I don’t want to be someone’s lovely wife, thought Vivi, gazing at her reflection and feeling the familiar drag of dissatisfaction. I just want to be Douglas’s passion. She allowed herself The briefest rerun of her fantasy, now as well thumbed as the pages of a favourite book – the one in which Douglas, shaking his head at the unexpected beauty of her in her ballgown, whirled her on to the dance floor and waltzed her round until she was giddy, his strong hand placed firmly on the small of her back, his cheek pressed against hers . . . (It owed an awful lot, she had to admit, to Walt Disney’s Cinderella. It had to, as things tended to get a bit blurry after the kissing.) Since arriving here, her daydream kept being interrupted by slim, enigmatic Jean Shrimpton lookalikes, who tempted him away with knowing smiles and Sobranie cigarettes – so she had started a new one, in which, at the end of the evening, Douglas escorted her back to this huge bedroom, waited longingly at the open door, and then finally, tenderly, walked her over to the window, gazed at her moonlit face and—
‘Vee? Are you decent?’ Vivi jumped guiltily as Douglas rapped sharply on the door. ‘Thought we might nip downstairs early. I bumped into an old schoolfriend and he’s saving us a couple of glasses of champagne. Are you nearly done?’
The pleasure of Douglas’s calling for her wrestled with her dismay at him already having found someone else to talk to. ‘Two secs,’ she shouted, layering mascara on her eyelashes, and praying that tonight would be the one on which he was forced to look at her differently. ‘I’ll be right there.’
He looked perfect in black tie, of course. Unlike her father, whose stomach strained uncomfortably over his cummerbund like a wind-filled sail, Douglas simply looked taller and straighter, his shoulders square in the crisp dark cloth of his jacket, his skin thrillingly alive against the flat monochrome of his shirt. She thought he probably knew he looked handsome. When she’d told him so, jokingly, to hide the intensity of longing his appearance had provoked in her, he’d laughed gruffly and said he felt like a trussed-up fool. Then, as if embarrassed to have forgotten, he had complimented her too. ‘You scrub up pretty well, old girl,’ he said, putting his arm round her and giving her a brotherly squeeze. It wasn’t quite Prince Charming, but it was a touch. Vivi still felt it, radioactive on her bare skin.
‘Did you know we’re now officially snowed in?’
Alexander, Douglas’s pale, freckled schoolfriend, had brought her another drink. It was her third glass of champagne, and the paralysis she had initially felt, when confronted by the sea of glamorous faces before her, had evaporated. ‘What?’ she said.
He leant in so that she could hear him over the noise of the band. ‘The snow. It’s started again. Apparently no one’s going to get past the end of the drive until they bring more grit tomorrow.’ He, like many of the men, was wearing a red coat (‘Pink,’ he corrected her) and his aftershave was terribly strong, as if he hadn’t been sure how much to use.
‘Where will you stay?’ Vivi had a sudden picture of a thousand bodies camped on the ballroom floor.
‘Oh, I’m all right. I’m in the house, like you. Don’t know what the rest will do, though. Keep going all night, probably. Some of these chaps would have done that anyway.’
Unlike Vivi, most of the people she could see around her looked as if they stayed up until dawn as a matter of course. They all seemed so confident and assured, uncowed by their grand surroundings. Their poise and chatter suggested there was nothing particularly special about being in this stately home, even though there was a fleet of minions whose only wish was to serve them food and drink, and that they were unaccompanied by chaperones on a night when boys and girls were likely to have to stay in the same house. The girls wore their dresses easily, with the insouciance of those for whom smart evening wear was as familiar as an overcoat.
They didn’t look like extras from a Disney film. Among the tiaras and pearls there were heavily outlined eyes, cigarettes, the occasional Pucci skirt. And despite the incongruous elegance of the wedding-cake ballroom, the many swirling ballgrowns and evening dresses, it had not been long before the band had been persuaded to drop its playlist of traditional dances, and strike up something a little more modern – an instrumental version of ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand’ had sent girls squealing on to the dance floor, shaking their elaborately coiffed heads and shimmying their hips, leaving the matrons on the sidelines to shake their own heads in perplexed disapproval, and Vivi to conclude, sadly, that she was unlikely to get her waltz with Douglas.
Not that she was sure he’d remembered his promise. Since they had come into the ballroom, he had seemed distracted, as if he were scenting something she didn’t understand. In fact, Douglas hadn’t seemed much like himself at all, smoking cigars with his friends, exchanging jokes she didn’t get. She was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about the imminent collapse of the class system – if anything, he looked disturbingly at home among the black ties and hunting coats. Several times she had tried to say something private to him, something that re-established their shared history, a degree of intimacy. At one point, boldly, she had made a joke about his smoking a cigar, but he hadn’t seemed particularly interested – had listened with what her mother always called ‘half an ear’. Then as politely as he could, he had rejoined the other conversation.
She had started to feel foolish, so had been almost grateful when Alexander had paid her attention. ‘Fancy a twist?’ he had said, and she had to confess that she had only learnt the classic dance steps. ‘Easy,’ he said, leading her on to the floor. ‘Stub a cigarette out with your toe, and rub a towel on your behind. Got it?’ He had looked so comical that she had burst out laughing, then glanced behind her to see whether Douglas had noticed. But Douglas, not for the first time that evening, had disappeared.
At eight a master of ceremonies announced that there was a buffet, and Vivi, a little giddier than when she had arrived, joined a long line of people queuing for sole Véronique or boeuf bourguignon and wondered how to balance her extreme hunger with the knowledge that none of the girls around her were eating more than a few sticks of overcooked carrot.
Almost accidentally, she had become embedded in a group of Alexander’s friends. He had introduced her in a manner that was faintly proprietorial, and Vivi had found herself tugging at her bodice, conscious that she was revealing quite an expanse of flushed cleavage.
‘Been to Ronnie Scott’s?’ said one, leaning over her so that she had to hold her plate away from her.
‘Never met him. Sorry.’
‘It’s a jazz club. Gerrard Street. You should get Xander to take you there. He knows Stan Tracy.’
‘I don’t really know—’ Vivi stepped back, and apologised when she jogged someone’s drink.
‘God, I’m starving. Went to the Atwoods’ do last week and all they served was salmon mould and consommé. I had to pay the girls to give me theirs. Thought I’d bloody faint with hunger.’
‘Nothing as mean as a mean buffet.’
‘Couldn’t agree more, Xander. You skiing this year?’
‘Verbier. Parents have borrowed Alfie Baddow’s place. You remember Alfie?’