Livia In The Antipodes

15

Livia In The Antipodes

    “Oo-ooh, pret-ty!” cooed Livia, clinging to Mac’s arm.

    Mac smirked. “Yeah, not bad, eh?” he said, preening. This was highly unfair, he had merely given Pauline vague orders along the lines of “make it look Victorian—not too real , either” and she had done all the actual designs herself—apart from one or two odd details such as Vicki Austin’s spangled bathing-suit and Livia’s necklines.

    Angie pointed out on a very dry note: “All the inspiration was Pauline’s, actually,” and Livia immediately turned from her contemplation of the fairies in costume to smile charmingly at Pauline and coo: “Dar-ling! You’re so clev-er! It makes poor little me feel so dumb!”

    Pauline reddened and said gruffly: “Thanks.”

    “And you and your lovely helpers must have put so many hours of work into the lovely costumes, too!” Livia then cooed to Angie.

    Cor, bouquets all round, thought Angie. Aloud she said: “Yes. Well, the mums did the littlies’ costumes at home. They look okay, don’t they?”

    “Dar-ling! They look adorable!” corrected Livia.

    Angie looked at the little fairies with a tiny smile. “Mm.” Adorable enough to upstage Livia, in fact. But no doubt Livia was fully aware of that and would take steps as and when.

    Pauline then said: “You’ll get a better idea when we draw the curtains and put a few lights on.”

    “Yeah. Hurry UP!” bellowed Mac at the rustics who were supposed to be drawing the long blue curtains in the hall. It was Saturday morning, but as the Second-hand Textbooks Stall was in full swing in the cloisters they weren’t rehearsing in the quad. Mothu and his equipment were well railed off at their end of the cloisters in the balcony section and several large engineering students with paperback Wilbur Smiths were taking it in turns to sit in front of him and guard him, Patrick wasn’t taking any chances. Nor was Bill: the electricians’ stand in the quad now had a metal fence erected round its lower limbs with a couple of huge padlocks on it. Inside there was a fail-safe device: a siren designed to shatter the glass of the Police Headquarters building a couple of blocks down the road. Bill didn’t deceive himself the bloody cops would bother to come, of course, but he’d take a bet the noise would scare off any would-be thief of his electronic equipment.

    The rustics drew the window curtains and Greg switched some lights on.

    “ELVES!” shouted Mac. “ELVES! Switch your helmets ON, dammit!”

    The elves were all little ballet girls, with the exception of two larger elves, who were small girl students, and also with the exception of Tom Overdale who was, of course, tall and thin. They all knew they were supposed to switch their helmets on, but they hadn’t practised this delicate operation because they’d only just received the helmets this morning, and so fumbled desperately. Two of the little ballet girls even burst into tears and their mums, who were sitting on wooden benches down one side of the hall, jumped up anxiously and rushed forward; but Mac bellowed: “NO! Cast only on the STAGE! –Get that woman off!” he added in a furious aside to Angie as one of the larger mums panted up the steps at the side and began adjusting her elf’s costume regardless.

    “It’s no use getting worked up, it was your idea to drag the Melissa Martin School of Dance into this show,” said Angie calmly. She went up onto the stage and said: “I think Sherryn’ll be okay, Mrs Baker, she’ll be able to practice with the switch at home, you know.”

    Mrs Baker turned a large, perspiring, desperate face to hers. “It’s stuck!” she panted.

    Angie tried the switch. It was jammed, all right. “Hang on,” she said. “BILL!” she bellowed.

    Bill ceased sniggering in a corner of the stage with Tom Overdale and looked round in surprize. “Who, me?”

    “Cut that out and come here! Your cack-handed engineering cretins have fouled up Sherryn’s switch!” said Angie crossly.

    Bill picked up his two toolboxes and came over meekly. He inserted a small screwdriver in the switch on Sherryn’s belt which connected by a wire up Sherryn’s neck to Sherryn’s helmet. “Soon have this fixed, Petal! “ he said cheerfully; ‘

    “Mine’s stuck, too, Mrs Baker!” wailed the brown-faced elf next to Sherryn. Mrs Baker was also in charge of this child today, the two mothers were taking it in turns, and Angie wished silently that all the other ballet mothers had as much sense, because it would certainly halve the number of ballet mothers cluttering up the dressing-rooms, and by God it would decimate the amount of kerfuffle going on in the dressing-rooms. Which, needless to say, increased exponentially with the addition of every ballet mother.

    Mrs Baker inspected Glenda Pahiri’s switch and discovered that Glenda had been pressing it the wrong way. Glenda’s horns lit up and Glenda said: “Ooh!” and squinted up at them excitedly.

    “My horns won’t light up,” said Tom mournfully, coming over to Bill and Angie.

    “Where’s your battery?” demanded Angie, inspecting his belt.

    “Um—do you mean this?” he said, opening his clenched fist.

    All the littler elves gave horrified gasps: they knew perfectly well what the batteries were supposed to do, they’d all had toys that ran on them since before they could crawl.

    “I suggest you stick that, Tom,” said Angie politely.

    “Yeah, r’ in ya belt!” gasped an innocent elf.

    “Yeah, in your belt,” agreed Angie, poker-face.

    Tom put the battery in its socket. “Now what’?”

    Several elves immediately volunteered: Tom was immensely popular with the children—he was, of course, a primary school teacher by profession. He let one of the teary ones do it and she beamed up at him as his lights came on.

    “Is he one of mine?” asked Livia of Mac in a lowered voice.

    “Eh? Oh—Tom? No, he’s actually one of the musicians. Sings a song with one of your fairies at one stage.”

    “Oh,” said Livia in a puzzled voice.

    Angie straightened out another teary elf and said over her shoulder: “Adam’s got most of the elves, actually, Livia. You’ve got the little grey fairies instead.”

    “Yeah; where’s that clown with that spot?” asked Mac, looking round for him.

    A red-faced rustic hefting a hand-held spot shambled up to them and looked at Livia with dumb adoration.

    “Me,” he said.

    “Right. Well, stand over there and flicker the spot over the fairies when I tell ya.”

    “Righto, Mac,” he said meekly, looking at Livia with dumb adoration. She gave him a charming smile and he went beetroot but continued to look at her with dumb adoration. –This in spite of the fact that she was not wearing a petticoat and a gauze blouse today.

    She was not, however, in her working kit, since she wasn’t yet working. She was in a bright violet boob tube—Angie, Bill, Tom and Mac had already registered silently it didn’t do much for the creased bits where the arms met the torso—veiled more or less by a floating silk-chiffon tunic in a fierce violet, acid-green and harsh gold splashy floral print, above loose acid-green silk culottes, very much pleated at the tiny waist and belted in tightly by a squashy acid-green leather belt which in today’s humidity must be making her sweat like Hell and, judging by the line of damp just above it, was. The culottes came to about four inches above the delicate ankles, which were set off by, again, a thin gold chain (it was one of Livia’s signature tunes, the cast would gradually realize) and very high-heeled strappy acid-green sandals. The primrose bird’s nest was very fluffed out round the forehead but pulled well up from the nape in a pony tail and ornamented with a scarf that matched the floating tunic. The earrings were large violet roses. Either glass or see-through plastic and the eagle Angela Michaels eye was going to determine which in the course of the day. Livia had arrived with a huge squashy acid-green leather bag (wincingly, not quite the same as the green in the tunic) but this had soon been dumped on the meek Amy.

    Amy was sitting on the benches with the mothers, looking sweaty and pallid,  clutching the bag. As well as her own large travelling handbag with pockets and pouches and zips galore. The mothers had already eyed her askance not once but multiple times and very soon several of them would tell her that in our Februaries long-sleeved Courtelle suits were not a good idea, not up here. One or two would refer scathingly to Wellington or Dunedin as being places where such garments might be worn but this would merely bewilder Amy. She would take her navy-blue Courtelle summer jacket off obediently and the mothers would be horrified into temporary silence by the sight of her long-sleeved acrylic summer jumper.

    Pauline and Angie got the fairies into some sort of order and Greg turned off most of the hall lights; then the student with the spot flickered it over the fairies and Livia ooh-ed and aah-ed and Mac smirked. At that point, since the little grey fairies in their hooded sleeping-suits made of silvery-grey lining material really did look both magical and adorable, Angie found the courage to say: “Your first dress is made of that silver-grey material, Livia.” –Livia had asked them all, in a terrifically important voice, to of course call her “Livia.” None of them had thought of doing anything else so it had fallen a bit flat.

    “Is it?” she cried. “How delightful! Do I wear lights in my hair, too?”

    “Yes. Not horns, like this lot. Tiny fairy lights,” said Mac firmly.

    “Och, lovely!” she cried. “It’s tho exciting, Mac darling!” She squeezed his arm and leaned into his side.

    “Yeah: ’tis, eh?” he agreed pleasedly.

    “Yes. What does Adam wear for our first scene?” she asked keenly.

    “Uh—green,” he said numbly.

    “With silver spangles. We thought that scene could be all silver and green,” explained Pauline shyly, turning a dull red.

    “His costume’s more earthy, yours is more ethereal,” said the cunning Mac.

    “I thee! What a lovely effect, Mac, darling!” she cried, squeezing his arm again.

    Mac smirked, and showed her officiously into the armchair he’d pinched from the S.C.R. for her, it being considerably nearer than his own department’s staffroom.

    Livia sank into it gracefully, concealing her immense relief at being able to sit down at last: the new sandals were killing her. Most of the clothes she’d brought with her were new. Certainly all of the day wear. The evening dresses weren’t all new, but then no-one in New Zealand had seen them before, so that was all right.

    The fairies paraded endlessly and Livia, having ascertained with satisfaction that the prettier ones were hers and the more grotesque of the grotesques were Adam’s, began to get rather bored and glanced several times at her pretty little gold watch. She did, however look at the tall, thin elf with some interest and also at Adam’s three male fairies in their tights with some interest. The latter were far too young, of course, but they all had splendid legs: Livia repressed a tiny sigh. Tom didn’t have splendid legs, his was one of those wiry, whip-lashy male figures, and she looked at it with a tiny shudder of desire and wondered who he was and if he was attached and if— And reflected that Rudi’s figure was really his one big drawback—apart from his failure to commit himself to anything at all to do with Livia, of course. German men so often were coarse and florid and ran to fat so easily, it was a pity...

