I Went To The Garden Party ...

19

I Went To the Garden Party …

    The sun blazed down, El Nino blew, the ladies’ dresses and the walls of the marquee flapped madly, and in the middle of the lawn in a gazebo erected for the occasion an Early Music quartet gave forth with something that some of those present recognized as pre-Baroque.

    “Whaddaya reckon?” said Sir Jacob with a chuckle in his voice.

    Dr Davis replied in hollow tones: “I reckon I must be mad, that’s what I reckon. Who in God’s name are all these people?”

   Jake looked vaguely round his crowded west lawn. “Uh—dunno, really. Well, there’s a few from the Group—that’s wee Sydnée over there, pretty wee thing, eh? Does the Interior Décor stuff for one of the subsidiaries. Well, heads it up, ya know.”

    “Sidney is not a girl’s name,” said Jill in a hollow voice.

    “No, but her parents didn’t know that. Uh—some of these are social types, owed them an invite: thought we’d get it over in one fell swoop. Um—some of the types from the varsity’s Institute of Political Studies, ya know them, eh?”

    Jill sighed. “Yes.”

    “Where’s Gretchen?” he asked with a twinkle.

    “Where I wish I was right now,” she said grimly. “At home, working on her lecture notes for next term. You realize the dratted academic year starts in a couple of weeks?”

    “Nope,” he said smugly. “Don’t have to worry about that any more, now that she’s not teaching.”

    “Well, woolly bully,” said Jill sourly.

    “Push off,” suggested her host airily. “Don’t let me keep you. –Don’t wanna be here meself, so why should I make you suffer too?”

    She gave him a jaundiced look. “I promised Polly I’d come, and I’ll bloody well stick it out. Only I warn you, if she scrapes up yet another unmarried or divorced cousin for me—”

    “Nah, given up on that,” he said. “I think,” he said.

    Jill glared.

    Jake eyed her thoughtfully. “Dunno that I’ve seen you in a hat before. I’m not counting that thing you wear round the Golf Course, of course. No, hang on: you wore one at our wedding!” he said proudly. “Right?”

    “Yes. This is it,” said Jill at her driest.

    Sir Jacob abruptly went into a wheezing paroxysm.

    “Well, where is Queen Polly?” she said, when he was over it.

    “That’s a good one!” he said pleasedly. “Queen Polly, eh?” His shoulders shook. “I’ll remember that,” he threatened.

    “Heaven forbid,” she muttered. “Well, where?”

    “Over there. Head of the receiving line,” he said slyly. Jill choked. “Uh—no,” he said, relenting. “Ya see that bright yaller and green thing that looks like a parrot?”

    “Lady Harding,” she agreed after the merest glance.

    “Right. Well, there’s another bright yaller thing next to her—”

    Jill peered. “God!” she gasped.

    “Didn’e warn ya?” asked Sir Jacob with interest.

    “He did threaten a morning suit... Yellow?” she whispered.

    “Down to the topper. Well, up to,” he confirmed sedately.

    Jill swallowed. “Press?”

    “Been there, done that. She went and let them in the house. I told her— Oh, well. Said she did it for Livia Wentworth’s complexion or something. Ya know she’s turned the bloody woman into another bloody Phyllis Harding?”

    “Mm, I was at the races, remember?”

    “So ya were,” he said sadly. “So ya were.”

    Jill peered at Phyllis in yellow and green satin and Joel in his yellow morning suit. “Um—I can’t see Polly.”

    “She’s behind ’em. White thing.”

    “Uh—I think I can see bits of a sort of floaty white thing, it’s beyond a sort of pale pink thing— That’s not a man, is it?” said the liberated Dr Davis dazedly.

    “Adam,” he confirmed laconically. “And watch out for him: he’s in a bloody funny mood.”

    “A pale pink morning suit?” gasped Jill.

    “Made a bet with Joel. And with Tom Overdale, don’t ask me why, he’s not a betting man.”

    “He’s singing in the bloody panto...” said Jill vaguely. “God!” she said fervently.

    “Too right. It’ll be all over flaming Metro before the cat can lick its proverbial. And ya know bloody Vogue Australia’s here?”

    “Not actually, no!” said Jill madly, goggling at the back view of six-foot-odd of well-shaped male form in very pale pink morning dress with a very pale pink topper.

    “Be all over that, too,” he said with gloomy relish.

    “If Adam McIntyre’s in a pale pink suit, I think it’ll be all over The Sun and the rest of the English nationals and very likely the European rags as well by this time tomorrow, Jake,” croaked Jill.

    “Yeah. There was a bloke from TVNZ, too,” he said.

    Jill tipped back the hat and scratched her neat fawn head. “I’d say that in that case it’d be all over CNN tonight, only I seriously doubt anyone from TVNZ’d have the nous to sell it to ’em.”

    “What I thought,” he agreed.

    They stared glumly at Adam and Joel and their group.

    “Are there any more in the woodshed like that?” she said at last.

    “No. Livia’s just kinda frilly, sorta pales into insignificance, if ya get me drift.”

    “Mm.”

    Sir Jacob reached out a long arm and captured a passing waiter. “Thought you were back at school this term?” he said, staring hard at him.

    “Um—yeah. Um—well, it’s only sports this arvo—honest!” he gasped.

    “Yeah. Well, I’ve got nothing against free enterprise. You still wanna do engineering at varsity next year?”

    “Yeah!” he gasped.

    Jake took the tray off him and handed it to Jill. “Right. Well, come on, the Professor of Engineering’s here somewhere, we’ll go and say gidday, can’t hurt, eh?” On second thoughts he removed a glass of bubbly from the tray, winked at Jill and ambled off with a heavy hand firmly on the young man’s shoulder.

    “Egalitarianism run riot,” said Jill to herself, rolling her eyes madly. The tray still had several glasses on it and unfortunately she only had two hands. Eventually she solved her dilemma by drinking off one glassful where she stood. “Aah!” she said. “Bisto!” She picked up another glass, and, holding the lightened tray firmly in her other hand, wandered off in the general direction of her hostess and her colourful cousin.

    The sun blazed down, El Nino blew, the ladies’ dresses and the walls of the marquee flapped madly, and the Early Music quartet gave forth with something pre-Baroque as invited guests choked down delicious little canapés and pink champagne and shouted their heads off to one another over the noise of other invited guests shouting their heads off to one another over the noise—

    “Layke it?” shouted Joel, posing, yellow topper well tilted.

    “Glorious,” agreed Dorothy, grinning all over her bony brown face. “Like it?” She struck a pose, and gestured at her scarlet straw hat.

    “Fab, darling, don’t we go well together?” he gasped. “Quick! Where’s the man with the camera?”

    “I’ll be in it on condition that you’ll come and read to the after-school group next week,” said Dorothy grimly, grabbing his bright yellow arm.

    “Darling! Mind the threads!” he squeaked. Dorothy hung on grimly. “Um, well, Mac may have scheduled rehearsals,” he said weakly.

    “I don’t think I care: I can’t sit through another second of Cynthia murdering The Lighthouse Keeper’s Lunch.”

    “Darling, these references are obscure to one!” he squeaked. “Um… Well, he did say it’ll be fairy moves every afternoon next week: we’re down for the mornings,” he admitted weakly.

    “So I’d heard,” agreed Dorothy with a shark-like grin.

    “Your spies are everywhere,” he said, pouting.

    Dorothy nodded. “Young Ginny Austin, it’s damned useful. What about Adam?”

    “He’s not damned useful,” said Joel gloomily. “And don’t ask him anything, Dorothy, darling, we are in a very funny mood today. Ve-ry fun-ny.”

    “Gor. Why?” asked the Puriri County Librarian simply.

