The Fashion In Shrouds Page 9

  ‘A snob?’

  ‘Yes, bless him. He’s batty about my title. He’s always getting at me for it just so he can hear himself use it. I like Sid. He’s got enthusiasm. Where is this place The Tulip? What makes you think they may be there?’

  ‘Intuition backed by the law of elimination.’ Mr Campion sounded dogged. ‘If they’re not here, my child, we shall have to start knocking at doors and asking. London is a largish town for that method, but since you’ve made up your mind I see no other course.’

  ‘I hope you’re not getting old,’ said Amanda dubiously. ‘If the worst comes to the worst we’ll begin at Hampstead and work our way south.’

  The Tulip had been flowering for a little over seven months and was therefore nearing its zenith in the fashionable sunlight. Jules Parroquet, whose golden rule for the exploitation of a successful restaurant and night-club was simple – a new name and orchestra to every two changes of paint – already considered it one of his triumphs. The ceiling of flowers was still noticed and admired and the silly little striped canvas canopies every now and again were as fresh and piquant as when they had first been erected.

  Mr Campion and Amanda stood for a moment looking over the broad silver rail above the orchestra before going down to the dance-floor level, where Campion was relying on the Head Waiter, the lean Ulysse, the one permanent husbandman in Parroquet’s ever-changing flower garden, to find them a respectably prominent table.

  He did not find Georgia immediately, but was relieved to see that the place was filled with likely people. Stage and society were well represented and Money hung about with Art in the corners, while the mass attempt at complete un-self-consciousness provided the familiar atmosphere of feverish effort.

  Young Hennessy, sitting at a table with a duchess, an actor-manager and two complete strangers, made an importunate attempt to attract his attention, and it was not until then that Campion, normally the most observant of men, glanced at Amanda and noticed that she had grown astonishingly good to look at. She saw his expression and grinned.

  ‘I put my best frock on,’ she said. ‘Hal chooses all my things. Hal says good undergraduate taste is the only safe criterion of modern clothes. He takes it terribly seriously. Do you see anybody you know or have we got to go on somewhere else?’

  ‘No, this’ll do.’ Mr Campion’s tone contained not only relief but a note of resignation. Amanda, he foresaw, was about to discover the worst.

  Ulysse received them with all that wealth of unspoken satisfaction which was his principal professional asset and conducted them to the small but not ill-placed table which he swore he had been keeping up his sleeve for just such an eventuality. The worst of the cabaret was over, he confided with that carefully cultivated contempt for everything that interfered with beautiful food, which was another of his more valuable affectations. He also spent some time considering the best meal for Amanda at that time of night.

  As soon as they were at peace again Mr Campion took it upon himself to rearrange his companion’s chair so that her view across the room was not impeded. Then he sat down beside her.

  ‘There you are, lady,’ he said. ‘Once more the veteran conjuror staggers out with the rabbit. There’s the situation for you in the proverbial nut.’

  Georgia and Alan Deli had a table on the edge of the dance-floor and from where she now sat Amanda had clear view of the two profiles. Georgia’s slightly blunt features and magnificent shoulders were thrown up against the moving kaleidoscope of colour, and Dell sat staring at her with fifteen years off his age and the lost, slightly dazed expression of the man who, whether his trouble be love, drink or merely loss of blood, has honestly no idea that he is surrounded by strangers.

  Infatuation is one of those slightly comic illnesses which are at once so undignified and so painful that a nice-minded world does its best to ignore their existence altogether, referring to them only under provocation and then with apology, but, like its more material brother, this boil on the neck of the spirit can hardly be forgotten either by the sufferer or anyone else in his vicinity. The malady is ludicrous, sad, excruciating and, above all, instantly diagnosable.

  Mr Campion glanced at Amanda and was sorry. Illusions may deserve to be broken, young enthusiasts may have to take what is coming to them, and heroes may desert their causes as life dictates, but it is always an unhappy business to watch. Amanda sat up, her round white neck very stiff and the jut of her flaming curls dangerous. Her face was expressionless, and the absence of any animation brought into sudden prominence the natural hauteur stamped into the fine bones of her head. She regarded the two for a long candid minute and then, turning away, changed the conversation with that flat deliberation which is a gift

  ‘This is excellent fish,’ she said.

