Georgy A Lot Better Off

20

Georgy A Lot Better Off

    “Well?” demanded Melinda, slicing tomato fiercely.

    Christopher shrugged.

    “Stop it, Christopher, he is your only son! Don’t you even care?”

    Christopher shrugged again. “I don’t know that I do, really. Bit old for the sulks, isn’t he?”

    “He— Melinda met his eye. “It isn’t the sulks,” she said weakly.

    “Well, what is it?” he returned nastily. “It’s lasted two and a half days, by my reckoning. Looks bloody like one of his sulky fits, to me.”

    Looking sulky on her own account, Melinda replied: “He’s upset over something.”

    “Well, if it’s over wearing that damned pink abortion to poor Polly Carrano’s garden party, all I can say is—”

    “No! Don’t be silly!” Melinda paused. “Well, it’s probably partly that,” she admitted.

    There was a short silence.

    “Do you think he’s had a row with Georgy?” said Melinda faintly.

    “No.” Christopher came over to the bench and pinched a piece of tomato from the salad Melinda was preparing for lunch. “He may well be sulking because Georgy’s spent every night this week coaching this fellow who’s playing Quince, I don’t deny that.”

    “Oh, is that who that car—” Melinda stopped.

    “Coo, coo-ka-doo, Mrs Robinson, You too, Mrs Robinson?” he replied.

    She swallowed and only managed to reply: “At least I’m not out there watering my lawn every night.”

    Christopher sniffed faintly.

    “Leave that tomato!” she said smartly, recovering herself.

    His hand retreated. “I’m hungry, don’t aged hubbies rate attention any more, now that ewe lambs have come home to roost?” he said plaintively.

    “That’ll do,” replied Melinda grimly, chopping basil.

    “Mm, smells good,” he said. “Pity the ewe-lamb’s off at his blessed rehearsal, really.”

    “Yes, it’s almost the last of the basil... Darling, there is something wrong, you know; what on earth can it be?”

    Christopher leaned against the bench and sighed. “Given the fact that this sulking fit, or whatever the Hell it is, came on the day after he’d spent the night in town ostensibly kipping on that Livia bitch’s sofa—” He shrugged.

    “No!” said Melinda angrily, very flushed.

    “All right, think of a better explanation,” he said sourly.

    Melinda couldn’t, it was what had been bugging her all week, and she knew Christopher was aware of this. So she just glared.

    “Didn’t I tell you back in January that he didn’t deserve Georgy?”

    “No!” she said angrily. “You did not! And if you did, I bet I said it was rubbish—and if I didn’t say it then,” she said, gathering momentum, “I’m saying it now!”

    “I did,” said Christopher simply.

    Melinda just sighed.

    “What are we having with this salad?” he ventured after some time.

    “Pressed ham,” said his wife on an alarmingly grim note.

    Christopher lapsed into silence.

    “But I got some of those nice fresh poppy-seed rolls,” she said, relenting. “And some of that Australian mozzarella.”

    “Am I allowed to put chutney on it?” he said plaintively.

    “Yes,” said Melinda with a groan.

    “That’s all right, then, I’ll probably be able to refrain from sulking for the entire weekend.”

    When they were at the coffee stage Melinda ventured weakly: “Christopher, you don’t really think Adam could’ve, um…”

    “Eh?” he said vaguely. He looked at her face. “Oh, got up that Livia bitch on Tuesday night? Well, it’s been known to happen before.”

    “But not straight after Georgy!” she cried,

    “It wasn’t exactly—” He thought better of it. “No. Well, any man of taste wouldn’t have, I grant you that. But then any man of taste wouldn’t have touched Livia Wentworth with a barge-pole in the first place.”

    Melinda glared.

    After a moment Christopher admitted: “All that serious stuff with Georgy last week probably scared him silly. So he went off the rails. –As usual,” he added on a sour note.

    Melinda replied in a very weak voice indeed: “How do you know it was serious?”

    “Apart from the fact that according to your own admission he told you himself to keep the nose—” He looked at her face and ceased raising his eyebrows. “Uh—well—how could it have been otherwise, with Georgy, darling?”

    She scowled horribly. “You’re right.”

    Christopher sipped coffee. “Remember that time we thought he was really interested in that nice Joan Barnes?”

    “Joan—” Melinda choked. “She was years older than him!” she gasped.

    “Mm, with a face like the back of a bus, but a damn good character actress. I dunno about years older, but I do know he was seeing her for months, and Someone got all upset because Joan was a bit past providing her with grandchildren. Then he suddenly turned up on a Sunday afternoon when we were entertaining the Bishop’s wife to tea, with that French starlet in tow—remember?”

    Melinda gulped. After a moment she managed to say weakly: “It was not the Bishop’s wife. It was—um—someone from your college, wasn’t it?”—Christopher merely looked sardonic.—“Was that straight after Joan?” she said weakly.

    “As far as we knew at the time it was simultaneously with Joan. But it must have been straight after, because he never so much as mentioned her name thereafter.”

    “It isn’t the same, though; I mean, Georgy’s—”

    “Nubile. Quite.”

    “Christopher Black!” she gasped.

    “Well, isn’t that the point?” he returned acidly.

    “Oh, dear, I see: you mean it’s making it worse, this time?”

    “Yes. And could we please change the subject? It’s curdling my coffee.”

    Melinda sighed. “Maybe I could say something to him... I don’t know what, though,” she admitted sadly.

    Christopher looked at her face and refrained from comment. He even refrained from saying it was a damned good thing if Adam—sulks or not—had scared himself off Georgy: she’d be a lot better off without him. But that didn’t mean he didn’t think it, though.

    “Hullo, Georgy,” said Jemima shyly.

    Georgy looked up from her clipboard with a smile. “Hullo, Jemima; have you come to collect Tom?”

    “Yes.” Jemima sat down on the grass beside her and looked down cautiously at the muddle on the flagstones below them. “How’s it going?”

    “Um...” Georgy met her eye. “Pretty awful,” she admitted sadly. “In the first place, it took Tom ages to persuade Mac that he really could get a good idea of times for the incidental music just by playing his recorder, and in the second place, Mac’s interrupted every scene so far, so poor Tom hasn’t had a clear run. I think he’s getting a bit cross.”

    “Just as well he didn’t bring the group,” said Jemima simply.

    “Mm.”

    “They’ll be sitting up here on the grass, won’t they?” she added.

    “Yes. Well, a bit further over towards the cloisters.”

    Jemima looked dubiously at the grass and the grey stone of the cloisters, and didn’t say anything.

    “Tom suggested a periscope,” said Georgy with a twinkle, “but that didn’t go down at all well.”

    Jemima gave a delighted giggle.

    “SHUT UP!” roared Mac from below on the flags without turning his head.

    Georgy sighed.

   The scene below continued. What with Mac’s continual bellows of: “Helena! HELENA! Speak UP!” and his continual exclamations of: “Hang on! We’ll just—” it wasn’t getting very far.

    “Well, can’t you just play it by ear?” he said irritably at last as the scene came to an end—with Helena and Hermia, who were supposed to have had a row, looking blank and Hermia, indeed, producing a yoghurt muesli bar from her jeans pocket and proceeding to eat it with complete nonchalance.

    “It looks as if we’ll have to. Only in that case, Big Mac,” said Tom with a certain relish—up on the higher section of the quad Georgy and Jemima bit their lips—“one of us is going to have to be able to see the actual players.”

    “As it were,” agreed Joel from his position lolling on the grass before the flagstones.

    “As it were,” Tom allowed graciously.

    “Keep out of this, Thring,” said Mac grimly. “Uh—well, come on,” he said to Tom, treading heavily over to the steps. He mounted them heavily, what time Tom, who was in his elf’s green tights, though with a washed-out red and fawn tee-shirt over them, tripped lightly behind him, fluting “Trip, trip, trip!” Jemima and Georgy Jemima gulped, clenched their fists, and bit their lips madly.

    After Mac had stood over the two young women completely ignoring their presence and debated loudly with himself whether the musicians could come out nearly to the edge of the meandering path from the steps, and after Tom had given them a courtly bow, pretending to sweep off his non-existent hat with a flourish, and a “Good afternoon, ladies,” Mac finally decided that the musicians would have to come out further, but not for the Twilight Procession, they’d have to be well out of the way for that.

    “Yep, we don’t want those elves’ antennae getting caught in their bowing arms,” agreed Tom calmly.

    Jemima gave a strangled giggle.

    “What?” said Georgy uncertainly, wondering if it was a sort of married solidarity or something—though she didn’t think Jemima was like that.

    “Haven’t you noticed? None of the instruments are bowed!” gasped Jemima, breaking down and giggling madly.

    Georgy gave a squawk and clapped her hand over her mouth.

    “True. Plucked, blown, or bashed,” conceded Tom. “But the principle remains the same. Not to mention the Dong’s nose, it’d be a tragedy if that got involved with a stringed instr—”

    He had to stop, the girls were shrieking helplessly. In fact, down below on the flags Hermia and Helena were also shrieking helplessly and Hermia had choked on her yoghurt muesli bar.

    … “Um, you know that silly bet Tom made with Adam?” said Jemima in a low voice some time later, as Tom piped merrily on the recorder and the rude mechanicals bumbled around doing their play.

    “No,” said Georgy blankly.

    Jemima was a little flushed anyway. Now she went very red and said: “Oh.”

    “What was it?”

    “Um... Well, it was about that suit he wore to Polly’s party,” said Jemima uncomfortably.

    “What about it?” asked Georgy simply.

     “Uh—well,” she said awkwardly, “Adam said he’d wear a pink suit, I think they call it morning dress, don’t they?”—Georgy looked blank.—“I think so,” said Jemima doubtfully, “and Tom said he’d take a hefty bet he wouldn’t. I wasn’t there, this is just what Tom told me,” she explained.

    “Why would he wear morning dress in the afternoon?” asked Georgy.

    “I don’t know. I think they do that, though. You know: to garden parties at Buckingham Palace and things.”

    “Oh,” said Georgy blankly.

    “I don’t really know,” admitted Jemima. “I did ask Tom but he went all silly and said any gentleman of taste would wear his best topper to a garden party chez Carrano.”

    “Oh,” said Georgy cautiously.

    “Anyway,” said Jemima bravely, swallowing: “Adam won, because he did wear a pink suit.”