    “Oh-cyune iday. Tiff with wee Georgy, possibly—she’s not here, you know,” he said vaguely, looking round for the man with the camera. “Ooh, that’s the man from Vogue Australia: one is News in Australia because of the Piggy-Whiskers tour; come on, Dorothy darling!” he squeaked.

    “All right, but do you promise?”

    “Yes, yes!” panted Joel. “Come on!”

    Dorothy came on. She’d been through worse in her time, for her various libraries. Like the Governor-General’s speech at— Yes, well.

    The sun blazed down, El Nino blew, the ladies’ dresses, Joel’s coattails and the walls of the marquee flapped madly, and the pink champagne flowed like—well, like pink champagne at a Carrano garden party, presumably.

    “Why did we come?” asked Keith Nicholls dazedly.

    “I came for the booze. And the grub,” replied Bruce Smith happily. “Pink champagne: not that Wild Duck muck, real French fizz: it’s glorious. And have you tasted those little pâté thingy-whatsits yet?”

    “No,” said Keith sourly. “I haven’t. And what makes you so chirpy all of a sudden, may I ask? –Oh, I get it, Catherine’s given in over the patio pool she wanted,” he said, before Bruce could answer.

    “No: I have. Ooh, the relief! –Life’s so easy when ya just give in, isn’t it?” said Bruce dreamily.

    “Yeah. Well, I’ve always worked on that principle: yeah,” agreed Keith glumly.

    Bruce shoved the remains of his little pâté thingy-whatsit into his mouth and said through it: “Shoh wosh hup?”

    Keith sighed. “You know that bloke that’s a headmaster or something, think he lives down Waikaukau Junction way?”

    “Uh—no.”

    “Yes, ya do, Bruce, he’s got twin boys about your Sushi’s age! –Well, not him, literally, think they might be his wife’s. If she is his wife.”

    Naturally Bruce replied to this: “Aw, him. Yeah, what about him?”

    “He’s kidnapped her,” said Keith glumly.

    “Eh?”

    Keith sighed. “You remember! That bloody social we were at when Ariadne asked Polly for all that dough for the old folks’ home.”

    “Uh—yeah,” said Bruce blankly.

    “Well, he was there! He was the one that got Ariadne pissed out of her mind!”

    “Oh,” said Bruce blankly. “Think we missed that, wasn’t that the time we snuck off early?”

    Keith sighed heavily. “She’s bloody heavy, ya know,” he said glumly.

    “Eh? Who?”

    “Ariadne! She’ll pass out! I keep trying to tell you: this headmaster type’ll get her pissed out of her mind and then she’ll pass out! And I’ll never be able to get her into the car, let alone up the steps when we get home, she weighs a ton!”

    “I wouldn’t worry, Sir Jake’s sure to have some muscle jacked up for that sort of thing, he’s not thick, ya know.”

    Keith looked at him dubiously.

    “Sufficient unto the day,” said Bruce airily.

    “You’re right!” decided Keith grimly. “Where are these pâté things?” he said with great determination.

    A gleam lit up in Bruce’s slightly fuddled eye. “Now ya talking, me old mate!

    Forthwith Puriri’s most popular G.P. and its top ENT man headed determinedly for the canapés with shining morning—or least afternoon-and-champagne—faces.

    The sun blazed down, El Nino blew, the ladies’ dresses and the walls of the marquee flapped.

    And across the lawn with a grin on his thin, dark, still handsome face came Maurice Black in a white linen suit, the jacket open to show his glowing azure silk blouse and his high-waisted trou’, belted by two, count ’em, two, trendy narrow lizard-skin belts with tiny gold buckles. With his silver curls madly ruffled by the wind and on his arm a tall, duskily beautiful Indian girl with a plait of long, shiny black hair over one shoulder, and clad in a tight green, gold and apricot dress that was showing sufficient bust and very, very sufficient leg above the high-heeled green patent sandals.

    “Oh, my God,” muttered Evan Black, turning almost the same shade as the sandals.

    “Broken a tooth?” asked Mac with considerable fellow-feeling.

    “Worse,” said Evan in a hollow voice. “Look: Maurie.”

    Mac looked. “Bugger me, he’s at it again!”

    “Yes,” said Evan faintly, swallowing.

    “No skin off your nose,” said Mac cheerfully, engulfing a hot savoury and grabbing the tray off the startled young waiter. “I’ll take care of this, sonny,” he said genially.

    “She’ll be earbashing me all night,” Evan said faintly.

    “Eh? Oh! Well, shouldn’ta brought her. I never bring Cherry to these does—’s asking for trouble,” said Mac cheerfully. “So what? Nine days’ wonder, ya know what Maurie is. S’pose he picked her up at that political history conference on Puriri Campus. Well, must have: ya know what conferences are!”

    Evan sighed. He was the sort of man who went to conferences in order to hear the papers, and frequently to deliver a paper. Not to get laid. Sometimes he felt as if he was the only man in the world who attended conferences to hear the papers.

    “If she starts going on at ya tonight, pretend you’re asleep. I always do,” said Mac heartlessly.

    Evan sighed again.

    On the other side of the lawn Melinda said faintly: “I really think I’ll go. I mean, this is the last straw!”

    “Thought you reckoned your ewe lamb in baby pink was the last straw?” returned Christopher nastily, tasting a small savoury carefully. “Mm, crabmeat, I think.”

    “Serve ya right if it gives you hives,” said Melinda sourly. She drank some champagne. “No, but look at him, Christopher!” she hissed.

    Christopher glanced indifferently at Maurice: now, with the arm firmly round the Indian beauty’s waist, talking and laughing with Polly, the people from the Pacific Institute of Political Studies, and a pompous-looking git in a charcoal-grey suit who looked vaguely familiar—oh, Minister for the Arts? And the type with them in the pale green linen suit was the director of the city art gallery, no mistaking him. And the other pompous-looking type in the other charcoal-grey suit was... yes, the Vice-Chancellor, that was it.

    “Eh?” he said vaguely.

    Melinda sighed. “He is your brother,” she said sadly.

    “Am I his keeper?” retorted Christopher immediately. “Well, just thank God I haven’t got it tattooed on me forehead,” he recommended with a twinkle.

    Gasping, she cried: “Darling, of course you’ve got it tattooed on your forehead!”

    “Eh?”

    “Christopher, you and Maurie and Adam are as like as three peas in a pod!” she gasped. “Anyone’d have to be blind not to know you were related!”

    “God. Well, in that case we’ll definitely go home, I’m not having anybody connect me publicly to the Piccadilly Pink,” said Christopher grimly. “Coming?”

    “Yes; I really don’t think I can take any more of it,” she agreed thankfully.

    Phyllis, Lady Harding, had found someone who would Know. Phyllis was the sort of person who always found someone who would Know.

    “Veronica: who is she?” she said tensely, grabbing her victim’s arm fiercely in a skinny claw.

    Wincing, the Senior Research Fellow from the Pacific Institute of Political Studies attempted to draw away, but Phyllis hung on.

    “Uh—” She met Phyllis’s bulging blue eye. “Lecturer in Pol. Sci. from Sydney University. She gave a paper at the conference and old Maurie got up and tore it to shreds. They had a flaming row over it—this was in a full session, mind you—and then disappeared straight after and were never seen again. Well, not till this morning.”

    Under the heavy make-up Phyllis had gone quite pink with excitement. “Well!” she breathed.