    “What, darling?” she said, jumping. Mac repeated his remark and she agreed with relief: “Oh, lunch! Yes, wonderful, Mac darling!”

    Mac and Maurice had had a bit of a demarcation dispute over where to take Livia for lunch today. Mac had wanted Fisherman’s Wharf, a large restaurant nowhere near the wharves but on the waterfront of the North Shore. But Maurice had pointed out it wasn’t all that up-market and for her first lunch wouldn’t Parnell be better? Parnell was terrifically trendy, in fact it would have been fair to say it was the trendiest eating and shopping area in the entire country—Wellington might have been the Capital but it had nothing to rival Parnell and in fact northerners rarely gave Wellington a thought except when it tried to stop them doing something exciting and go-ahead like building a tunnel under their huge harbour at the national expense.

    So Mac had agreed grudgingly to Parnell but warned grumpily it wasn’t going to be a precedent and Maurie had better bloody well make that clear to Livia. To which Maurice had returned tranquilly he knew she wasn’t bright but she wasn’t that dumb, and in any case Mac needn’t worry: he, Maurice, would be happy to take Livia to lunch in Parnell every day of the week. Mac had returned an off-colour and jaundiced remark to this but Maurice had merely laughed cheerfully.

   The only place Maurice would consent to eat in Parnell was The Golden Lamb (and privately he didn’t think much of it, either) so they went there.

    Well, some of them went. Mac had grudgingly invited Bill and Angie but Angie had firmly refused for both of them: she had far too much to do in the Sewing Room, and later this afternoon they’d promised to watch Barbara in her gymkhana. Besides, look at Bill! Mac looked, winced, and agreed they’d never let that in The Golden Lamb. Amy didn’t go, either: it never occurred to either Livia or Mac to invite her. Maurice would have, he was quite a generous man when he was in a good mood, but he wasn’t at the rehearsal, he had arranged to meet them at the restaurant. Tom and Jemima Overdale did go, however. Jemima had only come to the rehearsal because she was dying to see all the little fairies in their costumes and was a bit taken aback when Livia urged them to come to lunch. Left to herself she would have refused but she knew Tom had a sneaking penchant for up-market eating places.

    Jemima was a slender girl with a flood of silky black hair all down her back. olive skin, huge dark, rather slanted eyes, and a face like a very pretty cheetah. Besides being on the sunny side of thirty. Livia, though she wasn’t about to admit it, had never met a female university lecturer before and, though she wasn’t about to let it become apparent, was stunned by Jemima’s looks. She comforted herself with the thought that Jemima’s neat stretch-jeans with the silver zips up the slender calves were really very ordinary, and so were the narrow red belt and the plain white tee-shirt. Not contemplating mentally, though her eyes flickered over them jealously, the truly splendid mammary glands inside the tee-shirt.

    Joel, Jill and Gretchen turned up just as they were getting ready to depart, and Livia was very relieved to meet two female university lecturers who were very much more like she’d imagined. Especially Gretchen, in her severe dark grey cotton trouser-suit with its short-sleeved jacket. –Gretchen was there out of what she had cheerfully confessed was vulgar curiosity. Jill had immediately said she could bloody well come to Polly’s dratted garden party with her, in that case, but Gretchen had pointed out there was an appreciable difference between vulgar curiosity and downright masochism.

    Jacky wasn’t there, he was flat on his back in his motel with a migraine. No doubt induced by the humidity, but also perhaps partly induced by Livia’s demand that he speak to the manager of her hotel about reimbursement for the nationwide publicity she was giving his establishment. Immediately. And YES, get it in writing!

    On the way to the restaurant Livia kept up a flow of artless girlish chatter in the front seat of Mac’s big Jag—not a recent model and not terribly well kept up, but nevertheless a Jag, noticed Livia, who didn’t know anything about cars except which were the expensive ones. This chatter concealed very well the fact that she’d been terribly disappointed to find that Tom was only a primary school teacher—she’d asked him, very charmingly and artlessly—and had a lovely young wife into the bargain. Not to mention the fact that there didn’t-seem to be any other likely males in the cast at all! Well, Nigel, whom she’d met briefly yesterday, was lovely. Lovely! That brown skin and that wide smile... And good legs. He had been wearing shorts, so she hadn’t had to guess at the legs through the trousers, which could lead to mistakes. Only, so very young. Livia wasn’t above a fling with something that young, far from it, if it was also as lovely as Nigel, but if she did that, then she might not see someone else on the horizon—or he might be put off, which would have the same result.

    “I’ve never been to this place,” said Jill with interest outside The Golden Lamb. “What a lot of fake Sydney lace.”

    “And droopy vines!” said Joel pleasedly. “Positively fake Mediterranean!”

    “Sort off a split fake personality, then?” suggested Gretchen with a grin.

    “Too right: wait until ya taste the food!” said Tom, sniggering.

    “Ja? You haff been here, Tom?”

    “Couple of times, yeah, with my wealthy brother.”

    “Which one?” asked Jill with a twinkle in her eye: one was a top surgeon and one a lawyer and neither was actually poor.

    “The butcher,” he said with a grin.

    A butcher? Livia looked at him cautiously out of the corner of her eye, and was considerably startled when Jill said: “Oh: Sir Ralph.”

    “Yeah. With a bit of bad luck we’ll see him here today—often comes here,” he drawled.

    “That’d be nice,” said his wife placidly.

    Livia’s face, well-schooled though it was, must have given her away, at this, because Jemima then gave her a lovely smile and said: “It’s all right, Livia, Tom’s really very fond of Ralph.”

    “I see,” she said weakly.

   The restaurant, alas, had a courtyard and they were expected to sit out there! In this heat? However, fortunately Maurice was there and Livia was able to seize his arm and lean on him thankfully and whisper: “Maurie, darling: I don’t think I can!”

    “What, sweetie? Feeling grotty?” he asked, patting her bum absently.

    “No, but it’s so hot! I don’t want to upthet all your arrangements, darling, but do we have to thit out-thide?” she lisped pathetically.

    Maurice didn’t think it was that hot, today, but he said obligingly: “Well, come and see what you think, old love. Bit steamy in the bloody place itself, if you ask me.” He led her into the restaurant proper and Livia gulped and clutched his arm. It wasn’t air-conditioned! True, its wall of small white-framed glass panes (the cottage look) was shaded by a vine-draped pergola, but outside these windows was a wide sweep of brick with the sun beating up from it. They went through to the courtyard, which was also brick but mercifully on the shady side of the building and at that well draped with vines.

    Livia gave a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, yeth! This is much nither, Maurie, darling! You always know betht!” and smiled adoringly at him.

    Maurice grinned obligingly. He hadn’t chosen the table, just asked them for the best table in the place, for a large party, and added casually who’d be with him. Easy, it had been.

    They all sat down, Maurice on Livia’s right and Mac on her left, and Tom, perhaps unfortunately, opposite her. Tom immediately began telling her enthusiastically about the cocktails The Golden Lamb specialized in, and after some time—mainly because Jemima went very red and said: “Stop it, Tom,” in a strangled voice—she realized he was pulling her leg and gave a long tinkle of laughter and cried wasn’t he naughty, and she was sure there wasn’t any such thing as “kiwifruit liqueur!”

    Oh, yes, there was, though, and Tom leaned right across the table to show her the list of cocktails, which Livia thought confusedly wasn’t very nice—only nobody else  was embarrassed, so she decided she needn’t be. Sure enough, there was one called “Rangitoto Special” that had as its main ingredients kiwifruit liqueur and champagne. Livia would drink champagne in any form, so she decided with a girlish trill that she would have this Rangy special and if it was horrid, she would make naughty Tom drink it for her!

    “See!” said Joel, making a face at him, and everybody laughed and Livia, who didn’t like Joel and was scared of his tongue and had besides begun to realize that Tom and his wife and Jill and Gretchen were all frightfully Clever, looked at him quite gratefully and began to relax somewhat.

    Maurice then took the wine list firmly off Tom and began to be masculine and sensible and Livia looked at him with tremendous gratitude and said humbly that if he thought she really might like the Rangy thing, she would have it, Maurie, only not if he didn’t.

    Maurice was sure she would and patted her hand and said he thought she would, sweetie—here Jill kicked Gretchen’s ankle gently under the table and Gretchen choked—and ordered cocktails for everybody in a knowledgeable, masculine way, and Livia relaxed even more and decided firmly that she wouldn’t go anywhere with these Varsity people unless Maurie was here to help her, because quite obviously Mac didn’t know the first thing about looking after a woman! –This in spite of the fact that in her time she’d dealt with all the varieties imaginable of uncaring macho pigs of directors, uncaring gay cats of directors, uncaring, hard-working, matter-of-fact directors, and even uncaring, absorbed intellectual-type directors.

    The Golden Lamb, besides its in-house exotic cocktails, also prided itself on its exotic starters, which were as odd as The Royal’s but tended even more in the fresh tropical fruit direction. Livia had silently thought she might have something with avocado, because she knew that, and besides it was quite up-market and expensive, and also it was good for you and low in cholesterol She’d read that very recently in a magazine at her hairdresser’s: a very nice magazine, her hairdresser was very up-market. In fact the magazine recommended a lunch of avocado with a scoop of ricotta—Livia wasn’t sure what that was but in the picture it had looked a bit like cottage cheese—so she looked in the menu for something like that. Finally she said: “Maurie, darling?”

    “Mm-mm?” Maurice had decided he’d better watch his weight if they were going to be lunching much in restaurants. So he wouldn’t have the pâté.

    “I’d quite fancy thomething with avocado: what do you think would be nithe?” she asked earnestly, fluttering the eyelashes

    “Um—lessee. What about this?” It was a mixture of avocado and fresh pineapple with pine nuts and Livia, not sure what the latter were, but knowing that nuts were very fattening, looked at its description dubiously.

    “It is quite nice,” said Tom, smiling at her. Livia looked at him dubiously.

    “Yes,” agreed Jemima. “Do you think it will be fresh pineapple, though, Tom? If it’s tinned it might be rather sicky.”

    “If it’s tinned we’ll send it back,” he promised.

    Livia went rather pink. Rudi had done that once with a wine and she’d nearly died of embarrassment. Of course, it was a terribly masculine thing to do, but…

    “Too right,” rumbled Maurice. “Says here ‘fresh’, doesn’t it? Well!”

    “Yes,” she said faintly. “Of course, darling.”

