Reckless (26 page)

‘I don’t know why we’re walking,’ complained Peter. ‘I’ve got the Roller here, sitting doing nothing.’

‘Come on, Peter,’ said Stephen. ‘It’s good for you.’

Darkness had long fallen, but London was still warm. As they turned into South Audley Street they could see the crowd of guests gathered round the entrance to the party. Taxis were lined up along the kerb, their doors opening and closing, spilling out men in black and women in exotic colours. Pamela stumbled, unused to her new high-heeled shoes. Stephen took her arm.

‘Easy there.’

As they approached André’s house, Christine and Mandy opened their bags and took out identical short red macs. The plasticised fabric shone in the light of the street lamps. They put on the macs and held hands and capered about, laughing.

‘What do you call that?’ said Peter. ‘Is it raining?’

‘It’s the new look, darling,’ said Mandy. ‘Don’t you think it’s the sexiest thing you ever saw?’

‘Crazy,’ said Peter. ‘Crazy.’

The hallway of the house was crowded. Stephen smiled and nodded, seeming to know everybody. Young men in white shirts stood on either side, waiting to take coats, but Christine and Mandy kept their shiny macs on, and Pamela kept her coat. The crowd moved slowly up the stairs. From the top came the sound of band music, and the low roar of a packed room. Michael and Peter escorted the girls in red, Stephen and Eugene escorted Pamela.

At the top of the stairs the guests were backed up on the landing, as the ones ahead made their entrée. There was no major-domo shouting out names, as at a society ball; but each new group of guests paused before entering, to be greeted by
their host and noted by the crowd already in the great room. The more striking of the new arrivals were acknowledged with cheers.

Pamela let herself be swept slowly up the wide stairs in this tide of glamorous people, taking in almost nothing. She was dazed by alcohol and excitement. She had shared her plan with no one, but already, caught in the crush on the stairs, she was past the point of no return. As she reached the top of the stairs she started to shake, overwhelmed with sensations she was unable to control, that alternated between terror and ecstasy. To conceal this she held her head high and drew her coat tight around her, and pinched her fingernails into the flesh of her hands so that it hurt.

Christine and Mandy made their entrée together, posing hand in hand on the platform in their shiny red coats. André, elegant in a perfectly fitting dinner jacket, silently raised his arms above them as if offering his guests a rare treat. The crowd cheered. Christine and Mandy then skipped down the steps, followed by Michael and Peter.

Pamela, coming immediately behind, now caught her first sight of the great shadowy ballroom packed with André’s guests. Tall lamps threw pools of light up onto the arching ceiling, and illuminated the band at the far end on their specially built stage. Apart from that, the beautiful people swarmed in a velvety and flattering half-light. André himself, tall, slender, elegant, turned his grey eyes onto Pamela with silent enquiry.

‘My dear.’

He held out one hand, so that she would come forward onto the platform. Pamela slipped off her coat and reached it out to Stephen, who was just behind her.

‘Would you mind, Stephen?’

She stepped forward to stand by André’s side. André gazed at her in silence. Then he smiled. In the same moment, the crowd
in the room saw, and from end to end there came a rippling gasp.

Pamela’s face was turned towards André as if she was unaware of the sensation she was causing. André raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

‘
Étonnant!
’ he murmured.

The beautiful black chiffon dress covered her from neck to ankle, but concealed nothing. Beneath the gauzy silk, shadowed but visible to all, she was naked but for a black lace brassiere, and black lace panties. She wore black gloves high above the elbows and black high-heeled shoes, but no black silk slip. The effect was electrifying: her body made available and yet withheld. There was not a man in the room who didn’t stare and stare. Pamela made her entrée to the party as every man’s dream of sexual desire made flesh.

After the intake of breath came the applause. Carried on a wave of admiration and longing, Pamela slowly descended the steps and entered the space made for her by the crowd. She looked at no one, and she didn’t smile. Moving with small steps, almost gliding, her lovely head held high, she passed among them like a princess, offering them the priceless gift of her presence. The guests gaped, and clapped, and made way for her. A waiter approached, bearing a tray of glasses of champagne. She took one and turned, raised it to André up on the platform where the guests were still arriving, and drank it all in one go. The crowd round her cheered once more.

