So what was pissing him off, exactly? Was it that he seemed to be spending his life being shuffled about by women? Alex had nothing against working with women but right now his life seemed to be run by them. In the past whenever girlfriends had started making noises about permanence and commitment, Alex had started making noises about the incompatibility of soldiering and married life.
And he had meant it. He had seen his colleagues go down like ninepins, their tiny independence skewered by the demands of ratty, frustrated wives. The wives hadn't started ratty and frustrated, but they soon got that way when they discovered that the system could only accommodate them and the kids as sideline players. As Stan Clayton had once explained to him: getting the trouble-and-strife up the duff before an overseas posting was like spitting in your beer before you went for a piss!
Seeing the results vengeful, careworn wives, fragged-out blokes worrying about money and their families' security from dawn till dusk Alex had sworn to have nothing to do with any of it. As far as he was concerned the deal was that you promised nothing that you weren't prepared to give, had a good time for as long as it lasted and got out before things turned nasty. He had a sort of honour system, which went something along the lines that if a woman made it plain from the start that she wanted marriage and kids then you didn't waste her time.
Otherwise, you went for it.
Something told him, though, that with Sophie it was going to be different. For a start he was not in control of things. He didn't automatically call the shots, as he'd always done before. She moved easily and fluently through a world in which, if he was honest, he felt insecure. And while she respected his skills and knew that there was another, darker world in which he moved with ease and fluency, she never allowed herself to be overimpressed by him.
Ultimately, he wasn't sure of her. This made things exciting, but it also made things .. . difficult.
As they swerved round a traffic island in the TT, tyres sc reaming, Alex told himself that he ought to take a train up to
Hereford and pick up his car. Behind the wheel of the KarmanChia he could at least pretend that he was in control of his life. For the time being, though... What the hell?
TWELVE.
When they reached Hoxton Square Sophie ignored the double yellow lines and parked right outside the venue. This was a former electricity showroom turned gallery, and paparazzi were already drawn up at either side of the entrance. As Alex and Sophie hurried in there was a brief burst of flash presumably in case they were celebrities whom no one yet recognised.
The party was on the first floor and the place was already crowded. On the far side of the room Alex caught sight of Stella laughing with a group of models. The sound system was playing Juliette Greco, two women in tri colore hats were spraying perfume at anyone not fast enough to get out of their way, and the sharp smell of "Guillotine' cut the air.
"Come and meet Charlotte," said Sophie, taking Alex's hand and sidling purposefully towards a slight, dark-haired woman who seemed to be dressed in 1970s wallpaper.
"She's the oldest of the Corday sisters. You've heard of the Corday fashion house, haven't you?"
"Why don't I go and find us a drink?" Alex suggested, disengaging his hand.
Within moments he had been swallowed up by the crowd. Around him brief snatches of conversation and shrieks of laughter rose like waves above the music and were inaudible again. A gravel-voiced broadcaster whom he vaguely recognised but had never met threw her arms round his neck, kissed him on the mouth and asked how the new restaurant was going. He told her that it was still serving human flesh and moved on, leaving her open-mouthed.
People pushed past, flickered a glance at him in passing to establish for certain that he was not someone that they needed to know and vanished. Alex wanted to speak to none of them -he simply couldn't summon up the interest. Over the months that he'd been seeing Sophie he'd attended quite a few of these occasions and he'd come to the conclusion that London society was peopled almost entirely by fuck wits From the outside it looked glamorous, all late-night restaurants and beautiful girls and champagne, but in truth, he had discovered, it was very, very dull. For every genuine achiever there were a hundred style journalists, fashion parasites and cokehead aristocrats desperately jockeying for recognition. None of them seemed to have any awareness of a world beyond their own tiny circuit, and listening to the endless loop tape of their conversation about clothes, accessories, drugs and parties bored him out of his mind.
There were exceptions. He liked Stella and of course he liked Sophie more than liked her, in fact.
But why was it, he wondered, that the whole scene that she was involved with made him feel so dead inside? And equally importantly why was it that situations involving real death made him feel so acutely alive? How was he supposed to square those facts with the idea of- one day, at least settling down?
"Bloody Mary?"
Alex looked down to see a tiny, large-busted girl in a tri colore cap, holding a tray. She giggled.
"Or Bloody Marie-Antoinette, I suppose I should say."
Alex took one of the glasses and drank. It was almost fifty per cent pure vodka and fiery with tabasco.
"Bloody strong, whichever."
She laughed.
"I know. I thought I'd loosen this lot up a bit. Come the revolution, they'll all be for the chop."
"They certainly need culling," said Alex morosely, taking a deep hit of his drink. It occurred to him a few seconds later that he was feeling rather over-sorry for himself. These people weren't so bad. He threw back the remains of the drink, helped himself to another and took a deep swig. He began to feel very much more cheerful. Get a life, Temple, he told himself Have some fun for a change!
"Shall I just stay here?" she asked.
"Let you help yourself?"
He smiled. Small girl plus big tits equals hard-on.
"You could do worse," he said.
"Are you one of the caterers?"
"Sort of. Part-time. I'm actually trying to get into the fashion business."
"You should speak to Sophie Wells. She's over by the entrance, or was when I last saw her."
"She's a right snotty cunt," said the girl, as Alex took a third glass.
"D'you know her?"
"Mm. A bit."
"Which bit?"
"Go on." He smiled.
"Piss off before we're all in trouble!"
"Hey, Alex from Clacton!"
"Stella! How's it going?"
She gave him an uneven grin.
"All right, apart from the smell of this perfume.
It's like fish guts at low tide."
"I guess the original guillotine wasn't too fresh," said Alex.
"What have you been up to?" she asked.
"I haven't seen you for a bit."
"I've been in Africa," said Alex.
"Yeah? How was that?"
He shrugged.
"Tell me something, Stella."
"OK."
"If you wanted to hide if you absolutely had to hide, life or death where would you go?"
"I'd go where I always go," she said, as if the question were the most normal one in the world.
"The past."
He stared at her. Heard someone calling her name.
She smiled and the crowd drew her away.
"Believe me," she said, fluttering her fingers.
"There's nowhere like it."
He found Sophie again and was just about to hand her her drink when something irregular registered at the edge of his vision.