    “There’s another avocado thing, Livia, dear,” chirped Joel. “With black grapes instead—but isn’t avocado rather old hat?”

    Livia looked at him with resentment. In the first place the thing with grapes also had anchovies, which she hated, and in the second place Joel had implied she was old!

    “Not with anchoffies, Joel, vhere are your tastebuds?” shuddered Gretchen, and Livia said with a sigh: “Yes, I think that sounds really horrid. I think I will have the one with the pineapple, Maurie darling.”

    “So will I,” agreed Jemima, and Livia looked at her gratefully.

    “I’ll try this really weird thing with black olives, green olives, Fetta cheese, and grapefruit segments,” said Tom with relish

    Several people winced and Jill noted drily: “Well, it’s your stomach. Personally I’m sticking with the hunk of pawpaw, it’s hard to muck that up.”

    Maurice retorted smartly: “Wanna bet? I ordered  that for Livia on Thursday at The Royal, thought it’d be a nice treat for her: bit of tropical fruit when she’s straight out from a bloody English winter; and when it came the bloody stuff was smothered in chilli! Poor little thing burnt her mouth on it before I could warn her, didn’tcha, sweetie?”

    Livia gave a brave little laugh. “Oh, it was nothing!”

    “Besides, you washed the burny taste away with champagne, didn’t you, dear?” cooed Joel.

    Livia wasn’t going to take that sort of remark form silly Joel Thring, thank you very much! “Yes: it was lovely champagne, Maurie knows just what I like!” she sighed, looking up at him adoringly.

    Joel then discovered something even more tempting with grapes.

    “What’s in it?” asked Mac weakly when it came. “Can’t say I fancy the idea of cold fruit soup, meself.”

    Tom peered. “Mostly watermelon, I think!” he said with a chuckle.

    “It’s tray exoteek!” squeaked Joel indignantly.

    “Tray exoteek watermelon, yeah,” agreed Mac, sitting back with a grin.

    “Is it sweet?” asked Jemima with interest.

    “Ye-es... Well, sweetish, Jemima dear. It has these objets in it, too!” Joel held out his spoon.

    “That’s a grape, silly one!” trilled  Livia.

    “Ah! But regard lee oh-trer objet!”

    “It’s a blueberry,” said Jemima. “They’re in season at the moment. We’re going to grow some, aren’t we, Tom?”

    “Yep. They’re supposed to be quite easy,” he agreed.

    “This is all hopelessly exoteek, darlings, to those from colder northern climes!” sighed Joel.

    “Eat it up and stop talking garbage,” said his cousin briskly.

    “Jill, dear, you’ve been indoctrinated!” he objected. “It is all hopelessly exoteek, isn’t it Livia, darling? What with lee avocado and lee blueberry and lee fresh pineapple on top of lee kiwi liqueur! Not to mention lee huge pieces of papaya, one has never even laid eyes on such in London!”

    Livia looked at him with resentment and decided after all that she hated him. It was perfectly true that she had never laid eyes on the yellow whatever-it-was (it seemed to have two names), in a restaurant at home; she’d had no idea what it had been when Maurie had ordered it for her on Thursday, but she would have died rather than admit this in front of all of Them, and she was perfectly sure Joel was aware of all of this.

    “Talking crap, Thring, cut it out,” grunted Maurice.

    Livia looked at him with tremendous gratitude and said with a silvery tinkle: “Oh, never mind him, Maurie, darling, I’m used to him, you know!”

    “Mm,” he said on a dry note that she missed. “That avocado nice and ripe?”

    “Yes, lovely, thank you, darling,” she sighed, putting her knife and fork down on her empty plate.

    There hadn’t been much of it, and in fact Maurice doubted if it was possible to slice a really ripe one that thin in order to fan it out across the plate artistically as it had been, but he didn’t say anything.

    He began to draw Livia out on the subject of her last part while they waited for their mains. Mac cooperated eagerly. So did the sweet-natured Jemima, and Livia got so absorbed, extrapolating from her own play to talk about the London theatre scene in general, that she didn’t even register the look of exquisite pain that flickered momentarily across Jemima’s expressive cheetah-face when she raved on about “Lay Mizz.”

    They had embarked on their mains, and everyone had refused, with shudders, to taste Joel’s stuffed squid (two horrid little fat, trussed bodies, even Joel had been taken aback at the sight of them, the stuffing must have been forced into them with some sort of hydraulic machine), when there was a burst of masculine laughter from the door to the courtyard, and a contralto gurgle, and Maurice looked round pleasedly, Joel looked up and squeaked in an undervoice: “Oops, deary!” and Jemima smiled and said: “There’s Polly and Jake.”

    Livia by this time had fully sized up all the ladies in the courtyard and their outfits, and there was no-one with an ounce of style in the place, they were all either hopelessly dowdy or hopelessly flashy and sort of last year’s-y. She looked round fully expecting to find no rival in this new lady either and at first thought she hadn’t.

    Then Jemima breathed: “Isn’t that elegant?” and Jill said: ‘I bet that’s the Australian diamond thing,” and Livia saw that there was a slight flush on Maurice’s high cheekbones and looked again at the lady who had just come into the courtyard, and felt sick and angry.

    The lady was with three men, for a start. Not in grey cotton slacks with a plain. short-sleeved shirt like Mac, even if he did have a silk scarf at his neck, not in very ordinary dark green cotton slacks and a fawn tee-shirt like Tom, certainly not in a stupid Mexican blouse like stupid Joel with those silly cherry-red trousers that he’d had forever and a day, Livia had seen them a thousand times, thank you, and not even in a smart blue silk short-sleeved shirt with navy slacks like darling Maurie, who at least knew how to dress. No, in proper suits! One in a cream linen suit which Livia saw at a glance was the latest thing, and he was a burly, brown-skinned, terrifically attractive man with greying dark curls who put her in mind a little bit of sweetie Nigel. The second man was in a pale grey linen suit which was also very, very smart, and although he was an extremely ugly man with a crumpled, droopy face like one of those dogs with the silly ears, she could never remember if they were beagles or those other ones, he was one of those terribly attractive ugly men, because the minute she laid eyes on him Livia’s tummy sort of dropped through her knees—you know—and she had to glance away but then look back immediately. The third man was a Japanese and Livia was the sort of Western woman who couldn’t bring herself to consider Orientals as men, but she could see that this one was rather attractive, he wasn’t young and he didn’t have one of those horrid round yellow faces but on the contrary a squarish face with high cheekbones and a small but high-bridged nose, in fact if he’d been white she would have put him down as a bit of a tartar and would have found it very exciting but a bit scary to try to get to know him. He was in navy-blue. More conservative than his companions but really smart. It was immediately obvious to Livia that all these men were extremely hetero, she didn’t even have to think about it, and it wasn’t fair, why should that lady have three, all to herself!

    And for a second thing, not only was the lady with three men, but she was— She was— Well, she was very pretty, of course, but that didn’t necessarily count! Jemima was very pretty, too, but her clothes were just nothing! Only this lady… The lady was dressed in very thin silk and to make matters worse it was the sort of shade that Livia had to be very, very careful about, because it made her skin look absolutely sallow, and everyone knew she really had a very white skin! The culottes, as smart as Livia’s own, and the loose, short-sleeved, buttonless, collarless jacket, with shoulders that were only just square, a lovely casual look that made Livia’s own padded silk-chiffon shoulders feel huge and lumpy, were in that delicate shade that was called taupe. A brown with pink in it? Livia could remember when it first came in, years— Never mind that. The jacket wasn’t tailored at all: very, very soft-looking, and under it she wore a totally plain white silk blouse, quite straight and loose, coming to just below the waist, but you could see she had lovely breasts under it—fuller than Livia’s—and no bra. At the neck of the blouse was what Livia supposed that horrid cousin of Joel’s had meant by silly Australian diamonds but Livia could see that they weren’t diamonds at all; if anything—and she doubted they were anything, probably coloured glass—they might be topazes.

    The lady was wearing a hat and though Livia had made a conscious decision not to wear hats out here except to outdoor functions so as not to get sunburnt, they were so ageing, she registered with hatred that the hat did not make the lady look old at all. She would be perhaps in her early thirties? Anyway the hat was wonderful. She only had brown hair and Livia had hitherto despised brown hair, her own natural shade being a dull fawn, but this hair was very shiny and pulled into a super big bun, well off her neck—probably it was a hairpiece. The hat sat above this bun and if anything should have been ageing in the way of hats it was this hat because not only was it taupe silk—next to the face!—it was one of those Fifties-style hats with the back of the brim much narrower than the front and a bit sort of scooped out above the bun. Livia could remember those, that was years— Well, she could just remember ladies wearing them, with silly white gloves that made your hands all sweaty in summer. This lady wasn’t wearing gloves. She was carrying a taupe handbag that screamed “Italy” and wearing high-heeled taupe peep-toed shoes that screamed “Italy”. These items exactly—exactly—matched the silk culotte suit. Livia, who was dying to ease her feet out of her own sandals under the table but didn’t dare, she’d never get them on again, looked at the peep-toed shoes with hatred and hoped they were killing her.

    “Hullo!” cried the lady with a laugh, coming up to their table, and all the men got up immediately, even beastly Joel, and Joel said in that silly voice of his before anybody could even be introduced or anything: “Milano?”

    “Well, the shoes and bag are, yes!” said the lady with a laugh. “Mexico?” she said, looking at Joel’s stupid frilly-sleeved blouse, and he did a stupid sort of pirouette and said in that silly high voice he put on: “Darling Polly! One knew one could rely! Of course! Ac-a-pul-co Beach!”

    “Portobello Road,” corrected Tom drily and Livia looked at him with hatred, too, and wished she’d thought of that; she betted he’d never even been anywhere near the Portobello Road in his life!

    The lady gave a silly deep laugh, Livia could do that, all you had to do was fill your diaphragm—

    Then darling Maurie took charge and introduced everybody properly and Livia realized sulkily that at least this Polly woman was married—not that that counted for much, these days! The man she was married to was the best-looking man but somehow Livia found herself quite overpoweringly relieved it wasn’t the other one, the ugly man in the pale grey linen suit, and she gave that man, whose name was Wal Briggs, her very best smile and her little shy handshake and was horribly disconcerted when he merely smiled politely and said: “Hullo, Livia, nice to meet you,” in an uninterested voice and just gave a her hand a sort of—of ordinary squeeze! In fact she thought the look he gave her out of his shrewd brown eyes as he dropped the hand was rather a mocking look. And it was certainly the sort of look that said he’d sized her up immediately and could make a good guess at the date on her birth certificate; and Livia subsided into her seat—because she always stood up to shake hands, she didn’t think it was polite not to, whatever other ladies did—feeling all ruffled.