    “I know. It was on the News, they must have had a TV camera there,” said Georgy. “I was in the kitchen doing the washing-up and Mum let out a scream like a stuck pig, and of course I thought the TV tube had blown or she’d seen a rat or the budgie had died or something, so I rushed into the front room and all it was was Adam and Joel dressed up at that silly party.”

    “I see,” said Jemima with a smile. After a moment she looked thoughtful and said: “Does she keep the budgie in the front room?”

    “No, he normally lives in the kitchen,” said Georgy tranquilly, perfectly understanding that the question was asked out of a merely intellectual curiosity and not out of any desire on Jemima’s part to pry into the Harrises’ living arrangements. “But she takes him in there when she watches the News, she says he likes the voices.”

    “Help,” said Jemima in awe.

    “I can’t help you, I’m not just waving, you know,” said Georgy drily.

    Jemima gave a strangled giggle.

    “Anyway, what did they bet?” asked Georgy kindly.

    “Oh! Um—well, Adam bet, um, some tickets to his shows or something, anyway it doesn’t matter, because he lost—no, I mean won,” said Jemima confusedly, “but Tom bet a week in our house and he says he has to pay it, it’s a debt of honour.” She paused. “I don’t think he’s joking, it’s not always easy to tell with Tom,” she admitted calmly.

    “Oh. Um—you’ve got a spare room, haven’t you?” asked Georgy uncertainly.

    “No,” said Jemima, going very red. “I mean yes, we have, we’ve got three, actually, it’s a big house, only that wasn’t it, exactly, it was a week with—with the house to himself.”

    Georgy was blank for a moment. Then she gasped: “Do you mean he’d make you move out?”

    “Well, Tom did lose, serve him right for betting,” said Jemima tranquilly. “John and Darryl have got a spare room, so we thought we’d stay there.”

    Georgy nodded, she knew these were some of Jemima’s neighbours in Blossom Avenue. It was a long, meandering road but contained only five inhabited houses and one tumbledown heap of bricks.

    “Anyway, I was wondering if Adam had said anything to you about when he’d like to, um, sort of collect his winnings,” said Jemima.

    “No. He never mentioned the bet or anything. Actually I’ve hardly laid eyes on him this week, I’ve been so busy what with rehearsals and trying to get some work done for next term,”—Jemima nodded feelingly—“and—um—coaching Quince every evening, Mac made me,” she finished on a glum note.

    “Stephen Berry? He’s very nice,” said Jemima cautiously.

    “Yes, he’s all right,” said Georgy with—as far as Jemima could tell, though she admitted to her she was hopeless at that sort of thing—complete indifference. Jemima thought rather sadly that Stephen would be much more suitable for Georgy than Adam: he was nice, and he was ordinary, and, though she didn’t know him at all well, he struck her as a reliable sort of person. However, although she herself wasn’t the sort of person who knew all about garden-party wear for Buckingham Palace, she was neither blind nor stupid, so she recognized rather glumly that nice though Stephen was, he was a bit boring and, reliable though he probably was, he wasn’t nearly as good-looking or as charming as Adam McIntyre.

    “What?” murmured Georgy in mild surprize, looking at her face.

    Jemima came to with a jump and going very red, said: “Nothing. We thought Adam might be here this afternoon.”

    “No, Mac didn’t want him. He was here earlier on, only then Livia came back from her interview and took him away.”

    Jemima swallowed. “Oh.”

    “She was rather upset, I think it was some lady that tears her interviewees to shreds,” explained Georgy.

    “Oh. Oh, I think I know: Meg—you know, from over the road from us—sometimes watches her show. When their TV hasn’t broken down.”

    “Ye-es... I think Mum might, too. She’s always going on about the tripe she watches, though, so I get it all mixed up.”

    “Mm. –Mum and Dad are worse, they only watch the commercial channels on Australian TV!” confided Jemima abruptly.

    “Help,” said Georgy simply.

    “Now it’s me that’s not waving!” squeaked Jemima.

    Georgy giggled. They smiled at each other.

    ... “Tell you what, why don’t the pair of you come over this weekend and take a look at the place, and then you can decide when you want to collect on the bet,” said Tom, smiling.

    Georgy swallowed and looked helplessly at him.

    “Would this be the T.M. Overdale foot-in-mouth syndrome showing, again?” he asked meekly.

    Georgy swallowed again. “No,” she said hoarsely. She had been visited abruptly by a feeling of enormous incredulity at being treated like part of a couple, when she had always felt herself to be the sort of person that not only just naturally never was treated like part of a couple, but never could be part of a couple.

    “He hasn’t mentioned it to her, Tom,” said Jemima awkwardly.

    “Well, I dare say he thought I’d say it was silly,” said Georgy reasonably. “And it is. And I’m sure he can’t have meant it seriously, Tom, he’d never throw you out of your house.”

    “I shouldn’t have taken the bet,” said Tom. “Hasn’t Jemima Puddle-Duck explained to you about points of honour?”

    Georgy looked dubiously at Jemima. “Ye-es... I’m sure Adam’ll say it was all only a joke, Tom.”

    Tom sighed. “Well, look: where is he?”

    “I don’t know,” said Georgy simply.

    Tom avoided catching his spouse’s eye. He was pretty sure she was avoiding catching his, too. It probably didn’t bode too good for Georgy’s summer ro-mance, that was Wot.

    “Uh—well, if you can grab him tomorrow, can you get him to ring me? Because I’d quite like to know if he was serious about it.”

    “Okay. Aren’t you coming to rehearsal, though, Tom?” replied Georgy.

    “Nape, me Sat’dee mornings are sacred to me visits to the timberyard and Mitre 10,” he replied firmly.

    “He’s serious,” warned Jemima in a hollow voice . “He’s borrowed a trailer off someone for tomorrow.”

    “What do they sell at Mitre 10?” asked Georgy simply.

    Tom didn’t gulp, Jemima had been just as bad before she’d known him. “Hardware: nails, screws, bits of string, hammers, that sort of stuff.”

    “And basin thingies,” said Jemima helpfully.

    “Yes. Do-it-yourself supplies,” clarified Tom kindly.

    “People don’t do their own basins, do they?” asked Georgy uncertainly.

    “Tom does,” said Jemima firmly.

    “Mm. Not that I’ve got basins and their thingies scheduled for this weekend.”

    “What, then?” asked Georgy with interest.---

    “Garage. Don’t want to leave the M.G. out another winter. Well, we had a tarp over ’er last winter, but— If I said ‘tarpaulin’,” he said with a twinkle through the gold-rimmed specs, “that wouldn’t clarify matters, would it, Georgy?”

    “No,” she agreed simply. “Um—my brother-in-law, Ross, sells hardware, only I don’t think he sells all those things.”

    “Mm, he’s more everyday stuff, not the bigger things for the really dedicated do-it-yourselfer. His shop’s more hardware and electrical goods, isn’t it?”

    “Yes, he fixed our toaster—or was that Stringer’s?” asked Jemima, getting confused.

    “Stringer’s. Ross sold us a new element for the iron, remember?”

    “Ugh, yes!” said Jemima with a shudder. “The iron went bang, Georgy, it was awful,” she explained.

    “Ugh,” agreed Georgy simply.

    “Anyway, if you and Adam like to come round tomorrow on your way to or from rehearsals we could give you lunch or something and you could help Jemima hold nails while Adam holds sheets of gib-board for me,” said Tom with a lurking twinkle.

    “It doesn’t require manual dexterity, only brute strength!” explained Jemima with a sudden giggle.

    “That’s all right, then,” said Georgy, smiling, but still feeling very muddled in her head because they were still treating her as half of a couple. In fact it was even more confusing having Jemima do it, too. “Um—I’ll mention it. He hasn’t said anything about giving me a lift tomorrow, though.”

    There was a short silence, while the Overdales wondered frantically just what the Hell was up between Adam and Georgy.

    After which, when Mac bellowed at Georgy to “Get over here; YES, NOW!” they rather thankfully bade her bye-bye and went off to their M.G.

    In the car Jemima said in a confused voice: “I thought Georgy and Adam were—you know. Um—I mean, I know she wasn’t at that silly party of Polly’s, but…”

    And Tom groaned, and admitted: “It’ll certainly add interest to the proceedings at bloody rehearsals, though it’s the sort of interest I could do without.”

    “Yes. –Did you say Mac wants you all on Sunday?”

    Tom merely groaned, so Jemima concluded the answer was in the affirmative.

    Somewhat earlier that same afternoon, Mrs Harris had said crossly to her elder daughter over the yellow Formica of The Primrose Café in Puriri: “How would I know whether she likes Stephen Berry or not, Ngaio, you don’t imagine she tells me anything, do you!”

    Ngaio thought silently that if Georgy never told Mum anything, it was largely Mum’s own fault; but she had far too much sense to voice the thought. “Well, you said you thought he seemed very nice,” she pointed out cautiously.

    “And that means that Georgy’s burst out with her innermost thoughts on the subject, I suppose! –Supposing she’s got any,” she added sourly.

    Ngaio swallowed. “Um—no. Well, he is only a student,” she said weakly.

    “He’s the same age as she is,” said Mrs Harris sulkily.

    She’d already told her that at least fifteen times this week, so Ngaio swallowed a sigh and murmured: “Mm. Well, he does sound a lot more suitable... Did you say he was divorced?”

    Mrs Harris finished her cappuccino and put her cup down in her saucer with a definite clink. “Yes. She did tell me that,” she said grimly. “But mind you, I had to drag it out of her.”

     Ngaio just betted she’d had to, yeah. She didn’t say anything.

    A depressed silence fell at their yellow Formica table in The Primrose Café. During most of it Ngaio, though aware she really ought to be worrying about her little sister, it was what Mum had brought her here for, instead thought about such things as, Would it rain tomorrow, it didn’t look as if it would, and the garden was as dry as anything, that’d mean she’d have to get out there and water it again tonight after tea and Ross got cross when she did that because he reckoned they’d got the dishwasher specially so as they both could have a bit of peace and quiet while the boys were drowning each other in their bath, they’d be galumphing teenagers under their feet all evening more than soon enough—or else she’d have to make Ross do it and that made him even crosser... And she really shouldn’t have had that cream doughnut, only The Primrose Cafe’s cream doughnuts were irresistible, they had real cream and strawberry jam in them... And she’d really like another cappuccino only it was full of milk and that was more unnecessary calories...

