‘I do like women in cocktail dresses,’ said Herbert, looking at a blonde dressed in black, with a very low neckline and modestly tight three-quarter sleeves. ‘I always think they show them at their best. Still get the legs to look at, and the tits as well.’
The blonde recognised his admiration from across the room and acknowledged it with a slightly cool half smile; she had the most lovely mouth, Tom thought, full and curvy, enhanced with some brilliant red lipstick. While he was looking at her, the drinks arrived, small bottles of tonic water to add to what looked to him like half tumblers of gin, and he took one sip of his and suddenly it happened: the feeling which he was beginning to recognise, an easing into it all and that he did, after all, like being here; it felt comfortable, it suited some small, greedy part of him. He took one of the almonds, savouring its sweet saltiness against the richness of the gin and tonic, and relaxed and said to Herbert, as if it were an idle question, the answer to which he might act upon and go himself, ‘So what are you going to see?’
‘The King and I, musical, at Drury Lane. I’m not mad about the things myself, but Christine loves them – have to keep her sweet somehow, she doesn’t have a lot of fun, poor woman. Now look, I want you to think about standing for some hopelessly Tory seat –’
‘What would be the point of that?’ said Tom, almost alarmed.
‘Practice, dear boy, practice.’
And then, as he listened, tried to see the sense in what sounded like a most fruitless enterprise, Tom looked up and saw Diana Southcott (as he would always think of her) coming down the steps into the bar. She was wearing a cocktail dress in dark green taffeta, her dark hair swept up, her long legs flattered by some very dark stockings and extremely high heels, and she looked so lovely that Tom felt a lurch somewhere he supposed to be his heart. Which was nowhere near his actual heart, he thought. Slightly lower, somewhere more carnal, more invasive: and he called out to her, as she had to him at the Pleasure Gardens, called out her name, and with no idea of her married surname, simply ‘Diana’ had to suffice. He hoped she wouldn’t mind.
She clearly did not; she walked towards them smiling, apparently delighted. Tom stood up to greet her, holding out his hand, but she ignored it, offered her cheek to kiss, and as he complied he felt the warmth of her, smelt her perfume, rich and musky.
‘Well, hello,’ said Donald, the emphasis on the second syllable, standing up and holding out his hand. ‘It’s the lady of the roundabouts. Donald Herbert, sure you won’t remember me.’
She shook his hand and said, ‘Of course I do.’
‘Join us for a drink, won’t you? Or is some lucky fellow already here waiting for you?’
‘Not a fellow, a girl,’ Diana said. ‘In any case, I’m early. So yes, thank you, that would be delightful. A dry sherry, please.’ Much summoning of the waiter ensued, and further bowing and grovelling; she sat down on the chair opposite Tom, and picked an almond out of the dish.
‘My favourite,’ she said. ‘How clever of you to know,’ and she smiled at Donald, before biting on it and closing her eyes in mock rapture.
‘Oh, I have many powers,’ said Herbert, picking up on her mood. ‘An ability to prophesy being only one of them.’
‘Well, that must be very useful in your profession,’ said Diana. ‘So, tell me, were you dreadfully disappointed about the election?’
‘Oh, not for an instant. Churchill was on the warpath. But we put up a pretty good fight.’
‘And did Tom help you?’
‘Immeasurably,’ said Herbert. ‘I had hoped his hour might have come.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, that he would have had much more chance of making his way in politics. In fact, even as things are, I’m looking for likely by-elections. So he can stand as an opposition candidate.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Diana. ‘I thought you’d lost the election.’
‘We have. But whatever party’s in, there has to be an opposition. With representatives for every seat.’
‘Tom!’ said Diana. ‘You’re going to be an MP! How terribly exciting.’
‘I’m afraid that’s extremely unlikely for many years. But if it happened, yes, it would be exciting,’ Tom said.
‘Don’t talk yourself down,’ said Diana. ‘I’ll vote for you.’
‘Well, that’s very kind, but I’m afraid it doesn’t work quite like that.’
‘Look,’ said Donald Herbert. ‘I’m afraid I shall have to go. I’m taking my wife for supper before we see The King and I this evening –’
‘Oh, how terribly clever of you to get tickets,’ said Diana, as if he had managed to unlock the Enigma code. ‘I hear it’s booked solid months ahead.’
‘Oh, we have ways.’
‘And is that part of the English political system?’
‘You could say that. Anyway, Tom, do you want another of those before I settle up?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Tom, realising he was feeling distinctly light headed. ‘No, that was very good, Donald. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. As has been meeting you again,’ he said to Diana, raising her hand to his lips and kissing it.
Old bugger’s flirting with her, thought Tom, not sure whether to be amused or annoyed and wondering if he would ever be able to behave the same way. Women seemed to like it. And what are you doing, thinking about what women like, Tom Knelston? You, with a pregnant wife at home, a pregnant wife that you love very much.
And then . . . rather to his shame, he did nothing to hurry his departure.
‘So Tom, what are you doing here, in this bastion of privilege?’ Diana’s dark eyes looked at him in a kind of challenge.
‘Not my idea,’ said Tom. ‘Donald summoned me. He’s in charge of my rather futile attempt to become an MP. So I have to dance to his tune.’
‘Well, it seems like a pretty nice tune to me,’ said Diana. ‘Seriously, Tom, whatever you’re trying to do, I wish you the very best of luck with it. Tell me about you? I know you’re married, I read it in the Daily News.’
‘What on earth are you doing reading the Daily News?’ said Tom, genuinely surprised.
‘I try to read all the papers. It’s such a good way of really keeping in touch with everybody and everything. Especially up there, where people are so narrow-minded. I love the Daily Mirror. The way it doesn’t give two hoots about what important people think, and its campaigns. You know, getting a better deal for old people. Anyway, you’re married – very pretty, your wife, I thought. Lovely wedding dress. Now – here’s to you. Good luck.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tom. ‘I’m going to need it.’
‘We all need luck,’ said Diana soberly.
She had pulled a small, enamelled cigarette case out of her bag, and a tortoiseshell lighter. Her hands, as she lit her cigarette, were shaking slightly.
Tom wondered if he should ask her what she meant, and decided it wouldn’t be wise. Instead he said, ‘Are you down in London to do some modelling?’