattered group consisting of Phil Hardy, the blue-haired Pru Hardy, the silver-haired Greg, a boy who appeared to be a hanger-on of Pru’s and whom no-one had verbally identified, a male rustic, Demetrius, Demetrius’s ferret-faced girlfriend, both Austin twins plus the electronically-minded Euan who was Vicki’s boyfriend, and—just as a pure coincidence—the busty Helena. Helena had changed out of the pink velveteen, not wishing to be torn limb from limb by Mac, but as she’d changed into a paler pink tee-shirt which she was wearing very tightly tucked into her stretch jeans, this hardly mattered. In fact in a way it made it better: she wasn’t wearing a bra, and this was very evident. Very.

    Adam was in Derry’s group and he had made the tactical error of releasing Georgy’s hand in order to regain his balance at the moment Derry had bashed him violently on the back and then slung his heavy arm casually round his shoulders. Since Derry, as his narrative proceeded, occasionally urged Adam to interpolate comparisons with his own experiences in summer productions, more particularly at a foul summer festival sponsored by the duke for whom Adam had not too long ago opened a fête, it was difficult for him to get away. The more so since he was hemmed in by approximately fifty eager, hot, excitedly breathing bodies from TVNZ and the local film scene. Somehow these bodies had edged Georgy out, or possibly she had allowed herself to be edged out. When he looked round for her, she wasn’t there. There was little Adam could do about this: Derry’s arm was still round his shoulders and the hot, eager audience was hanging on his every word. Adam duly performed, but at the same time tried to look round the crowded room for Georgy. Without success: although he was tall the room was very crowded indeed.

    At first Livia thought that the smooth-looking man in the very nice dinner suit was just—well, you know—keen. He’d seemed to know everybody, he’d been chatting to the Registrar and Gavin, the Vice-Chancellor, and he’d certainly seemed to know Polly and Jake. She couldn’t have said exactly how he ended up at her elbow, but she did nothing to discourage him. The more so as Wal seemed to have become absorbed into a group with the man who did the lighting—nice Angie’s husband—Bill, that was it!

    “Ralph Overdale,” said the smooth man in the suit, giving her a glass of champagne. “I’m Adam and Georgy’s neighbour.”

    “Thank you, Ralph,” said Livia nicely, accepting the glass.

    Ralph watched drily as she downed it. No palate, he’d have taken a bet on that one.

    “So little Georgy lives near Adam, does she?” she said nicely.

    Good Christ, didn’t the woman notice anything outside herself? “Very, very near. You could say in his pocket,” said Ralph drily. “Except when he’s surrounded by pseuds, famous film directors and would-be hangers-on to the jet-set, all far more deserving of his attention, apparently. If she was my girlfriend I wouldn’t let her out of my sight for a instant. He’s a fool, doesn’t know what he's got.”

    Livia felt quite stunned. She just stared at him.

    Ralph shrugged lightly. “Spoilt, would be my diagnosis. But you’ve known him longer than I have.”

    ‘Yes,” she said faintly.

    “I suppose,” he added on a distinctly sour note, “that I’d better not join you in that fizz: someone will have to drive the pair of them home to the flat, and I sincerely doubt that McIntyre’s hand’ll be up for that job.”

    “No, not after the show,” she agreed faintly.

    “Can get you another glass, Livia?”

    Livia had just spotted Wal extricating himself from Bill’s group. She waved frantically. Thank goodness, he was coming over! “No, thank you so much, Ralph,” she managed.

    Wal came up and took her elbow, and she just sagged thankfully against him.

    Ralph gave the pair of them a distinctly dry look, and moved away.

    “Who is that horrid man?” she gasped.

    “Top surgeon. Put it another way, the world’s greatest prick,” replied Wal sourly. “What the Hell was he saying to you?”

    “Oh, nothing, really, darling. I’m just tired.”

    Overdale must have managed somehow to put the needle in, Wal concluded. Him all over. “Let’s sit down and see about some nosh for you,” he said.

    “Lovely, darling,” she sighed.

    “Escaped from the nobs?” said Nigel cheerfully as Georgy came timidly up to his group, looking lost.

    “Yes,” she admitted, blushing.

    “Good. Sit here.” Nigel patted the arm of the huge armchair he and a slim silver fairy were squashed into. Georgy sat down gratefully.

    “Haven’t you got anything to eat?” asked the silver fairy in horror.