    Finally Mrs Harris said: “He must be quite clever if he’s doing a Ph.D. Well, I mean, not like poor Martin Ramsay, she can’t go on about how thick he is—well, you wouldn’t think so!” she ended on a bitter note.

    “No. Only I suppose he’s not sophisticated or something like blimmin’ Adam McIntyre,” said Ngaio glumly.

    Mrs Harris snorted richly. “Sophisticated! Did I tell you what Mrs Robinson told me about that time him and that awful friend of his dressed up in Japanese clothes in broad—

    —daylight in Ridge Road, yeah, yeah, thought Ngaio glumly. Once or twice, yeah. When Mrs Harris ran down she said weakly—not with the slightest expectation of being believed, or of changing her mother’s mind, however: “It was just a bit of fun, Mum.”

    Mrs Harris sniffed. “Do you want another cappuccino, Ngaio?” she said, getting up.

    “Um—yes, I might as well,” said Ngaio weakly. “Thanks, Mum.”

    Mrs Harris went off to the counter.

    When she turned for their table again she just about dropped the cappuccinos. She tottered over to her elder daughter on knees that—though she denied this angrily to herself—felt distinctly weak.

    “Nanny and Akiko are doing their best,” said the tall, brown-haired woman to Ngaio with a smile, “only of course Daph Green and her father both spoil her rotten. Not to mention Tim Green!” she added with a laugh.

    “Yes, she’s a bit like their Chrissy when she was that age,” agreed Ngaio, smiling. “Um—oh, there you are, Mum,” she said weakly. “Um, have you met Polly?” she added feebly.

    Lady Carrano smiled and held out her hand. Mrs Harris registered numbly that she was wearing a broderie Anglaise blouse with no bra under it: so that was where Georgy had got that awful idea from! And she looked Even Worse in it than Georgy did in hers. Well, in that old one of Ngaio’s.

    Doing her best to avert her eyes from Lady Carrano’s ample braless bust under white broderie Anglaise, and registering with considerable mental anguish that with the blouse Lady Carrano was wearing pale green shorts and high-heeled pink sandals—not to mention large bright pink wooden strawberries in her ears, how old was she, anyway? In her mid-thirties, surely?—Mrs Harris put down her coffees and shook hands numbly.

    “And this is Katie Maureen,” added Lady Carrano serenely, picking up the small, red-headed object that had been surveying the café with a sort of scowling, aggressive interest and that Mrs Harris had thought—what with the short hair and the awful denim shorts and the jandals that were too big for it—was a boy. “The one responsible for that awful bruise on your younger grandson’s forehead,” she explained.

    “I DID NOT!” the child roared, turning bright crimson. It looked absolutely awful with the hair, and Mrs Harris, who had always secretly thought that Georgy’s was bad enough and who never looked at Petey’s carrots without a mental wince, felt a confusing mixture of pleasure that someone else had a kid that looked like that and pity for her mother for having a kid that looked like that. Not to mention that behaved like that.

    “That’ll do, you know that’s a lie: the whole of Play Group saw you do it,” said her mother tranquilly, kissing her ginger curls.

    “Did not,” she muttered, scowling.

    “How is Georgy? I haven’t seen her for a while,” added Polly, smiling.

    Mrs Harris went very red. Melinda had incautiously revealed to her that Georgy had been invited to Lady Carrano’s garden party, and she and Georgy had subsequently had Words on the subject. Mrs Harris’s words had not involved not socializing with Those Carrano People, they had involved never getting a breath of fresh air, and take you out of yourself, and how do you expect to meet anybody if you never go anywhere. Mrs Harris was fully as capable of total illogicality as most mothers.

    “No, she’s been busy with the play this week,” she said faintly. “And, um, preparing her lectures for next term: you know.”

    Lady Carrano agreed with feeling that she did know, refused loudly to let her offspring have another cream doughnut, said it was nice to have met Mrs Harris, smiled at Mrs Harris’s traitor of an elder daughter and said: “See you at Play Group, Ngaio, if not before,” and departed with the now bellowing Katie Maureen.

    From the direction of the street they could quite clearly hear the bellows receding in the direction of the carpark and Polly’s contralto over them: “NO! Stop that! I said STOP THAT!”

    Mrs Harris collapsed into her seat.

    “I thought you’d met her,” said Ngaio uneasily.

    Her mother took a deep breath.

    “Well, heck, Georgy’s known her for ages, didn’t they—”

    Whatever they might have was drowned by Mrs Harris’s cry of: “Why didn’t you TELL me she goes to Play Group?”

    “Um—well, she doesn’t, always, Mum. I mean quite often she’s working, Georgy says she’s doing a lot of research for a new book, so their Nanny comes, or sometimes Daphne Green brings little Katie Maureen or—um—these days it’s often this Japanese girl that they’ve got helping Nanny,” finished Ngaio faintly.

    “Ja— You mean one of them was Japanese?” choked Mrs Harris.

    Ngaio was in no doubt of the episode to which she was referring. “Um—well, it could’ve been, Mum, didn’t you say Mrs Robinson said there were two ladies? Besides Joel Thring,” she added unwisely.

    “Why didn’t you SAY?” cried Mrs Harris angrily.

    “Um—well, I suppose I never thought of it.”

    Mrs Harris took a deep breath. “Sometimes you’re as bad as your sister, Ngaio Harris!”

    Ngaio opened her mouth to say “Cornwell,” and thought better of it. “Is that my coffee?

    Mrs Harris sighed and pushed a cup towards her.

    Ngaio sipped cautiously. “I’m sure I mentioned the Carrano kids come to Play Group. Um—well, the boys are at school, now, but—”

    “That’ll be quite enough, thank you,” said her mother grimly.

    “They do live in Pohutukawa Bay,” she ventured.

    Mrs Harris breathed deeply through flared nostrils, her mouth very grim.

    Ngaio lapsed into silence.

    Finally Mrs Harris said: “She must have said something to you, Ngaio!”

    “Who? Oh—Georgy!” said Ngaio, realizing with some relief that they were off the topic of her iniquities vis-à-vis Lady Carrano and the Pohutukawa Bay Play Group—temporarily, no doubt. “Um—no.”

    “‘Um no’?” cried Mrs Harris angrily.

    “I did ask her if it went all right up at Carter’s Inlet,” admitted Ngaio reluctantly.

    “Well?” said her mother impatiently.

    Ngaio went very red. “If you must have it, she said did I want a blow by blow account, if so I could read The Hite Report, but if I wanted a summary the answer was ‘Yes, it went all right.’”

    “WHAT?” cried Mrs Harris terribly.

    “Well, you would ask. –All right, I was cross, too,” she said sulkily. “Only after all, it isn’t any of our business, Mum.”

    “She’s my daughter and she’s living in my house, of course it’s my business!” returned her mother immediately.

    Ngaio thought grimly: Well, if that’s your attitude don’t be surprized if she stops living in your house—and anyway, who paid your rotten Kowhai Bay rates last year, it wasn’t you, I know that for a fact!

    Aloud she just said tiredly: “She’s a grown woman, Mum, we can’t interfere in her life. I’ve got to go, I told Kath Ames I’d only inflict the kids on her for an hour.” She got up. “Um—by the way, we’ll be busy this Sunday evening,” she said quickly. “See ya!” She rushed out, not looking back.

     Mrs Harris sighed, and stirred her cold cappuccino.

    Livia was fully aware of the mood Adam had been in ever since the garden party,  so until now she hadn’t made a move. But after the truly ghastly interview with that cow of a woman—even though Polly had warned her, she’d had no idea how bad it was going to be, after all this was piddling little New Zealand—she felt definitely in need of comfort and support. Not that Adam could give her those, as such: she had no illusions about Adam as mainstay in anyone else’s emotional life. However, she knew that what he could give her would make her feel much, much better and there was certainly no-one else offering at the moment, was there!

    Adam was in an emotional turmoil because on the one hand, though writhing with guilt over the Livia thing, he wanted Georgy terribly and he still couldn’t figure out a way to get together with her, unless they did go to a motel, which really was unspeakably sordid, and on the other hand Georgy had been very shy and unforthcoming with him all week—rather naturally, as she’d only seen him in the presence of other people, not excluding Joel in the car when they drove in to rehearsals. –Joel hadn’t figured out how to wriggle out of it or he would have done so, he felt terrific sympathy for Georgy, though still considering firmly that she’d be a lot better off without Adam, dears.

    Unfortunately for himself Adam hadn’t worked out that Georgy was merely feeling shy, and uncertain of the whole relationship, the more so since Livia had been all over him all week. On the contrary, he now had a strong feeling that she was feeling that he was only a brainless fillum star and she couldn’t really be seriously bothered with him. Something like that. Discovering her and the Froggy blackfeller having an intense conversation with her would-be transformational-generative Anglo-Saxon student on the Thursday around lunchtime when he’d fully intended inviting her to a private picnic in the park in order to sort themselves out hadn’t helped at all. Not at all. Especially since the Frenchman had immediately been very charming to him and said perhaps they’d better stop and not bore poor “ce pauvre Adam”—patronising shit. Adam had left them to it.

    What with Georgy spending most of the Friday morning either at Mac’s elbow, taking notes while he shouted at the lovers, or in a huddle with Quince and Bottom, talking about their timing, Adam was very disgruntled indeed by the time Livia turned up, all flushed after her interview, and let himself be led off to lunch by her with very little persuasion. He did say casually to Mac, now once again with Georgy at his elbow: “Don’t you two want to come to lunch?” but Mac merely replied, putting an arm round Georgy’s shoulders and peering at her clipboard: “No. Push off. I won’t want either of you until tomorrow. –Look, say we put Helena downstage at this point, then at least most of the audience’ll be able to see her, if they can’t hear her.”

    So Adam settled his sunglasses firmly on his nose, took Livia’s arm, and went.

    Livia was far too clever to start anything immediately: she knew what gentlemen were like before they’d had their lunch. Or their dinner.

    She merely said, once they were outside the Old Block on the pavement and Adam was starting to look a bit at a loss: “Darling, do you know anywhere nice we could go? The dining-room at my hotel isn’t too bad, and at least its’ handy. And it is getting rather late, you know what these Anty-podean places are like about serving one after two o’clock!”

    At this Adam looked at his watch in a startled way, muttered: “Oh, Christ,” and said weakly: “I suppose it’ll have to do.”

    She tucked her hand in his elbow and said as they moved off: “I’m starving, darling, positively wolf-like! Do you think the horrid place will be able to do us a nice steak?”

