In the bureau in Frank’s bedroom stood a pile of currency he had earmarked for me to buy horses, or whatever I liked. I often opened the drawer and looked at the stack of bills, feeling strangely removed from the world of commerce, where shillings made things happen. I’d been so broke for so long that I should have leapt at the chance, but I didn’t. I was grateful to Frank and trusted that he meant well, and I wanted to be deeply engaged in training again more than I could say. But I wasn’t ready for anything permanent with him, not yet. Something simply didn’t feel right—so I rode Pegasus on my own or walked in the grounds in a pair of printed silk pyjamas that Frank had bought for me in Nairobi. His friend Idina Hay wore hers everywhere, even to town, and he thought I should look just as glamorous and indolent.
When we went to visit Idina at Slains, her estate near Gilgil, he begged me to wear them, swearing I’d feel more at home like that, but I put on the white silk dress instead, the one that Karen had told me was my colour, and stockings and heels and the pearls we’d found in a shop in Belgravia not long after Frank came into my life. I suppose I wanted Idina and her friends to see me as respectable, though I don’t know why I cared.
We turned up at Slains on a hot afternoon in July. The estate sat like a rough-cut jewel on two thousand acres in the hills above Gilgil, right at the foot of the blue Aberdares. We bumped along narrower and narrower roads and finally came to the house, which was partly bricked and partly shingled, a puzzle of colour and texture that nonetheless managed to look inviting.
Idina and her husband Joss had built the house but rented the farm. He was her third husband, actually, and together the pair looked as though they might have stepped out of a magazine. They were fair-skinned and slim-hipped, and both wore their auburn hair cropped and slicked to one side. He looked feminine, or she looked masculine. Either way, they were radiant twins as they greeted our car, followed closely by several servants in fezzes and long white robes. The servants swept our bags away while the barefooted Idina and Joss led us over the weedy hummocks to a place where an elaborate picnic was laid out. Another couple sprawled out on the grass on a tartan blanket, both in straw hats and drinking whisky sours in frosty glasses. For most people, a picnic meant dry sandwiches and tepid water in canteens. Here there was an ice machine that ran on a generator. It whirred like a valet at the ready. A gramophone played rolling tendrils of jazz.
“Hello,” cooed the slim, pretty woman on the tartan. She sat up, cross-legged, and adjusted her hat. This was Honor Gordon and the gentleman, Charles, was her new husband—a pale, dark, smart-looking Scot who’d been cast off a few years before by Idina herself. They all seemed good friends now, thoroughly comfortable with one another and also with Frank, who drew out his brown velvet bag before he’d finished his first drink.
“Oh, Frank dear,” Idina said. “That’s why we invite you. You have the best toys.”
“And a keen taste in women,” Joss said, reaching for the bag.
“You are delicious-looking,” Idina agreed. “Though I can’t quite imagine how Frank got his hooks into you. Nothing personal, Frank.” She cut her eyes at him, smiling. “But you aren’t exactly Sir Galahad.”
“Frank’s been a good friend,” I said.
“What would we do without friends?” Idina lolled onto her back, letting her legs swing to one side. Her sarong-like shift slid up past her pale thighs.
“You’re lily white!” Honor exclaimed. “Why don’t you roast here like everyone else?”
“She’s a vampire.” Joss laughed. “She has no blood of her own at all, only borrowed blood, and whisky.”
“That’s right, my lion,” she purred. “It’s why I’ll be immortal.”
“As long as you don’t leave me alone,” Joss said, and bent over a line he’d made with the cocaine on a tray. He had a rolled paper cone and gave a tremendous snort.
We lay there in the spotted shade until the daylight lengthened and turned gold, and then went to dress for dinner. The bedroom assigned to Frank and me was plush with rugs and throws and elaborately scrolled and painted antique furniture. The bed was massive, and folded silk pyjamas nestled on the two rounded pillows, gifts from Idina.
“I told you about the pyjamas,” Frank said, stepping out of his corduroy trousers. His legs were thick and furred above the elastic of his socks. “They’re all right, aren’t they? You seem rattled.”
“It’s all just a little empty. Everything seems to be an entertainment for them—especially people. I don’t really understand that kind of sport.”
“Maybe if you drank more, you’d relax.”
“I don’t want to lose my head.”
“No chance of that.” He laughed. “You might have a better time, though.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted, wanting the matter dropped and the day over. I rolled down my stockings and manoeuvred out of my damp brassière just as the door opened without a knock. Joss stood there.
“Hello, darlings.” A friendly and expansive smile painted his face. “Do you have everything you need?”
I felt my spine tighten and resisted the urge to cover myself. That kind of modesty would be shockingly priggish here. “Yes, thank you.”