Pamela felt immortal. She could do no wrong. Her every gesture was necessary and beautiful. Her triumph was so complete that it now seemed to her to have been inevitable. On every face turned towards her she saw something more than admiration. It was awe.

Stephen now caught up with her.

‘By God, Pamela! You’re a killer!’

Christine and Mandy crowded round. They had shed their red macs and were now in their identical bright-green short frocks.

‘Pammy! What a sneaky sneak you are! Why didn’t you tell?’

‘Did you see André’s eyes? He almost passed out!’

They felt the fabric of her dress and inspected the underwear beneath, with professional interest.

‘Where did you get the smalls?’

‘Marshall & Snelgrove,’ said Pamela. ‘They’re Kayser.’

‘Peter just about had a heart attack,’ said Mandy.

It was all Pamela had ever hoped for and more. She floated through the party, barely taking in any of the other guests. Men and women both let their eyes linger over her body, and she turned this way and that before them, permitting the intimate exploration while remaining beyond their reach. When her glass was empty she held it out to the nearest man, and off he went to find her a refill. When a cigarette burned down, a dozen hands reached out to offer her a fresh cigarette, and lighters rasped into flame all round her.

André sought her out in the midst of his hostly duties.

‘I have to be everywhere,’ he said. ‘But I only want to be with you.’

She held his eyes, but did not speak.

‘You’re magnificent,’ he said. ‘Don’t leave without seeing me again. I have something to ask you.’

He was drawn back into the throng. Pamela moved on, alone, entranced. She was performing the part she believed she had been born to play: the beautiful woman who knows effortlessly what to do, who is desired by all but owned by none. It was only an act, but in the night world of this great party it had for a time become real. If this were a fairy story, on the stroke of midnight she would find herself back in rags, by the dying kitchen fire. But it was no story, and midnight was long past.

People were dancing in the space before the band. She danced a little, with Eugene, who spun her about too fast, and with Stephen, who danced slowly and beautifully. Then she allowed herself to be drawn into drifting conversations with men she didn’t know, saying little herself, moving on without apology or explanation. She passed men and women whom she half recognised, most likely because they were famous, and saw their eyes invite her to talk to them, and pretended she didn’t see.

One man leaned close as she passed and murmured, ‘Darling, you’re sensational! Do you fuck?’

She barely missed a beat, concealing her momentary tremor of shock.

‘Of course, darling,’ she replied. ‘But only my friends.’

She went in search of the Ladies. There she found Christine and Mandy, sharing a cubicle, smoking, gossiping about the guests. Christine beckoned her in.

‘Come in, Pammy! We’re having our own party.’

The light was brighter here. Pamela blinked and felt strange. Mandy moved to sit on the toilet seat, and Christine sat on the floor. She patted the space on the other side.

‘Plenty of room.’

Pamela realised that her legs felt wobbly, and would no longer support her. She slid down onto the floor of the cubicle.

‘I don’t think I’ll ever get up again,’ she said.

‘Everyone wants to know who you are,’ said Christine.

‘You know what, Pammy,’ said Mandy. ‘If you wanted, you could make a fortune.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Christine. ‘She’s a lady, isn’t she?’

‘Oh, I don’t care about that,’ said Pamela. ‘I just want … ’

But she found she didn’t know any more what it was she wanted. It had seemed so clear not so long ago.

‘You want a rich husband,’ said Mandy.

‘I want someone to love,’ said Pamela.

‘Take it from me,’ said Mandy. ‘Rich helps.’

‘Look who’s talking!’ said Christine. ‘You don’t love Peter. You just love it that he’s got so much money.’

Pamela thought of Peter, small and fat, unpeeling banknotes in the Dorchester.

‘Do you have to do it with him?’ she said.

‘I don’t have to,’ said Mandy. ‘But I do.’

‘She does it sitting on top of him, with her back to him,’ said Christine, giggling.

‘Her back to him?’

Pamela couldn’t work this out at all.

‘Doesn’t take long,’ said Mandy. ‘And you know what? I’ve got a real soft spot for Peter. He’s a sweet, kind man.’

‘You’re in there now with André,’ said Christine, poking Pamela with her toe. ‘He’s got even more money than Peter.’

‘We’ve all had a crack,’ said Mandy. ‘No one’s got him yet.’

‘Why not?’ said Pamela.