    “Not a snowflake’s hope in Hell of it, darling,” said Adam in a superior voice, starting to look rather more cheerful.

    “Oh, lawks. Well, what on earth should I choose, do you think, Adam?”

    Adam looked distinctly cheerful and said: “Better wait and see if they’re still serving at all, don’t you think? Do you know what this dump reminds me of?” He then told Livia a long, boring story all about some ancient Peter Sellers record his father had. Livia didn’t actually listen, of course—well, not to the informational content. She listened to the inflections, and watched Adam’s face, and tinkled and smiled and squeezed his arm at appropriate moments. At the hotel—they were still serving but the special of the day was off—she tried to insist that they have champagne on her, because it was she who felt like it, but sure enough Adam only laughed and said: “Darling, for God’s sake let me throw my moolah away on you, God knows I’ve got enough of it!” So that was ‘all right.

    Livia was genuinely hungry, so she had avocado with shrimps followed by tournedos, which was nice, fillet steak wrapped in bacon, and they had plain boiled potatoes on the menu, so she could avoid the chips, thank goodness, and those nice little whole peas, and the endless carrots that she had realized by now New Zealand restaurants always did have.

    At first Adam said he wasn’t hungry, which was a bad sign, only after he’d had a pink gin and then a tomato juice as a starter, he decided he was hungry and had a carpet-bag steak. Livia thought the whole idea, once he’d explained it to her, was disgusting, but Adam said it was delicious and although this particular steak was a little overdone for his taste, it wasn’t bad. She recognized this as high praise and felt much happier. Also he ate up all his vegetables without complaining about them, that was a really good sign!

    “Shall we have pudding?” she murmured.

    “That dessert trolley looks awfully tempting,” he admitted, refilling her glass.

    “Thank you, darling. Yes, it does... Did you do your exercises this morning like a good boy?” she asked with a giggle.

    “Yes. I always do.” He paused. “Almost always,” he murmured.

     Livia gave a naughty giggle .“Darling, you’re putting me off my pudding! Well, I did my exercises, too, and really—yes, I think I will.”

    “Good, so will I.”

    They both had a heaping helping of fruit salad plus the pavlova. Never mind if it was smothered in cream.

    “Delicious,” she sighed at last.

    “Yes, not bad,” Adam admitted with a grin. “Ma can make this fluffy thing, you know.”

    “Can she really, darling?” asked Livia, genuinely impressed. She herself had never risen above the burnt toast and burst boiled egg level. Well: theatrical digs.

    “Mm... It entails beating about a hundred egg whites to death by hand for seventeen years,” he said with a grin.

    “Wouldn’t she use an electric whisk thingy, though, darling?”

    “She does these days, Dad put his foot down. It makes no discernible difference to the taste of thing, God knows why she martyred herself doing it by hand for thirty years.”

    Livia’s jaw sagged. Adam had never—never—criticised his mother, be it ever so slightly, in her presence before! She didn’t recognize it as the living-back-at home-for-the-hols syndrome: her own mother had been dead for fifteen years and when she had been alive she had mostly spent her times at home sleeping off the exhaustion of coping with yet another failed relationship or yet another thankless six months’ “resting” and waitressing.

    After a moment she said weakly: “Mummy could cook, too. Not like that, though. But she did make lovely jam roly-poly pudding. And a really odd thing: I’ve never met anyone else who’s heard of it, it was a sort of steamed pudding with a lemon it the middle of it. It sounds awful, but it was delicious.”

    Adam smiled. “I’ve read a recipe for that.”

    Livia goggled at, him.

    “I can’t cook, but some cookery books are worth reading.” He made a face. “I did once try to learn. I bought a book, must have been I was about twenty-three-ish, I think, but all the recipes seemed to start off with airy incomprehensibilities like: ‘Make a roux.’”

    “Darling, how frightful!” she gasped. “Totally off-putting!”

    “Yes, it was. Don’t you cook, either?” he asked with a smile.

    Naturally during their relationship Livia had never offered to feed him. In the first place, she believed firmly that unless you were actually married to the man, he should be taking you out and feeding you; in the second place she knew that Adam could more than afford to; and the third place, of course, she couldn’t even boil an egg.

    “No. I don’t know why Mummy never taught me... Perhaps it was my fault, I never took an interest.”

    “Never mind, darling, one’s career would abort any culinary efforts anyway: imagine trying to make a meal with your mind on your lines. Besides, why else did they invent Chinese takeaways?”

    “Absolutely, darling!” gasped Livia, laughing delightedly and letting him refill their glasses.

    She then suggested they go and sit in the pretty bar with the view over the harbour and have nice drinkies, since Big Mac didn’t want them this afternoon.

    Adam had a vivid vision of Big Mac with an arm casually round Georgy’s shoulders and Georgy letting him, and agreed to this proposition.

    “Go on, darling, have something naughty and down-market, I won’t tell,” he said with a grin when they were seated side-by-side on a large pale green sofa, nicely sheltered from the curious by a large pillar and some potted palms—not that Livia minded the curious, on the contrary, but she knew he did.

    “We-ell... I don’t know if it’s down-market—well, it probably is,” she said, pulling a resigned face, “but actually, darling, I could just fancy one of those green frappé things, not a Crème de menthe, that other one  they do here.”

    “Chartreuse? Why not?” said Adam agreeably. “Let’s be down-market together!”

    He ordered them both Chartreuse frappé. The waiter, having corrected this firmly to “An-tar’tic Surprize,” went off to get them.

     “Adam, darling, I know little me is awfully ignorant, but it isn’t ‘An-tar’tic’, is it?” said Livia, going rather pink—though she knew Adam liked to demonstrate his superior knowledge and education.

    “No. Most definitely not. ‘Ant-arctic’, as in Arctic upside-down.”

    “That’s what I thought. Oh, that reminds me: do you know what I thought of— When was it, not the day I got here, but—well, a day or two later, I think,” said Livia, remembering when and deciding not to tell him that. “I couldn’t help thinking about what you’d said—”

     She relayed her thoughts on walking with her head downwards and was terrifically pleased when Adam looked totally chuffed, beamed all over his face and patted her knee, and said: “Fancy you remembering that! By God, it’s exactly like that, isn’t it?”

    Livia nodded very hard, smiling, and he squeezed her knee. So she put her hand gently on his, concealing her immediate tremendous sexual excitement and only touching his hand very, very gently.

    Adam leant his head back against the back of the couch and shut his eyes for a moment and sighed. “Thank God I’m not out here by myself,” he murmured.

    Livia went pink. In fact she felt as if she’d gone pink all over. Her knees felt trembly and her throat felt dry but she managed to say, just squeezing his hand the least bit: “Me, too, darling.”

    He opened his eyes and turned his neck on the back of the couch. “God, that bloody crowd at Polly’s damned party was depressing. All the damned university lot, I mean,” he said heavily.

    “Oh—but you’re ‘so clever, darling,” she said weakly.

    “No, I’m not, not compared to types like—well, that bloody Froggy blackfeller mate of Polly’s—or Polly herself, come to that. Or Georgy,” he added gloomily.

    “Little Georgy? Is she very clever, darling?”

    “Hell, yes. Doctorate in Old English,” he said sourly.

    Had he used the expression “Anglo-Saxon” Livia would have twigged that Georgy was the Anglo-Saxony girl Wallace had mentioned: she was far from slow about that sort of thing. But she didn’t understand that this was what he meant, so she only replied calmly: “Really, dear? A Doctor? My goodness, yes, she must be clever.”

    “Mm. She was talking to the blasted blackfeller at the university yesterday— Oh, well,” he said with a sigh, “I can never understand a damned word Dad says about his subject—not that he does say much, he’s given me up as a bad job—so why should I expect to understand Polly or Georgy? Or that pretty little friend of theirs: you know, Overdale’s wife.”

    “Jemima. She’s a sweet girl. Yes, she did say she was sort of writing a book.”

    “Mm. Bloody Overdale’s a Ph.D., too, did you know?”

    Livia was able definitely to reply “No,” to that, not revealing that she didn’t know exactly what it was.

    “Yes: Mac mentioned it only the other day. Brightest student of his year, apparently. Mac got him into the Department, then he chucked it all in and went teaching.”

    “I see.” She looked at him doubtfully. “I dare say they are all clever in their way, darling—well, university people—but you’re marvellous at what you do, Adam,” she said on an anxious note.

    He grimaced. “Best butter, Livia?”

    “No! You are!” she cried genuinely indignant. “I don’t know anything about Shakespeare or—or those Wars of the Roses or history or anything, you know that, Adam, but I was terrifically stirred by your performance in Hal V! Terrifically, darling!”

    Adam smiled a little wryly. “Sexually, emotionally or intellectually, Livia?”

    “I don’t know. Does it matter?” she said uncertainly.

    He  gave a tiny shrug.

    “I just know that I wanted to stand up and cheer for England, too, when you said it in the play.”

    He swallowed and went very red. “Really?” he said hoarsely, not looking at her.

    “Yes. I mean, I’ve never even thought of that sort of thing in my life, and if you could make me feel like—like killing those beastly Frenchmen with my sword and dying for England, don’t you think it—it shows you’ve really got talent, darling?”

    “Perhaps it does,” said Adam, still very red but smiling. He squeezed her knee gently and put his other hand on top of hers. “Thank you, little Livia, that’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever been paid in my whole life.”

    At this Livia went very pink again, swallowed convulsively and looked helplessly into his azure eyes. The more so as he’d called her “little Livia”, which he hadn’t done since—well, ages. Ages and ages. She was suddenly very glad indeed that she’d worn the green sandals with the relatively low heels today, instead of a very high-heeled pair which she’d considered for the interview but had discarded as giving too frivolous an impression to an intellectual lady interviewer. –Most unfortunately the lady interviewer had been dressed up to the nines, with terrifically high-heeled gold sandals, and Livia had felt at a disadvantage from the word go.

    The waiter came back at this moment with their drinks and they had to sit up and look relatively respectable and Adam took his hands away. However he asked the waiter extra-politely what these drinks were called, again, and his lips twitched when, as the man told him, Livia choked. So that was a pretty good sign.

