``Mrs. Jimmy Deane's very upset that she couldn't get you for tonight. I didn't give away what you were doing.''
``Give her my love,'' said Beaver. ``Anyway we'll all meet at Polly's.''
``I must go, we're dining at nine.''
``Stay a bit,'' said Brenda. ``She's sure to be late.'' Now that it was inevitable, she did not want to be left alone with Beaver.
``No, I must go. Enjoy yourselves, bless you both.'' She felt as though she were the elder sister, seeing Brenda timid and expectant at the beginning of an adventure.
They were awkward when Marjorie left, for in the week that they had been apart, each had, in thought, grown more intimate with the other than any actual occurrence warranted. Had Beaver been more experienced, he might have crossed to where Brenda was sitting on the arm of a chair, and made love to her at once; and probably he would have got away with it. Instead he remarked in an easy manner, ``I suppose we ought to be going too.''
``Yes, where?''
``I thought Espinosa's.''
``Yes, lovely. Only listen: I want you to understand right away that it's my dinner.''
``Of course not ... nothing of the sort.''
``Yes, it is. I'm a year older than you and an old married woman and quite rich, so, please, I'm going to pay.'' Beaver continued protesting to the taxi door.
But there was still a constraint between them and Beaver began to wonder, `Does she expect me to pounce?' So as they waited in a traffic block by the Marble Arch, he leaned forward to kiss her; when he was quite near, she drew back. He said, ``Please, Brenda,'' but she turned away and looked out of the window shaking her head several times quickly. Then still fixed on the window she put out her hand to his and they sat in silence till they reached the restaurant. Beaver was thoroughly puzzled.
Once they were in public again, his confidence returned. Espinosa led them to their table; it was the one by itself on the right side of the door, the only table in the restaurant at which one's conversation was not overheard. Brenda handed him the card. ``You choose. Very little for me, but it must only have starch, no protein.''
The bill at Espinosa's was, as a rule, roughly the same whatever one ate, but Brenda would not know this so, since it was now understood that she was paying, Beaver felt constrained from ordering anything that looked obviously expensive. However she insisted on champagne, and later a ballon of liqueur brandy for him. ``You can't think how exciting it is for me to take a young man out. I've never done it before.''
They stayed at Espinosa's until it was time to go to the party, dancing once or twice, but most of the time sitting at the table talking. Their interest in each other had so far outdistanced their knowledge that there was a great deal to say.
Presently Beaver said, ``I'm sorry I was an ass in the taxi just now.''
``Eh?''
He changed it and said, ``Did you mind when I tried to kiss you just now?''
``Me? No, not particularly.''
``Then why wouldn't you let me?''
``Oh dear, you've got a lot to learn.''
``How d'you mean?''
``You mustn't ever ask questions like that. Will you try and remember?''
Then he was sulky. ``You talk to me as if I was an undergraduate having his first walk out.''
``Oh, is this a walk out?''
``Not as far I am concerned.''
There was a pause in which Brenda said, ``I am not sure it hasn't been a mistake, taking you out to dinner. Let's ask for the bill and go to Polly's.''
But they took ten minutes to bring the bill, and in that time Beaver and Brenda had to say something, so he said he was sorry.
``You've got to learn to be nicer,'' she said soberly. ``I don't believe you'd find it impossible.'' When the bill eventually came, she said, ``How much do I tip him?'' and Beaver showed her. ``Are you sure that's enough? I should have given twice as much.''
``It's exactly right,'' said Beaver, feeling older again, exactly as Brenda had meant him to.
When they sat in the taxi Beaver knew at once that Brenda wished him to make love to her. But he decided it was time he took the lead. So he sat at a distance from her and commented on an old house that was being demolished to make way for a block of flats.
``Shut up,'' said Brenda. ``Come here.''
When he had kissed her, she rubbed against his cheek in the way she had.
Polly's party was exactly what she wished it to be, an accurate replica of all the best parties she had been to in the last year; the same band, the same supper, and, above all, the same guests. Hers was not the ambition to create a sensation, to have the party talked about in months to come for any unusual feature, to hunt out shy celebrities or introduce exotic strangers. She wanted a perfectly straight, smart party and she had got it. Practically everyone she asked had come. If there were other, more remote worlds upon which she did not impinge, Polly did not know about them. These were the people she was after, and here they were. And looking round on her guests, with Lord Cockpurse who was for the evening loyally putting in one of his rare appearances at her side, she was able to congratulate herself that there were very few people present whom she did not want. In other years people had taken her hospitality more casually and brought on with them anyone with whom they happened to have been dining. This year, without any conscious effort on her part, there had been more formality. Those who wanted to bring friends had rung up in the morning and asked whether they might do so, and on the whole they had been cautious of even so much presumption. People, who only eighteen months before would have pretended to be ignorant of her existence, were now crowding up her stairs. She had got herself in line with the other married women of her world.
As they started to go up, Brenda said, ``You're not to leave me, please. I'm not going to know anybody,'' and Beaver again saw himself as the dominant male.
They went straight through to the band and began dancing, not talking much except to greet other couples whom they knew. They danced for half an hour and then she said, ``All right, I'll give you a rest. Only don't let me get left.''
She danced with Jock Grant-Menzies and two or three old friends and did not see Beaver again until she came on him alone in the bar. He had been there a long time, talking sometimes to the couples who came in and out, but always ending up alone. He was not enjoying the evening and he told himself rather resentfully that it was because of Brenda; if he had come there in a large party it would have been different.
Brenda saw he was out of temper and said, ``Time for supper.''
It was early, and the tables were mostly empty except for earnest couples sitting alone. There was a large round table between the windows, with no one at it; they sat there.
``I don't propose to move for a long time, d'you mind?'' She wanted to make him feel important again so she asked him about the other people in the room.
Presently their table filled up. These were Brenda's old friends, among whom she used to live when she came out and in the first two years of her marriage, before Tony's father died; men in the early thirties, married women of her own age, none of whom knew Beaver or liked him. It was by far the gayest table in the room. Brenda thought `How my poor young man must be hating this'; it did not occur to her that, from Beaver's point of view, these old friends of hers were quite the most desirable people at the party, and that he was delighted to be seen at their table. ``Are you dying of it?'' she whispered.
``No, indeed, never happier.''
``Well I am. Let's go and dance.''
But the band was taking a rest and there was no one in the ballroom except the earnest couples who had migrated there away from the crowd and were sitting huddled in solitude round the walls, lost in conversation. ``Oh dear,'' said Brenda, ``now we're done. We can't back to the table ... it almost looks as though we should have to go home.''