    Livia was in a very bad mood. For one thing, Adam had been very superior and beastly to her all day. Well, not all day: when they’d woken up they’d had a nice long fuck, just as she’d known they would. Then afterwards he’d cried, just as she’d thought he would. Well, actually it had been a toss-up whether he’d cry before or after—or both. Then he’d got very angry, apparently with himself, and gone off. Livia didn’t much mind: she felt very, very good, Adam was always lovely in her. Lovely. She had eaten a large breakfast, incorporating lots of wholemeal toast and fruit, plus eggs because she was really dreadfully hungry. And because she knew she’d skip lunch, there was the garden party later. She had been a teensy-weensy bit disappointed that Wallace hadn’t rung her, but after all he was probably in court, and he’d said he’d see her at the party, hadn’t he? Part of her was very cross with Maurie because he hadn’t rung, but on the other hand she really felt so good and was looking forward so much to the party that it hadn’t mattered, really.

    Only when she’d got here—and it was such a drive, she hadn’t realized, and the man driving the limo had really been quite rude when she’d said where were they and so she’d told Jacky they weren’t having that service again, only he’d said it was the only one there was—when she’d got here, it had all started to go wrong.

    Because Wallace wasn’t here and Maurie wasn’t here and Adam had on a silly pink suit and he was in a beastly cruel mood! And Polly was in a white chiffon dress that made her look about twenty-two at the most, it had a floaty flared skirt, mid-calf length, long sleeves that were see-through and slit all the way to the wrists and tied with a row of tiny bows, and more tiny bows all down the back, which was cut in a wide vee to the waist so that the bows were on shorter and shorter ties till the one that just sat at the waist, and it was no use her saying she’d had it for years, Livia knew it was a lie! And her hair was sort of scooped up casually in a mass of heavy, shiny curls under a picture hat in white organdie—much, much, much nicer than Livia’s own picture hat!

    Livia’s outfit was pale lemon and consisted of firstly, a thin chiffon top with a lot of delicious heavy creamy lace on the bust and an edging of lace on the hem that was worn outside the skirt, just sitting at the waist; secondly, the skirt, mid-calf chiffon with a tight yoke over the hips to mid-thigh and then fanning out in million tiny permanent pleats; thirdly, a long, lace-appliqued chiffon jacket that had padded shoulders and was open to crutch level, where it was fastened with a big lace rose on a wide, tight band; with, fourthly, a stiffened lemon gauze picture hat covered in delicious heavy creamy lace. And in the shop it had looked wonderful, so why had rotten Polly had to choose chiffon, and why did her outfit make Livia’s look overdone, and why did her very plain hat make Livia’s look fussy and dowager-y?

    —Strictly speaking, Sir Jacob had been incorrect in describing Livia’s outfit as “kinda frilly” though he had, as Jill Davis recognized the instant she got a sight of it, caught the very essence of it.

    Livia ate a hot thing that had some funny green stuff in it and said with a pout to Amy: “Well, I think it’s a horrid party! And these savouries have not got crab in them!”

    “Mine had,” said Amy faintly. “I feel really odd, Ollie.”

    “Well, go and lie down,” replied Livia tiredly.

    “I think I might... Will Lady Carrano mind?”

    “No!” snapped Livia. “She said we could use that suite, now go and use it!”

    “I think I might...”

    “Go on,” said Livia through her teeth.

    “We-ell…” She got a good look at Livia’s face, and went.

    “One wonders why you brought it, darling,” drawled Adam, strolling up with a plate of savouries. Livia glared at him and didn’t reply, though she’d been feeling exactly that. “Have one of these, they’re delish.”

    “What’s in them?” she said suspiciously.

    “Mashed ambrosia, I think.”

    Livia peered at them suspiciously.

    “Or possibly apricocks and dewberries,” said Adam, very sour.

    Livia glared. She peered at the savouries again.

    “Darling, did we forget the contacts?” he drawled.

    “I do not have to wear contacts!” hissed Livia furiously, just at the very moment that all those awful TVNZ and local film people came up and started their endless fawning on Adam all over again! –They were more or less the same TVNZ people who had earlier fawned on Livia, and on whom she had fawned in turn, but by now she was in a very bad mood indeed. And if Amy was going to have one of her blessed migraines all over Lady Carrano’s guest suite it would just be the last straw!

    Livia, however, did nothing to alienate these television and film people, in fact she took Adam’s arm in a girlish but just slightly possessive way and smiled a lot and giggled a lot and fluttered her eyelashes a terrific lot as they all started talking about some blasted New Zealand film that she’d never heard of that was apparently about some blasted New Zealand serious writer that she’d never heard of and that beastly Adam had apparently read every word by—in his cradle, you’d have said from his manner. The pink suit, Livia noticed spitefully, made it a lot less convincing, though: in fact two of the film people started off by looking really sceptical. Really sceptical. The ones in the very boring clothes that didn’t look as if they ought to be here. But naturally he wound them round his little finger like all the rest, he would.

    Then Polly came up with a very plain middle-aged woman in tow in a frightful linen-look suit, worse than Amy’s good black one, it was sort of mud-coloured and her face was without any make-up at all, worse than Amy, and introduced her as Noelene Something from the Woman’s Weekly—the New Zealand one, of course—and Livia was expected to be nice to her and agree to an interview next week with pics! Really! She agreed, however.

    After that Polly came back and took the woman away, thank goodness! And nice Gavin Wiley, in his nice business suit, who was the Vice-Chancellor at the University and really ran the whole show (as Maurice had informed her before they had dinner at the Wileys’ place) came up with some lovely men and introduced them all, and of course Livia had met the lovely Minister for the Arts, and there was a delicious man of about Sir Jake’s age whose name was Ken: he had silver hair and pretty blue eyes (not as pretty as Maurice’s but Livia didn’t allow herself to think that); and two men and a lady from the City Council; and they were all talking about the new stretch of motorway that Livia was going to Open for them and Livia was telling them about some of her other Openings and of course they were all impressed, and everything was going very well (and the lady from the City Council was a positive frump and the wives of two of the others had flashy last-years-y dresses that assorted ill with their middle-aged, plain, amateurishly over-made-up faces, and the lovely Ken man didn’t have a lady with him at all)—when Livia looked casually across the lawn, not admitting to herself that she was looking for Wal Briggs, and saw Maurice.

    “Oh, God,” said Polly to Noelene from the Weekly. “It’s happened.”

    Noelene’s mouth was full of savoury. She followed Polly’s gaze. “Yesh. ’Evitable,” she said thickly.

    Polly sighed. “Given conferences, and given Maurice, yes, I suppose it was. Only why at my party?”

    Noelene swallowed thickly. “’Cos you invited ’im, why else?” She shoved her plate of savouries at her. “Here, have one, these are really good.”

    “Ooh, you’ve got a selection,” said the hostess admiringly. She chose a chicken and avocado one.

    “Years of experience,” said Noelene simply, taking a crabmeat one.

    “Mm.” Polly looked glumly at Maurice laughing with his Indian lovely, now standing with Bill and Angie Michaels, Sherry Colegate from the Biology Department, plus his wife, and Paul Corey from Maurice’s own old department, plus his wife. Even if Professor Corey hadn’t been there the whole thing would have been round the university first thing tomorrow, but somehow his presence made it worse: the History Department followed Maurice’s amorous progress even more avidly than they had when he was their boss, they seemed to be sort of... proud of him, or something. Like a—a mascot? Also sort of taking the credit for him, in an odd way...

    “Ya know,” said Noelene, looking at Livia being terrifically airy and tinkly and hanging on Gavin Wiley’s arm—where was Mrs Vice-Chancellor? Not evident, anyway—“I thought you were one of them, originally.”

    “Eh?” replied Polly elegantly, taking a fetta cheese savoury from Noelene’s plate.

    “Those are salty,” she warned. “One of the Remmers and Titters sort,” she explained, taking a bite of a tuna fish savoury.