    The afternoon wore on and they gossiped about the theatre and rôles they’d had and frightful digs they’d known—Livia had had more frightful ones than Adam, of course, but she’d never had a masculine landlady with a moustache that made her get up at eight-thirty every morning like Adam had had in Manchester, so they were pretty well quits there—and by the time he’d had three Antarctic Thingies Adam got round to doing an impersonation of Piggy-Whiskers and Livia laughed till she almost cried and, falling back against the couch, sort of accidentally let her hand flop onto his thigh. Sort of only halfway up it, mind you.

    Adam pretended it wasn’t there so that was a frightfully good sign. Livia shot a quick glance at his cream silk trousers, which really were extremely revealing, lovely, and that was an even better sign! Adam saw her looking and pretended he hadn’t. But he leant his head back against the couch and yawned like a cat, and Livia remembered the time she’d told him that when he did that he was just like a lovely black panther and it made her go all shivery. And wondered whether he was thinking of that now. And felt all shivery and glanced at his pants again and licked her lips genuinely without realizing she was doing it until she’d done it.

    Adam looked sideways at Livia looking at him and thought she looked damned sexy in that green and blue outfit—it was an odd combination but she carried it off well—and God, that navy chiffon blouse with the navy lace flowers artfully appliqued here and there—especially there—was a turn-on!

    After a moment she said lightly: “Darling, would it be very down-market to take off one’s shoes and put one’s feet up? I got terribly lost looking for that TV place.”

    “You didn’t walk, did you?” he grinned.

    “No, but the taxi man was horrid, he said he couldn’t go up the nasty little street and he made me get out and it wasn’t the right building and when I did get there it was all confusing,” said Livia, pouting.

    “Was it?”

    “Well, you’ve been there, haven’t you?” she said indignantly.

    “Uh—yes. I think someone took me,” he said vaguely. “Human guide-dog or some such.”

    “Oh, naturally, darling!” she said with an angry little laugh, forgetting to be sympathetic and charming. “Only we can’t all be as eminent as you!”

    Adam smiled lazily. “I adore you when you’re being naturally bitchy; have I ever mentioned it?”

    “No, and I don’t believe it for a moment!” said Livia crossly, getting all ruffled and momentarily thinking of Wal Briggs, that she wasn’t going to think of again ever, as long as she lived.

    He gave a little laugh and said: “It’s true! –Take the sandals off by all means, darling, no-one can see you in this nookery and even if they could, who cares?”

    “Nookery’ was one of their words that she’d been almost sure he’d forgotten about. She looked at him from under her lashes. Adam showed her the tip of his tongue, eyes dancing.

    “All right, I will,” she said in a strangled voice.

    “Good. Want me to rub the feet for you?” he said as she crossed one leg, and bent to unbuckle the sandal.

    “No!” said Livia crossly and untruthfully, not looking up.

    Adam laughed again. “Let me, for God’s sake, darling, you’ll ruin your nails.”

    “They’re just a bit stiff!” she panted, raising a flushed face.

    “Mm, makes three of us.” Adam got down on one knee in front of her.

    Livia looked at the bulge which was somewhat above the level of her own knees and turned scarlet, she couldn’t help it.

    Adam looked at Livia’s navy chiffon blouse which, because she was bending forward a little, no longer had the navy lace flowers at the exact spots. A flush rose to his cheekbones. He removed her sandals without saying anything. Then he resumed his seat beside her without saying anything. Only this time he sat a little closer and as he sank into the couch slung his arm very casually along the back of it behind her.

    “Tell me something, darling,” he said affably: “did you plump for this bar because its pale green Naugahyde upholstery sets off your navy and green to perfection?”

    Livia had been looking up at him with an obedient, enquiring expression on her face. Now she blinked and cried indignantly: “No!”

    “Oh, of course, what a shocking idea, sorry, sorry,” he said. “Want another drink?”

    “How many have we had, Adam?”

    “I’m not counting,” said Adam firmly as he waved for the waiter. This time he ordered another Antarctic Thingy for Livia but a brandy for himself. Double. And if Livia fancied some msg, they might have some crisps. Salt and vinegar? Ugh, suitably foul; yes, please: salt and vinegar.

    “Terribly down-market, dearest one!” gurgled Livia, just touching his knee fleetingly.

    He caught her hand and held it there. “Mm. Shocking. I should have ordered a port and lemon to be in keeping, damn.”

    “You hated it!” Livia reminded him with a choke of laughter.

    “Mm, so I did. –What the devil was that other thing that woman forced on us?”

    “Not baby cham?”

    “No, besides that.”

    “Um... You don’t mean the stout, do you, darling?”

    “Of course! ‘Puts lead in your pencil, ducks,’” he croaked.

    “Yours doesn’t need it,” said Livia on a dry note, glancing at it.

    Adam squeezed her hand hard. “No. Not with you, anyway.”

    Livia gaped at him.

    “I can assure you that with bloody Claudia it was frequently as limp as a dish-rag,” he said sourly.

    “Darling, I can’t believe it,” she said faintly, staring at it.

    “Thanks. –I don’t know whether it was because when she did deign to give it to me she’d always got me so excited I didn’t know whether I was coming or going—so to speak—and then I would come and she’d accuse me of premature ejaculation and lack of real masculinity,” he said in a thoughtful voice, “or whether it was because she usually wanted it after we’d had a flaming row and I was feeling like a wrung-out dish-rag anyway, but—” He shrugged.

    “Uh— Well, darling, you’ve always been wonderful with me!” she said earnestly.

    “Possibly because you want it and you don’t mind letting a man know it. Or—I don’t know. Because you’re not into domination?”

     “Domination?” gasped Livia.

    “Mm-hm. Wearing the pants. Ball-breaking, being in charge of the relationship. Call it what you like: you don’t make emasculated doormats out of your men and then—uh—kick them for being doormats, do you?”

    “No, darling!” she gasped.

    “Well, Claudia did. –Oh, she could get me going when she had a mind to. But I really think that on the whole she enjoyed humiliating me more.”

    Livia ventured in a small voice: “Adam, I think the woman must have been sick.”

    Adam, though still pressing his hand down hard on hers, had been staring at the pale green carpet with a frown, but now he looked up and said simply with a smile, “Yes. I’ve come to that conclusion, too. It’s taken a long time, and— Well, never mind. But I honestly think so. I’m glad that’s your”—his long, mobile mouth twitched a little—“gut reaction.”

    Before Livia could speak—not that she could think of anything to say, she was flabbergasted, all this stuff about his wife, not to mention his own performance, out of the blue, when he’d hardly even mentioned her name before—the waiter came back with their drinks and Adam thanked him absently and put a fifty-dollar note on the tray, and when the man said he’d be back with the change, said: “No, keep it.” The yellowish waiter turned a very strange colour and gasped: “Thanks very much, Mr McIntyre!” and tottered off rapidly—presumably so as Adam couldn’t change his mind and snatch the note back.

    “Darling, that was a fifty,” said Livia cautiously.

    “Mm. Not like American dollars.”

    “No-o... I think it would still be forty in American money though, darling.”

    “Mm.” Adam picked up his drink with his free hand. “Did you enjoy America?”

    Livia hesitated. “Um…” She took a swig of her Antarctic Thingy through its bright pink straw. “Well, not terribly much, darling. I mean, they all smile a lot and so on... But I did feel out of place. And of course I couldn’t really afford to—well, to do anything much.”

    “No.” Adam squeezed her hand. “I hated it, I hated everything about it. But looking back I think that was my conscience telling me I should never have accepted that bloody great bribe—which was what it was, you know—to do that bloody film.”

    “No, it wasn’t, Americans don’t operate on that principle, they pay you what you’re worth to them. And if Clem got that much money out of them for you, well, it was because they thought you’d be worth it! And you were, darling, that film’s made millions!” said Livia, leaning forward earnestly.

    Adam smiled. “Mm. –Are you aware that that thing shows your nipples clear as daylight when you lean forward like that?”

    “What?” she gasped,  sitting bolt upright.

    “I thought you might not be.”

    “The woman swore these flowers—”

    “Yes, they do when you’re sitting up like that. It’s just nicely suggestive. Only the blouse isn’t as elastic as you, sweets.” He raised his eyebrows. “Basic physics, isn’t it?”

    “I bet that horrible interviewer woman noticed!” she wailed. She drank Antarctic Thingy distractedly. “Um—no, I think I was sitting up nice and straight for the actual filming,” she said weakly.

    “Let’s hope so. I think they’re fairly hot on censorship on EnZed chat shows. In fact didn’t some female lose that part you’re going to do because of—er—blotting her copybook in an interview?”

    “Yes, it was live: evidently she burst out with some story about how her husband never pleasured her enough and this darling surgeon man she met on a skiing holiday gave her an orgasm!” she squeaked, suddenly giggling madly.

    Adam watched with great enjoyment as the tits jiggled about and the navy lace flowers failed again to do their job. Or possibly did their job, depending on the degree of cynicism with which the saleswoman in question had sized Livia up. “Yes. –I gather it was Tom Overdale’s brother,” he murmured.

    “What?” she gasped, choking on the Antarctic Thingy.

    Adam patted her on the back and absent-mindedly left his hand there. He picked up his brandy again with his other hand. “Mm, so he informed me. I told him you’d probably fancy an introduction.”

    “Thank you!” said Livia crossly.

    “Well, wouldn’t you?” he drawled.

    “No!” she lied crossly.

    “I thought so. I’ll remind him.”

    Livia’s lips tightened. Then she caught his eye and smiled reluctantly. “Well, one is curious. One gathers it was a rave review.”

    “Mm.” Adam put his glass down and picked up the crisps. “Want one?”

     Livia took the bag off him immediately and wrenched it apart. They were both aware that she was doing so because she wanted Adam’s other hand to remain on her back.

    After most of the crisps and the Antarctic Thingy and half of the brandy had disappeared, he stroked her back very gently and said: “Weren’t you going to put your feet up?”

    “Oh!” Livia giggled. “Silly me, yes, I was.” She smiled up at him and, turning slightly towards him, tucked her legs up neatly on the edge of the couch.

    “That was very polite,” said Adam sadly.

    Livia bit her lip.

    He stroked her back just a little. “You’re wasted on that Aryan sod Rudi, you know,” he said conversationally.

    “We’re not— I mean— Well, I told him he could make up his mind, he’s been divorced for ages, now, and I’m not just a toy!” she said, going rather red.

    “Mm. Wrong move, was it?”

    Livia looked sulky. “It might have been. So what? I’m fed up with him.”

    “Fed up with him and wasted on him.”

    Livia pouted. She looked at him from under her lashes. “Well, what are you going to do about it, Adam, angel?”

