she walked out and Aunt Dee commented on her dress and asked her if she had a wrap, she lost the image completely. She was fragmented again; she had no idea how others saw her.
Giles was waiting for them in the living room, and she and Winifred followed him to his motor car, which was waiting outside. Laura had never seen London from a car before, and the city surprised her, rolling past the windows with a kind of emphatic repleteness, as if it were being unfurled particularly for them. Giles and Winifred talked in their usual sparring way in the front seats, but she was hardly listening and was surprised when finally the car stopped outside a terrace of vast white houses rising sheer into the dimming sky.
Once inside, Winifred introduced Laura to the man who she understood was her partner for the evening, whose girlfriend had been taken unwell. Tall, thickset, with a ruddy face and even, for all he was only Giles’s age, the suggestion of jowls.
‘Good of you to come out at such short notice,’ Quentin said to her. There was a note of condescension in his voice, clear enough for Laura to pick it out even in that room in which all the men seemed to speak with the same amused, arrogant tones. She was introduced to his father, who was a study in the fleshiness and loudness that Quentin himself was going to achieve, and to a Mrs Bertrand, a middle-aged woman with the most impressive black pearl necklace, who ignored Winifred and Laura and went on talking to the other two women who were already in the room.
Alongside Giles and Quentin was a young man who was bending to put a record on the gramophone. He introduced himself as soon as the needle started to whirl, and Laura realised that this was Alistair, the man who was partnering Winifred. He was the most engaging of the men, with elastic, exaggerated hand movements and round blue eyes that seemed to take in everything about the two girls. There was a generosity in that; to him, they did register, even if their presence was a matter of indifference to the others in the room. Behind him was an untidy, good-looking man who did not even bother to come forward to be introduced, but put his arm around Giles and started telling him what was obviously a racy story, judging by the way he lowered his voice as he came to the end of it.
Despite the presence of Quentin’s father and three other women, all the energy of the room came from the four young men, who seemed to be performing for one another, all talking at once, or almost, in quick, truncated sentences that would suddenly give way to protracted anecdotes, sustained as long as each could keep the floor. Laura had never been in such a relentlessly masculine atmosphere, she thought as they all moved to the dinner table. The women provided the colour between the black and white of the men’s tuxedos, but that was all they seemed to be there for; these flashes – green, scarlet, blush and blue – between the black coats.
Sitting at the dinner table as the first course was brought in, she thought she should say something to Quentin. ‘It’s your sister’s party we’re going to later?’
‘The redoubtable Sybil Last, indeed, her inevitable dance. Luckily, she has been persuaded away from providing entertainment for it in the style of last year … Do you remember, Alistair, the awfulness of the singers we were treated to then? The one good thing about the current situation is that no one thinks it’s appropriate to ship one’s entertainment over from France – too extravagant by far, not that that has ever put off dear Sybil … Do you remember, Giles …’ and another anecdote, interminable, emphatic, began to roll. Laura was careful to laugh in the right places, and that was as much as she could do.
Although later on Laura came to see each of them – Quentin, Giles, Alistair and Nick – as individuals, at this first meeting she could only see the set of friends as one cawing mass. She could not imagine feeling at ease with them and picked up her spoon almost in gratitude to have something to do. At the first taste of the soup, however, she found herself grimacing. It was a creamy, pale green soup, pretty in gilt-edged bowls, but maybe it had spent too long sitting in a warm kitchen. Something – the cream, the stock, the potatoes – had begun to turn, and a rotten taste filled her mouth. She laid her spoon down, as did others, but Quentin went on eating as if he had noticed nothing. Her unease grew as she realised how physically uncomfortable she was. She had only ever tried this dress on standing up, and now, sitting down, she was becoming increasingly aware that it was too tight for her, that the cut was too rigid over her ribs and that she had to keep her back ramrod-straight if it wasn’t to tear.
When the second course was brought in, she tried to speak for the second time, this time to Alistair, who was on her other side. ‘You all knew one another at university?’ she said, aware of what a lame gambit it was.
‘Knew each other – loved each other,’ he said with an exaggerated sigh. ‘And here we still are, together as ever. Giles the scientist, Nick the joker, myself the writer and Quentin – Quentin the arranger of festivities.’
‘What about Edward?’ Quentin boomed across Laura. ‘Just because he isn’t here, don’t forget Edward – what’s Edward?’
‘Edward, the philosopher – the absent philosopher.’
‘Why isn’t he here?’ asked Giles.
‘Have you only just thought to ask?’ said Quentin. ‘As a matter of fact, he’ll be at Sybil’s, but he said no to dinner … said he always has to work so late … said he couldn’t bear it … you know what Edward is like – the less …’ he waved his hand vaguely around the table, ‘the better.’ Not knowing Edward, Laura could not tell whether he meant the less female company, the less dinner, or the less gossip, but that was all right, since very little of the conversation made any sense to her at all. It was all about mutual friends, shared history and absurd tales of other social engagements.
All in all, Laura was relieved when the dinner came to an end and they set off for the dance. They were offered cars, but apparently the other house was only a few minutes away, and everyone exclaimed that they would rather walk. The other women had fur wraps, but Laura was glad, stepping down to the sidewalk, to feel the air on her bare arms. The scene, as they turned into a neighbouring square, seemed familiar, and suddenly Laura was thrown back in her memory: shouts of struggle, the police, women with their pots of paint and slogans. This was the very place she had come to during her first week in London, on that extraordinary protest. There was Halifax’s house. They passed it, and went on walking to another square, another row of white houses, and as they walked up the steps of one, the door was opened by a manservant. Beyond him was a wide hall painted turquoise, opening into rooms where lamps were reflected from mirror to mirror.
Here, Quentin’s father and Mrs Bertrand moved on and into the party, but their group took up a place in the first room, and once they had been supplied with champagne, the chatter went on much as it had done over dinner, the women providing simply an audience for the gestures and conversation of the men. All except Winifred, who, Laura was rather impressed to note, seemed to be enjoying swapping stories with Alistair. Alistair was the only one of the men who appeared to imply, by his voice and reactions, that the presence of the women enhanced the evening for him, and he was egging Winifred on to talk about Giles as a boy. More and more little groups came into the room, full of expectant faces, but their group stayed together and few people came to greet them. Then Laura saw a tall, light-haired man walk in and scan the room.
‘Edward! You made it,’ It was Quentin’s booming voice, calling the new arrival into the circle. ‘Why haven’t we seen you for so long? Has the Foreign Office been working you to the bone?’ The men shifted to allow Edward to join them.
‘Have you met our new friend?’ Quentin said, as Edward shook hands with each of the group. ‘Laura Leverett – Giles’s cousin – American heiress from Washington.’
Edward nodded, his light gaze passing over her. ‘Where is Sybil?’
The men looked around, and Alistair gestured to the other side of the room, where most of the guests seemed to be congregating.
‘Don’t rush off,’ Quentin said. ‘You haven’t told us anything, and we do need the inside track – now more than ever. What did Halifax mean yesterday? Is he really trying to charm Germany again?’
The group seemed to hesitate