He turns, and sees Gaspari, moving toward him with Nina trailing at his heels.
‘What are you doing,’ he asks, ‘over here all by yourself? What were you looking at? I watched you come over here – you were like a hound following a scent.’
And then he looks, and sees. ‘Oh,’ he says.
He watches Stella for as long as he is able, waiting for his opportunity to catch her alone. The crowd mills between them, and they are frequently lost to view. He tries not to let his frustration show. To be too concerned, too watchful, would be the most unhelpful thing he could do. He goes to the bar, and orders a whisky: it will help him to relax.
‘Hello.’ He turns. It is her – somehow she has detached herself from Truss, who is caught in conversation on the other side, his back towards them.
‘Hal,’ she is peering up at him, ‘what’s happened to you? Your face …’
‘Stella,’ he says, urgently, ‘thank God. I have to tell you something. I think we should leave tonight …’
‘Hal,’ she cuts him off. ‘I’ve already told you. We must wait …’
‘But he knows. He did this, to my face.’
‘What?’
‘He knows, Stella. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. We don’t have time. We have to go immediately. We could get on one of the boats back to the harbour.’
‘And be seen by everyone? How long do you think that would last?’ And then, before he can reply, ‘No, Hal, we need to play our parts for one more night. He hasn’t said anything. If anything, he’s being more affectionate. I think …’
‘What?’
‘Something he said … I think he believes that you are infatuated with me. But he doesn’t know anything more, thank God. He saw you looking at me. You have to stop, Hal. I think it would be better if you went downstairs for a while. It’s too obvious.’
‘I’m worried for you.’
‘We can’t be seen talking like this. For tonight, I’m going to stay by his side, be the dutiful wife. It’s all the more important that we play our parts now.
‘Here,’ she thrusts one of the glasses of champagne at him. ‘I brought you a drink.’ She passes him the glass. ‘Have that, and calm down.’
He drinks it as she walks away. It tastes bitter to him – tainted, no doubt, by his unease. Truss isn’t in sight, but he sees another man step in to talk to her. He is standing too close, this man, and his hand comes up briefly to touch the bare white curve of her shoulder. The audacity of it. Hal feels rage bloom, and forces himself to swallow it, to take another sip of the drink, to look away.
Darkness falls, and the evening becomes a series of increasingly surreal and distinct experiences, strung together like the bright beads of a necklace. There is the game of skittles, played with empty champagne bottles, at the bow – with either Cary Grant or a man who might as well be his double managing a full strike on almost every go. There is the wild dancing. Giulietta and Brigitte Bardot – or possibly a girl who has styled herself as her doppelg?nger – compete with one another to be the most provocative. But at the epicentre of the party, the true source of its energies, is the Contessa. She seems almost to be everywhere at once, and always where the laughter is loudest.
Hal had not meant to get drunk, but somehow he is. Or not so much drunk as very tired, as though he were trying to wade through syrup. The three glasses of champagne must have affected him more than he thought – the lack of food, perhaps. At one point he stumbles over what he thinks at first is a rope, and then realizes is a man’s leg, protruding from beneath a folded piece of sailcloth. There is a stifled yelp and then the top half of the man appears. It is a rather famous English actor.
‘Hello, old chap,’ he says, with a drowsy smile, ‘having a little nap under here. Has everyone gone?’
‘No – there are still plenty of people here.’
‘Oh, great. I must make sure to get another dance in.’ And with that he heaves himself up and lurches away in the direction of the noise.
At midnight a group of acrobats begin to perform, to gasps of fear and delight from the guests. There are men who climb the rigging with roses in their teeth, leaping and somersaulting between the masts. There is the woman who shrugs off her gown to reveal a silver bathing suit, snaps on a pair of goggles, and executes a perfect arcing dive off the bow of the yacht, spilling a silver wake of phosphorescence as she enters the dark water.