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‘Did you mind me travelling with you, D?’ she said, with an attempt at coquettishness.

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ Douglas had not yet forgiven his father for refusing to let him borrow his Vauxhall Victor.

  ‘I simply don’t know why my parents won’t let me travel alone. They’re so old-fashioned . . .’

  She’d be all right with Douglas, her father had said, reassuringly. He’s as good as an older brother. In her despairing heart, Vivi had known he was right.

  She placed one booted foot on the seat next to Douglas. He was wearing a thick wool overcoat, and his shoes, like most men’s, bore a pale tidemark of slush. ‘Everyone who’s anyone is going tonight, apparently,’ she said. ‘Lots of people who wanted invites couldn’t get them.’

  ‘They could have had mine.’

  ‘Apparently that girl Athene Forster’s going to be there. The one who was rude to the Duke of Edinburgh. Have you seen her at any of the dances you’ve been to?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘She sounds awful. Mummy saw her in the gossip columns and started on about how money doesn’t buy breeding or somesuch.’ She paused, and rubbed her nose. ‘Frederica’s mother thinks there’s going to be no such thing as the Season soon. She says girls like Athene are killing it off, and that that’s why they’re calling her the Last Deb.’

  Douglas, snorting, didn’t look up from his paper. ‘The Last Deb. What rot. The whole Season’s a pretence. Has been since the Queen stopped receiving people at court.’

  ‘But it’s still a nice way to meet people.’

  ‘A nice way to get nice boys and gels mixing with suitable marriage material.’ Douglas closed his paper and placed it on the seat beside him. He leant back and linked his hands behind his head. ‘Things are changing, Vee. In ten years’ time there won’t be hunt balls like this. There won’t be posh frocks and tails.’

  Vivi wasn’t entirely sure but thought this might be linked to Douglas’s obsession with what he called ‘social reform’, which seemed to take in everything from George Cadbury’s education of the working classes to Communism in Russia. Via popular music. ‘So what will people do to meet?’

  ‘They’ll be free to see anyone they like, whatever their background. It’ll be a classless society.’

  It was hard to tell from his tone of voice whether he thought this was a good thing or was issuing a warning. So Vivi, who rarely looked at newspapers and admitted to no real opinions of her own, made a noise of agreement, and looked out of the window again. She hoped, not for the first time, that her hair would last the evening. She should be fine for the quickstep and the Gay Gordons, her mother had said, but she might want to exercise a little caution in the Dashing White Sergeant. ‘Douglas, will you do me a favour?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know you didn’t really want to come . . .’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘And I know you hate dancing, but if we get a few tunes in and no one’s asked me, will you promise me a dance? I don’t think I could bear to be left on the side all night.’ She pulled her hands briefly from the relative warmth of her pockets. Pearl Frost lay evenly over her nails. It glittered, opalescent, echoing the crystalline veil now creeping across the carriage window. ‘I’ve practised loads. I won’t let you down.’

  He smiled now and, despite the encroaching cold of the carriage, Vivi felt herself grow warmer. ‘You won’t be left on the side,’ he said, placing his own feet on the seat beside her. ‘But yes, silly. Course I will.’

  Framlington Hall was not one of the jewels of England’s architectural heritage. Its initial air of antiquity was deceptive: anyone with only a basic knowledge of architecture could deduce swiftly that its Gothic turrets did not sit comfortably with its Palladian pillars, that its narrow leaded windows jarred against the gabled roof of its oversized ballroom, that the unquiet red of its brick had not been weathered by more than a handful of seasons. It was, in short, a structural mongrel, a hybrid of all the worst nostalgic longings for a mythical time past, its own sense of importance imposing some standing on the flat countryside around it.

  Its gardens, when not buried under several feet of snow, were rigidly formal; the lawns carefully manicured and dense as the pile of an expensive carpet, the rose garden arranged not in a gently tangled wilderness but in rigid rows of brutally pruned bushes, each an echo in size and shape of the next. Their colours were not faded pink and peach, but blood-bright, meticulously bred or grafted in laboratories in Holland or France. To each side stood rows of evenly green leylandii, preparing, even in their extreme youth, to enclose the house and its grounds from the world outside. It was less a garden than, as one visitor had noted, a kind of horticultural concentration camp.