    “Um—no. It doesn’t matter, thanks, Imogen.”

    Nigel and the fairy were sharing a huge plate of potato salad with sliced ham. They looked at her in horror. “Of course it matters!” said Nigel.

    “I’ll get you something, Georgy,” said Stephen, speaking for the first time not only since Georgy had come up to them but since she’d come into the room with Adam holding her hand. True, Adam’s other hand had been holding the blushing Panda Briggs’s hand, but that hadn’t actually made Stephen feel any better. “What would you like?”

    “Um—I don’t mind. Anything, really,” she said shyly.

    “Potato shalad’sh goob,” said Nigel through a mouthful.

    “She may not like it,” said Stephen.

    “Um—yes, I do, quite,” said Georgy.

    “All right. Potato salad. Do you like chicken?”

    Georgy nodded and he said “Right!” and went off, looking determined.

    “Be lucky uff there’sh any shicken lef’,” noted Nigel through a mouthful. He swallowed, grinned, and said: “Anyway, what’s the verdict?”

    “You were great, Nigel,” replied Georgy, smiling at him.

    She’d told him that earlier. “Nah!” he replied scornfully, waving his fork. “The show as a whole!”

    “Oh.” Georgy hesitated. Hermia was also in Nigel’s group. “I thought it went very well, on the whole. Better than last year’s.”

    “Yeah, well, the sinking of the Titanic probably went better than Mac’s conception of a student Cymbeline,” he pointed out cheerfully.—This although he’d played Posthumus in it.—“I thought it went over quite well. A few slow spots, of course.”

    “Us,” said Hermia glumly. “Don’t say anything, Georgy, I know we were awful,” she added.

    “You were all much better than at the dress rehearsal,” said Georgy firmly.

    “Yeah,” Nigel agreed. “And the audience didn’t get too restless. Tell ya what, though,” he said to Georgy, “Adam was right about that stupid bloody scene between Theseus and Hippolyta in Act V: all that crap about hunting dogs shoulda been cut right out!”

    “Yes. I think Shakespeare might have included it to give Oberon and Titania more time to change,” she said dubiously.

    “Or because he had his boyfriend playing Theseus, yeah,” he agreed.

    “He was a bit better,” said the silver fairy.

    “Who, old Kev?” he croaked.

    “You could hear every word he said,” pointed out a blue fairy.

    Nigel chewed ham noisily and swallowed. “Yeah, maybe, but he was the woodenest duke I’ve ever laid eyes on. And before anybody says anything, that includes the entire cast of the year before last.”

    Georgy gulped.

    “No-one could be as bad as Orsino was, Nige!” objected Snug.

    “Kev managed it,” said Nigel firmly.

    That seemed to settle that.

    Georgy began to feel a little uncomfortable, after all they were all students, and wondered whether she ought to go away again, only she couldn’t, because Stephen was getting her something to eat. However, before she’d got too uncomfortable Puck’s fairy and Egeus came up to them, grinning, and Snug immediately said to Egeus: “What in God’s name went wrong with your beard in the opening scene, Nev?”

    Egeus grinned sheepishly. “The button on Joanna’s cuff got caught in it, eh, Joanna?”—Hermia nodded, with her mouth full.—“It was awful, it nearly came off, I hadda kind of turn away and stick it back on quickly!” he confided.

    “We thought it looked crooked when you came off,” agreed Snug.

    “Some of us told Mac buttons on cuffs weren’t too pre-Raphaelite,” noted Pauline, coming up to them with a laden plate, grinning all over her thin, sallow face. “Can I sit with you lot? The place seems to be bursting with full professors and bloated millionaires.”

    Nigel patted the other arm of his big chair hospitably and the blue fairy, who was perched on it, moved up to make room for Pauline.

    “Ta.” She sat down gratefully. “That’s what comes of recycling costumes tilt kingdom come,” she added. “Ya know what that blue dress was originally used in?” They all looked blank. “The Importance of Being Ernest,” said Pauline impressively.

he students all continued to look blank but Georgy gulped:

    “Um—yes, I think—” she began. “Oh, thanks, Stephen!” she gasped, going very pink as he thrust a laden plate at her.

    Nigel choked down a final mouthful of potato salad and gasped: “Crayfish? Where’dja get that?”

    “Over there, there’s oodles of it. –What’s up, don’t you like it?” he said to Georgy.