    Mac asked them to join them but the Polly woman said with a laugh: “Better not, thanks, Mac: these horrors are going to be talking business, we don’t want to ruin your lunch!” and they all went off to a table at the far side of the courtyard. She’d done it on purpose, the cow, just to keep all those lovely men to herself!

    Jemima looked across at them and said: “She’s awfully good at all those social things.”

    Before Livia could give herself away completely by saying loudly and rudely “Social! Huh!” which she very nearly did, the German woman said: “Ja, but it must be very boring, Jemima.”

    “I’ll say!” agreed Jill, and Livia looked at them with huge pity and thought they were just a pair of silly dykes, after all, and how could anyone possibly be bored with three lovely men all to yourself?

    “What does he do, anyway—her husband?” she asked Maurice in a rather grumpy voice that she couldn’t help.

    Maurice looked stunned. “Thought I explained that the other day, sweetie: they’re the people that are putting on that garden-party do next week.”

    Livia went very red and gasped: “Oh! The millionaire?”

    And beastly Joel drawled in that spiteful way: “Bill-i-on, darling. –Explains the gear, rather, doesn’t it?”

    “His or hers?” said Tom immediately.

    “Both, dear boy. Also the jewel-ler-y. Did you notice his gold bracelet?” he sighed.

    “He often wears that,” murmured Jemima.

    “So you know them quite well, then, Jemima?” asked Livia, trying to make her voice sound quite carefree and not all that interested or surprized or impressed or anything.

    “Quite well, yes. Polly’s in my department, of course. Well, she’s not teaching fulltime at the moment, she’s just tutoring a bit.” Livia gaped at her, so Jemima elaborated, blushing: “The Department of Linguistics at the university.”

    “She’s a bright cookie. Wasted on that macho idiot,” grumbled Maurice.

    Jemima at this went bright red and said: “He’s very clever, Sir Maurice!”

    Maurice smiled his nicest smile—Livia could cheerfully have hit him—and said: “Not the bloody handle, for God’s sake, Jemima, sweetie!”

    Jemima went even redder and smiled shyly back.

    “He might be all right at his damn business wheeling and dealing,” he added grumpily. “But Polly’s a real scholar.”

    “Yes,” said Tom in a bored voice, “and by all accounts he’s letting her get on with it. Writing another book this year, isn’t she?”

    Maurice sniffed. “Should hope so.”

    “I see,” said Livia weakly. “I suppose you write books, too?” she said to Jemima, and then could have died, what a stupid thing to say: now they’d all think she was dumb!

    But Jemima smiled very nicely, not maliciously or knowingly or anything, and Livia reconfirmed her rather reluctant impression that she was a thoroughly nice girl, and said: “Well, sort of. I am editing my thesis for publication. And I’ve had a couple of articles published.”

    Maurice immediately asked her about this and Jemima told him, and Livia, to her inner fury, didn’t understand a word they said!

    By this time they’d more or less finished their main course and Maurice asked her if she’d enjoyed the duck, so she replied thankfully and quite truthfully that she had, and he patted her hand and said: “That’s a good girl, thought you’d like that better than that muck Mac chose.”

    Mac looked up and said in surprize: “It was damn good. Dunno what was in it, but it was damn good.”

    “Red wine, sugar, dash of inferior brandy, and peeled black grapes,” said Tom in a bored voice. “They might have added a bit of mustard to cut the sugar, not to mention the fattiness of the pork, if you were lucky, I always do.”

    “Tom! Do you cook, dear?” gasped Joel.

    “Yes, he’s an excellent cook,” said Jemima. “Just as well, I’m hopeless!” She smiled at them.

    “Ooh, what about an in-vite?” squeaked Joel immediately.

    “Ve take him out now, ja?” said Gretchen to Jill, pretending she was getting up.

    At that the others all laughed, even Maurice, so Livia laughed, too.

    Then the waiter came to take their plates away and darling Maurice asked for the menus again, thank goodness, because although the duck had been lovely it had only been a small helping and Livia was still hungry.

    Last night she’d dined with the Vice-Chancellor and his wife at their home, and the house hadn’t been air-conditioned, and really, she’d hardly been able to eat a mouthful of the roast side of lamb. Though she was sure that Mac’s wife had been right when she’d said that it was beautifully cooked. It had all looked beautiful, certainly, and there had been candles and silver napkin rings, just as she’d expected of a very high-up person from the university. But it been so humid! Dreadful. Livia had gone thankfully back to her air-conditioned hotel, bitten Amy’s head off for nothing in particular, and drunk three-quarters of a big bottle of Évian at one sitting. It would be impossible, she’d recognized gloomily, to get out of any private function. But she wasn’t going to let Maurice—or any other man, come to think of it—even suggest taking her to a restaurant that wasn’t air-conditioned! In fact, if a man so much as dared to suggest it, Livia had decided last night in her air-conditioned bedroom, that would prove that he was not the sort of man that she—that she had in mind!

    Maurice decided that she’d be able to manage peach Melba and though she wasn’t sure what that was, she smiled and agreed.

    “What was that you said about Australian diamonds, Jill?” she asked idly, as they waited for the desserts.

    “That brooch of Polly’s. She got it a year or so back, when those new champagne and brandy diamonds came on the market. Well, on the market to people like the Queen and the Carranos.”

    “Oh, yes: I saw a picture in a magazine of a lovely brooch the Queen’s jeweller designed. They really are very wealthy, then?” she said weakly.

    “Humungously, darling! squeaked Joel. “Didn’t you believe me? Billionaire class! Ask darling Rudi if you don’t believe me, he’ll have heard of Jake Carrano.”

    Livia could cheerfully have wrung his unattractive, scrawny neck. She managed to reply calmly: “I suppose he will have, if this Mr Carrano’s really rich.”

    “Not Mister, darling: Sir Jake,” said Joel, leering across the table at her.

    “That makes her Lady Carrano,” said Tom kindly.

    Livia cast him a look of unguarded loathing and said: “No! Do you have titles out here, then, Tom?”

    At this Joel gave a crow and squeaked: “Home team one, Anty-podes nil!”

    And Livia went very red, more with mortification at having given herself away than anything.

    However, darling Maurie came to her rescue. He patted her hand and said: “I’d ignore the pair of ’em if I was you, sweets. Like a couple of bloody mosquitos or something.”

    “Yes: irritating but meaningless,” agreed Jill.

    “Yeah: been creating bloody mayhem at rehearsals. Especially Thring, here, with his fucking bladder,” added Mac, glaring at him.

    “Who, me? Darling Big Mac,”—here Jemima coughed suddenly and put her hand over her mouth—“can I help it if rustics and fairies are irresistibly drawn to pursue me with bladders?”

    “Possibly not. You can damn well help retaliating in kind, thought you were a flaming professional,” said Mac sourly.

    Livia was dying to say “A professional what?” but wasn’t going to lower herself, so when Gretchen did she let out a tremendous trill of laughter, and everybody else laughed, too. After which she glanced over quickly at the other table to see if Wal Briggs had noticed or—or anything, but he hadn’t, he was talking to the Japanese man and didn’t look round or anything!

    “What does the other man do, darling?” she said idly to Maurice as the waiter began bringing their desserts. “Is he in business, too?”

    “Mm? Oh: the Jap? Yes, works for Jake in Tokyo’

    “I see. And what about the other one—Briggs?”

    “Wal Briggs? Barrister.”

    Livia thought: In that suit? And she must have stared, because he said: “You know! He’s a criminal lawyer, really, but I think he handles some sort of stuff for Carrano as well.”

    “Crimes,” said Joel airily.

    Maurice replied briefly: “No. Not so much nowadays. Got him through that business with his first wife, I believe.”

    “Out of pure altruism,” agreed Jill.

    “Dare say he was hoping for the trial of the century,” he agreed. “So what?”

    “Darlings! Tell!” gasped Joel.

    “Nothing to it,” said Maurice. “Carrano’s ex went potty. Took a pot-shot at him and Polly.”

    “So succinct! So masculine!” gasped Joel.

    “Yes, in that he’s left out ninety percent of the facts,” agreed Jill.

    “Ninety-nine,” said Gretchen.

    “You tell it, then,” said Maurice without interest.

    They began to tell it, with occasional help from Tom and Mac, but Livia didn’t listen, she was trying to figure out how to work the conversation round to Wal Briggs again and deciding sadly that there was no way she could without Maurice spotting something...

   On the other side of the brick courtyard Jake Carrano said with satisfaction to his wife as he settled himself in his seat: “Well, ya put that dame’s nose out of joint, good an’ proper.”

    Wal chuckled; Inoue smiled.

    “Me?” said Polly cautiously.

    “Yeah: took one look at your clobber and went green as grass!”

    “Oh, rubbish, Jake,” she said weakly. “Her own outfit’s very pretty.”

    “Trash. And yours makes it look like it,” he said with satisfaction.

    “Yes: she has no true chic, no elegance,” agreed Inoue Takagaki.

    Polly went rather red. After a moment she said: “I dare say she hasn’t got a husband with an income like Jake’s, either.”

    “That is undoubtedly true; I think we would have heard of him if she had,” he said sedately with a twinkle in the dark almond eyes.

    “Has she got a husband at all?” asked Wal idly, looking through the wine list.

    “Gawd, you’re not lining up for a fourth round, are ya?” asked Jake in horror.

    “Shut up, Jake. –No, she hasn’t as far as is known, Wal,” Polly said kindly to her husband’s oldest friend.

    “Got a West German type in tow that showers her with pearls, though,” leered Jake.

    “Not visibly,” noted Wal drily.

    “Well, it is lunchtime, Wal, a big rope of pearls would hardly be appropriate—”

    “Not the pearls, Polly—though I grant you they’re not visible, either. No, the West German.”

    “Possibly he is in West Germany,” said Inoue expressionlessly.

    “Rudi Dettweiler. More like over the East German side, looking round for failing businesses he can snap up for a song and make a fast buck out of,” said the expert.