    “Oh, yeah!” said Polly with a laugh. “That awful interview when I got engaged to Jake! I didn’t know what to say.”

    “Yuh,” said Noelene thickly through the savoury, nodding. She swallowed noisily. “Tha’ wush because I’d pitched all the questions at the Remmers and Titters level.”

    “I realise that, Noelene,” said Polly staidly, with a lurking twinkle.

    Noelene winked. Polly sniggered.

    Noelene then looked at the three remaining savouries and said with terrific generosity: “You want this one with the red caviar?”

     “No, thanks, may husband can afford to feed me on real caviar, should Ay desayre it,” said Polly with a grin. “And even if I don’t desire it,” she added on a glum note.

    Grinning, Noelene took the savoury. She chewed enthusiastically. “Mm!” she said through it. She swallowed and pointed out: “You married him.”

    “Yes. –That was a foul do, wasn’t it?”

    As weddings went, it had been pretty bad, but weren’t they all? Noelene had put the remains of the savoury in her mouth. Obligingly she nodded hard.

    “I think on the whole this is worse, though,” said Polly.

    Noelene chewed thoughtfully. “Mm-mm...” she said dubiously. She swallowed. “Yeah,” she decided. “Got Livia Wentworth.”

    “Quite.”

    “The Editor was really peeved you invited me and not her, ya know,” added Noelene idly.

    “What, to this?” gasped Polly, turning puce.

    “Yeah. –What’s up?” she asked, looking at her hostess’s puce face.

    “Of course I’d have asked her if— Why on earth didn’t you say, Noelene?” gasped Polly.

    Noelene shrugged. “Can’t give up all my exclusive contacts, can I, they might decide to dispense with my services.”

    “Bullshit, Noelene, no-one can write like you. You strike just the right note,” said Polly firmly.

    “Yeah. Tripe, but adulterated tripe,” agreed Noelene cheerfully. “I do it off the top of my head, ya know. What I mean is, when people ask me how I do it, I can’t explain. I just sit down at the old Imperial, and do it. She’s given up giving me young cub reporters to train up, now. It’s dawned that it’s not that I’m unwilling, so much—well, I am, of course, who wouldn’t be—but I can’t tell ’em, because I don’t know myself.”

    “Ye-es...” Polly’s eyes narrowed. “It’d be interesting to analyse your style.”

    “Do it when I’m dead, then,” said Noelene in horror. “I don’t want all my secrets published while I still have to earn a living!”

    “I don’t think your cubs would learn much from a study of transformed lexical and syntactic structures in New Zealand journalese, would they, Noelene?”

    Noelene choked slightly. After a moment she said: “Can you transform a lexical structure?”

    Polly winked.

    Noelene choked again. “How can you be so detached about your own subject?” she said in a hollow voice.

    “How can you, Noelene?” replied Polly, poker-face.

    Noelene choked again.

   The sun blazed down, El Nino blew, the ladies’ dresses and the walls of the marquee flapped madly, the decibel output rose to excruciating level and the champagne flowed unendingly. Possibly Sir Jacob had a direct pipeline to Champagne, France.

    “One wonders if Sir Jake has a direct pipeline to Champagne!” screamed Joel.

    “Obviously,” said Mac blankly, looking at his and Joel’s glasses.

    “NO! To Champagne, France!” screamed Joel crossly.

    “Obviously,” said Mac drily.

   Joel pouted crossly. After a moment he squeaked maliciously: “Here comes someone I just know you’re dy-ing to talk to, Mac darling!”

    Mac looked round, saw the green and yellow Lady Harding bearing down on them with a determined look round her beak, and blenched. “Think I’ll go and talk to that film lot. Might talk ‘em out of turning Frank Sargeson’s life story into a film, if I get really lucky.” He winked at Joel and hurried off.

    “Darling, these references are OBSCURE!” shouted Joel crossly.

    Phyllis came up to him and he greeted her with the sort of relief he had never dreamed he would greet Phyllis Harding with. “Darling, it’s all getting so intellectual!” he complained. “All these film people that read books! Why are New Zealand films all inter-lek-tu-al?

    Phyllis tittered uneasily. “I don’t think all of them are, Joel.”

    “They are, darling, they are! And one has never heard of these writers, even if they have all won The Book of the Year, or whatever silly prize it was! And Adam seems to have read them all, and the more obscure they are to one, the more he’s read them, and he’s been very rude and scathing indeed to one, and really, one almost wishes one had never come, because one is asking oneself, dear, Is It Worth It?”

    “He was—well, almost rude, to me, too,” admitted Phyllis with a sigh.

    There was a short pause.

    “It’s a lovely party, really, Joel,” she said desperately.

    “No, it isn’t! Even darling Polly was talking to a lady and man on very inter-lek-tu-al subjects and one hovered, and didn’t understand a word, and wasn’t even noticed!” he squeaked

    “I know. Last time I spoke to her she was with a man from the university and that handsome cousin of hers—well, he works at the university too, doesn’t he? And really— Well, I know I’m just a silly woman who hasn’t got a varsity degree or anything like that!” said Phyllis with an angry little laugh and a flush on her bony cheeks, “but really, can you see what the silly old Gulf Crisis has got to do with the price of frozen lamb, Joel?”

    Joel could make a pretty good guess, actually, he was a lot brighter than Phyllis Harding, but he could genuinely sympathize with the general idea, especially since Adam had flattened him utterly for never having heard of the Booker Prize and asking if it was a New Zealand prize—in front of a sniggering, sycophantic, superior clutch of local film people, of course—so he said eagerly: “Nothing at all, darling! And honestly, one can’t imagine a more boring subject at a pretty party on a lovely day like this!”

    “No, exactly!” Phyllis paused. “Yes, one can, Joel, Polly was talking about linguistics, there’s a lady here from America, and a man, I thought she said he was French, but he’s Black, so I don’t see— Anyway, she was talking to them and of course they were all very polite and started talking in English when I joined them, only I…” She broke off. “Of course, she’s so clever,” she said dully.

    Joel took her arm. “One would most definitely not have bothered to wear one’s lovely yellow suit had one but known it was going to be boring and intellectual,” he said, squeezing it.

    “Yes. And now John’s being so naughty, he won’t socialize with anyone who’s—well, you know! He’s got together with—with— I don’t know who the man is, well, he’s nobody, Joel! And they’re talking about dratted boats with Pat Cohen’s awful brother-in-law—I mean Pat Winkelmann,” she corrected herself: the reference was obscure to Joel but he didn’t say anything, “and he’s invited them all to lunch at the Yacht Club on Saturday and it’ll ruin my party!”

    Ouch! thought Joel.

    He squeezed her arm—it was Hellishly bony, could the human system actually support a diet that did that to you? Would the woman one day simply collapse in a heap of fragile sticks?—and said: “I’m quite sure nothing could ruin your lovely lunch party, darling, one is looking forward to it like anything!” –Lies, all lies.

    Phyllis cheered up and, after she’d got him to reassure her on this point three times, told him avidly all about the Charity Bridge Tournament her Remuera Bridge Club ladies were getting up—for Charity, of course—and of course darling Adam didn’t play cards but she knew Joel did, and of course—very delicately—she knew his time was valuable, and he’d be their guest, their Celebrity Guest— Glumly Joel ascertained when it would be and agreed sadly that he would be free for it. Mm, lovely, dear. Su-per.

    The sun blazed down, El Nino blew, the ladies’ dresses and the walls of the marquee flapped madly, and the empty trays that had contained delicious savouries were being removed, what time thousands of sweating kitchen hands—well, three Puriri ladies hired by Food By Flury for the task—prepared dainty little dishes of fruit salad, and the flowing gallons of pink fizz still flowed.