    Georgy had gone scarlet. She looked up at him apologetically. “Not really. I’m sorry, Stephen.”

    “Don’t be, Nigel’ll eat it for you,” he said drily.

    True: Nigel immediately seized Georgy’s plate and tipped the crayfish off it onto his own. “Have the chicken,” he advised her kindly.

    “Yes. I really do like chicken: thanks, Stephen.”

    “That’s all right,” he replied, still dry. He watched her, but she did begin to eat.

    “Shiddown,” said Nigel hospitably to him through a mouthful of Georgy’s crayfish, as several of the others made a concerted foray in the direction of the crayfish.

    “Where?” replied Stephen.

    “Could pinch that chair,” he said, nodding at the heavy armchair just abandoned by Snug, a male rustic, the completely silent second female rustic who was reputed to be doing a topic in Middle English, and a green fairy. “Uh—no, behind Georgy. Bags of room!”

    Georgy smiled at him shyly and edged towards the front of the heavy arm of Nigel’s big chair and Stephen, very flushed, came and perched behind her. Whether Georgy and the silver fairy were aware of it or not he didn’t waste much time speculating on, but he himself of course was aware both that Nigel knew he fancied Georgy and that Nigel was not nearly the simple-hearted, simple-minded fellow he liked to present himself as. Not nearly.

    “Right: what about something solid to eat?” said Wal firmly as the Vice-Chancellor, with much fervent wringing of Livia’s hand, finally took himself and his party and the Registrar and the Registrar’s party off and the atmosphere in the big, hot room almost visibly relaxed. “Or can’t you, in that dress?”

    “It isn’t tight, dear.”

    “What’s keeping you in it, then? Not to say up. Sheer willpower?”

    “It’s boned, silly one. Feel!” She grabbed his hand and put it on her satin midriff.

    Wal withdrew the hand hastily, flushing a little. “So it is. Either that or your thorax belongs in a museum.”

    “Actually I would like something to eat, darling. Was that lobster I saw over there?”

    “More or less, yes; but I wouldn’t advise it in this humidity. This dump’s not air-conditioned, or had that escaped your notice?”

    Livia made a face. “Darling, isn’t it awful!” she hissed.

    Wal drew his face hastily out of range but acknowledged: “Yeah. Uh—well—look, Polly seems to have got rid of five thousand admirers, let’s go and grab a seat by her and Jake, okay?”

    Livia agreed to this thankfully. Wal deduced, and not incorrectly, that she was dying to sit down. Sure enough, she sank onto the couch next to Polly apparently without even noticing that she was not only sitting next to a female but a female in a dress that clashed with her own. Wal didn’t ask her what she wanted to eat, he didn’t want some bloody fatuous lie, he just ambled off to get her a damn good plateful.

    By about one o’clock the party had sorted itself out into definite groups. Derry was still socializing genially with the television and film people but anyone who knew him would immediately have recognized that he was about to get rid of them. Lucinda certainly did.

    Over at one side of the room the Carranos’ dinner party had more or less reconvened—none of them actually admitting they were bloody glad to take the weight off their feet—on a circle of chairs and couches. Several bottles that had once contained fizz graced the coffee table in the middle of this circle and a bottle of Cognac from which he occasionally poured hospitably graced Sir Jake’s hand. Livia was definitely the centre of the group: once she’d got a hearty meal inside her she’d perked up amazingly and was entertaining them with some selected stories from her early career. Of those present, probably only Polly, Jake, Wal Briggs and Ralph Overdale were simultaneously both sophisticated enough and sober enough to realize just how carefully selected they were.

    The students had sorted themselves out into sub-groups. Many of the lesser lights had gone, possibly to more congenial surroundings than the Senior Common Room. However, there were two principal clumps left: a largish clump containing the Austin twins plus Vicki’s boyfriend, the Hardy girls plus a male hanger-on and Greg of the silver hair, plus Hermia, Egeus, Philostrate, and a few other rustics and fairies. Plus Barbara Michaels, Roberta Nicholls, and Panda Briggs. Not to say the Hardings’ driver, Gwillim of Rawhide Rendezvous fame. It was evident to anyone who so much as glanced at them that Panda had fallen like a ton of bricks for the gorgeous Gwillim and that he had realized this and was tolerantly amused by it.