    “I don’t know that I’m going to do anything about it,” he drawled.

    She stared hard at It. “I see.”

    “That’s just bravado,” said Adam with a smile in his voice.

    Livia looked round quickly but no-one could see them, she was sure of it, their couch faced the harbour. So she pouted at him and then poked her tongue out at him just a little bit and quickly touched him and took her hand away again.

    “Tease,” said Adam, breathing heavily.

    She wriggled just a little closer, with rather more shoulder movements than were perhaps strictly necessary, and murmured: “You know I’m not that, darling,” and put her hand on it and left it there.

    After a moment Adam threw his head back, gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.

    Livia rested her head on his shoulder and whispered: “Sweet, darling.”

    “Mm,” he said, sighing.

    “Adam, shall we go up to my room?” she murmured.

    He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “What about the helpful Amy?”

    “She won’t come unless I ring for her.”

    “In that case,” he said, hastily swallowing the remains of his brandy, “let’s go, and we’ll see what happens if you ring for me.”

     Livia gave a surprized little gasp of laughter and they got up.

    “Shoes?” he said.

    “Ooh! Um—” She put her head sideways and gave him a naughty look.

    “It is carpeted. Can we get upstairs without going down to the bloody lobby?”

    “Yes, of course, darling, the lifts to the rooms are just over there,” she said, waving vaguely.

    “Come along, then.” He took her hand and they left the bar, giggling.

    Two yards away from the deserted green Naugahyde sofa, Nigel stirred behind his potted palm and said: “Cripes.”

    “Yeah, bloody educational, these up-market joints,”  agreed Stephen Berry grimly.

    Nigel gulped. “I only—”

    “You only though ya might bump into her accidently-on-purpose, yeah, don’t tell me,” said Stephen grimly.

    Nigel gulped again. “I suppose they were going to—you know.”

    “Fuck?” suggested Stephen delicately.

    Nigel glared.

    “Well, unless the symptoms are different when you’re a Big Star, yeah, I’d say that was what was on his mind,” said Stephen sourly.

    “Everyone reckoned that was all off,” said Nigel glumly.

    “Shows where listening to rumours’ll get ya.” Stephen got up. “I’m off, the prices at this dump are way beyond my budget. You’d better go too, what about your job?

    Nigel got up, groaning. “Yeah. ’Ve you ever had pizza at that place downstairs?”

    “Yes. Once. Cost a week’s grocery money.”

    “Oh,” he said glumly.

    Stephen sighed. “Come on, let’s push off before that waiter gets back, I didn’t like the look in his eye Dunno whether it was because he didn’t fancy your shorts, or fancied you in your shorts,”—Nigel glared—“or didn’t fancy us not tipping him, but anyway, it was a bloody funny look and I’d rather not see it again.”

    Nigel accompanied him glumly. “Dunno what you’re so upset about: it isn’t you that  fancies her,” he said dully.

    “No,” agreed Stephen shortly. “I happen to be quite fond of Georgy, however, and apparently McIntyre is the sort of shit his publicity’d lead you to expect.”

    “Pity she didn’t read it, then,” said Nigel sourly.

    “How would you like a knuckle sandwich?” replied Stephen angrily.

    Nigel glanced at him in astonishment and saw he really meant it. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said weakly. “I didn’t realize...”

    “Just forget it,” said Stephen tiredly.

    “Yeah,” he muttered.

    Outside it was, of course, still daylight, though the roads were now jammed with commuters in shiny Japanese cars.

    Nigel hesitated. Then he said: “You could always tell her.”

    “Eh?” croaked Stephen.

    “Um—well, why not, if they’re such a pair of— Well, Georgy’s too nice for him!” said Nigel crossly.

    Stephen sighed. Not for the first time since recommencing his university career he realized sadly how very, very young his fellow students were. How the fuck old was Nigel, anyway? Twenty, twenty-one, maybe? God, there were only about six or seven years between them, but it felt like a bloody lifetime, thought Stephen from the heights of twenty-seven and divorced. “Yeah. But me telling her about what a shit McIntyre is wouldn’t actually make her all that much fonder of me, would it?”

    “No,” said Nigel, looking sheepish.

    Stephen sighed again. “See you—um—Sunday?”

    “Yeah. See ya,” said Nigel glumly, heading off for his bus.

    Stephen sighed once more and went off to where he’d left his elderly car. On a meter which had expired—oh, shit!

    What with the meter and— Well, he felt very tempted to take Nigel’s advice and tell Georgy. Only that would be extremely silly. His pleasant mouth tightened. Just have to grin and bear it—sit it out. And hope that Nigel would spread it all round the cast so that even someone as—as dreamy as Georgy would get to hear of it. And be disgusted with Adam McIntyre. And dump him. And forget about him forever.

    In the suite it was as good as ever—better, really. They knew each other’s little ways so well. And it was incredible, thought Livia muzzily afterwards, that his awful wife hadn’t enjoyed it all, and hung on to him like grim death! There must have been something wrong with her, all right.

    Later they managed a very light supper—cold chicken, mineral water and just a smallish gin each. And Adam got very hard and did it for ages, in three different positions, and then insisted on giving Livia a come with Tonguey, which Livia enjoyed very much. Then he got on top of her and put it in again and came straight away. Then he rolled off her and fell fast asleep. So—since it was Adam, she wouldn’t have done it for everyone, by any means—Livia removed the condom and disposed of it and wiped him with a warm damp flannel and dried him with a lovely fluffy towel.

    And having creamed her face and neck well, cleaned her teeth, and brushed her hair out carefully, got back into bed and fell asleep before she could barely frame her usual phrase.

    However, in the morning it was a bit different.

    Adam went to the bathroom and when he came back he had a silly look on his face and Livia came to and thought: Oh, dear.

    “Darling, we really can’t go on with this,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting his face in his hands.

    “Why not, darling?”

    “I— Well, you know. I’m being so bloody unfair... God, to both of you!” he said, running a hand through his hair.

    “We did say this was nothing serious,” said Livia dubiously.

    “Yes, but— Well, if you’re occupied with me, then— Well, you know.

    Involuntarily she remembered Wallace’s angry, disgusted face. “Yes,” she said, very low.

    Adam sighed. “I’m sorry, Livia: Polly said something the other day about some lawyer fellow they introduced you to. Have I buggered it up for you?”

    “Not really, darling,” said Livia bravely. “It was my fault. Well, he didn’t get in touch with me, you see, and... Well, I suppose I thought he was the same as all the others, and he isn’t.”

    Adam looked up in surprize. “Oh? Oh, Christ, I see: you mean he actually gives a damn about all the others?”

    Livia’s eyes filled with tears. For once she made no play of this, but blinked them away fiercely and nodded.

    “Hell,” said Adam, putting his arm round her.

    She sighed. “We had nothing in common really, darling—him and me, I mean. It was silly... Oh, well, water under the bridge, mm?”

    “Yes,” said Adam, dropping a kiss on her head. “He’s a fool, if he’s letting that stand in his way!” he said on an angry note.

    Livia looked at him in surprize and didn’t reply.

    Suddenly he got up and went over to the window. “I just like sex too much, I suppose that’s my trouble.” He gave an angry laugh. “That and— I don’t know. Not knowing my own mind, or being scared of a serious involvement, or— You name it, I seem to have it wrong with me.”

    “Oh, no, Adam!” she protested, now a little scared and wondering wildly if he was getting his depression again—she hadn’t known him then but she’d heard enough about it from various sources—and if so, how on earth she could stop him.

    Adam sighed. “Anyway, I’m sorry, darling, it’s been delish; only I do think we ought to stop. Well, frankly,” he said, making a horrible face, “I don’t think I can live with myself if I go on with it.”

    “You mean—because of her?” said Livia dubiously.

    “Yes.” He looked at her face. “Oh, Lord, yes, darling!” he said, coming over and taking her hands. “Nothing personal; you know I find you’ totally irresistible!”

    “Ye-es. Not—disgusting?” said Livia painfully.

    Adam squeezed her hands very hard and thought some bitter thoughts about that prig of a lawyer chap that she fancied, and incidentally about himself, he’d been pretty hard on poor old Livia in the past. “No. You couldn’t disgust me if you tried for a million years. With both hands,” he added with a little smile.

    “Mm.” She smiled back and gently withdrew her hands. “Oh, dear. I suppose that’s it, then, dear.”

    Adam had been terrified of a scene. Now he felt extremely anticlimactical. Not to say disconcerted. “Uh—yes. Certainly until I sort myself out. See if—if she’ll have me. Well, see if it’ll work, I suppose.”

    “Yes,” agreed Livia sadly.

    Adam got up. “She’d be a damned sight better of if I’d never met her, poor little darling!”

    Wouldn’t we all, thought Livia sourly, but she knew that was silly, it had been as much her doing as his, all along. Well, a bit more hers, really, if you were being strictly honest...

    “There you are!” he said with a smile, taking his sunglasses off and throwing himself down beside Georgy where she sat cross-legged on the grass in front of the flagstones.

    “Hullo,” said Georgy cautiously.

    Before he’d even breakfasted, Adam had nipped downtown—fortunately the city shops were mostly open on Saturday mornings, though they seemed to close around noon—and bought himself a new pair of jeans, a new pair of underpants, and a new shirt, all of which he was now wearing. Rather a pretty shirt, pale pink printed with a pale blue and white diagonal motif that, you saw if you looked at it closely, consisted of a Maori curlicue (white) and a fern (blue). The boutique specialized in locally designed clothing. The shirt was lovely and soft and, since the salesman hadn’t explained this, Adam hadn’t realized that it would go completely limp and shapeless the minute it was washed. The jeans, acquired at a different boutique, were very dark navy, not Levi’s but clones, and since Adam had long legs hadn’t needed taking up. Just as well, that boutique didn’t do taking up. With them he was wearing a narrow pink belt that he’d got at a small boutique specializing in belts and buttons in the air-conditioned department store that housed his Cheese Shop. The girl there had recognized him and what with that and the fact that the pink belt was a ladies’ belt, as had been all the belts that Adam had tried on, had got all overcome and giggly. Adam had still felt guilty about doing Livia while he was really in love with Georgy, but his decision to stop doing Livia had made him feel a lot better, and somehow the shop girl’s naïve giggliness had made him feel a lot better still. Once he’d had a second shower and changed into the new gear and had breakfasted by himself in the dining-room of Livia’s hotel while she had hers upstairs he’d felt even betterer.