    “You’re late,” noted Jake to his oldest friend.

    “You’re bloody lucky I’m here at all, my spies told me Jock McElroy was gonna be here,” said Wal, glaring at Chief Superintendent McElroy standing there with a smirk on his face and a glass of pink champagne in his fist.

    “No hard feelings,” said Jock with an evil grin.

    Wal choked. “No hard—! Do you know how many hours’ hard yacker I spent on that brief?” he demanded of the ambient air.

    “Nope. So?” said Jake, grinning.

    “So he only instructs his counsel to drop the flaming prosecution at the last minute!” choked Wal.

    “Credit to your powers as a defence lawyer, or something,” said Jock. “Anyway, wasn’t me, it was the Attorney-Gen—”

    “Don’t give me that,” said Wal through his teeth.

    Jock smiled—the display of long yellow choppers was enough to curdle the stomach of anyone less used to him than the two men who’d been at school with him and fallen off old Doc Westby’s horse with him, forty-odd years ago.

    “Anyway, she’s been looking for ya,” said Jake, ignoring the by-play: he was used to it, Jock and Wal had been best enemies for donkey’s ages. On and off the golf course.

    “Who?” asked Jock immediately.

    “Drop it,” said Wal tightly. “In fact, drop the whole thing.”

    There was a short silence.

    “He’s not birding again, is he?” asked Jock incredulously.

    Jake groaned.

    “Gawdelpus!” he said.

    Jake groaned.

    “Will ya shut it, Jake!” growled Wal.

    There was a short silence.

    “Uh—well, she was looking for ya,” he said weakly. –McElroy opened his mouth but thought better of it.

    “How do you know?” replied Wal tightly.

    “Polly came up about two minutes back and said: ‘Have you seen Wal? Livia’s wondering where he is.’ I thought that kinda proved it, but I’m no legal—”

    Wal gave him a bitter look and walked away.

    “—eagle,” said Jake limply. “Strewth, he has got it bad.”

    “Looks like it,” agreed Jock, draining his glass. “Who is she?”

    “I just said! Livia—Livia Wentworth! The actress dame!” said Jake impatiently.

    Jock’s jaw dropped. A frightening sight. “Uh—?” he gulped, gesturing in front of his chest.

    “Yeah, thass right. Both of ’em, whass more.”

    “Is he really?” he gasped.

    “Yeah, hadn’tcha you heard that one?”—Chief Superintendent Elroy shook his head numbly.—“Well, no, typical EnZed police: last to hear anything,” Jake recognized sourly.

    Jock ignored the insult. “And—uh—?” He gestured again.

    “Showing,” his peer recognised without effort. “Well, not at this precise moment. Well, not quite. Not unless she’s bent over recently.”

    “I feel I need to be introduced to the guest of honour!” said Jock aggrievedly. “You’re neglecting yer hostly duties, ole mate.”

    Jake groaned. “No ya don’t, I wanna live to see me next birthday. Not to mention tomorrow.”

    “I’d only look.”

    “And Lucille would only look at you looking, that’s what’s worrying me,” he said frankly.

    “Nah: she’s got her head together with flaming Ma Westby: probably plotting to make me buy a ruddy yacht, or something. Then she’ll get bored with it and fill it with concrete and use it as a—”

    “Garden seat, yeah, yeah.”

    Jock said heatedly: “That was an expensive—”

    “Chinchilla dustbin, yeah, yeah.”

    Glaring, Jock said: “Well?”

    “Eh?”

    “This new bint of Wal’s! Are you or aren’t you gonna let me get a dekko?”

    “Well, it’s your neck,” said Jake dubiously.

    Jock panted with his tongue hanging out. It was a frightful sight.

    “Did I tell ya the Press are here in full force?” said his old mate mildly.

    Jock stopped, looking sheepish.

    “Oh, come on, what the Hell,” Jake decided. “You only die once.”

    “Now ya talking!” He thudded along eagerly at Jake’s side, panting.

    The sun blazed down, El Nino blew, the ladies’ dresses and the walls of the marquee flapped madly, and dainty little dishes of fruit salad had begun to circulate.

    The Overdales had arrived late. “I hope we haven’t missed all the grog—ah! But I see we haven’t!” grinned Tom. He swooped on a passing waiter.

    “Next we have to see if I’ve lost my bet with McIntyre,” he announced, when they both had glasses in their fists.

    Jemima sipped. “This tastes like champagne,” she reported suspiciously.

    Tom choked into his.

    “Champagne can’t really be pink, can it, that’s only—um—a Hollywood myth or something, isn’t it?” she said.

    “This is pink champagne,” he whispered. “Jake Carrano promised us pink champagne, is he the sort of bloke to lie about booze?”

    Jemima thought about it. “Not about booze.”

    “Well, quite!” said Tom, grinning. He drained his glass. “Drink up, the night is yet young, in fact the morning lark hasn’t even gone beddy-byes yet.”

    “What is all this morning lark stuff?” said Jemima dubiously.

    “Midsummer Night’s Hooley, what else; I told you it was gonna brainwash me, and it has.”

    “Tom! What a lie! I told you!”

    “Knew one of us did,” he said, unabashed.

    Jemima sipped champagne. “What are you tiptoeing for?” she asked politely.

    “I’ve gotta collect on my bet, and I can’t see McIntyre anywhere! Can you see anything six-foot-two and lovely with it?”

    “No,” said Jemima definitely. After a moment she looked at him in horror and gasped: “Tom, you didn’t really make a bet with Adam McIntyre, did you?”

    “Why not?” said Tom airily. “He’s only a bloke, ya know. Just like the rest of us: got two—”

    “That’ll do,” said Jemima hurriedly.

    “—eyes, an’ two arms, an’ two legs, I was gonna say!” he said in an injured vote.

    “Huh!” replied Jemima strongly.

    Smiling, Tom said: “Anyway, darling, if you spot something six-foot-two and lovely with it in pink, he’s won, but it was more than worth it; and if you spot it not in pink, I’ve won and I collect a free box to every bloody thing he’s in for the rest of me natural!”

    Jemima just looked at him in horror. Tom raised his eyebrows very high over his gold-rimmed specs. She winced.

    Tom relented, lowered his eyebrows, drank up his fizz and said: “Only the question won’t arise: how am I gonna get to London to claim me winnings?”

    “It’s the principle of the thing, though,” said Jemima in a voice of strangled horror.

    “Yeah, in’ it?” he agreed pleasedly.

    After quite some time of staring blindly at the seething crowd on Polly’s west lawn Jemima said: “What did you bet?”

    “Um—well, actually, darling—though the question won’t arise, McIntyre will never have the guts to get round in pale pink morning dress with the Press out in full force and the arty-tarty film lot hanging on his every word in the hopes of starring him in their next epic as James K. Baxter in a flowing dressing-gown up the wilds of Wanganui,”—Jemima gulped at this obscure reference—“um, where was I? Oh, yes, he won’t have the nerve, but if you must have it, I bet him a week in our house.”

    After a stunned moment his wife said: “What?”

    “It was his idea.”

    “He’s never seen our house!” she gasped.

    “No, but your mate Georgy seems to have given him a glowing report.”

    “She isn’t really my— I mean, I like her a lot but I don’t know her all that well. I mean, I know I asked her to our wedding reception, only she couldn’t come, remember? They had their departmental exam meeting that day, I think.”

    “Erik’s in her department, and he came,” said Tom, very drily.

    “Ye-es... Well, maybe it wasn’t an exam meeting, maybe it was something to do with—with timetables, or something, but anyway, she couldn’t come.”

    “No.”

    “Susan and Alan reckon—” Jemima broke off.