    “I thought you said all their plant was so out of date they’d be a millstone round your neck?” said his wife in amazement.

    “Round mine: yeah. Not necessarily round Dettweiler’s, he specializes in fast footwork.”

    Polly looked at him dubiously. Jake didn’t elaborate.

    “Under the socialist system the workers have had it so easy for more than two generations, now: Herr Dettweiler will not find it easy to raise the production levels. Should he wish to,” said Inoue with great precision, looking at his menu. “This is the place with the excellent roast lamb, I think, Jake?”

    “Yeah, but if I was you I’d have the salmon-trout: a little bird told me they get ii in fresh, the chef’s got contacts.”

    “Really fresh?”

    “Not in your terms, no. Fresher than anything else you’d get in this country except at L’Oie Qui Rit.”

    “Then I shall risk it. This reminds me, you will take me to L’Oie Oui Rit when the old lady again begins to serve oysters, yes?”

    “Yes,” said Polly definitely. “That’ll be after Easter. Bring Masako out next time, Inoue.”

    Inoue agreed placidly he would, and thanked her.

    Then there was a short hiatus in the conversation proper while Sir Jacob wrenched the wine list off Wallace Briggs and they had a loud argument over the relative merits—or rather demerits—of The Golden Lamb’s local Riesling, local Gewurtz’, and Aussie Riesling. Jake finally talked Wal into the Gewurtz’ on the strength of having bought up twelve dozen of it himself.

    “I think I’ll just have mineral water,” said Polly in an exhausted voice to Inoue.

    “I, too,” he agreed, eyes twinkling.

    “It’s worse than taking the twins out,” she explained. “At least the things they fight over are things that you can see there might be a reason to fight over!”

    “Precisely!” he agreed, suddenly breaking down in sniggers.

    Jake then waved frantically at the waiter and attempted to force a cocktail on his wife. When that was over and they were sipping the results—Polly was having a gin and tonic on condition she didn’t have to drink wine, Inoue was having a Rangitoto Special because he was making a collection of strange exotic drinks, Wal was having a Blue Stinger because he’d been unable to resist the name and Jake, typically, was merely having a whisky and soda—Wal said idly: “About this Livia Wentworth.”

    “We were talking about her, were we?” rejoined Jake immediately.

    “Look, shut up!” said Polly crossly. “What about her, Wal?”

    He shrugged. “Nothing, really. Well—what do you know about her, if anything?”

    “By God: he is lining up for a fourth round!” gasped Jake. “Glutton for punishment, isn’t he?”

    Polly ignored that. “We don’t really know very much. Only what Adam and Joel have mentioned.”

    “Adam said she was a conniving cow,” offered Jake.

    “I think that was only because he’s terrified of managing women, they remind him of his ex,” said Polly thoughtfully.

    “Is she?” said Wal, glancing fleetingly over at the other table.

    “Well, the sort that likes her own way,” said Polly a trifle uncomfortably.

    “Appears to be winding old Maurie round her little finger at the moment,” noted Jake.

    Wal looked over there again and made a sour face.

    “‘Appears’ is the word: he’s never been known to do a thing to put his precious career at risk, the old— Never mind,” said Polly hurriedly.

    “Yeah, we all know old Maurie’s as tough as old boots,” said Wal. “He likes his women all sweetness and light—doesn’t mean he’ll ever take a blind bit of notice of anything they ever say to him, of course, if it doesn’t happen to suit his book.” He glanced over there again, and muttered: “Sweetness and light is right—Jesus.”

    “Didn’t someone not a million miles from this table once say to me,” murmured Jake, eyeing his best friend drily, “that a woman had a right to go for all she could get, while her looks lasted?”

    “That sounds like someone we know,” agreed Polly, lips twitching.

    “Yes, if I remember rightly it was just before he went and got engaged to you!” said Wal crossly.

    Polly and Jake stared at him, and so did Inoue, though less obviously, and he flushed and said: “Hell, I’m sorry! Didn’t mean that to come out the way it did. It was back then, I think: I’d just got rid of bloody Leila.”

    “Yes, that’s right: you came to our wedding by yourself,” remembered Polly.

    “Mm,” he murmured, with a wry little grimace.

    There was a short silence. Inoue picked up the paper parrot on a stick that adorned his drink and looked at it carefully. “Does this drink come always with this bird?”

    “Parrot. Yes, definitely,” said Polly.

    “Good, I shall keep it.” He produced a handkerchief and wrapped it tenderly in it.

    “Here! The locals think you’re a weird foreigner!” hissed Jake in horror.

    “Not so long as Joel continues to wear his parrotu behind his ear, I do not think they will,” he returned placidly.

    “Help, is ’e?” he said weakly.

    “Yes! Didn’t you notice?” gasped Polly.

    “No. Musta gorn all fuzzy-eyed in me search for rude petticoats,” he grinned.

    “That’ll do,” she said threateningly.

    “Did you also watch the News on Thursday night, Wal?” asked Inoue courteously.

    “Yes,” he said shortly.

    Inoue and the Carranos looked at one another, rather aback.

    “I’ve seen worse,” he offered.

    “Yeah, but not more silicone,” said Jake, recovering himself. “Ole Maurie reckons they are, ya know. One of the greatest disappointments of life as we know it, eh?”

    “I’ll say,” Wal admitted.

    “It is very odd,” began Inoue, “this predilection of the Western male for the basic mammary displ—”

    “Yeah, we know all that, ta,” said his boss hurriedly. ‘‘Heard it from Her often enough.”

    “There’s nothing wrong with hers,” said Wal, looking at them sadly.

    “No. Well, there you are!” said his old pal bracingly. “Don’t wanna start muckin’ round with artificial ones at your time of life, old man! Look about for the real thing, there’s plenty of it, ya know!”

    “Mm. I wouldn’t say she was all that young, either, Wal ,” said Polly cautiously. “I mean, she’s older than Adam.”

    “Older than Adam’s grandmother,” muttered Jake.

    “Jake! That’s horrible! She is not!”

    Inoue smiled slowly. “That is a Bible joke, yes?”

    “Oh, Gawd, you’re not making a collection of them, too, are ya?” groaned Jake.

    “One day I write my monograph!” he threatened.

    “‘The prevalence of Bible jokes amongst habitual drinkers of Rangitoto Specials’,” agreed Wal.

    Inoue went into one of his giggling fits and the other two laughed helplessly.

    While this was going on Wal glanced quickly over at the other table, saw Livia smile up adoringly at old Maurie Black and pat his arm, and felt a little sick. He looked quickly away again. How old was she? Well, okay, he was in his mid-fifties himself, but…

    When Wal had pushed off to the bog before the dessert Jake said cautiously to his wife: “Ya think he really has fallen for her?”

    Polly made a little face and shrugged.

    “She is not a serious woman,” pronounced Inoue.

    “Gawd, we should never have let ’im have that Rangitoto Special, ya know!” .he groaned.

    “He means—”

    “I know what he means,” said Jake with feeling, “and I don’t want to hear him on geishas being good businesswomen for the Nth time, ta!”

    “Ex-geishas,” Polly amended.

    “This is correct,” agreed Inoue. “They are serious women, that is my point.”

    Jake glared. “Anyway, she isn’t a flaming geisha. Well, I admit she’s bit of a tart—”

    “Look, be quiet, both of you: you don’t know anything about her life!” said Polly with sudden heat.

    They stared at her and she said: “I dare say she is a bit of a tart, or not serious, whatever that means!”—Inoue opened his mouth but she glared at him in the same way that his wife, Masako, was wont to, so he shut it again.—“I bet she’s had to fight like a tiger for everything she’s ever had in life! And now that she’s had a bit of a success with that silly soap, all you men can do is sit round getting at her—after staying up till half-past eleven every Tuesday night drooling over the poor woman!” she ended with a bitter glare at to her husband.

    “So did everyone else,” he said weakly.

    “Exactly!” she retorted with superb logic.

    Jake and Inoue looked uneasily at each other, and said noting.

    “I agree with Wal! Good on her if she’s out for what she can get while she’s still got her looks!” she said fiercely.

    There was a staggered silence. Then her husband opened his big mouth and put his foot in it. “Thought you were all for Women’s Lib?”

    “I am! And it’s because of the lives of women like Livia that I am! You don’t know anything at all about what it’s like to be a second-class citizen, either of you! You’ve had it made, all your lives, simply by being male!”

    Jake, of course, had been brought up in an orphanage. And Inoue’s father had lost everything after the War, as Polly well knew. They both just looked at her numbly.

    Finally Jake croaked: “Yeah, but do we want old Wal getting mixed up with—uh—well, a woman like that?” he ended feebly.

    “Why not? Could she be worse than that gold-digging Leila? That boy of hers isn’t his, you know!”

    “No,” he said uncomfortably. “Uh, but—”

    “And if she’s as old as Adam reckons she is—and that could have just been spite, quite possibly he couldn’t perform well enough in bed for her, how do we know what went on in that relationship?”—Their jaws dropped.—“Well, if she is, or anything like it, she may well want to just settle down! Why not?” She cast Inoue a bitter look. “Like your blimmin’ retired geishas! –Poor little thing,” she added on a sad note.

    “Poor—!” choked Jake. “Look, Pol, the woman’s as hard as nails, don’t let the sweetness and light bit she’s doing for old Maurie fool you!”

    “I know that!” she retorted scornfully. “And that’s exactly what I’m saying! She’s had to be!”

    She got up. They both just sat there numbly.

    “I’m going to the loo,” she said with dignity. “And when I come back I’m going to ask Livia if she and her party would like to join us at the races this afternoon, and if you put one toe out of line, Jake Carrano—”

    “I won’t!” he said hurriedly. “But look, Pol, think before you act! You’ll go and turn the woman into another Phyllis Harding, and then we’ll end up with her round our necks like a bloody—”

    Polly cast him a look of withering scorn and stalked off.

    “—millstone, too,” said Jake sadly.

    There was a short silence.

    “You’ve met Ma Harding, eh?” he said glumly.

    “Yes, indeed!” shuddered Inoue.

    “There you are, then.”

    “Hai,” he agreed sadly.

    There was another silence.

    “Why, for God’s sake?” said Jake wildly.

    “I think she is very fond of Wallace. And you know the women, Jake, if there is the slightest hint of matrimony in the wind—” He shrugged. “Masako is just the same.”