    The remaining students comprised Nigel, Snug, Stephen and Michelle, she who was Adam’s leading fairy. They were now, amidst a litter of abandoned plates and semi-abandoned glasses, in a close huddle with Georgy—not surprizing—and—very surprizing—Adam and Joel, deep in theatre talk of the more technical kind. It would not have been true to say the young people were hanging on Adam’s every word. It was more your listening critically and then arguing with every blessed thing he said. Adam was enjoying himself tremendously.

    Finally, Bill Michaels, who had joined the Carranos’ group as a matter of course, yawned widely and admitted: “Better make a move, I suppose. ’Nother day tomorrow.” He yawned again.

    “At least it’s Sunday,” returned Angie, also yawning.

    “Yeah. Might give me time to sort out what went wrong with the lighting sequence in the middle of Act IV.”

    “I never noticed anything,” said Angie. She yawned again.

    “I did: that woulda been when the lights looked as if they had hiccups, eh?” contributed Jake, who hadn’t appeared to be listening.

    Bill was used to him; nevertheless he jumped slightly. “Uh—yeah,” he conceded, grimacing.

    “I’m sure nobody else noticed, Bill, darling!” cooed Livia.

    “I did,” said Wal drily.

    “There you are: proves it, eh?” said Bill, hauling himself up. “I’ll just have a word with those young idiots.” He ambled off towards the bar.

    “Is that wise?” drawled Sir Ralph, raising his eyebrows.

    Angie had met him before, because he was Tom Overdale’s brother and an acquaintance of Polly’s and Jake’s, but this didn’t mean that she liked him. However, that didn’t mean she was game to address more than two words to him, she wasn’t all that fond of being on the receiving end of smooth put-downs. “He’s on the Bar Committee,” she said shortly.

    “Ah.” Ralph rose. “In that case, I might have a word with him, I have a notion how he might improve the quality of the S.C.R.’s champagne with the expenditure of very little more cash and almost no effort.”

    Livia got up and began to make gracious farewells but Wal, having strategically retrieved his daughter, grabbed her elbow ruthlessly with his free hand and said: “That’ll do. Come on, some of us ’ud like to get some shut-eye some time before seven o’clock this morning; and this one’s dead on ’er feet!”

    “I am NOT!” waited the agonized Panda.

    Wal ignored her. He propelled Livia ruthlessly towards the door, deaf to her protests that she must say good night to Derry and Adam. And Mac: where was Mac?

    “Where is Mac?” asked Polly faintly, as they exited.

    “Over there,” said her husband briefly.

    They looked blankly in the direction of an abandoned cluster of sofas and chairs at the far side of the room.

    Jill strolled over to take a look. So he was, mm.

    “Flat out,” she reported, strolling back.

    “We can’t just leave him here!” gasped Polly.

    “I’m not offering to help lift his bulk,” said Jill.

    “Nor’m I,” agreed Jake frankly.

    No-one else offered, either, so that seemed to be that.

    Whatever Livia’s expectations of Opening Night might have been—and it would have been true to say they had not been high: she was essentially a realist—they had not included being bundled into the back of Wallace’s car with Lucinda Stuart. She was, however, pleased to see that he had a nice car, after all.

    True, Wal did drive Lucinda to her hotel first, since the car was parked at the far end of the street facing downtown anyway. But he then drove straight back up the hill towards Livia’s hotel without saying anything. Panda didn’t say anything either, but she yawned a lot.

    Finally Livia said to her in a voice that shook a little: “So you had a nice time, did you, Panda, dear?”

    Panda yawned again. “Yeah. ’Scuse me. Yeah, it was ace.”

    Livia was tempted to remark casually what a handsome boy that driver of Lady Harding’s was, but didn’t, it would have been too mean, Panda was only a little girl, and besides, Wallace would immediately have spotted why she was saying it and put her down as a cat. “And what are you planning for tomorrow—I should say today?” she asked with an attempt at sprightliness.

    “Um—dunno, really,” growled Panda.

    “Sitting at home sulking, refusing to wash her hair, if it’s anything like last Sunday,” said Wal.

    “Don’t be silly, dear, her hair looks very nice,” said Livia faintly.

    “You could do some swot: wouldn’t kill ya,” noted Wal.

    “Da-ad!”

    “Read some of those books Miss Fothergill was stunned to discover you’d never heard of,” he said drily.