    “So ya tell me. Actually, the whole cast of the Midsummer Rave-Up says the same; did McIntyre broadcast it, or what, do ya reckon?” said Tom nastily.

    “I don’t know... You don’t like him, do you, Tom?” discovered Jemima.

    Tom grimaced and shook his head. “Not much, no. Whether or not he broadcast the news of the dirty week up at Carter’s Inlet personally.”

    “Poor Georgy, how embarrassing,” said Jemima in a low voice.

    Tom looked at her with great affection. “Mm. Come on, shall we greet our hostess?”

    Jemima looked round cautiously.

    “Not if she’s with Lady Harding, of course,” added Tom simply.

    Jemima bit her lip. “Um...” she said. “No, she isn’t, she’s with Jean-Pierre and Patty, good!” she discovered pleasedly.

    “What, those intellectual types from the Grate Offshore?” gasped Tom in horror.

    “Shut up,” replied Jemima, stifling a giggle.

    Smiling, Tom accompanied her meekly to where Polly and her intellectual friends, having ceased talking about linguistics, in French or otherwise, were now merely comparing the price of shoes here, in France, and in Patty’s native California. California won by several lengths. In both the men’s and the women’s stakes.

    “These have got grog in ’em, and these haven’t,” explained Sir Jacob kindly.

    “Goody.” Joel took a fruit salad With. “Mm, gen-yew-wine al-co-hol,” he sighed.

    “Gripes, wasn’t me pink fizz gen-yew-wine enough for ya?” asked Jake in horror.

    “Yes, but not sufficient, dear, one has just committed hari-kari in advance, so to speak, sort of yer hari-kari futures market, to use a metaphor from your business world—” Joel told him about Phyllis’s Charity Bridge Tournament and Jake laughed like a drain.

    “Gawd, that makes me feel better!” he gasped, awarding a Joel a hearty buffet on his bright yellow shoulder.

    Joel staggered. “Were you not feeling good, then, Jake?” he asked cautiously.

    “Adda do like this?” gasped Sir Jacob. “Do me a favour! She’s got half her bloody varsity mates here, for a start, plus the bloody social types we’ve owed fucking in-vites to for the last century, and that’s a recipe for disaster in itself; plus this new film lot, none of ’em speak anything approaching English as far as I can make out, leddalone sense, and they don’t give a stuff about the rest of ’em, live in their own little world; plus she made me invite half the flaming Senior Execs from the Group and the business and political lot, she reckoned we could get ‘em all over with at once— Well, I ask ya! I’ve told her a million times that the varsity lot and the social lot don’t mix, the social lot are too dumb; and the business lot might know the social lot but they can’t be bothered with ’em; and the political lot are shit-scared of the varsity lot from the Institute because they know they’ve got the ear of half the Government not to mention most of the Opposition and the whole of the flaming Press Gallery!” He broke off, panting.

    “Jake, one had no idea,” said Joel faintly.

    “No, well, you’ve never been married,” said Sir Jacob heavily.

    Joel was so flabbergasted by it all that he merely agreed simply: “No.”

    Gavin Wiley had been clearly very flattered by having Livia hang on his arm, tinkle gaily at his weak attempts at wit, and gaze up at him adoringly. It might not have been plain to the onlookers, but it was certainly plain to Livia, that at the same time he was terrified of her. Even if Mrs Vice-Chancellor wasn’t here today because their granddaughter had the measles and she was baby-sitting her while the daughter took the grandson to—something, Livia didn’t listen to the details. So Gavin was a write-off. And the handsome, silver-haired Ken Something, though he had clearly given out “Yum-yum” signals, had also clearly given out—it might not have been clear to the onlookers but it certainly was to Livia—“Sorry, I’d love to, but circs. prevent” signals. So he was a write-off, too. And all the rest of them were wets. Wets. Or Worse.

    So she had recaptured Adam. He had been talking to a very plain woman, rather horse-faced actually, with rough brown hair and no make-up, who was one of the intellectual film people, in fact the most intellectual. Livia had looked at her with some pity because she had seen that Adam, though originally starting off very eager about it all, now had the bored look on his face that he got after he’d had to talk to plain women for a while, so she wasn’t in the least bit surprized when he said, very off-hand: “Oh, there you are. You’ve met Beverly, haven’t you?” And, never mind the very casual look on his face while he did it, slipped an arm round Livia’s waist.

    She leaned into his side immediately. “Darling, have you been deciding very exciting things about this clever Beverly’s next film?” she cooed.

    The unfortunate Beverly opened her unlipsticked mouth but before she could utter Adam said: “I’d love to, but Clem’d kill me: you know what my tax position is, darling!” and gave that extremely irritating superior laugh of his.

    Very glad that it hadn’t been aimed at her this time, Livia giggled gratifyingly, and cooed: “Of course, darling! –Beverly, my dear: what an awful pity!”

    “Yes,” said Beverly numbly.

    Livia almost felt sorry for her, she looked as if a house had fallen on her.

    “As a matter of fact, I must ring Clem,” Adam added. “Remind me, for God’s sake, darling, or my name’ll be M,U,D!”

    “Of course, darling. –Darling, by the way, is it true what they’re saying, you’re thinking of playing the hunchback”—she knew it was all right to say that, she’d heard Jacky on the phone, delirious with excitement, repeating what Clem was saying about it—“at Stratford next year?”

     “Oh, God—hush!” gasped Adam. “Me reputation!” He pulled a wry face and said in one of those voices he put on when he was showing off: “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer—should I wear a black pageboy, do you think?”

    Beverly had gasped and jumped at the voice. Now she said very sourly: “I wouldn’t. They’re comparing your Henry the Fifth to Olivier’s anyway, aren’t they?”

    Livia knew that was wrong, Adam had bored her to death on the subject of that stupid play, so she immediately said: “Darling: Sir Larry’s film was lovely, but Hal Five on stage has such immediacy! And Adam was positively electrifying!”

    “Darling, spare my blushes,” said Adam, grinning all over his face.

    Weakly Beverly said : “Well, you’ve got my card if you change your mind, Adam.”

    “Yes, of course. I’ll let Clem know; maybe we can fix something up.”—Livia had never heard a brush-off with such polite wording put over so definitely, and really she almost winced.

    “Uh—well, it was great meeting you, Adam,” gulped Beverly,

    “You, too,” he said with a lovely smile.

    Beverly stumbled off into the hinterland and Adam hissed at Livia, pitching it so the poor woman couldn’t possibly have failed to hear him: “Darling, did she give me her card? One’s lost it, if so!”—and Livia gave a delicious tinkle of laughter.

    Adam sighed. “God, this is a foul do,” he said in his ordinary voice.

    Livia repressed a jump. “Yes, it is, actually, darling,” she murmured.

    “Who in God’s name are— Oh, well. It is the Anty-podes,” he said glumly. “Has that Froggy blackfeller earbashed you about the inadequacies of the local hotels, yet?”

    “Uh—no, darling,” said Livia faintly, turning rather red under the porcelain-look maquillage.

    “Well, don’t let him, it’s the most boring thing I’ve ever heard in my life. And for God’s sake don’t let him get onto his subject, he’s one of Polly’s frightful contacts from bloody Paris VIII or some such, and he’ll try to tell you that when the Bible says ‘In the beginning was the Word,’ it’s representing the primacy of language in ideation, or some such tripe.”

    “What?” said Livia faintly.

    “I’ve no idea what it means, either. And I can’t imagine any rôle where I’ll ever have to do a Froggy blackfeller accent, so really the whole twenty minutes he spent ear-bashing me were the most wasted of my entire existence,” said Adam acidly.

    “Adam, sweetness: vile!” gasped Livia in genuine sympathy.