‘I thought maybe he was queer,’ said Mandy. ‘But seeing the way he was looking at you, he’s up for it all right.’

‘Just make sure you’re fixed up,’ said Christine.

Pamela realised now that this was what she had come for. She was drunk enough to tell the truth.

‘I don’t know how to,’ she said.

‘You’d better find out,’ said Mandy.

‘You can’t trust men.’

‘No,’ said Pamela, ‘what I mean is, I’ve never done it.’

‘What, not ever?’

‘Not ever.’

‘Crikey! I started when I was thirteen.’

‘Yes, well, we all know about you,’ said Christine.

‘I don’t really know anything,’ said Pamela.

‘You know the basics,’ said Mandy. ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘Yes. I suppose so.’

‘You don’t sound at all sure, girl.’

‘Well, I suppose I’m assuming the man will know what to do, and I just … ’

She let the thought tail away.

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Mandy. ‘You just lie there.’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Don’t go on at her,’ said Christine. ‘She’s not wrong. That’s how it is for most girls.’

‘But she wants it to be fun, right? For him too.’

‘Yes,’ said Pamela. ‘I do.’

‘You want some tips?’

Pamela didn’t know how to say she wanted more than tips, she wanted basic information. She wanted a step-by-step illustrated guide. But all she did was nod her head.

‘Just listen to us!’ said Christine. ‘Like a pair of old witches.’

‘Make him go slow,’ said Mandy. ‘They’re always in such a tearing hurry. That’s my tip.’

‘My tip is get him talking. About what you’re doing, I mean. Men like that. They think they can’t say things. But they want to. And they want you to.’

‘What things?’ said Pamela.

Christine lowered her voice to a whisper.

‘Fuck,’ she said. ‘Cock. Cunt.’

‘I’ve got another tip,’ said Mandy. ‘Jelly.’

‘Jelly?’

‘You squeeze it out of the tube. Slippery stuff. Really helps. Most of all if you’re taking it up the bum.’

‘Oh, God.’ Pamela put her head in her hands. She was beginning to feel sick.

‘Don’t tell her that!’ chided Christine.

‘She might as well know,’ said Mandy.

‘Seriously, Pammy,’ said Christine, ‘there’s only one thing you have to do, and that’s get yourself fixed up.’

‘How do I do that?’

‘You go to Teddy Sugden in Half Moon Street. Tell him you’re a friend of mine, he’ll do you a good price.’

‘How much?’

‘No more than a fiver.’

‘I don’t have it,’ said Pamela. ‘I spent all I had on the underwear.’

‘Get it off André,’ said Mandy.

‘You zombie!’ said Christine, smacking Mandy’s leg. ‘She can’t get it off André. She hasn’t done it with him yet.’

‘She got the dress, didn’t she?’

‘Go to Stephen,’ Christine said to Pamela. ‘He’ll help you. God knows, he’s helped me enough times.’

Some other women came into the Ladies, and the little group in the cubicle broke up, laughing. Pamela went back into the big room, in search of a cigarette, still feeling queasy. Eugene loomed into view before her, red in the face, his uniform jacket unbuttoned.

‘Pamela! I look for you everywhere! Good party, no?’

‘What time is it?’

‘I don’t know. Three, four? Soon the sun come up.’

‘Do you have a fag, Eugene?’

He produced a cigarette, and lit it for her.

‘When do I meet your friend?’

‘What friend?’

‘The one who works for Mountbatten.’

‘Oh, Rupert. Yes, that’s all okay. I’ll fix it up.’

‘I adore you. I worship you.’

‘Go away now, Eugene.’

He went away. Pamela crossed the great room, which was much emptier now. The waiters were still in place, offering glasses of champagne, but she didn’t want to drink any more. She made her way out through double doors to an open-air terrace, and stood there, finishing her cigarette, watching the
light of the approaching dawn steal up into the sky over the roofs of London.

Here André found her. He had undone his bow tie and the top button of his shirt, but he still looked elegant.

‘I thought you’d gone.’

‘Not without seeing you.’

He took her in his arms, and they kissed. She had expected this kiss, and wanted it, but now she was tired and had drunk too much, and she found she felt nothing at all. She liked the feel of his arms round her, and she liked his smell. But she felt nothing that she could call desire.

After a few moments she leant her head on his shoulder.

‘You should go to bed,’ he said.