    “Right,” agreed Jake bitterly.

    “Possibly Wal will perceive she is not a serious woman, and then—”

    “Are you mad?” he groaned. “Them are the ones he goes for!”

    “Oh. I am sorry, Jake,” he said politely, “but I have never met any of his wives.”

    “Eh? Yes, ya have! Leila! Dumb bint with yaller hair and bulgy blue eyes—contacts! And big tits. –Well, silicone,” he amended on a dry note.

    “No,” said Inoue definitely. “I had not met Wal before your wedding.”

    “Oh.”

    Another silence.

    “l was lookin’ forward to a nice quiet day at the races!” Jake said aggrievedly.

    “Alas, yes. So was I.”

    “I thought I might talk her into letting me buy a couple of colts—you know.”—Inoue nodded.—“But now! Not a snowflake’s hope in Hell,” he muttered.

    “Perhaps it will not be not so bad, if this Livia dame prefers Sir Maurice?” he ventured.

    “Huh,” said Jake, but quite mildly.

    “Besides, possibly she is here to have her picture taken with Sir Maurice to make Herr Dettweiler very jealous. Has he not divorced his wife?”

    “Yeah, couplea years back. She was a real cow, too.”

    “Well, there you are,” said Inoue comfortably.

    “Let’s hope so,” he muttered, looking at Wal coming back from the bog. He had to pass the other table but did he stop? Did he Hell as like. Gave a jaunty little nod and came straight on.

    “Playing hard to get,” he said with a tightening of his lips. “Does that.”

    “Oh. Will it work?”

    “We’ll see, won’t we?” said Jake resignedly.

    Maurice had been keen to go to the races—though unfortunately so had Joel—and Livia, concealing both her worries about her complexion and her desire to get to know Wal Briggs, had accepted eagerly. Of the others, only Joel and his cousin were able to come.

    So Livia went to the races in Maurice’s car. It was lovely: a fairly new black Jag in immaculate condition, that smelled of expensive car and Maurice. –It would now smell of Livia’s scent, too, but Maurice didn’t care: Suzanne had left early this morning to spend some time with their married daughter down in Nelson. She did this several times every year, and though he sometimes missed the home comforts it would be true to say that these were the happiest periods of Maurice’s existence. He would not, however, have been able at all to put up with a permanent lack of home comforts and he was the first to realize this.

    Most fortunately Jake Carrano had a box—or perhaps he shared it, there were quite a few people there besides themselves—anyway, Livia didn’t have to stand in the sun. And also Lady Carrano showed herself most understanding when her husband and the Japanese man urged Livia to go down to the paddock., and reminded Sir Jacob about their little girl’s complexion and said she didn’t think Livia would want to risk getting sunburnt. Though if she was keen to go, would she like to borrow her hat?

    Livia concealed her horror at this offer and, unsure as to whether it had been made tongue in cheek, stayed with Polly in the box while the others went off to look at the horses.

    Now she peered out at the track and the crowd, wishing the men hadn’t all gone, and said: “It’s such a hot day...” She hesitated. How could the horses run on a sultry, heavy day like this, you’d think they’d drop down of heat exhaustion or whatever they called it halfway round the track. –Was it? Yes, track.

    “Mm, the poor horses,” said Polly.

    “Oh! Polly, darling! My very thought!” she cried. Then she thought damn, I overdid it, and anyway she won’t believe me, and anyway I don’t believe she really thinks that, racing people never do feel sorry for the animals, do they?

    Polly offered her a glass of champagne. “Do you like champagne? It’s rather dry, Jake’s always is.”

    Livia admitted she loved it and Lady C— Polly smiled and said she did too, and they both sipped. It was drier than Livia was used to but nice. Refreshing.

    “I think the horses get acclimatized,” said Polly. “They do race them in Australia in much hotter weather, I know that.”

    “Hotter than this?” she gasped. That sounded so naïve, oh, Lor’! Well, at least the men weren’t here. Well, Maurice would be all right, he was rather an old pet, really...

    “Yes. Well, generally not more humid, but yes, much hotter. We went to the Adelaide races once in thirty-nine-degree heat and I just about passed out. Jake had to take me back to our host’s box and put an icepack on my head.”

    “Polly! How embarrassing!”

    “Yes, it was, rather. Especially since the host was very high up in racing circles over there. I felt a fool.”

    “Darling! One would! But surely, the horses—?”

    “Well, they ran all right. And none of them appeared to be suffering. I believe they do have vets on hand.”

    “I still think it’s cruel!” said Livia strongly, momentarily forgetting all about making the right impression.

    “So do I. Jake wanted to invest in an Australian horse—you know: they were syndicating it,”—Livia nodded, she knew racing people talked about that sort of thing, in fact there had been a lot of talk about racing in her soap so she could talk it quite well, but she had no idea what the expression actually meant—“but I wouldn’t let him.”

    “How did you stop him?” She was dying to know, only she hadn’t meant it to sound so bald, help!

    Lady Carrano laughed and said: “He is a macho man, isn’t he?”

    “Yes,” said Livia, feeling herself blush like a fool, and hurriedly laughing in order to cover it up. “Lovely with it, though, dear!” she added and then wondered if that struck quite the right note.

    Polly said with her lovely smile: “I just said I didn’t like the idea of him buying an animal that was forced to race in that sort of weather, so he didn’t.”—She had wonderful teeth and Livia, who had spent a fortune on hers, looked at them with considerable resentment. But at least she hadn’t—well, put her down, or something. She nodded quickly, as Polly was expecting some response.—“Mind you, I think me nearly passing out helped to convince him!” She laughed.

    “Yes,” said Livia, wondering if she’d done it on purpose.

    “I didn’t do it on purpose,” said Polly on a wry note—Livia jumped—“but I couldn’t help noticing it was rather lucky.”

    “Yes! I see what you mean!” she gasped, tinkling desperately.

    “Mm. –Look, that’s the favourite.” Polly pointed him out. He was a big brown handsome horse but Livia couldn’t honestly see that he looked any different from any of the other horses. His jockey’s colours were pale lilac and bright yellow and she thought it was an awful combination and was very glad to be able to agree when Polly said so.

    Then there was a pause. Livia thought crossly that if Lady Carrano wasn’t an intellectual and all that she might be able to talk to her!

     Then Polly said: “When do you start rehearsing properly, Livia?” and Livia plunged thankfully into theatre chat, not realizing that during it she revealed rather more than she would have liked Lady Carrano to know about the pique she was feeling because Adam hadn’t turned up.

    Polly couldn’t say anything direct, the poor woman hadn’t actually come out and said anything explicit herself, and she didn’t want to embarrass her. She encouraged Livia to talk about her other plans for the duration of her visit, and Livia did, with quite a lot of head-tossing and unnecessary tinkling laughter, making it quite plain that TVNZ had been very pleased to get her for a cameo in—

    Polly swallowed. “That’s nice. It’s very popular,” she said gamely.

    Livia agreed eagerly with this—her agent had made sure of it—and then told Polly eagerly about a couple of cameos she was booked for in two Australian soaps. And she was going to be a Celebrity Guest on one of their most popular game shows, and— Polly agreed that that was all splendid.

    After which there was a short pause. Then Livia said in a voice which she would have hated to know betrayed her unease to the acute Lady Carrano: “Who is this man who’s going to be interviewing me for TVNZ, Polly? What’s he like?”

    And Polly gave a little laugh and said he was an awful idiot, and Livia had better be warned, she’d probably have to take charge of the whole interview herself, he wouldn’t know what questions to ask her, and if she actually tried to answer what he did ask, he’d interrupt with his next question that would be on some other topic entirely!

    Whereat Livia gave a confident laugh and said she could deal with that all right, and thanked Polly for warning her. And there was another interview some time this week, only it was just some women’s show, she thought—no, not a radio one, she did have several of those, too—no, a lady—now, what was her name? Livia successfully retrieved her name and Polly said faintly: “Oh.”

    “Is she a bitch?” asked Livia and then wondered frantically if to Lady Carrano’s ear that only sounded common and not sophisticated and worldly as she’d intended it to.

    “Yes,” replied Polly simply. “She specializes in making her interviewees look like fools. You’ll have to be on your guard the whole time. And watch out for the really innocent-sounding questions: she uses those to put her victims at their ease and then pounces.”

    Livia thanked her sincerely for this advice and thought to herself scornfully it didn’t matter, it was only what Adam called “piddling little New Zealand”. Unfortunately she couldn’t convince herself of this—though she mentioned airily having dealt with a much scarier interviewer on a very well-known English chat-show—and silently wished very much that this interview was scheduled for Monday, so as she could get it over with, and not Friday.

    Then Polly asked if she’d seen her dresses for the play, yet, and Livia revealed she hadn’t, they were going to have a big fitting session on Monday, and told Polly how pretty her fairies were—and incidentally how grotesque Adam’s were.

    Polly concealed the fact that she’d long since been shown all the fairies’ costumes and also the fact that she was thinking the poor woman really was upset by Adam’s behaviour, and really it was a bit rude and selfish of him, he had had the best part of a week at the bach with Georgy by the Thursday, he could at least have made the effort to drive down to meet her at the airport. Momentarily losing sight of her own dislike of crowds of noisy, rude reporters and of the fact that Adam might not enjoy that either.

    After this—to both the ladies’ relief—some of the men came back, and Maurice came up to Livia and put his arm round her waist and told her he’d put a bet on the favourite for her, and Livia, who thought that was exactly how a gentleman should behave at the races, gave a pleased gurgle and told him he was a naughty man to be throwing his money away on her like that. Maurice immediately gave her waist a bit of a squeeze and told her that was enough of that!

    Then they watched the race and Livia’s horse won! Livia threw her arms round Maurice in excitement, and Sir Jake told her she must have brought them luck, and Livia bridled and tinkled. Maurice had no doubt whatsoever that she would like her winnings immediately, so after consulting her about what might be a lucky name in the next race, he hurried off to the tote with Sir Jake.

    “But darlings!” squeaked Joel. “The agony of fearing one might lose one’s money—how can one bear to bet?”

    “Well, one as mean as sin like you can’t, of course,” said Jill, tearing up her ticket cheerfully. She’d bet on a rank outsider, she always did, just looked for the longest odds. Sometimes they came home at thirty to one, which was a real thrill. Usually, of course, they didn’t, but Jill rationed herself to twenty dollars a day when she went to the races, which in any case was infrequently.