    “Mm. And before you ask, Is he gay, the answer is Yes. And before you ask, Did he come on to me, the answer is Yes,” said Adam grimly.

    Livia swallowed. After a moment she squeaked: “Give him to Joel, then, dear!”

    At this Adam, who had with his free hand just grabbed up and knocked back a glass of pink champagne, let out a shout of very macho laughter, dropped the glass on the grass, swept Livia into a  hard embrace, cried: “God, you’re a tonic, darling!” and kissed her very thoroughly.

    It was only after she emerged from full cooperation in this embrace that Livia realized that the figures who’d been hovering on the very edge of her field of vision during the last few minutes were Polly, Lady Carrano—which didn’t matter, of course, darling Polly was tremendously broad-minded—and Wallace Briggs.

    The sun blazed down, El Nino blew, the ladies’ dresses and the walls of the marquee flapped madly, no doubt some people were still consuming fruit salad, alcoholic or otherwise, not to say pink champagne, not to say yelling their heads off in social interchanges, intellectual or otherwise, but in their particular little nook of the West Lawn there was dead silence and nobody moved.

    Then Wal said in a very dry voice: “I see you’re enjoying the party.”

    And Livia, with a very flustered movement, straightened her lacy picture hat and gasped: “Oh, yes, darling! Lovely!”—not really knowing what she was saying.

    “Well, I hope you are, Livia; I don’t think anybody else is, much,” said Polly dubiously.

    “No!” he said incredulously.

    “I’ve got the mix all wrong again. Jake did warn me I shouldn’t have invited the university people,” said Polly tranquilly.

    “You certainly shouldn’t have invited that Froggy blackfeller,” said Adam with a shudder. He eyed Briggs sardonically.

    “Don’t say that, Adam,” said Polly with the utmost serenity: “my children are part Maori.”

    There was the most awful silence in their nook of the west lawn: honestly, it was almost as bad as suddenly seeing Wallace like that, Livia could have died!

    Then Wal gave a shout of laughter—miles more macho than Adam, Livia couldn’t help noticing—put his arm round Polly’s shoulders, kissed her cheek noisily, and said: “Pommy actors nil, Downunder fourteen!”

    “Fourteen? At least fifty-seven: I think I just humbly beg your pardon and creep away, now, Polly,” said Adam faintly.

    “I would,” Wal advised, very dry.

    “I’m sorry, Adam,” said Polly calmly, not sounding in the slightest bit sorry, “only this has turned into one of the most disastrous does I’ve ever put on, and goodness knows I’ve put on some shockers.”

    “So you thought you’d contribute your mite to make it even more disastrous: mm,” he said with a smile.

    “No, I thought I’d remind you that you’re Downunder,” replied Polly calmly.

    Adam made a face. “I’ll watch me language.”

    “Well, I don’t give a damn, personally. I do understand that one of the functions of language, whether Jean-Pierre admits it or not, is to mock at the sloppy linguistic habits of oneself and others whilst at the same time exposing the ways in which language betrays our unconscious assumptions about anything you might care to mention, not only such things as race and class. But I don’t think that everyone here today does. And multicultural tokenism is very much in, Downunder, just now.”

    “Yes. Sorry,” he said, pulling a rueful face.

    “No, I am,” said Polly, smiling at him. “It got under my skin when you pretended you didn’t understand what Jean-Pierre meant about his dratted Bible stuff.”

    It was only at this point that Adam went very red indeed.

    “I know he’s very boring, Adam, and I didn’t mind when you pretended to him, in fact I was glad, I thought he was asking for it; but why pretend to other people?” she said.

    Livia swallowed hard. “You don’t mean me, do you?” she said in a tiny voice.

    “Yes, just then. But he was going on about it to our local County Librarian a little while ago. And Jake. And I don’t know whether he fooled you, but he certainly didn’t fool either of them. Jake doesn’t give a damn, of course, he hasn’t got the sort of temperament that gets upset when he spots people playing silly games. But poor Dorothy was totally flummoxed: Adam did the sensitive intellectual mixed with the simple boy from back home all over her last time he met her.”

    Wal put his arm round her again. “I think that might do, love: I think you’ve crushed his poor player’s ego enough.”

    “I’m sorry, Livia: I was patronising you,” said Adam in a strangled voice.

    Livia’s jaw sagged.

    “And I’m bloody sorry about the pink fancy-dress, Polly,” he said, going red all over again.

    “No, I love it,” she said with a little smile.

    Adam sighed. “But people like Phyllis were quite clearly shocked, don’t say it. And Ma and Pa were horrified, of course. I think I might go, actually, I’ve put my foot in it enough for one day. If I may?”

    “Yes. Say goodbye to Jake, otherwise he’ll be dragging the pool and beating the bushes for you,” she said with a twinkle.

    “Yes.” Adam swallowed. “It was entirely salutary, Polly. Thanks.”

    “Oh, any time,” said Wal loudly, glaring at him.

    “Give me a kiss,” said Polly, holding up her satin cheek.

    Adam kissed her lightly and said: “Why in God’s name aren’t you my sister or something?”

    “Might as well be, giving ya that sort of earbashing,” noted Wal detachedly.

    “Mm. I’ll ring you,” said Adam.

    “That’d be nice, Adam,” she agreed

    Adam turned away abruptly and hurried off.

    After some time Livia said faintly: “Polly, darling! How you dared—! I’ve seen him utterly wither women for merely criticising his shirt!”

    “She ain’t women,” said Wal simply. He bussed her cheek, patted her bum and said: “Push off, mine hostess, I want to have a word with Livia.”

    “Yes,” said Polly with a smile. “Oh, by the way Livia, Amy’s got a migraine, so Nanny’s put her to bed with a tablet. Don’t worry about her, Nanny’ll look after her and we’ll send her home in the car tomorrow.”

    “Oh, Heavens!” said Livia distractedly. “Angel Polly, we’re being such a bother!”

    “No, we’re so rich that sort of thing doesn’t matter,” said Polly simply. She smiled gently at them both and walked away.

    Livia gulped.

    “Incredible, isn’t she?” said Wal simply.

    “She’s— Yes,” said Livia limply. “Incredible. Did you see Adam’s face?”

    “Couldn’t miss it; boy, she hit him where it hurts, eh?”

    “Yes. ...Poor darling Adam, what on earth did he do to get under her skin like that?”

    Wal rubbed his ugly nose. “Well, according to rumour, not to say ’Is Sir-ship Jake Carrano, he took some little Anglo-Saxony girl up their bach and done her for the whole of last week, and then apparently dropped her like a hot potato. Well, Jake reckons Polly was hopping mad when he turned up to this do without her, and she’s been biting his ear all afternoon saying she told him so and they should never have lent him the place at all, he’s broken her poor little Anglo-Saxony heart.”

    “Anglo-Saxony?” said Livia blankly.

    “Yeah, some little lecturer from Varsity,” said Wal without much interest.

    “Oh, of course, yes: he said he’d been with a girl... No, wait, darling, he said it was serious. –I think,” said Livia dubiously.

    “Did ’e?” he said drily.

    “Ye-es... It is odd that he didn’t bring her. Well, I mean, if they want to have a serious thing, people will have to know about it sooner or later... I mean, I know the Press are here, but— No, it is odd, darling.”

    “Bloody odd. Considering Polly invited her special-like.”

    “Did she?” gasped Livia.

    “So Jake reckons, yeah.”

    “Well—well, perhaps they’ve had a row.”

    “It was beginning to look like it back there a bit: yeah,” he said acidly.

    Livia involuntarily went very red. “That was nothing, dear!” she gasped.

    “Oh, yeah?”