    So now he smiled into Georgy’s eyes without the slightest trace of guilt about him and, what with the smile and the clothes that weren’t the same as the clothes she’d last seen him in yesterday, it didn’t occur to Georgy that when Joel had said with terrific casualness that Adam had kipped in town last night, Adam had not kipped alone. Adam’s protestations only a week ago that he adored her might have had something to do with it, too.

    “Am I awfully late?” he said.

    “Not really. Well, Livia’s not here, yet,” said the innocent Georgy.

    “Good, then possibly I won’t get it in the neck,” he murmured. “Look, I’ve got a wee something for you, darling.” He produced a little parcel from his hip pocket.

    Georgy took it uncertainly. She didn’t recognize the grey and white striped paper as being that of the jeweller’s in the same building as Adam’s Cheese Shop because she had, of course, never bought anything from the shop reputed to be the best jeweller’s in town.

    “Open it,” he murmured, leaning on his elbow on the grass and smiling up at her.

    She opened it slowly. Tiny coral earrings in the shape of roses. She swallowed. “They’re lovely; thank you,” she said hoarsely.

    Most of his ladies hadn’t reacted to presents in that way but all the same Adam was experienced enough to recognize she was overcome by being given a gift at all—trumpery though it might be in his terms—and he said gently: “Try them, darling.”

    Georgy took her gold keepers out and put the little coral roses in.

    “Lovely,” said Adam. He smiled at her. “Give me a little thank-you kiss?”

    She went very red and looked helplessly into his azure eyes.

    He twinkled at her. “I think most people might have heard a rumour about you and me last week—well, I certainly overheard your lovely Barbara girl and one of the twin fairies talking about it.”

    She swallowed.

    “Not if it would embarrass you to death, though, sweetheart,” he said gently.

     Suddenly Georgy made up her mind. What with hardly seeing him all week and having to spend every evening coaching Stephen, and seeing Adam having a good time with Livia, and not having gone to the garden party—not only, as she had let people suppose, because she’d thought it would be awful, but because Adam hadn’t suggested they go together— She didn’t exactly say to herself that she was going to give that flirt Livia Wentworth a good run for her money, but it was what she felt. Nor had she exactly thought as much this morning when she’d got up early and looked at all her clothes and put on the prettiest blouse she owned, but it had been what she’d felt then, too. The blouse was pale green, a very soft, almost silvery shade. Like the garment that Mrs Harris abhorred, it was broderie Anglaise, only not so lacy, and not so loose. It had a square neckline, rather low in front, all edges of it scalloped, and the sleeveless armholes were also scalloped. At the waist it was drawn in by a narrow pale green satin ribbon which tied in a bow in front, and then about two inches of scalloped broderie anglaise frilled out from there. Mrs Harris had wanted to know why Georgy was wearing her best blouse with jeans. Georgy hadn’t replied that they were her very best jeans, the new stone-washed ones, as she knew her mother didn’t perceive any distinctions about denim garments. She had merely said she hadn’t been getting any wear out of it. Mrs Harris had said why wasn’t she wearing a bra and Georgy had replied because it wasn’t the nineteen-fifties and she wasn’t Doris Day.

    Georgy drew a deep breath. The blouse obligingly did its job and Adam’s blue eyes got even brighter and his lips parted a little. “No, I want to,” she said firmly.

    Adam’s face flushed. He put his hand gently under her pointed chin and closed his eyes as the sweet mouth met his.

    —On the flags Mac screamed: “NO! QUINCE! Wake UP! Over HERE, I said!” and Stephen jumped and reddened and got himself into position.

    “Darling,” said Adam, very low: “Could we possibly go somewhere nice at lunchtime just by ourselves and—and talk about us?”

    “All right,” said Georgy, swallowing.

    “Promise to be very firm with Mac?” he said.

    Georgy saw he meant it and perhaps read more into the pleading look in his eyes that was strictly justified and nodded firmly and said: “Yes.”

    … “WHAT?” bellowed Mac angrily.

    Georgy had stood up. She flinched, but said: “It’s one-fifteen and some of us have been here since eight-thirty, Mac, it’s time for a lunch-break. Um—are you coming, Adam?”

    “Absolutely,” said Adam, ceasing to be Oberon and coming over to her side.

    “Look—” began Mac angrily.

    “Stuff it, Nunky. Your cast is human, if you don’t refuel us we won’t run,” he said. “LUNCH, EVERYBODY!” he yelled, waving and smiling. Immediately everybody deserted the flagstones, picked up their traps and disappeared.

    The fuming Mac was about to stomp off, but Livia came and took his arm, saying in her sweetest voice: “Never mind, Mac, darling. Perhaps if we just have a quick bite you could help me with my part before the others come back? I think if you tell me exactly how to say those nine men’s morrissy things I might get them right, you’re tho good with all this clever Shakespeare dialogue.” She gave him a melting smile and the deluded Mac, not realizing she was doing it for three reasons, one of which was certainly that she was getting cold feet about the part even though it was only piddling little New Zealand, but two of which were respectively, that she wanted a free lunch and that there was no other possible male in sight, huffed a bit but looked pleased and allowed himself to be led off.

    The deluded Adam, believing that she’d done it out of the goodness of her heart in order to give him and Georgy some time together, decided it would be a very nice bracelet for Livia, and took Georgy’s hand and led her off in the opposite direction.

    He had now discovered that there was a bar on the waterfront, and it did do food, though rather indifferent food, so he took Georgy there, holding her hand all the way. They went through the park and down the High Street, which was a back street, not the main street, and he spotted a couple more second-hand bookshops he hadn’t found before and felt very pleased.

    The bar was filled, more or less, with trendies, more or less, some of whom actually took off their black plastic wrap-around sunglasses in order to stare at Adam, so he said to Georgy: “Can you bear it?”

    “I think I can, if we go outside,” she said, smiling.

    So Adam asked for a table outside and the waiter, having also recognized him, whipped a notice saying “Reserved” off a very nice table and asked if he’d like the wine list, to which Adam replied no, thanks very much, they’d just have a lager and a shandy.

    “Nice?” he said as she sipped it.

    “Yes. Isn’t the view lovely?” she said, smiling innocently at him under the big sun-umbrella that sheltered their table.

    Adam had taken off his sunglasses because of the shade under the umbrella, never mind the gawping would-be trendies, so he looked hard at the blouse and said: “Too right; by cripes, that’s a view and a half!”

    And Georgy gave an explosive giggle and hissed: “Ssh!”

    “Haven’t I got the accent right?” he asked sadly.

    Giggling Georgy hissed: “No! And real people don’t talk like that!”

    “Overdale assures me he has an ancient uncle who does.”

    “Ooh, that reminds me!” she squeaked. “Tom said to remind you about your bet. You won’t turn them out of their house, will you?”

    “Ah... Is the turning out of their house bit his or yours?”

    “Well, mine,” she admitted, going very pink. “Tom said something about debts of honour, or something—but you won’t, will you, Adam?”

    “Wouldn’t you like to have a week in the Overdales’ house alone with me, Georgy?” he said, lips twitching.

    “Oh!” gasped Georgy. “Yes, I— Only we can’t, Adam; I mean!”

    “Okay, we can’t,” he said, touching her hand gently. “Got any better ideas?”

    “Um—not really. Well, Vicki Austin did say she’d heard of a flat to rent...”

    “Where?” asked Adam eagerly, leaning forward.

    “Um—I don’t know that you’d know it. It’s a new development, it’s called Willow Plains, or Grove, or something,” said Georgy confusedly.

    “Well, where is it, darling?” he asked patiently.

    “Um—you know the road that goes to Waikaukau Junction? Where Jemima and Tom live.”

    “No.”

    “Oh, dear. Um—well, if you’re coming north,” said Georgy wrinkling her brow, “it’s about five kilometres before you get to the Pohutukawa Bay turnoff, I suppose. Only on the other side.”

    “The left?”

    She looked at her hands confusedly. “Um... Yes. Not on the seaward side.”

    “I see.”

    “And the road goes round in a big loop sort of—um—behind Puriri: you can’t see it because of the hills. And then it comes out north of Kowhai Bay. Um—on the landward side, of course.”

    “Ye-es... Oh, the first turning on the left after Kowhai Bay? Beyond the old pub?”

    The mention of the old pub had evidently confused Georgy: clearly it was not a significant landmark to her. “Ye-es...”

    “The road that goes to the golf course?”

    “Um—I think it does go past it,” said Georgy dubiously.

    “Mm, I know the road you mean. I didn’t realize it didn’t emerge onto the highway again until well south of Pohutukawa Bay, I must admit.”

    “Yes. That’s where the dairy factory is,” said Georgy.

    “Of course! The Waikaukau Dairy Factory! Where they bottle milk in bottles for Carter’s Bay!”

    “Yes,” she said, smiling. “And cream.”

    He reached over again and this time took her little hand gently in his. “And cream. So there’s a flat going down this road, is there, darling?”

    “Um—well, that’s what Vicki said. She might have got it wrong. I think she said a friend of hers has been doing some gardening there... And she said the lady who’d just bought this flat was going on  overseas trip and wanted to let it for a little while. Does that seem very likely to you? Would anybody buy a new flat and then go off on a trip right away?”

    “Well,” said Adam, trying not to laugh. “I suppose they might, darling, if perhaps they’d planned the trip in advance and it was the flat they really wanted, and if they had the money.”

    “Ye-es... Vicki said her and Ginny would have taken it, even though it was only for a short time, only the lady was charging far too much.”

    “Good, it sounds like just the flat for us!” he said, grinning. “How do we find out about it?”

    Georgy looked blank. In fact she looked not only blank, she began to look scared.

    “It’s all right, darling,” he said, squeezing her hand gently. “I know there’s a land agent in Puriri: I’ll ask there.”

    “Ye-es... Don’t land agents only sell houses and flats, though?”

    “Well, even if they do, I’m sure they’ll be able to help us,” he said, squeezing the hand again.

    “Yes,” said Georgy, looking at him trustingly.

    Adam went rather red and said hoarsely: “Darling, I seem to be taking a lot for granted: you will come and live in it with me, will you?”

    “Yes,” said Georgy, blushing.

    Abruptly Adam’s eyes filled with tears. He looked out at the harbour, blinking.