  Mr Campion, who had the uncomfortable feeling that he had been a little vulgar, laboured to make amends.

  ‘It’s dudgeon,’ he said. ‘Very rare. They have great difficulty in keeping it. Hence the term “high . . .”.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Amanda met his eyes. ‘We lived on it down at the mill one year. Do you remember? Who is that woman?’

  ‘Georgia Wells, the actress.’

  Amanda’s fine eyebrows rose.

  ‘I thought that was Lady Ramillies?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Campion.

  She was silent. There was no possible way of divining what was in her mind, but he reflected that the younger generation was notoriously severe.

  ‘It wears off, you know,’ he said, trying not to sound avuncular. ‘He can’t help the out-in-the-street-in-the-nude effect, poor chap, at the moment. Nothing can be done. The work will have to wait.’

  ‘No, nothing can be done,’ agreed Amanda politely. ‘That’s what I have to explain to Sid. Thank you very much for bringing me.’

  She moved her chair a little to shut out Dell, and set herself to be entertaining. Mr Campion approved. He remembered enough of the hard-working, hero-worshipping, ecstatic days of his own youth to realize some of the shame, the sneaking jealousy and horrified sense of injustice and neglect that comes when the great man lets his fiery disciples down. But if Amanda was conscious of any of this she was not inflicting it upon him. Her manners were irreproachable. Amanda was, as ever, the perfect gent.

  It occurred to him also that both Val and Amanda had intrinsically the same quarrel with Dell, inasmuch as they both dreaded his loss of dignity. He sighed. The man had his sincere sympathy.

  He glanced across the dance-floor and caught a fleeting glimpse of Georgia dancing. It was only a momentary impression, but he recognized her by her distinctive silver dress and the ridiculous but charming spray of swallows on her dark crown. His astonishment was considerable, therefore, when his glance, travelling back, lighted upon her still sitting at the table, her face radiant, her eyes shining, and the whole warmth of her magnificent, fraudulent personality glowing at the man before her. He sat up and looked out at the floor again and his expression changed. His mistake was triumphantly justified.

  Another woman of Georgia’s type was wearing a replica of Georgia’s silver dress and Georgia’s silver swallows. Her dark curls were dressed in Georgia’s style and at that distance the two faces were indistinguishable. Mr Campion recognized Miss Adamson with difficulty and reflected that the girl was a fool as well as a knave. Then he caught sight of her partner, and once again experienced that faint sense of outrage which thundering bad taste invariably produced in him.

  Dancing with Miss Adamson, his small head held at a slight angle and his whole body expressing his tremendous satisfaction, was Sir Raymond Ramillies.

  Chapter Eight

  ULYSSE HAD SETTLED Sir Raymond and Miss Adamson safely at the table immediately behind Georgia, and Ramillies was grinning happily at his success in acquiring it before the good maître d’hôtel noticed the phenomenon of the two Miss Wells.

  Mr Campion, who found himself watching the scene with the fascinated apprehension of a village idiot at a dangerou
s crossing, almost laughed aloud at the expression of incredulity which spread over Ulysse’s face as his glance took in the two women. His small bright eyes flickered and he thrashed the menu card which he happened to be holding as if it had been a tail and he a Labrador. It was a comic moment, but it passed too soon, leaving only a growing sense of embarrassment as half a dozen diners at other tables swung round to stare with that insolence which comes from an attempt to look casual, or perhaps invisible, before they returned to warn their companions not to look round immediately.

  Amanda looked at Campion and for the first time in their entire acquaintance he saw her rattled.

  ‘That is Ramillies,’ she said. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Fire at the lights,’ he suggested, his wide mouth twisting with brief amusement. ‘No, it’s no good, old lady; this is grown-up vulgarity. We sit and watch. Oh Lord!’