    “Adam was just a bit— Well, we are actors, dear,” she said on a desperate note.

    “That gives you a licence, does it?”

    “No, I— Silly,” said Livia faintly.

    There was a short pause.

    “I see Maurie Black’s here,” he said.

    “I think everyone’s seen that, yes, Wallace,” said Livia acidly.

    “So ya didn’t know?”

    Livia replied incautiously: “How could I, I haven’t laid eyes on him since Saturday night!”

    “This’d be a record, would it?”

    After a moment Livia turned scarlet and gasped: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

    “Oh—nothing. But I rang you about nine last night and the hotel switchboard put me through to your offsider, and she said you weren’t taking calls, you were rehearsing with McIntyre.”

    “I was,” said Livia sulkily. “I asked Amy to filter my calls.”

    “Mm. Well, I mighta been prepared to believe that—just. Only I said to the offsider Well, in that case you won’t mind being disturbed for a minute, will ya, and first there was a sticky silence, and then she said Hang on, she’d better just pop along to your suite and see. And there was a long silence on the line and then she came back on and told me in a voice that sounded like she was suffering the tortures of the damned that you couldn’t possibly be interrupted any more tonight. So I got the picture.”

    Livia cried indignantly: “She never—” and broke off abruptly.

    “You never saw or heard her, no. But I gather she either saw or heard enough. More than enough.”

    “She couldn’t have seen anything, the door was—” Livia stopped, pouting.

    “Locked. Quite. More than yours was.”

    After a moment Livia gasped and cried: “What a disgusting thing to say!”

    “Yeah, wasn’t it?”

    There was a very nasty silence.

    “My personal life is my own affair,” said Livia in a trembling voice.

    “Yours and the rest of the English-speaking world’s, yes: ya realize there was a photographer caught that last little lot?”

    “I don’t care!” she cried angrily.

    “Don’tcha? Well, I think I do. Didn’t I tell you, I’m no Maurie Black?”

    “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Livia through trembling lips.

    “Work it out. No, well, I’ll tell ya one thing it means: it means I’m not prepared to wait my turn for the odd time Adam McIntyre’s attention is on Anglo-Saxony girls from the varsity.”

    “You never even rang me! And you never asked me for a proper date or— I think you’ve got the cheek of the Devil, Wallace Briggs!” cried Livia angrily.

    “Yeah, an’ you’ve got the morals of an alley cat,” he retorted, nostrils flared in distaste.

    “You’re as pure as driven snow, I suppose!” she hissed.

    “No, but I can do without it for more than two nights in a row.”

    “Get out of my sight!” said Livia through her teeth.

    “I’m getting, don’t worry. And if McIntyre dumps you for good an’ all, I won’t be hanging around waiting.” He turned his back on her.

    “Wait all you like, I won’t COME!” shouted Livia, face contorted in fury.

    “Not flaming half,” said Wal sourly, walking away from her.

    Livia burst into furious tears in the middle of the still seething crowd on the Carranos’ west lawn.

    The sun still blazed down, El Nino still blew, the walls of the marquee flapped madly as half a dozen sweating gardeners endeavoured to dismantle it, and the remains of the pink champagne vanished rapidly down the gullets of the schoolboy waiters.

    In the house Sir Jake lay on a large couch with his eyes shut, moaning gently. Opposite him Joel lay on another large couch, moaning gently.

    “It wasn’t that bad,” said Polly valiantly from an armchair.

    Sir Jacob merely moaned.

    “We’ve had worse,” said Polly valiantly.

    “Name one,” groaned Jill from another armchair.

    “Um... Well, that luau was pretty bad. When Jake got locked in the cellar and all those other men got locked in the indoor pool.”

    “Flaming Norah,” said Jill weakly. She hadn’t heard about that one.

    “That was bad, but this was worse, the papers’ll be full of pics of Livia Wentworth bawling ’er eyes out on my west lawn,” moaned Sir Jacob.

    “Shut up, Jake,” she said, pouting.

    “Why did ’e do it?” he moaned.

    Everyone understood the reference was to his oldest friend. Nobody answered.

    “He must have gone off his rocker,” he moaned.

    “Um—driven mad with jealousy. Yes,” said Polly. “Only Maurice had dumped her—I mean, she was free... I don’t get it. Unless her and Adam—?”

    Sir Jacob groaned.

    “You must admit Adam was in a peculiar mood—well, you warned me, yourself, Jake,” said Jill.

    Sir Jacob groaned.

    “Yes,” agreed Polly. “If he was one of the twins I’d have said he was writhing with guilt, like that time Davey hid Jake’s keys. Only I don’t see...”

    “Your Nanny—” Joel broke off.

    “What?” said Polly in amazement.

    He coughed. “Er, well, one had been to a little boys’ room in your lovely home, darling, and had got lost, and your twins found one and took one up to Nanny, and Nanny was all upset because poor Amy had had hysterics in your guest suite and had burst out with a very naughty story indeed about Adam and Livia last night.”

    “Last night?” gasped Polly, bolt upright.

    “Hell’s bells!” gasped Jill, bolt upright.

    Sir Jacob just lay there and groaned.

    “And it turned out Nanny was horrified, because she’s one of Livia’s greatest fans, and of course she knows that Livia is very lovely, but Adam is much young-ger.”

    “So of course you explained it was all extremely likely,” said Jill acidly.

    “Er—well, what else could one do? I was tray tactful and just said that Adam and Livia had been involved for a very long time and it was apparently On again.”

    “We’re never gonna hear the last of it,” sighed Sir Jacob.

     “No,” groaned Polly. “She’s besotted about that soap, she’s actually taped it.”

    “God,” replied Jill simply.

    Silence…

    “How could he?” cried Polly.

    “Georgy must have given him the push,” said Sir Jacob dubiously.

    “Er—not necessarily,” admitted Joel sadly.

    “What?” said Jill. Polly just goggled.

    “Er—well, chameleons were mentioned, I think?” said Joel to his cousin.

    “Sexually as well as socially?” said Polly in a hollow voice.

    “You better believe it,” muttered Sir Jacob.

    After quite some time Polly said weakly: “But how on earth could poor Wal have got to hear of it?”

    Joel swallowed hard. “One gathers that Amy—er—let, cats out of bags when poor Wallace phoned rather late last night.”

    “No wonder she’s got a migraine,” said Polly in a shaken voice.

    “That explains it, all right,” agreed Jake simply.

    “Jake Carrano! How can you take it like that?” she cried.

    Jill got up hurriedly. “Come on, Yellow Horror, that’s our cue to leave.”

    “Too right,” Joel agreed in the local vernacular.

    The cousins fled, to the sounds of: “He’s your best friend! You can’t just leave it at that!” and: “KEEP OUT OF IT, POL!” and— Similar.

    … “What’s that you’re whistling?” asked Joel as they drove slowly up Pohutukawa Bay Road with the westering sun in their eyes.

    “Uh—oh, shit,” said Jill.

    “Just don’t, dear, I’ve had all me nerves can take for one day.”

    “Sorry.”

    ... “Stop it!” he shouted as they waited at the traffic lights in Puriri.

    “God, was I—? Sorry, I’ve got the bloody thing on the brain.”

    “Well, try not to have, I don’t want to catch it,” he said, pouting.

    ... “See ya,” he said sadly at the top of the Blacks’ drive.

    Jill just groaned and drove away.

    Joel wandered disconsolately down the drive. It wasn’t till he was almost at the bottom that he realized what he was humming:

    “I went to the garden party, Everyone was there, ... If you can’t please everyone, Then you’ve got to please yourself.”

    “There’s a lesson in there somewhere, dear,” he said sourly to a nearby hibiscus bush, and went inside.