    “No! I’m not interested in stupid English literature!” said Panda fiercely.

    “I geddit: you’re not interested in passing stupid Bursary English and going to stupid university,” he said cordially.

    “They’re not on the SYLLABUS!” shouted Panda.

    Livia cleared her throat and asked: “What books were they, Wallace?”

    “Mm? Oh, some classics that her new headmistress thought she shoulda looked into by now. Considering she’s nearly seventeen,” he said drily.

    “Half the girls in my class are EIGHTEEN!” said Panda in a loud, sulky voice. “I could stay on for an extra year at school, I’m young enough!”

    “Not on my money, you couldn’t,” said Wal mildly.

    “You’re MEAN, Dad!” cried Panda, sounding as if she was going to burst into tears.

    “But Heavens, dear, you wouldn’t want another whole year at school, would you?” gasped Livia. “I mean, not doing all the same classes and so on—surely? Wouldn’t it be dreadfully boring?”

    There was a short silence.

    “It’s boring now,” said Panda sulkily.

    “I can imagine!” agreed Livia sincerely with a shudder in her voice.

    Panda swallowed loudly.

    “What books are they, dear?” persisted Livia.

    “Um, tripe, really. Love stories and stuff. Old-fashioned. Um... Wuthering Heights,” she revealed glumly. “It’s really dumb.”

    “Ye-es... The film was very romantic. The young Larry Olivier, you know? Couldn’t you watch it on video instead, dear?”

    “Ooh, yeah!”

    “Livia, I doubt if that’s what her headmistress had in mind,” said Wal, trying not to laugh.

    “Never mind, Wallace, what the eye doesn’t see; and it’s all culture, isn’t it?” she said brightly. “Go on, dear, what else?”

    “Jane Eyre. Have you read that?”

    “Er—no, dear. Poor little me is not very well educated,” said Livia firmly. “I believe it is a classic, though.”

    “Lissa Gilbert, she’s one of the girls in my class: well, she reckons it’s about this girl that became a governess,” said Panda glumly.

    “Oh.”

    “It’s a damn good read,” said Wal unexpectedly. “’Specially when that mad wife of his sets fire to the place. Reminds me of that first wife of Jake’s, now I come to think of it,” he explained. “Mad as a meat-axe, she was.”

    Simultaneously Livia gasped: “Real-ly?” and Panda gasped: “Sets fire to the place?”

    “Yeah,” he said.

    After a moment Panda said: “I might give that one a go, then. Not if it’s boring, though!”

    “No,” agreed Livia. “Was that all, dear?”

    “No. There’s mill-yuns more,” aid Panda glumly. “Um, The Red Badge of Courage, we were supposed to read that last year, she reckons, only I never.”—Livia had never heard of it.—“Nor has anybody else, I reckon,” said Panda glumly.

    “Perhaps you could skip that one. They do all seem very old-fashioned, dear, doesn’t this teacher of yours give you any modern books to read?”

    “A Kind of Loving,” said Wal with a laugh in his voice.

    “That was BORING, they were all ENGLISH and it was BORING!” shouted Panda.

    “That’ll do. You were too young to appreciate it. I thought it was damn good—what I managed to see of it. And you can apologize to Livia: you’ve just insulted her country.”

    “Oh—no!” gasped Livia. “Oh, yes, it was a television serial, wasn’t it. Is there a book of it, then?”

    “Yeah. And I’m sorry,” said Panda sulkily.

    “Oh, that’s all right, dear... Oh, yes: I know the serial you mean! Panda meant it was dreary working-class, Wallace: that’s it, isn’t Panda?”

    “Yes,” said Panda, sounded both relieved and sulky.

    “Yeah. Well, I seem to remember Miss Fothergill’s got that Thomas Keneally thing on ’er list, you could read that, he’s an Aussie,” said Wal drily.

    “That’s about the WAR, Dad!” cried Panda indignantly.

    “Oh: a boys’ book,” he said ironically.

    “No! It’s all HISTORY! It’s BORING!” shouted Panda.

    “What sort of books do you like to read, then, dear?” put in Livia hastily.

    “She doesn’t,” said Wal with a chuckle in his voice.

    “I DO! –Computer books,” she said sulkily to Livia.

    “Written by illiterate half-wits. In Japanese business English,” explained Wal.

    “You haven’t read half those books on Old Featherbrain’s list EITHER!” cried Panda aggrievedly.