    Livia tinkled pleasedly—she knew Joel had been getting at her, because he knew she wouldn’t bet with her own money, and she was glad to have his cousin settle his hash. Because she wouldn’t have dreamed of giving him the satisfaction, herself.

    The horses ran, Livia ooh-ed and aah-ed, everyone sipped champagne and made silly bets like on the horse with the biggest ears or the one with the prettiest silks or your lucky number, the horses ran, Livia ooh-ed and aah-ed—and still there was no sign of Wal Briggs, where had he gone with that Japanese man?

   They drank more champagne, the horses ran, Livia ooh-ed and aah-ed, everyone made silly bets—even Sir Jake, wouldn’t you think that with his money—? The horses ran, Livia ooh-ed and aah-ed, and still he didn’t come, where was he? Livia began to feel sick and angry and giggled with Maurice frantically, and let him put a bet that was really far too big on a horse with a silly white nose just because she’d said it looked like the kind of horse that would win by a nose.

    Finally there they were and Livia cried: “Wal! There you are! Where have you been, naughty man? You missed my darling horse with a white nose that very nearly won by a nose!”

    Mr Briggs only looked down his own rather squashed nose, and said: “Shit, are you types still stuck in here on a beautiful day like this?”

    “We have been at the rails, it is much more exciting,” said the Japanese, not looking as if anything could possibly excite him: not even his horse winning at two hundred to one.

    “Oh, we should have gone, Polly!” cried Livia.

    “What was stopping you?” said Briggs drily, strolling off to get himself a glass of champagne.

    He hadn’t really looked at her, just sort of given her a glance as if she was a—a beetle, or something, and Livia felt very hot and angry and decided to teach him a lesson. So she leaned on Maurice a bit and said with a laugh: “Your fearsome tropical sun, darling—isn’t the ultra-violet level positively dangerous out here?”—and laughed again. Several people had already mentioned the ultra-violet level in her hearing, in fact two men at the Registrar’s the previous evening had had a long conversation about it, so she felt pretty safe with that.

    Briggs only replied in a dry voice, not looking round: “So they tell me.”

    Maurice gave her a bit of a squeeze. “Don’t ask him, sweetie: got nothing between the ears except court procedure and the going rate for getting you off after you’ve murdered your de facto in cold blood.”

    Several people laughed a bit and Livia laughed, too, and said: “Could you get me off, Wal, if I was arrested for murder?” She fluttered her eyelashes as she said it, even though he wasn’t looking at her.

    And Maurice said before Wal Briggs could say anything: “He could if you could afford him, sweetie,” and everybody laughed.

    “Of course, you could sell your exclusive story to Truth, and pay him out of that,” said Jill, and everybody laughed again except Wal Briggs. Livia didn’t know what she meant but she laughed, too.

    Maurice then urged Livia to choose another horse and they put their heads very close together. Livia giggled rather a lot during the process and glanced up once or twice to see if Wal Briggs was looking—but he never was.

    There were more races and lots of jokes—and quite a lot of conversation, particularly between Jill, Polly and Joel, that Livia didn’t quite get the gist of—and Maurice went out a couple of times to put bets on but Wal only came near her once. When he did it was with a glass of champagne and Livia thought: Well! That was a hopeful sign!

    “Ooh, is that for little me?”

    “Nah, I’m standing here holding two glasses in me fists for the fun of it,” he drawled.

    “Well, enjoy yourself, darling!” whooped Livia.

    “Very funny. You want this, or not?” he said.

    “I shouldn’t really, it’ll make me tipsy!” Livia returned with her tinkling laugh, peeping up at him.

    “So?”

    Livia was furious with him. For two pins she could have slapped his face. But she said as airily as she could: “Oh, well, I suppose I might—since you’ve gone to all the trouble of getting it for me!” and gave him her best smile even though she felt more like screaming.

    “It was no trouble,” he said—but not politely, on the contrary, very drily.

    Fortunately Livia didn’t have to reply because Joel came up on his other side and said: “Ooh, in that case can you get me one, dear?”

    “Get your own, are you helpless?” he replied—very rudely, as if he didn’t like Joel. Livia, who of course didn’t like him either, didn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry—because after all Wal had asked for it, and Joel really had seemed almost on her side for a minute.

    “No, but you got her one!” squeaked Joel, terrifically high.

    “Her blouse is prettier than yours,” said Wal, not smiling.

    Joel looked sulky. “You mean she’s got something prettier inside it! May blouse, let me tell you, has been much admired.”

    “In its time,” said Livia before she could stop herself. Damn! Now he’d think she was a spiteful bitch.

    “I dare say,” said Briggs, walking away them. He went over to the Japanese man and Polly and began to talk to them—Livia could hear them, it was something about the Tokyo shops—yes, well, all of them would know, of course! She betted he was doing it on purpose to show her up for a stupid, third-rate actress that had never been further than Boulogne until that money that darling angel Binnsy did something clever with on the Stock Exchange had come up trumps and she’d been able to spend it all on that trip to California and— Well, so what, it was an investment, that was how she looked on it, and a woman had to make the most of herself, didn’t she? And anyway, her plastic surgeon, he was a darling man, had shown her a picture of a nose exactly—ex-act-ly—like Polly Carrano’s! He did at least three of them a month.

    At this point in her angry, jealous ruminations Polly gave a little contralto gurgle and cried: “Oh, Wal! It’s frightful, totally plastic! Kyoto’s much nicer, don’t you think, Inoue?”

    Wal Briggs put his arm round her waist—with her husband standing right there, mind you!—and said: “Cor, youse inter-leckshals have got refoined tastes,”—putting it on, and it wasn’t funny, whatever he thought!

    Polly laughed again and Livia felt furious with Wal all over again.

    “Oops, deary!” said Joel with a silly giggle.

    Livia merely withered him with a look. Maurice came back from putting their bets on just then and so she was very, very, very nice to him—but she didn’t really manage to kid herself that Wal Briggs noticed or cared.

    “This is dumb,” said Jake to his wife when he’d finally managed to drag her down to the paddock.

    “What—throwing your money away on spavined old hacks?” she rejoined cordially as they watched the colts in the selling race parade.

    “No! This bloody carry-on of Wal’s. Does he want her or doesn’t he?”

    “He looked to me as if he did,” said his wife on a dry note worthy of Briggs himself.

    “Yeah: that’s what I thought,” he agreed calmly. “So what the Hell’s he playing at?”

    “Don’t ask me, I’m not a man.”

    “You’re an expert, though,” he returned simply.

    “On the behaviour of scatty female actresses of a not-serious persuasion, or on Wal Briggs?” she replied, rolling her eyes somewhat under the hat.

    “Men,” he replied succinctly.

    “Oh—them!” said Polly with a giggle.

    “Well, what do ya reckon?” he demanded.

    “Um—that chestnut. With the white blaze.”

    Jake consulted the book of words. “Our Canny Lad. By what out of what?”

    “Perhaps he’s a dark horse, even if he is a chestnut.”

    “That’ll do,” he said. “Um—what was I— Aw, yeah! Wal. Come on, what the fuck’s he up to?”

    Polly wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know him as well as you do, darling... Well, I was kind of wondering at one point, when she was being even more all-over Maurice than usual, if he’s sort of torn between—um—wanting her and disgust with her.”

    “Yeah, that’ll be it: his simple masculine mind hasn’t grasped that he really ought to pity her in spite of all that carry-on with old Maurice: she’s had a hard life.”

    “Well, you would ask,” she said mildly.

    “Yeah.” Jake looked glumly at a dapple grey. “You ever heard that white horses are unlucky?”

    “Yes; but if you lead them widdershins round the cathedral three times when the clock chimes thirteen, it breaks the sp—”

    “All right,” he said, grinning. He looked hard at the grey and said: “I think you’re right.”

    “Okay,” said Polly, unruffled: “we’ll get Aunty Vi to get the Dean with bell, book and candle: can’t hurt.”

    “No!” he choked. “No, ya nana,” he said, putting his arm round her shoulders and giving her a little hug: “I mean ya might be right about Wal.”

    “Mm... Well, maybe. Maybe it’s partly to annoy her, she’s obviously attracted to him. You know, show her he’s—um—”

    “Hard to get,” he said sourly. “Yeah. Too right.”

    “Yes. I should think most men she fancied wouldn’t put up much resistance. Perhaps he wants to show her he’s different—you know. More serious?”

    Jake made a hideous face. “Yeah. Maybe he is thinking of a fourth round.”

    “Mm... “ Polly looked dubiously at the dapple grey again.

    Jake sighed. “Dumb bugger. Hasn’t he ever heard of a bird in the hand?”

    Lady Carrano rejoined mildly: “Haven’t you ever heard of a hand on the bum not being particularly good manners in public?”

    Somehow it had got down there. “You’re not enjoying it, of course!” he choked.

    “We-ell... Does it go with the title, though, Sir Jacob?”

    “That’ll do!” he choked. “Oh—bugger!” he gasped, as a Press-person snapped.

    “‘Sir Jacob and Lady Carrano in an informal pose at the races’,” said Polly in a hollow voice.

    “Yeah, the buggers are everywhere,” he agreed wrathfully.

    “Don’t buy anything, then they won’t bother to run the picture,” she suggested.’

    “Scrooge,” he replied, eyeing a restive black narrowly. “Him,” he decided.

    “What about the book of words?” said his wife cautiously.

    “Fuck the book of words, I’ve got a feeling.”

     Polly groaned deeply.

    “Ithn’t it exciting! Will he really buy one, do you think, Maurie?” asked Livia, clinging to his arm as Maurice explained what a selling race was all about.

    “Several,” said Jill drily. “The whole line-up, very likely. I’m going to put at least a dollar on that white horse, he looks pretty; can I put something on for you while I’m at it, Livia?”

    Livia looked plaintively at Maurice. “We-ell... Should we rithk it, Maurie?” she lisped.

    “Uh—you fancy the white one? I think I’ll have a tenner on number 5, meself.” He fished out a handful of notes.

    “Oh—well—he is very pretty—no, I really think that shiny black one, darling.”

    Maurice obligingly gave Jill ten dollars to put on the black for Livia.

    “Well?” she said to her cousin in threatening tones.

    “Half-a-crown on the pretty white one!” he squeaked.

    “Skinflint. Come on, I’ll show you how the tote works.” She dragged him off pitilessly.

