I averted my eyes. I once read a story about a woman who had lived a prior life as a cat and every time she came near a mouse, her lips started twitching. Having lived my former life as a pig, icing sugar had the same effect on me. I sidled past.
The dozen or so people in the room appeared to be comporting themselves in an orderly fashion. I even recognised a few faces. Lionel Wiseman, solicitor, stood by the buffet table conversing with two ladies.
One of them was a woman of fiftyish. A beige sort of person. Her complexion, birds-nest hair, tweedy suit-even her eyes-all came in variations of that shade. I knew she was Mr. Wiseman’s secretary because she had been seated in his outer office, typing, on the day Ben and I went to discuss with him the legalities involved in purchasing the building we wished to convert into Abigail’s. Mr. Wiseman had introduced her to us as Lady Theodora Peerless. Did he joke? Or did some riches-to-rags tale lurk behind that monochromatic exterior? The other woman with Mr. Wiseman was a Marilyn Monroe blonde.
His daughter? Her photograph had been featured on his desk. At the other end of the buffet table stood Charles and Ann Delacorte. Another handsome man, if you like Nordic types with fair, almost transparent, hair. He was poking his fingers through a plate of munchy morsels, searching, I heard him say, for something nonfishy. Ann was impeccably, if not fashionably, groomed. The shoulders of her emerald green dress were heavily padded which, coupled with the way her dark hair was puffed up in front and drawn sleekly back into a roll low on her neck, made her reminiscent of a model in a nineteen-forties catalogue. I wished I could discover where Tobias was hiding. (Was that a meow?) That way I could drape him in front of me and Ann might not see that the Victorian gown she’d helped me select from Delacorte’s impressive array of old-world finery was no longer in mint condition. She turned, saw me, and smiled wanly.
“Your husband keeps bringing out more food and everything looks delicious,” Ann said, as I stole toward the table. “Usually I eat like a bird but…”
“Very true, my dear,” responded her spouse, “like a vulture.”
Charles Delacorte had eyes like iceberg chips. “Not that you don’t sing like a lark.” He touched her hand with his finger tips and lifted a pale eyebrow at me. “Did you not hear my wife’s voice leading the choir during your nuptials? Might you, perhaps, care to have her sing a ditty or two for the enlivenment of your guests? Something of a child prodigy, weren’t you, darling? Sang with some wildly famous people, long since forgotten-the Far Horizons and Sylvania, that toast of the night clubs! A rose that bloomed too soon, that’s my Ann.”
Courageous Ann. Her smile never dipped, and my heart swelled with admiration and pain for her. I found myself babbling. “It would be lovely to have you sing, but with everything so noisy it wouldn’t be fair to you. You know, I think I did see that Sylvania, or rather an old film clip of her, on television recently; she was all in sequins, seated on a piano, with a cigarette in one of those long holders, belting out a ballad in this wonderfully raspy voice about some man that done got away.” A meow cut me short, reminding me of who else had done got away. Urging the Delacortes to keep having fun, I hitched up my skirts and moved on.
A squat, muggy-faced woman touched me on the arm. It was Froggy-I mean Shirley-Daffy.
“Such a lovely bride! I cried all the way through the service. I wonder, have you seen Squeaky?”
“Excuse me, who?” My eyes strayed to the twitching tablecloth. Froggy let out a ribbitting laugh. “Silly me! Pet name for my husband. The old dear has to catch the London train so I wanted to remind him we mustn’t stay too late. He will leave everything to the last minute, and rushing is so very bad at his time of life. Not that the dear old sausage is old! But I can’t learn not to fuss. He’s all I have, apart from our cat. Couldn’t be without my Tibs. Yours went that way.”
“Thanks.” A group by the bookcase alcove dispersed, and I spied Jonas administering punch from the eighteenth-century wassail bowl. He had upended his top hat on the white-clothed table, behind a placard imprinted with the words Thank You. Terrible man. I caught his eye and mouthed, “Meow?” He lifted a hand to cup his ear; unfortunately, it was the one with the ladle. I went back to prowling.
Mrs. Roxie Malloy, the hired help, was also prowling-straightening ashtrays and tucking empty glasses into her apron pocket. Her hair was blackest black, and her face was layered with enough paint to do a small semidetached all through. Emerging from behind the sofa, she looked me up and down.
“I trust I’m giving satisfaction, mum? Your husband took over in the kitchen. Titivating the chicken tarts he was when last I saw him. I’ve had more than my share of husbands, let me tell you, and never a word of complaint out of one of them, so I trust they’ll be no trouble with me wages.”
She stalked off, slightly on the tilt, trailing a whiff of clove balls, Uncle Maurice’s antidote for boozy breath. Speaking of whom, there was his better half, Aunt Lulu, dozing in the Queen Anne chair by the fire. I was tiptoeing over when she moved. Or, shall we say, when her hand did. It reached out, picked up a Sevres sweet dish, chocs and all, and disappeared into the little tote bag by her side. Her snores didn’t miss a beat. If Aunty didn’t wake up soon, there wouldn’t be a knickknack left in the room.
I wished Ben would get the buffet officially started. He was probably anguishing over some recalcitrant sprig of parsley. Rightly so, of course.
Over by the window, Freddy was with Jill. He was doing conjuring tricks with cheese balls. And must have dropped one earlier. A slither, a scurry, and there was Tobias pawdabbing a furry ball, which desperately sought escape in the direction of Mr. Charles Delacorte. No time to delay. Scooping up Tobias, I muffled his outraged meows by swathing him in my veil.
The grandfather clock said 4:35 P.M. as I reentered the hall. The crowd had thinned. A rumba pounded the air, and several couples were dancing. Heading out toward the centre of the floor was one of our twin suits of armor. This one was named Rufus. And would you believe it, the jolly dog was dancing-swirling and twirling, dipping and whirling in a brisk and spirited foxtrot. Old Rufus was not alone. He was clasped in the arms of Aunt Astrid. My kinswoman’s normally alabaster complexion was afire, her black hat with the spotted veiling was tilted over one eye.
“Don’t get your hopes up, she won’t stay like this.” Hands brushed my shoulders, and I whirled toward Ben, almost dislodging Tobias.
Having explained why I was with cat, I asked if the food was under control.
“Does night follow day? I tipped Sid out of his chair and set him to laying out doilies. And, Ellie”-Ben’s voice changed-“promise not to count calories today.”
“Of course, darling.” And it wasn’t a lie. I would count items instead. Losing weight is a misnomer; it always knows its way back.
“Shall we announce that the feasting may begin?” I asked.
“Jonas is going to come out and ring the gong. Meanwhile, you have to dispose of Tobias and something has to be done about Aunt Astrid before she compromises Rufus. Wonder where Vanessa is?”
Once upon a time, several months ago, those words from Ben’s lips would have made my blood freeze solid in my veins. Even before he came along, my feelings for my gorgeous cousin had been ones of uncomplicated jealousy. Now I was able to say with the confidence of a married woman, “Speak of the devil.”
Hands in the pockets of her fox jacket, the Titian-haired lovely was descending the last stair. Men parted like the Red Sea to let her through.
“Hello darlings.”
Vanessa, despite her puerile existence, is one of those rare specimens who look even better close up than at a distance. My hands constricted over Tobias as she touched back a tendril of hair with a gleaming nail, unfurled her eyelashes, and tiptoed up to kiss Ben on the mouth. His return of the kiss nicely indicated his married status.