"Go ahead."
"Would you go out with me?"
She waited.
And then she said, "That's it?"
"That's it."
"And you're being serious?"
"Now, wait. There's been a big misunderstanding and I want to clear it up before it gets any worse. You get to hear that I'm sharing my house with a five foot bombshell who can make a grown man go weak at a single glance, and you leap to the obvious conclusion. Right?"
"Who wouldn't?"
"Well, you're wrong. Dead wrong, and that's what I have to explain. I like you, Mrs Jackson, and I think I could get you to like me. And life's too short to miss out on the chance of it for the wrong kinds of reasons."
"You can keep talking, Mr McCarthy. But you'd better bear in mind, I've been worked-over and walked over by experts. If you're going to tell me that she's your sister, I'd say you'll have to try harder."
He shook his head.
"I barely know her. The more I see of her, the more I realise how much of a stranger she is to me. She came over to me one night and she asked me for a lift. She had nowhere to aim for and she was just about destitute, and there was trouble following her as well. She asked me for nothing more, she didn't want to cause me problems, but I couldn't just walk away from her. So I brought her to the valley. I didn't expect her to stay so long, but I made the offer and I have to stick with it. We've got separate rooms, we lead separate lives, most days we don't even meet up. We're only together tonight because you put us both on the same invitation. I don't know what else I can tell you, Diane, but that's the way it is. What do you say?"
He seemed serious. She said, "Why are you so keen to convince me?"
"Say you're convinced, and you'll find out. Well?"
He was watching her. Either he was dead straight, or else he was the sharpest operator — bar none, including the guy she'd met on a singles' holiday who'd almost managed to convince her that he was on his final fling with only ninety days left to live — that she had ever encountered.
He was still watching her.
"I'm thinking about it," she said.
With their curiosity satisfied and the music too slow to be interesting, Wayne and Sandy had taken themselves out into the gardens to cool off. It was dark out there and it was relatively private, and Wayne had managed to spirit out an entire punchbowl, still half full. They sat against the wall of the house, just under the stone parapet of the first floor terrace. Wayne was hoping that nobody else would get any ideas about joining them.
He said, "So that's the lord of the manor. What did you think of him?"
"He's okay," Sandy said, in the same kind of tone that she'd probably use to describe an indifferent sandwich. "A bit too smooth, though."
"He didn't look it," Wayne said. His own feeling had been that Dizzy Liston looked like some amiable, well-heeled scarecrow.
Sandy said, "They're the dangerous ones," and then she looked into her glass even though it was really too dark to see anything of it. "What's in this stuff?"
"Fruit juice, mostly," Wayne said airily. "Maybe a bit of wine."
"How strong is it?"
"Not very. They water it down, that's how come there's so much of it knocking around."
Tentatively, he put his arm around her. She leaned against him comfortably, and he began to wonder about the possibilities in aiming for the wide sleeve of her dress.
"I expect my mum would like him," Sandy said. "She likes them well worn but lovable. Comes from listening to a lot of Country and Western music."
"What would it take to make her like me?"
"Well, you could stop picking me up in that van. And you could inherit a couple of million and go to Oxford. And maybe win a medal for rescuing Prince William from a fire."
"You think that would do it?"
"You'd be about halfway there."
Sandy turned herself slightly, and Wayne suddenly discovered that he was sitting there with his sleeve strategy in tatters and most of her right breast in his hand. She wasn't wearing a bra. He didn't know what to do next. Sandy, leaning with her head on his shoulder, carried on as if nothing was untoward.
"She doesn't actually say anything against you," she explained. "She'd just be happier if you were a drip with glasses and lots of qualifications, that's all. I mean, I'd like to make her happy, but there are limits."
"Yeah," Wayne said, still feeling somewhat stunned and very lightheaded. "Yeah, I suppose there are."
She looked down at his hand, which was tense and unmoving.
She said, "Are we doing anything here, or what?"
Inside and on the dance floor, Pete and Diane suddenly found that people were drifting back and the music was getting loud again. It was a sure sign that Dizzy's fraternisation period was over. Conversation had now become difficult, and Diane still hadn't given Pete a definite answer to his question.
Nor did she feel quite ready to; and now she leaned close to his ear, and raised her voice.
"Give me some time," she said. "I'd better go and see how it went."
Pete nodded and moved off to look for some more of Bob Ivie's jungle juice, and Diane eased her way through into the ballroom. She was already starting to feel battered by the increased level of the sound, and it was a relief to get out into the lower buzz and the cooler lights. The buffet tables were now open, and most people in here were either crowded around them or else standing in line with plates; she could see the two Venetz sisters and their fill-in staff working the tables, carving, serving, and fetching. They seemed to be doing a good job. Diane started to scan for one of the agency girls, but then one of the agency girls found her.
It was the blue-eyed blonde, the one that she'd spoken to earlier. Diane said, "Are we a success, or what?"
"The men all like him, and the women all love him. But there could be a problem."
"How do you mean?"
"Mister Liston's gone back upstairs, and he's taken a lady with him. The lady didn't come alone, and I'm not sure whether we ought to be doing anything about it."
Diane felt her heart beginning to sink. Of a number of possibilities, one shone out more bright and unpleasant than any of the others."
"Oh, hell," she said. "Not the policeman's wife. He was going to behave himself tonight!"
"No, not her. It's the foreign woman with an accent I couldn't place. She's with the man I just saw you talking to."
"Really?" This was something else… and while it might not exactly be welcome, the results would certainly be interesting. "Well," Diane said, "in theory, we're in the clear."
"Oh?"
"They came together, but they're not a couple."
"Is that what he was telling you?" There was a certain cynicism in the agency girl's eyes, but Diane wasn't somebody who'd just climbed down off the backwoods bus.
She said, "That's what he was telling me. Now we'll find out how much truth there is in it. Don't worry about it."
The agency girl moved on. Most of her work would be over by now; Dizzy was out of the way, and the party was running under its own momentum. It would probably carry on like this for at least another hour, and then the first of the departures would begin; the ones with an early start in the morning, the ones with teenaged babysitters, the ones who rarely went out anyway… an hour after that they'd be down to the hard core, and an hour after that it would just be a case of guiding out those last drunks who were too far gone to find the door.
She wondered what Dizzy and Alina Peterson were doing, right now. Others besides the agency girl must have seen them leaving together; she wondered how long it would take for the news to reach Pete.
And what, she couldn't help wondering, would happen then?