half-bottle of champagne sitting in ice. She put them down and ran me a steaming hot bath, chatting softly, while I hauled my things out of my bag. They were in a horrible muddle. From the look of it, I should think the Customs had taken out and chewed every garter. I’m a neat packer, and I resent being made to look untidy. I opened my own champagne, to show I could, and after cracking a joke or two about the mess I was going to make in her kitchen, saw her out of the room. Then I took the champers into the bathroom, undressed, and lay back in the steam, drinking. After a bit I got out and, putting off the light, opened the shutters and got back into the bath again.
Outside, the moonlight fell on the sea and the palms and the flowers and this enormous swimming pool, all floodlit with statues of Greek gods, starkers, all round the edge. Inside, the warm water sloshed about over my skin, and the champagne, very cold, made its way down the bottom of my throat and I lay for a long time, feeling very sad and happy expecting to wake up.
I was just thinking, rather fuzzily, that it was about time for dinner when this great bang came from the shutters and I slopped half the fizz into the bath. The shutters swung quickly out and a pair of legs swung neatly in. and before you could yell for your chaperone, one of the Greek gods from the garden, without a stitch on so far as I could see in the darkness, was saying in Giller Lloyd’s voice: ‘A little bird tells me you’re drinking champers, sweetie. Do tell me there’s a drop for a friend.”
Janey always told me I react the old-fashioned way. It isn’t true. At least, I don’t mean to. It’s just that you’re brought up to act like a lady and it sticks.
I said: ‘Get the bloody hell out of here, Gilmore Lloyd,’ and heaved a towel into the bath just as the door opened, the light came on, and another masculine voice said mildly: ‘Excuse me, is this your handbag?’
I honked. I couldn’t help it. First there was Giller caught knees up on the windowsill in his bare skin and two hundred watts of Phillips’ best. And then in the doorway stood this poor, pole-axed Charlie in seventeen-inch bags and woolly sweater and bifocal glasses.
He ran his eye over Gilmore and then over me and said again, his voice half an octave lower: ‘Excuse me, is this your handbag? It’s got birth pills in it, popped out to Sunday?’
Poor, pole-axed Charlie, hell. I knew him. It was the man with the Seat. The wag who’d found Austin being overkeen in the ditch and had offered to help. It was my bag.
‘Don’t you knock,’ I said freezingly, ‘when--’
‘He didn’t,’ said Bifocals, surprised, looking at Greek God. ‘And I’m dressed.’
‘Not for long,’ said Gilmore Lloyd coldly. ‘What bloody manners.’ He wasn’t jealous, I think. He was just asserting his territory. He launched himself from the sill and, adopting a classical and rather beautiful stance, drove to the jaw with his right.
Bifocals sort of didn’t wait for it. I saw Giller’s jaw crack against the white marble wall, then he fell down it, and Bifocals stepped over him very carefully and said: ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll need to take the bag back, if it isn’t yours, in case someone is looking for it. It may be a regular—’
‘It’s mine,’ I said. ‘And thank you for bringing it. ‘Although I really don’t see why you had to walk into my room. Mr Lloyd would be—’
‘Mr Lloyd told me to go right up,’ said Bifocals. He put one foot on Gilmore’s rising chest and immobilised him. ‘Didn’t you hear the last bell for dinner? He didn’t know you were getting sloshed under the hot tap.’
‘I’m not!’ I said. I nearly sat up.
‘Say cessation,’ said Bifocals.
I changed my ground.
‘That,’ I said coldly, ‘is Mr Lloyd’s son.’
‘He didn’t hear the last bell either, did he?’ said Bifocals. ‘Did Mr Lloyd send him right up too?’
He removed his foot and Gilmore,
Outside, the moonlight fell on the sea and the palms and the flowers and this enormous swimming pool, all floodlit with statues of Greek gods, starkers, all round the edge. Inside, the warm water sloshed about over my skin, and the champagne, very cold, made its way down the bottom of my throat and I lay for a long time, feeling very sad and happy expecting to wake up.
I was just thinking, rather fuzzily, that it was about time for dinner when this great bang came from the shutters and I slopped half the fizz into the bath. The shutters swung quickly out and a pair of legs swung neatly in. and before you could yell for your chaperone, one of the Greek gods from the garden, without a stitch on so far as I could see in the darkness, was saying in Giller Lloyd’s voice: ‘A little bird tells me you’re drinking champers, sweetie. Do tell me there’s a drop for a friend.”
Janey always told me I react the old-fashioned way. It isn’t true. At least, I don’t mean to. It’s just that you’re brought up to act like a lady and it sticks.
I said: ‘Get the bloody hell out of here, Gilmore Lloyd,’ and heaved a towel into the bath just as the door opened, the light came on, and another masculine voice said mildly: ‘Excuse me, is this your handbag?’
I honked. I couldn’t help it. First there was Giller caught knees up on the windowsill in his bare skin and two hundred watts of Phillips’ best. And then in the doorway stood this poor, pole-axed Charlie in seventeen-inch bags and woolly sweater and bifocal glasses.
He ran his eye over Gilmore and then over me and said again, his voice half an octave lower: ‘Excuse me, is this your handbag? It’s got birth pills in it, popped out to Sunday?’
Poor, pole-axed Charlie, hell. I knew him. It was the man with the Seat. The wag who’d found Austin being overkeen in the ditch and had offered to help. It was my bag.
‘Don’t you knock,’ I said freezingly, ‘when--’
‘He didn’t,’ said Bifocals, surprised, looking at Greek God. ‘And I’m dressed.’
‘Not for long,’ said Gilmore Lloyd coldly. ‘What bloody manners.’ He wasn’t jealous, I think. He was just asserting his territory. He launched himself from the sill and, adopting a classical and rather beautiful stance, drove to the jaw with his right.
Bifocals sort of didn’t wait for it. I saw Giller’s jaw crack against the white marble wall, then he fell down it, and Bifocals stepped over him very carefully and said: ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll need to take the bag back, if it isn’t yours, in case someone is looking for it. It may be a regular—’
‘It’s mine,’ I said. ‘And thank you for bringing it. ‘Although I really don’t see why you had to walk into my room. Mr Lloyd would be—’
‘Mr Lloyd told me to go right up,’ said Bifocals. He put one foot on Gilmore’s rising chest and immobilised him. ‘Didn’t you hear the last bell for dinner? He didn’t know you were getting sloshed under the hot tap.’
‘I’m not!’ I said. I nearly sat up.
‘Say cessation,’ said Bifocals.
I changed my ground.
‘That,’ I said coldly, ‘is Mr Lloyd’s son.’
‘He didn’t hear the last bell either, did he?’ said Bifocals. ‘Did Mr Lloyd send him right up too?’
He removed his foot and Gilmore,
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