    “Um—if the flat falls through, there’s a very nice motel in Pukeko Drive, right at the far end of it, just by a patch of bush. Not motelish: you know,” said Georgy. “A friend of Ginny’s and Vicki’s makes beds there. Ginny said the lady that owns it is very nice. And not nosy or anything.”

    “Did you talk about it with the fairy twins, darling?” he asked gently, blinking a bit but smiling at her.

    “Um—yes. Um—well, Vicki and Phil were sort of talking about flats, and—um— Well, Vicki sort of seemed to take it for granted that we’d want to— You know,” she finished, very flushed.

    “Good,” he said simply. “We’ll talk to Vicki about it this afternoon, then, shall we? See how she heard about the flat, and so on.”

    “Yes,” agreed Georgy, nodding.

    Adam sat back in his uncomfortable trendy metal chair with holes all over it like a colander—sitting in it was as about as comfortable as sitting in a colander would be, actually—with his heart hammering.

    Going back through the park he kissed her very hard under a Moreton Bay fig and squashed her against his new shirt and said: “I can’t wait.”

    “Me neither,” agreed Georgy with her arms tightly around his torso.

    Adam leaned his head on her auburn one and sighed.

    Next morning Joel said in confusion: “What have we stopped here for?” as Adam, who had insisted on driving, pulled over and parked outside The Arcade in Puriri.

    “Georgy and I are going to meet a land agent and look at a flat. You can stay in the car,” said Adam simply, getting out. “Come on, sweetheart.”

    Georgy got out and they vanished round a corner of The Arcade.

    “Well!” said Joel, with bulging eyes.

    ... “What?” he said faintly, as they stopped in the middle of Wai-kika-woop-woop—or more accurately, in the middle of nowhere. Unless you counted a large sign that said “WILLOW PLAINS a project of Carrano Development.”

    Adam waved at the embryo concrete structures on the rise to their right. “This is Willow Grove,” he said airily. “I’m reliably informed that beyond it, yea verily down that road there,” he said as Joel goggled at some muddy ruts past a clay bank and a bramble bush a bit further on, “there will soon arise Willow Reach and—um—what was the other one, darling?”

    “Willow Ridge! Only Vicki says she bets it’ll be more like Willow Gale-Force Winds!” squeaked Georgy, giggling.

    “Yeah, too right,” he agreed in the vernacular. “Don’t come, if you’d rather not,” he said to Joel, getting out.

    Joel got out immediately.

    There would be twenty townhouses—not flats—in the Willow Grove development, all very nayce indeed, as young Mr Pritchard, the agent, who’d preceded them in his shiny Mitsubishi, explained earnestly. Some had three bedrooms and some two, but they were all more or less built according to the same plan: semi-detached, with garage, games room, spare bedroom and second bathroom on the ground floor, and the other rooms upstairs, so that all the main rooms had a view of the valley and the hills beyond it. And that, he explained carefully, waving at the view to the east, was part of the Maureen Mitchell Memorial Reserve, so in that direction they couldn’t be built out. And the low rise to their west and rear was designated on the plan partly as green belt, and partly golf-course land. It was a choice site, really, Mr McIntyre.

    Adam agreed it was but reminded Mr Pritchard they only wanted to rent Mrs—was it Mrs Mayhew’s? Yes, Mrs Mayhew’s fl—townhouse.

    Mrs Mayhew’s townhouse was on the right, at the top of the drive before the turning circle, onto which only the two very top townhouses faced—and that, of course, was the best site, but Mr Pritchard was afraid two very eminent medical gentlemen had already got bids in for those two. He looked hopefully at Adam but Adam didn’t offer to outbid these medical gentlemen.

    “Vicki said Tom’s brother was buying one, maybe one of those is his,” said Georgy.

    Mr Pritchard, who was really very young, eyed Georgy with a mixture of undisguised male admiration of and land agent’s automatic dismissal of the loose, long auburn curls, the pretty little blouse, the pretty little sandals and the jeans. “A Mr Morton and a Sir Ralph Overdale,” he murmured.

    “Yes, Tom’s brother’s name is Ralph,” she agreed.

    Young Mr Pritchard went rather red and had a second look and this time noticed the coral earrings and glanced at Adam and rather obviously mentally reminded himself that after all, this was Adam McIntyre.

    Mrs Mayhew’s flat was done out in Conservative Horrible but Mrs Mayhew had not yet moved all her fake Chippendale into it. Though the pale pinkish-to-mauvish velvet brand-new suite was appropriately hard to take. Went well with the floral Axminster in cream, rose and lilac, too. And the Sanderson linen curtains in ditto.

    “Forrest’s in Puriri supply—er—very nice furnishings,” murmured Mr Pritchard as he showed them the empty master bedroom.

    “Darlings, couldn’t Melinda let you have a bed?” murmured Joel.

    “Yes, that thing in my room’s a double. Perhaps we could just bring the bed and leave Ma’s fake brass bedstead behind; what do you think?” he said to Georgy with his glinting smile.

    “Isn’t it all fixed together?” she replied confusedly.

    “No: that’s partly what makes it fake,” explained Adam kindly.

    “Yes, you just bolt the bedhead and end onto the base,” explained Mr Pritchard, suddenly getting involved in the minutiae and smiling eagerly at Georgy.

    “Yes. Well, it’s all right with Mrs Mayhew if we move a few bits and bobs in, then?” asked Adam.

    Mr Pritchard assured Mr McIntyre it was perfectly all right, that was understood. Mrs Mayhew was leaving most of her furniture in storage because—er—

    “Yes, tenants can ruin your good things, ruin them!” squeaked Joel.

    Poor young Mr Pritchard went rather red but Adam said brutally: “Shut up, or next time you’re waving that bloody silver bladder about on stage I’ll take it off you in me kingly way and bugger up your moves for the rest of the scene.”

    Mr Pritchard, who fancied himself as broadminded and modern but actually came from a very nice home, blinked rather at hearing a Big Star use An Expression Like That, and tried to smile.

    “I think so, don’t you think, Georgy?” Adam then said to her with a smile.

    Georgy was looking out the window at the low hills beyond which lay the golf course. “Mm-mm,” she said dreamily. “This view reminds me of that Woollaston exhibition Pauline and I went to last year. All sort of browny and yellowy with their bones showing.”

    “Cor!” gasped Joel, bustling over to her. “Oh, pooh,” he said disgustedly. “not a bone in sight.”

    “Not literally,” she said, smiling. “Just hills.”

    “Mr Morton thinks so, too: that’s why he’s buying the next-door townhouse, it’s the one with the bedroom that faces this way, too,” agreed Mr Pritchard.

    “Darling, do you like it? Shall we rent it?” said Adam patiently.

    “Oh! Um—yes. If you like it?” said Georgy, smiling shyly at him.

    Before Adam could do more than smile and nod, Joel squeaked: “But dear boy! It’s in the middle of Wai-kika-woop-woop! Are you planning to deprive poor Christopher of his car on a semi-permanent basis, or what?”

    “No, I’ll hire one,” said Adam briefly,

    Joel’s jaw sagged. After a moment he croaked feebly: “But Adam, Georgy’s term starts the week after next. How is she going to get to her classes?”

    “I’ll drive her.”

    “Um—some of my lectures start at nine o’clock,” said Georgy, looking anxious.

    “And some of us,” said Joel loudly, glaring at him, “have never been known to rise before NOON when we’re in a show!”

    “Rubbish, I was up at eight-thirty every morning like clockwork in Manchester,” said Adam immediately.

    Before Joel could retort that he’d been all of twenty-one at the time, or remind him of their mutual landlady with the mo’, he said to Mr Pritchard with a charming smile: “If Mrs Mayhew’s agreeable, I’ll take it. –You realise I won’t be here for the full three months, of course—I’ve got an engagement in Sydney.”

    Mr Pritchard began to look anxious and so did Georgy—but Adam added that of course he’d pay for the full period so Mr Pritchard stopped looking anxious. Then he named the price very casually and Adam agreed to it without a flicker.

    Then Mr Pritchard outed with the papers and Adam signed on the spot.

    Joel said numbly as they bumped on down the ruts of what Mr Pritchard claimed was Elizabeth Road in the direction more or less—well, possibly—of south: “Dear lad, why didn’t you try to beat him down?”

    “No point. I wanted it and I could afford it: why haggle?”

    Joel groaned deeply.

    “It was peanuts,” said Adam.

    Joel groaned deeply.

   … “Why?” he said madly to Adam later, as they sat on the upper lawn of the quad watching the rustics and mechanicals down below.

    “Because I was going potty without her,” he said, looking with a smile at the bent auburn head down on the lower lawn.

    “Yes, some of us noticed that!” Joel agreed acidly.

    “And also because... I dunno, Joel,” said Adam, lying flat on his back and gazing up at the clear blue sky—not as blue as the peepers, dears.

    “What?” said Joel sulkily.

    Adam squinted into the blue and replace d his sunglasses. “I want to try it out...”

    “Some of us thought you’d done that last week, dear. In fact some of us thought you’d naycely run it in,” said Joel at his most acid.

    Adam’s lips twitched. “Not that, idiot. No—living with her... Day-to-day stuff. You know.”

    Joel gulped.

    “Go on, say it.”

    “She’d be a lot better off without you, dear,” he croaked.

    “On the whole I agree,” said Adam dreamily. “I want to give it a go, though.”

    Joel groaned very loudly, lay down flat on his back, put his bladder on his head and pulled it down firmly over his ears with both hands.

    After a while, Adam said: “Here she is. Ask her.”

    “Ask me what?” said Georgy, squatting beside them with a smile as Joel emerged from under his bladder, pouting.

    “Very well, I will,” he said, goaded by the smirk round Adam’s mouth. “Would you or would you not claim, Georgy, dear, that you’d be a lot better off without the Boy Wonder, here?”

    “Um—objectively, yes, I’m sure of it,” she said thoughtfully.—Joel gulped.—“Only subjectively, I can’t imagine anything better than being with him!” she ended with a blinding smile.

    “Just wipe the smirk off, dear, wipe the smirk OFF!” Joel ordered him testily.

    “Mac says, would we like to go to lunch now?” reported Georgy.

    “Eh?” said Adam. “Not my Uncle Mac?”

    “Those photographers are coming later this afternoon: I think he wants us all to be fed and watered and in a good mood for them!” she said with a giggle.

    Joel just goggled at her. It was only lunchtime? It felt like Tuesday of next year, at the very earliest!