“Top marks for ingenuity, but after getting over the shock and humiliation she became slightly more devious, not to say vengeful. What she did, she phoned up an old flame called Donald, who’d been wanting to get back with her for years, and invited him to lunch at the Rainbow on the same day and at the same time as her husband and Paula. Luckily there was a table for them. She and her old boyfriend were seated by the time her husband Denis arrived with Paula. Denis was stunned to see his wife at the next table, but there was nothing he could do except sit down with Paula, as if his wife Shelagh wasn’t there with Donald who, by the way, was someone he’d always suspected of being his wife’s lover.
“Shelagh was smooching all over Donald, laughing and talking so loudly that Denis who, like most men with a mistress, was very possessive of his wife, was going all shades of red white and blue. He was so enraged and tight lipped he could hardly say a word to Paula, though she soon cottoned on as to what was riling him. Denis got more and more angry at Shelagh’s shameless remarks, the worst of which was that he was no good in bed, till he could hold himself back no longer. He went to their table, picked up Shelagh’s glass of cold white wine — she and Donald had ordered fish, turbot I think — and threw it in her face. At which her old boyfriend, a tall well-built man who worked at the Foreign Office, and had a sense of humour but lost it now, stood up and punched Denis all the way to the door and out onto the pavement.
“The place was in uproar, and the police were called. The two women — Paula and Shelagh — ran out of the place at the same moment, and went squabbling along Oxford Street together. They eventually calmed down and began to laugh about it all, and went into Selfridge’s to order glasses of lemon tea and salt beef sandwiches. They decided that nearly all men were absolute scum and not worth knowing. Shelagh was tall and fair, while Paula was dark and slender, and they became very attracted to one another the more they talked, even telling their life stories, and admitting they had never much liked men anyway.
“The end of the story was that Shelagh and Denis split up, and tore each other so much to pieces over the divorce settlement that not even Solomon could have sorted things out.”
By the time we were on our crème caramel Sophie seemed much changed, flushed and looking younger even than twenty-five. “Then what happened?”
“You’ve had volume one, what more do you want?”
“My husband never tells such stories.”
“Don’t mention him anymore.”
She didn’t, which was all I wanted. Over coffee she wrote the address of her Italian house, and I told her it was too far out of my way to call, but when a Cointreau came for her and a brandy for me she said: “You’re going to Athens, right?”
“Through Jugoslavia. Everything’s arranged. I have to collect something in Belgrade.”
“Come back over the Adriatic.” She took a map from her handbag. “Drive up the coast of Italy. You can stop off, where I’ve marked the spot.”
I was free to return any way I liked, so said I’d see her in about a week. By which time I’ll have volume two sorted out.
“Are you going to tell me that Shelagh and Paula have a lesbian affair?”
“Naughty,” I said. “I’ve never had one. Have you?”
“A long time ago, with an old school friend. It was very nice.”
I didn’t want to hear about it. “Do you know,” I said, “I’ve seen you before our meeting today.”
She laughed. “Not another story?”
“A week ago you were in a queue at the post office on Albemarle Street, so close I could have touched you.”
She thought back. “It’s true. How amazing. I was there. Why didn’t you touch me?”
“I thought I’d wait to do it here.”
“And you did. Wait I mean.”
“You dropped a kleenex, and some chap picked it up. Then you went out together.”
“Such evidence. I can’t believe it.”
“True stories are just as good as what’s made up, even better sometimes.”
“When we got outside I thanked him, then he walked away. How strange though that we see each other again.”
“So now I want to know what compartment you’re in.”
She answered readily. “A couple along from yours.”
“Perhaps we’ll have an extra dessert before we get to Milan, certainly sweeter than the one we’ve just had.” I reached a hand on finishing the brandy, then paid a bill so big I’d have to live on bread and water for the rest of my trip, though the extravagance looked likely to be worth it as she kissed me in the corridor and led me along.
She soon lay half undressed under me, no room to be side by side. “I’ve always wanted to do it in one of these.”
“This is your first time?”
“I’ve never had the chance, though I’ve had fantasies about it — with someone like you. Oh yes, that’s nice. Up a little. Just there. Oh, please go on.”
A woman always appreciates being warmed up with a little hors d’oeuvres, so I played her till she came, hoping an attendant wouldn’t knock on the door offering Horlicks or a nightcap as part of the late night service, though probably the alcoholic reek of our breath and the stench of fuckery would put him off.
“I suppose such hanky-panky on this stretch of the line isn’t unfamiliar,” I said afterwards.
She took my cigarette, and I lit another. “I thought it was argy-bargy.”
“There’s a difference,” I said, “between hanky-panky and argy-bargy.” Her breasts were warm and close. “In my experience hanky-panky is less devastating than argy-bargy, such as what happens when a personable woman drops her handkerchief and the man she fancies bends to pick it up, touching her so lightly on the ankle as he does that she can’t say whether it’s intentional or by accident, though someone looking on may see it as a clear case of hanky-panky, whether anything comes of it or not.”
“And argy-bargy?”
Hot fag ash fell on my wrist, but I didn’t twitch, or brush it off. “Argy-bargy is a more serious matter, the sort of situation hard to get out of. It could land you in serious trouble, often without you realising. Sometimes it starts as a shoving and pushing match in a pub, and if it goes on it can turn into a real glass-and-bottle set-to, blood all over the place. Argy-bargy sometimes starts from a bit of hanky-panky and can have long term consequences, such as between a woman and her fancyman, leading to a fracas that can become explosive and turn into the feud of a lifetime — especially in a situation where the woman’s husband shows his face.”
She put a hand between my legs. “So we should steer clear of argy-bargy?”
“We’re too sophisticated to be bothered by it, or even dabble in hanky-panky, though some people live all their lives going from one to another because it’s the only excitement they can get. They thrive on it, especially if they know how to take care of themselves.” I released my aching arm from her albeit delicious weight. “So now you know the difference between hanky-panky and argy-bargy.”
“I don’t know whether it’s what you’re saying, or your voice, but you certainly don’t sound much like Lord What’s-His-Name anymore.”
“Dropshort? My grandfather married an Edwardian actress who was a famous mimic, a grande comedienne no less, and her talent carried over onto me.”
“I don’t care who you are,” she murmured, “but do it again.”
Her hand had sufficient effect for me to say I would, and it surprised me that I could, dead tired after so much booze, but I did, and it was gone two o’clock before I went like a cloth-footed shadow to my cabin, disturbed for what remained of the night by the train stopping and starting, when it wasn’t bundling along at a hundred miles an hour and rattling my bones.