    Wal drew up before Livia’s hotel. “No. And stop shouting, you’re deafening us. I haven’t read those books because when I was your age I spent most of the time I should have spent swotting on my various jobs, earning enough to see me through school. And because since then I’ve been too bloody busy getting qualified and earning a living. And because I’m an illiterate slob. You wanna turn out like me?”

    “Darling!” choked Livia.

    “No,” said Panda sulkily. “I don’t. An’ I don’t wanna do stupid law, and ya don’t have to read all those stupid books to do computer science!”

    “No: only to help you to become a halfway intelligent human being,” he said drily.

    “Darling,” said Livia firmly: “that isn’t nice. And besides, it isn’t entirely true: one learns more from life than one can in books.”

    “Maybe. Can’t she do both?”

    Livia sighed. “It would be nice to have the chance to be that age again...”

    “He’s just using me for stupid wish-fulfilment: he’s projecting his stupid unfulfilled ambitions onto me!” cried Panda.

    “Well, ya never got that out of a computer book!” he said with feeling.

    “No. Some of the girls were arguing about that stupid Hill Street Blues, there was an episode about some character wanting their son to follow in their footsteps, or something. Well, I never watch it, don’t look at me! And Miss Fothergill said maybe we’d better sort out what we were actually talking about before we, um, came to blows. And—um... Well, she was quite interesting, really,” admitted Panda grudgingly.

    “Your headmistress?” asked Livia kindly.

    “Yeah. She takes us for this stupid discussion period... It’s dumb, really, the girls mostly want to talk about dumb things.”

    “I see... Good gracious, does she let the girls choose, Panda?”

    “What? Oh—yeah. We never had that in my old school, it was dumb!”

    Wal’s mouth twitched but he merely said mildly to Livia: “Not like in our day, eh? You want me to leap out and open that door for ya?”

    “Oh! No, don’t be silly—”

    Unexpectedly Panda said gruffly: “You’re a clod, Dad. I will.” She got out and opened Livia’s door. “Mind your dress,” she said anxiously.

    Livia emerged from the car with due care for her dress. “Panda, dear, if you’re really not busy tomorrow, perhaps we could—well, is there anything you’d like to do? Or something I could take you to, perhaps?”

    “I’m not a kid,” said Panda gruffly.

    “Well,” said Livia with an uneasy little laugh: “something that you’d like to take me to, then? Something you always enjoy?”

    “Yeah—um— Have ya been to MOTAT?” said Panda cautiously.

    “WHAT?” howled Wal from the front seat.

    “What is it, dear?” asked Livia hastily.

    “It’s the Museum of Transport an’ Technology, it’s really ace! It’s not like a museum, there’s old cars and real working trams and on Sundays they always have the trains running, and double-decker buses, and—um—there’s planes only they’re not working, and—um—little old-fashioned shops and the old pump-house and everything!” gasped Panda.

    Wal leaned over and said out of the passenger’s door: “You’d like the little old shops, but I ought to warn you: you can’t buy anything from ’em.”

    “Yes, you can, Dad! That sweet shop’s ace!”

    “Yeah, but not the genuine old-fashioned stuff. It’s kind of a colonial museum.”

    “Oh,” replied Livia blankly. “Well, if that’s what you you’d enjoy, Panda, we’ll go.”

    “Yeah. Um...” Panda eyed her dubiously. “You have to pay to get in.”

    “I’ll pay,” said Wal on a grim note. “And I’m pretending I didn’t hear that one. And if you’ve spent all your pocket money on bloody floppy disks again, you’ve only got yourself to blame.”

    Livia made gasping noises of protest, but she was very glad to be overborne—and very, very glad that Wallace apparently considered himself included in the expedition.

    Whatever Sir Ralph’s expectations of the Opening Night party might have been—and they had certainly not been high—they had not included driving a carload of twins and twins’ hangers-on all the way to Puriri. Not that he had the least objection to the Austin twins—on the contrary, he was one of their most ardent admirers. Singly and collectively. Well, so long as Vicki’s mouth was closed. He delivered and decanted them all with fortitude and as a reward was allowed to help Adam assist the half-sleeping Georgy up Mrs Mayhew’s front steps.

    Big deal.

    Ralph went to bed feeling considerably on the yellow side of jaundiced.

    “Well?” said Christopher, settling himself comfortably on his harder mattress.