  The final exclamation was occasioned by a movement at Georgia’s table. Alan Dell had dragged his dazzled eyes away from Lady Ramillies for an instant, only to be confronted immediately by Miss Adamson, seated directly behind her. Georgia noted the sudden deflection of interest and turned her head impulsively. Ramillies met her eyes and grinned with bland self-satisfaction.

  She gave him a single offended and reproving glance, natural if unreasonable in the circumstances, and turned her eyes to his companion with an expression half-condescending, half curious. The next moment, however, as the full Insult became apparent, she was reduced to elementary emotions. The colour rose over her chest and flowed up her neck to her face in an angry flood. There was a sudden cessation of conversation at all the tables round about and she sat for a moment in a little oasis of silence in the desert of hissing sound.

  Mr Campion dropped his hand over Amanda’s, but she drew it away from him and began to eat as resolutely and angrily as her Victorian grandfather might have done in similar circumstances.

  Ramillies bent forward and said something to his wife and she pushed back her chair, her face as pale as it had been red, while Alan Dell sprang up and fumbled for her bag and flowers.

  It was a dangerous moment. There was something not quite ordinary in the quality of the contretemps – an ultimate degree of outrage – the quintessence of going a bit too far – so that the situation became vaguely alarming even to those least concerned. At the very instant when the clash of many emotions was still tingling in the air and everyone in that half of the room was waiting uncomfortably for Gloria’s exit, a preserving angel appeared somewhat heavily disguised as Solly Batemann.

  When Solly was described as an ornament to the theatrical profession, the word was never meant to be taken in its literal or decorative sense. He looked like a cross between a frog and a bulldog and was reputed to have the hide and warts of a rhino, but his personality was as full and generous as his voice, which was sweet and caressing without any of the oiliness which one was led to expect from his appearance. He was very pleased with himself at the moment. Three of his theatres were playing to capacity and the fourth production, which had flopped, had been by far the least expensive of them all. He surged across the floor to Georgia, his great stomach thrown out, his little eyes popping out of the top of his head, and his many grey-blue jowls quivering with bonhomie.

  ‘Ah, my darling, you are a clever girl!’ he said when he was within hailing distance. ‘If we were only alone I should kiss you. I saw the show to-night. I sat and cried all over my shirt. Fact. No, not that spot, that’s minestrone – this one.’

  Solly’s irrestibility was the irrestibility of a tidal wave. Even Georgia could only succumb. She had no need to speak. He swept a chair from another table and planted it squarely between her and Dell. Then, with one elephantine knee resting on its velvet seat, he held forth, pouring unstinted praise upon her as though from some vast cornucopia. It was a performance and its genuineness was Georgia’s own. In spite of herself she warmed under it and within three minutes he had her laughing.

  Mr Campion was bewildered. Since Solly’s interests were concentrated solely upon musical and spectacular shows and Georgia was well known to be under a long contract with Ferdie Paul, there could scarcely be any ulterior motive in the display, so that the tribute became sincere and heaven-sent.

  Mr Campion glanced at the other table and his eyebrows rose. In fact, heaven seemed to be sending all sorts of things. As soon as general interest had become focused upon Solly, Ramillies had turned in his chair like an unnoticed child with every intention of joining in the new conversation, but now a waiter appeared at his elbow with a card on a salver. Ramillies took the pasteboard absently. His interest was still centred on his wife, but a glance at the message distracted him. He looked up eagerly, his dazzling childlike smile appearing, and, making a brief excuse to Miss Adamson, he set off across the room after the waiter without a backward glance. The next moment, as if these two dispensations of Providence were not enough, Ramon Starr, the Tulip’s most promising gigolo, sidled over to the deserted girl and she jumped at his murmured proposal. They floated away together to the strains of ‘Little Old Lady’.

  Dell himself had remained standing, regarding the exuberant Solly with growing disapproval, but before Georgia could become preoccupied with his discomfort yet another minor miracle occurred, taking the whole thing out of the happy coincidence class altogether. Tante Marthe herself came sweeping by, looking like a famous elderly ballerina in her severe black gown, her head crowned by a ridiculous little beaded turban which only Val could have devised.

