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had evidently left her unused to being crossed. Even though she had not moved since she had first spoken, the suggestion of controlled fury had vacuumed any residual mirth from the room. People were looking anxiously at each other now, wondering which of the two participants would crack first.
    There was a painful silence.
    It appeared to be Athene. She gazed at Mrs Bloomberg steadily for a short eternity, then leant back and began to turn the horse slowly back between the tables, pausing only to accept a cigarette.
    The older woman’s voice cut through the stilled room: ‘I had been warned not to invite you, but I was assured by your parents that you had grown up a little. They were patently wrong, and I can promise you that as soon as this is over I shall let them know so in no uncertain terms.’
    ‘Poor Forester,’ Athene crooned, lying along the horse’s neck. ‘And he was so looking forward to a little poker.’
    ‘Meanwhile, I do not want to see you for the remainder of the evening. You should think yourself lucky that the weather does not permit me to have you thrown out of here on your ear, young lady.’ Mrs Bloomberg’s icy tones followed Athene as she walked the horse back towards the french windows.
    ‘Oh, don’t worry about me, Mrs Bloomberg.’ The girl turned her head with a lazy, charming smile. ‘I’ve been turfed out of far classier establishments than this.’ Then, with a kick of her jewelled slippers, she and the horse leapt over the small stone steps and cantered, nearly silently, into the snowy dark.
    There was a loaded silence, and then, on the instructions of the rigid hostess, the band struck up again. Groups of people exclaimed at each other, pointing at the snowy hoofmarks on the polished floor, as the ball sputtered slowly back into life. The master of ceremonies announced that in five minutes the horn-blowing competition would take place in the Great Hall, and that, for those who were hungry, dinner was still being served in the dining room. Within minutes, all that was left of Athene’s appearance was a ghostly imprint in the imaginations of those who had seen her – its edges already rubbed off by the prospect of the next piece of entertainment – and a few pools of melted snow on the floor.
    Vivi was still staring at Douglas. Standing by the huge fireplace, his eyes had not left the now closed french windows, just as they had not left Athene Forster as she sat on her huge horse, a few feet from him. While those around him had been appalled, or shocked, giggling in nervous excitement, in Douglas Fairley-Hulme’s expression there had been something else. Something still and rapt. Something that made Vivi fearful. ‘Douglas?’ she said, making her way over to him, trying not to slip on the wet floor.
    He didn’t appear to hear.
    ‘Douglas? You promised me a dance.’
    It was several seconds later that he noticed her. ‘What? Oh, Vee. Yes. Right.’ His eye was drawn once again to the doors. ‘I – I’ve just got to get a drink first. I’ll bring you a glass. Be right back.’
    That was the point, Vivi realised afterwards, at which she had been forced to acknowledge that there was going to be no fairytale ending to her evening. Douglas hadn’t returned with the drinks, and she had stood by the fireplace for almost forty minutes, a vague, glassy smile on her face, trying to look purposeful, rather than like someone who had been left on the side like a spare part. She hadn’t wanted to move, initially, because there were so many people, and the house was so big, and she wasn’t convinced Douglas would be able to find her again, once he remembered. But when she grasped that the group by the flower arrangement were remarking on her lonely sojourn, and the same waiter had been past three times, twice to offer drinks, and the third to ask if she was all right, she accepted Alexander’s second offer to dance.
    At midnight, there had been a toast, and some strange, unofficial