They laughed. Jonathan’s teeth jutted out and his eyes half-closed. He looked like a little boy again.
‘Your father is funny, I’ll give him that,’ said Bart.
‘Oh yes. But mean with it. I haven’t told you the best part.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, after all that fuss, when the governess went in to tell Bettina she could do what she liked with her socks, she apparently fixed the woman with the most belligerent face and pulled both her socks up.’
‘She didn’t.’
‘She jolly well did. You see what I mean? She just likes to be contrary. Mind you, you’re the same.’
‘How was her performance in the end?’
‘In the words of my father, “Like an asthmatic puppy being clubbed to death.”’
They roared out more laughter. Bart wrapped an arm around Jonathan’s shoulder and they turned, laughing into each other’s faces, their noses bumping. The laughter trailed off into a hoarse hee-hawing. Bart could see, through half-closed eyes, Jonathan’s great orange beard quivering.
‘My, you’re in a bright mood tonight,’ Bart said, wiping his eyes. ‘It’s good to see, really it is. Heartening.’
Jonathan patted his breast pocket with the vial in it. ‘This is top-notch stuff.’
‘Why don’t we just stay here all night and finish the lot off? To hell with the party.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Jonathan, with a frown. ‘Not on her birthday.’ He took the vial out of his pocket and stuffed it into Bart’s. ‘You have this. I don’t think I require any more.’
‘You’re sure?’
Jonathan nodded, sipping his brandy. ‘Have you argued?’
‘Indeed we have.’
‘Look. Forgive my forwardness, but I’ve noticed my sister getting a little chummy with that French pal of yours. I know it’s innocent, but I’d hate for the frog to get the wrong end of the stick.’
‘Oh, it’s completely innocent—’
‘I know it is, heavens I know it is. Listen, Bart.’ And here he turned to Bart and looked him imploringly in the eyes. ‘You are taking care of her, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am!’
‘And relations are good?’ He raised his one hand up. ‘No details, please.’
‘Yes, relations are fabulous.’
‘Only, you’ve been married a fair while and she’s yet to, you know…’
‘That keen to be an uncle, are you?’
Jonathan’s lips went tight and colourless from between his ginger bristles. ‘Of course,’ he murmured. He turned his head away and puffed on his cigar. A long moment of silence. Struggling with some torturous melancholic thought or other – Jonathan was always getting like this. Finally he turned back, visibly brighter, and slapped Bart on the arm. ‘Anyway, it’s none of my business. Come on, let’s re-enter society. I wish to dance with my sister.’
‘Pull one of her stockings down, I dare you.’
He looked at Bart with exaggerated disapproval. ‘Don’t be rude, brother.’
Bart laughed. Brother. He liked that. He’d always wanted a brother.
His prosthetic hand was digging into her lower back but she would not – absolutely would not – acknowledge the discomfort. He held her hand and they swayed – the band was playing a slow song, a lovers’ song, the woman singer oozing out sugary words with eyes closed and head tilted back. Jonathan smiled awkwardly (did he ever smile any other way?), his bright pink lips twitching from out of his godawful beard. He had a contented air about him, an earthy sort of serenity. It reminded her of how he used to be, before the war; it wasn’t like he’d been born a jittering wreck.
‘You dance very well,’ she said.
‘I do not.’
‘Oh, shut up. Do you have one positive opinion about yourself?’
He thought about it, sniffing. ‘I have attractive feet.’
‘That’s it? That’s all you can come up with?’
‘Yes.’
She laughed. ‘You’re such a – right, I’m going to list your positive attributes right now.’
‘Please don’t,’ he said.
‘You’re kind, honourable, brave—’
‘Please stop,’ he said. ‘I’m quite serious.’ And he was – she could see it in his eyes.
‘Self-loathing is very boring,’ she said.
‘That’s more like it. I’m boring.’
She kicked his shin and he let out a yelp.
‘How have you not outgrown kicking?’ he said, laughing. ‘Always kicking me, you were. You kicking me, Tuna pinching me—’
‘Oh, she was a one for pinching.’
‘Here – do you remember that time you kicked me in the privates because I told Father on you for – now, what had you done?’
‘I used profane language. I said, “Bugger me, it’s cold.” Don’t pull that face!’
‘What face?’
‘It’s only a word, Jonathan.’
‘Yes, but you were seven.’
‘It was Bart’s fault. He told me to say it.’
The song ended. Couples extracted themselves from each other, glancing around with bleary embarrassment as if surprised to find they were not the only people in the room. The singer announced an intermission. Jonathan was still holding onto her, his prosthetic hand now poking her in the kidney.
‘I might go soon,’ he said.
She opened her mouth to protest. Closed it – it was enough that he’d danced with her. More than enough. ‘Thank you for finally dancing with me, brother.’
‘It was a pleasure.’ He sniffed, his chin tilted up, and smiled at her – it was a bittersweet smile. ‘I want you to be happy. Are you happy?’
‘I am.’
He nodded. ‘That’s what matters. Being happy. That’s the whole point.’ He sniffed again, twice.
‘Blow your nose, would you?’
He let her go and pulled a hanky from his breast pocket. Gave her cheek a kiss and abruptly walked away, the hanky clamped over his nose.
The band was still playing, minus their transvestite singer and lead trumpet player. The partygoers were dancing like lunatics, drunk and stumbling with big grins on their faces. Tuna was whooping and spinning round and round with the very same twerp Bettina had been flirting with earlier, she a whirling blur of peacock feathers and red sequins and he a sweaty, gurning nonsense.
He couldn’t see Bettina. She was probably upstairs having a histrionic crying fit over Trude. Good.
No. He wasn’t being fair. He wasn’t. They’d argued, that was all. They’d get over it. ‘Never go to bed on an argument,’ his mother had told him. Not that she’d ever followed her own advice – she and his father would often go weeks without speaking to each other, turning every mealtime into an excruciating ordeal – averted glances, cutlery wielded with stiff wrists, jumpy footmen and maids, all this playing out to a soundtrack of soup-sipping and his father’s adenoidal mouth-breathing.
He dodged past the dancers and made it out into the dining room, where people were helping themselves to food from the huge table and waiters in white jackets looked on with exasperation. Hashish smoke hung thick in the air. He saw Bettina and Étienne huddled together on the floor in the corner of the room. Bettina’s lipstick was smeared across her cheek and her untapped cigarette ash was an inch long and ready to drop at any second. Étienne was wearing her tiara. They looked up and saw him and their faces clouded thunderously. Bart stopped mid-step. Étienne shook his head ever so slightly. A warning.