  She nodded to Georgia, who did not see her, which was not surprising, since Solly still filled every arc of her horizon, and, passing on, pounced upon Alan. She said something to him in which the name of ‘Gaiogi’ alone was audible and laid her small yellow hand familiarly on his arm. From the little distance at which Campion and Amanda sat it was not possible to hear his reply, but Lady Papendeik’s lizard glance darted round the room and came to rest on the two with a sparkle of satisfaction. A minute or two later she bore down upon them with Alan Dell following reluctantly at her heels, but she still had him by the cuff, so that he could hardly escape her without brusquerie.

  There was no time to warn Amanda with words and Campion kicked her gently under the table as he rose to greet the newcomer.

  ‘Albert, my dear, I hear you’re going to join our party at Caesar’s Court. I am so glad, my dear boy. You and Mr Dell have met, I think?’

  Tante Marthe looked him full in the eyes as she spoke and he read there a command that he should be helpful. He made a suitable rejoinder and turned to Dell.

  The conventional words faded on his lips as she saw the other man’s face, however, and once more the whole situation became real and painful. Dell was staring helplessly at Amanda. There was colour in his face and his eyes were indescribably hurt, almost bewildered, as if he could scarcely credit the astonishing cruelty of the mischance. Mr Campion felt very sorry for him.

  Amanda took the situation in hand.

  ‘Hallo, A.D.,’ she said with charming embarrassment. ‘I’m having a night on the tiles. This is my fourth meal this evening. The food is good. Come and have some. You haven’t eaten yet, have you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have.’ He was looking at her suspiciously. ‘I’ve been sitting just over there all the evening.’

  ‘Really? Where?’ She stared across the room with such regretful astonishment that she convinced even Mr Campion, who thought for an instant that she was out of her mind. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t notice you. I was engrossed in my fiancé. Do you know him?’

  Mr Campion received a mental thump between the shoulder-blades and saved himself from blinking just in time.

  ‘Albert?’ Lady Papendeik was startled. ‘My children, congratulations! Why haven’t we heard of this before? It’s Amanda Fitton, isn’t it? My dears, this is great news. Does Val know?’

  ‘Engaged?’ Alan Dell peered at Amanda. ‘You? Really? Is it recent? To-night?’

  Mr Campion glanced at his companio
n from under his eyelashes. He hoped she knew what she was doing and would let him in on it So far she had certainly succeeded in changing the conversation, albeit somewhat drastically.

  ‘But how long has this been a fact?’ Dell persisted, seizing on the point as though it had been the only solid spar in the conversational sea.

  Amanda glanced at Campion demurely.

  ‘We shall have to explain,’ she said.

  ‘I think so,’ he agreed affably. ‘You do it.’

  ‘Well, it’s my brother,’ she confided unexpectedly. ‘Do sit down. We ought to drink some champagne to this, you know, darling,’ she added, looking Campion firmly in the face and rubbing her chin thoughtfully with one finger, a gesture that fogged him utterly until he recollected that it was a secret sign in the Fitton family indicating that the speaker was there and then possessed of sufficient funds to cover the proposed extravagance.

  Tante Marthe seated herself at once, and Dell, with a backward glance at Georgia, who was still monopolized, sat down in the opposite chair. As they drank, Mr Campion met Lady Papendeik’s eyes. He read vigorous approval in them and was alarmed.

  Dell was even more embarrassing.

  ‘You’re extremely lucky, Campion,’ he said seriously. ‘She’s a very remarkable girl. We shall feel the draught without her. When is the wrench to be, Amanda?’

  ‘Not for quite a time, I’m afraid.’ The bride-to-be spoke regretfully. ‘It’s Hal, you know. He’s young and frightfully self-opinionated. Of course, he’s head of the family and I don’t want to hurt him by flouting his authority. He’ll come round in time. Meanwhile the engagement is more or less secret – as much as these things ever are. It’s simply not announced; that’s what it amounts to. It’s a howling pity, but we’re both such very busy people that we can – er – bear to wait about a bit.’

  Lady Papendeik approved.