    “The black’ll win,” decided Wal, lowering his field glasses.

    “Yeth, I’m sure he will!” cried Livia.

    “Why?” he asked expressionlessly.

    “Because he looks like a winner, silly one! Why do you think he’ll win?”

    “Because he looks like a stayer. And see the way he holds his head?”

    “Ye-es...” Actually the black horse wasn’t holding his head up very high. He wasn’t tossing it or anything, either. Though he had been, earlier.

    “There’ve been some great horses have had that trick,” said Wal.

    “Some great losers, too,” said Maurice drily.

    Livia gave a little trill of laughter. “Dar-ling!” she protested, clinging to his arm.

    “So you are backing the black, Wal?” said Inoue.

    “No. But I might buy a leg. We’ll see.”

    “Buy a leg? Darling, is that terribly meaningful horsey talk?” gurgled Livia.

    “Quarter share,” said Wal briefly, picking up his glasses again. “Ye-ah... Come on, Inoue, want a closer dekko?”

    “Yes. If you will excuse us?” he said politely.

    “Maurie, why don’t we go, too?” cooed Livia.

    “Yeah, why not? Sure you’ll be okay in the sun, though, sweetie?”

    “It has sunk a bit... We could stand in the shade, Maurie, couldn’t we?”

    “Could to watch the race, yeah. Come on, then.”

    “Why not invest in a leg, Maurice?” said Wal with a grin as they went out.

    “I’d have to sell a few shares... Might give it a go, why not?”

    “Because it is an excellent way to throw your money away. Jake might find it a tax advantage, but I would advise against it, Maurice,” said Inoue calmly.

    “This’ll be on the grounds that it might be fun, would it?” replied Maurice with a grin, and Livia squeaked, and squeezed his arm.

    “No, it would be on the grounds that Suzanne’s attitude to it would be very like Masako’s,” he replied, poker-face.

    “Too bad. Gotta have a few hobbies in me old age, eh?” said Maurice jauntily, and gave Livia a sly pinch.

    “Ooh! Maurie! Naughty!” she shrieked, giggling madly.

    “But even a leg must eat,” murmured Inoue as they made their way to the paddock. The big race of the day was over and the crowds were thinning.

    “Funny idea of physiology these Japanese have got, eh?” said Maurice conversationally.

    “Yes,” Inoue replied twinkling. “But also I think I have a point. The syndicate is expected to share expenses, no?”

    “Yeah, well, I was taking that into account. Yeah—well, if you and Carrano are interested, Wal, I’ll be in it,” he said.

    “Goodoh. Oh, there’s Jake,” he said. “The one with the hand on his wife’s bum.”

    Livia gave a startled giggle. Briggs didn’t react.

    “Lucky man,” said Maurice on a dry note.

    “Aw—dunno about that,” he drawled. “Spends most of her evenings marking student papers or writing her blessed notes, as far as I can make out.”

    “Surely—!” protested Livia faintly, quite taken aback.

    “Not teaching at the moment,” grunted Maurice.

    “No, but that doesn’t appear to have stopped her. Either that or she’ll have her head in some bloody boring intellectual book. Dunno how he puts up with it, at times.”

    “And what is your idea of appropriate behaviour of a devoted wife in the evenings, Wallace?” asked Inoue politely. Livia noted with interest that that was almost “Wallacu”—and it was Wallace, not Walter, good: that was a pretty name, but she’d always hated Walter, remember that awful Walter when she’d been in the chorus line of that really frightful touring production of Camelot? Ugh! Joel had been in it, too, and he’d maintained that they were a lot of camels, which wasn’t far from the truth: that Queen Guinevere had been—

    Livia jumped a little as Briggs said: “Oh, quiet domestic devotion, warmed slippers by the fire, nice hot dinner, no objection to a man smoking a decent cigar and watching the late wrestling on the box.”

    “Ah!” said Inoue. “Now, sumo—”

    “Shut up. We’re not talking about bloody sumo,” said Wal genially, aware that Livia’s eyes were on him, and wondering if she was going to ask him if his wife provided these comforts in order to find out if he was married.

    But she didn’t have to: Maurice said drily: “Was it the cigars or the slipper-warming that were the last straw in your three abortive efforts, Wal?”

    Livia repressed a start. Three! Good heavens! ...But at least he was apparently free, now.

    Of those present, only Inoue Takagaki registered silently that Maurice had very probably said it in order to save Livia from having to ask. Briggs wouldn’t have done it himself in Maurice’s place, and besides was about fifteen years Maurice’s junior, so it never occurred to him that in addition to currently sleeping with her the older man might take a quite altruistic interest in her welfare. Besides, there never had been anything altruistic about Wallace Briggs.

    “False starts, you mean,” he replied calmly. “Um—bit of both, really. And in Leila’s case the blatant sleeping around. I don’t mind being taken, you expect that if there’s twenty years between you, but by God I object to being taken for a fool!”

    “Did she get anything at all out of the divorce?” asked Maurice curiously.

    “Not a penny: not after the blood tests proved conclusively the brat couldn’t be mine,” he replied grimly as they came up to the Carranos.

    “Who, Leila? Yeah, a historic victory, that was,” agreed Jake.

    “The bitch never thought I’d do it. Dunno why, never said a thing to her I didn’t mean,” he grunted.

    “You poor darling!” gasped Livia.

    “Nope: rich darling, that’s the point,” said Jake, very drily.

    “Not by your standards,” returned Wal, even drier.

    Livia glanced at them uncertainly hut trilled: “Well, I’m so glad you won in the end, Wal, dear!”

    “Are you?” he replied in a hard voice.

    The Carranos tried not to catch each others’ eyes as Livia gave a desperate trill and gasped: “But of course! One’s sympathies are all with you, darling!”

    “Women ought to stick together,” he said briefly. “Whaddaya reckon to the black?” he said to Jake.

    “Ah!” He laid a finger to the side of his nose.

    They plunged into horsey talk. Livia didn’t listen. She felt totally confused—indeed, bewildered. What did he want from her? Was it just because he was a foreigner? No, that was absurd, he wasn’t an Oriental, like that peculiar Inoue, New Zealanders were just the same as us, really.

    ... “All right,” said Jake finally, after the black, squeezed onto the rail, had come in not first but second, but they had decided to buy him anyway. “We’ll go down the stables tomorrow, eh? Have a good look at him, now he’s ours!” He beamed.

    “What about the children, Jake?” murmured his wife. “We said we’d spend the day with them. And Akiko’s due for a day off—especially after taking them to that awful birthday party this afternoon!” she added with a little giggle.

    “Yeah, poor wee thing. She’ll be jelly and ice-cream from the tip of her toes to the top of her head be now, eh?” he agreed genially, looking at his watch. “Well, take ’em with us, eh? Take the waggon: nice family outing!” he beamed.

    “Katie Maureen’ll want us to bring the horse back home with us, there’ll be a scene,” she warned.

    “Paddle her pants for her,” he offered, with a wink, giving hers a quick pat on the strength of it. –Livia repressed a little envious sigh. He was such a masculine man... Polly Carrano must be mad, if she really spent all her evenings doing her university work and reading awful books!

    “You may have to,” Polly admitted. “All right, then, darling, if you want to spend several hours cooped up in the car with three whingeing brats, let’s.”

    “Rats, they’ll go to sleep, always do. Shall we take a hamper, eh? Have a nice picnic, could go on down to Huka Falls or something. –Come with us,” he said to Livia. “Be a nice outing for ya. See a bit of the country.”

    “Oh—I’d love to, Jake!” she gasped. “Only—did we have anything planned for tomorrow, Maurie darling?” she asked doubtfully, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

    “Nope.” He scratched his silver curls. “Dunno that I can manage it, though. Have to see a bloke about a thing I’m editing—only time he can manage it, he’s over from Perth for a conference next week, only he’s booked up all week.”

    “Oh, Maurie, what a pity!” cried Livia, trying desperately not to glance at Briggs, there was no point in asking to be knocked back!

    “Is that that Pacific Political History thing at the Institute?” asked Polly.—Livia repressed a sigh. Of course, she’d know all about it.—“Aren’t you speaking at it, Maurice?”

    “Only the plenary session on Monday. Oh, and a seminar thing later—s’pose I’ll have to turn up to that. Needn’t show me nose there for the rest of it, though. Thank Christ.”

    “I see, darling!” trilled Livia, untruthfully. “What a pity, you’ll miss seeing the lovely horses tomorrow!”

    “Never mind. See them some other time, eh?”

    “Yes. Well, then, Jake darling, I’d simply love to!”

    “Goodoh,” he returned. “What about you, Wal?”

    “Crammed into the back of your bloody station-waggon with three squirming, sicking brats? Do me a favour!”

    “They’re never sick in the car!” he returned in astonishment. “Well, not unless some idiot fills their poor wee pukus full of chocolate and muck,” he added pointedly.

    “Yes, anyone would think you’d never had any of your own,” said Polly with a twinkle.

    The lawyer shrugged. “That was a fair while back. Here, did I tell you bloody Stewart’s bought up umpteen blocks over on Waiheke—” There were loud groans, so it appeared he had. “Yeah, well. Bloody yuppie,” he grumbled.

    “Well, it’s blocks on Waiheke in his day, whereas it was kiwifruit farms in yours,” said Polly kindly.—Briggs gave her a jaundiced look.—“Bring your own car,” she suggested.

    “Yeah. Tell ya what, you take Livia, then she won’t have to ride with the spewing brats,” suggested his old friend, without the slightest sign of innuendo about him.

    “Love-ly!” she trilled. “But I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble, Wallace! Little me will be quite all right with the kiddies!”

    “Bullshit. Pick you up—uh—tennish, ya reckon?” he said to Jake.

    Jake conceded tennish. They then had an argument about how long it would take, but Livia didn’t hear a word: she was in seventh heaven, positively seventh heaven!

    This didn’t stop her spending a very pleasant evening indeed with Maurice.

    Being a man who could take a hint when it stood up and bellowed at him, Maurice very politely took himself off about one o’clock that morning.

    Livia had reclined against her pillows smiling muzzily at him while he dropped a goodnight kiss on her forehead. She immediately scrambled out of bed and cleansed and nourished her face and neck very, very thoroughly.

    She fell asleep as she lay there wondering What To Wear and thinking she’d never be able to sleep a wink.