    Melinda waited for him to turn the light out and then sneakily took some paracetamol: her hip was starting to niggle. “It was nice to see him live,” she said happily. “Wasn’t it?”

    “Yes,” said Christopher weakly. “Very nice.”

    “Well?” said Mr Hardy, yawning horribly as they opened the back door.

    His blue-haired offspring replied scornfully: “Ya didn’ have to wait up for us, Dad!”

    “No,” agreed Phil.

    “How did it go?” he said loudly.

    “Ssh, you’ll wake up Mum,” said Pru, coming into the kitchen and opening the fridge.

    Phil joined her eagerly. “It went all right,” she conceded. “Eh, Pru?”

    “Yeah. –Good, yoghurt, I’m gonna have a lassie.”

    Mr Hardy was almost used to the muck his daughters chucked down their throats. And the peculiar names it had. He almost managed not to wince as Pru mixed strawberry yoghurt and pineapple juice briskly in a glass.

    Phil’s method was simpler: she grabbed the communal milk carton and drank out of that. “I’ve been dying for a drink of milk, I dunno why!” she announced artlessly.

    Mr Hardy shut his eyes for a split second. During it he sent up a short prayer of thanks, as it seemed likely there was Someone up there after all that kept an eye on dumb kids that went to Opening Night parties, drank grog, and then drove themselves forty K up the northern motorway at dead of night.

    “Did your procession go all right, this time?” he asked.

    “Yeah, good,” they both said.

    “How was Adam McIntyre: not ‘good’, I suppose?”

    “Da-ad!” cried Phil. “’Course he was!”

    Pru made a glugging noise, as of one drinking strawberry yoghurt insufficiently stirred up with pineapple juice, and said: “Yeah. Ashe.”

    “Ace,” he echoed dully. “What about Livia Whatsername?”

    “She was all right,” said Pru generously. “Eh, Phil?”

    “Yeah. C’n I have this luncheon sausage?” said Phil hopefully.

    Sighing, Mr Hardy replied: “Go on, take it, take it, it’s only what your mother’s been saving for tomorrow’s lunch. For the six of us.”

    “It can’t be: there isn’t enough for six,” said Phil. She grabbed a jar of chutney, dumped a generous dollop on the luncheon sausage, and chewed juicily. Mr Hardy winced.

    “What’s that on your face, Phil?” he asked.

    “Chutney,” diagnosed Pru.

    “Nah! Sort of... yellow.”

    Pru peered. “Oh, that’s where she had her beak.”

    Mr Hardy swallowed.

    Pru looked hopefully in the fruit bowl but it was empty. She found half an apple cucumber in the fridge and began to eat it, peel and all, without salt. Mr Hardy winced. “You are coming on Friday night, aren’tcha, Dad?” she said.

    “Yeah,” he sighed.

    “It’ll be better by then: Mac reckons the cast will have settled down and we’ll have ironed out all the wrinkles!” Phil assured him anxiously.

    “Yeah: good thing ya didn’t book for Monday, Adam reckons the second night’s always foul!” said Pru.

    Mr Hardy perceived that his blue-haired offspring and his yellow-muzzled offspring were both looking at him with hopeful, anxious expressions. He girded his emotional loins. “Looking forward to it,” he croaked.

    “Good!” they said, beaming.

    Although she cleansed and creamed her face and neck thoroughly and got into bed with every intention of saying her usual phrase and of looking forward to the morrow with determined cheerfulness, when she was actually in bed in the silent suite with the light out, a tear crept down Livia’s cheek. Adam and that little Georgy... When that horrid Ralph man had said— It had been quite a shock, only then she’d realised she should have realised, long since.

    She thought she’d shrugged it off—after all, there had never been anything serious between her and Adam. And Wallace had seemed—well, he’d taken her to the party, hadn’t he, and stayed by her side except when those frightful people that she’d had to be charming to had elbowed hm out—and driving her home was a very good sign!

    But Georgy… She was a dear little girl, only she didn’t have anything, really! Quite pretty, but nothing special, and—and no spark to her! Livia was just as pretty and besides, knew how to make the best of herself. And she knew what—well, what a man liked! All Georgy did have, recognized Livia miserably, was youth. And what if Wallace was only… Well, this expedition tomorrow had all been Panda’s idea, hadn’t it?

    Oh, dear.