  Not that these considerations bothered the steady stream of guests who, overnight bags in hand, had been disgorged on to the salted drive that curved round in front of the house. Some had been personally invited by the Bloombergs, who had themselves designed the hall (and had only just been discouraged from buying a title to go with it), some had been invited through the Bloombergs’ better-placed friends, with their express permission, to create the right atmosphere. And some had simply turned up, hoping, astutely, that in the general scale of things a few extras with the right sort of faces and accents were not going to bother anyone. The Bloombergs, with a freshly minted banking fortune, and a determination to keep the debutante tradition alive for their twin daughters, were known as generous hosts. And things were more relaxed these days – no one was going to turf anyone out into the snow. Especially when there was a newly decorated interior to show off.

  Vivi had thought about this at some length as she sat in her room (towels, toiletries and two-speed hairdryer provided) at least two corridors from Douglas’s. She had been one of the lucky ones, thanks to Douglas’s father’s business relationship with David Bloomberg. Most of the girls were being put up in a hotel several miles away, but she was to stay in a room almost three times the size of her own at home, and twice as luxurious.

  Lena Bloomberg, a tall, elegant woman who wore the jaded air of someone who had long known that her husband’s only real attraction for her was financial, had raised her eyebrows at his more extravagant welcomes, and said there was tea and soup in the drawing room for those who needed to warm themselves, and that if there was anything at all that Vivi needed, she should call – although not Mrs Bloomberg, presumably. She had then instructed a manservant to show her to her room – the men were in a separate wing – and Vivi, having tested every jar of cream and sniffed every bottle of shampoo, had sat for some time before getting changed, revelling in her unheralded freedom, and wondering how it must be to live like this every day.

  As she poured herself into her dress (tight bodice, long lilac skirt, made by her mother from a Butterick pattern), and swapped her boots for shoes she could hear the distant hum of voices as people walked past her door, an air of anticipation seeping into the walls. From downstairs, she heard the discordant sounds of the band warming up, the anonymous, hurried step of staff preparing rooms and exclamations as acquaintances greeted each other on the stairs. She had been looking forward to the ball for weeks. Now that it was here, she was filled with the same sort of dull terror that she used to feel on going to the dentist. Not just because the only person she was likely to know was Douglas, or because, having felt terribly liberated and sophisticated on the train, she now felt very young, but because set against the girls, who had arrived, stick-limbed and glowing, in their evening wear, she seemed suddenly lumpen and inadequate, the sheen of her new boots already tarnished. Because glamour didn’t come easily to Veronica Newton. Despite the feminine props of hair rollers and foundation garments, she was forced to admit that she would only ever be pretty ordinary. She was curvy at a time when beauty was measured in skinniness. She was healthily ruddy when she should have been pale and wide-eyed. She was still in dirndl skirts and shirtwaisters when fashion meant A-line and modern. Even her hair, which was naturally blonde, was
unruly, wavy and strawlike, refusing to fall in geometrically straight lines like that of the models in Honey or Petticoat, instead floating in wisps around her face. Today, welded into its artificial curls, it looked rigid and protesting, rather than the honeyed confection she had envisaged. Adding insult to injury, her parents, in some uncharacteristic burst of imagination, had nicknamed her Vivi, which meant people tended to look disappointed when they were introduced to her, as if the name suggested some exoticism she didn’t possess. ‘Not everyone can be the belle of the ball,’ her mother said, reassuringly. ‘You’ll make someone a lovely wife.’

  I don’t want to be someone’s lovely wife, thought Vivi, gazing at her reflection and feeling the familiar drag of dissatisfaction. I just want to be Douglas’s passion. She allowed herself The briefest rerun of her fantasy, now as well thumbed as the pages of a favourite book – the one in which Douglas, shaking his head at the unexpected beauty of her in her ballgown, whirled her on to the dance floor and waltzed her round until she was giddy, his strong hand placed firmly on the small of her back, his cheek pressed against hers . . . (It owed an awful lot, she had to admit, to Walt Disney’s Cinderella. It had to, as things tended to get a bit blurry after the kissing.) Since arriving here, her daydream kept being interrupted by slim, enigmatic Jean Shrimpton lookalikes, who tempted him away with knowing smiles and Sobranie cigarettes – so she had started a new one, in which, at the end of the evening, Douglas escorted her back to this huge bedroom, waited longingly at the open door, and then finally, tenderly, walked her over to the window, gazed at her moonlit face and—

  ‘Vee? Are you decent?’ Vivi jumped guiltily as Douglas rapped sharply on the door. ‘Thought we might nip downstairs early. I bumped into an old schoolfriend and he’s saving us a couple of glasses of champagne. Are you nearly done?’

  The pleasure of Douglas’s calling for her wrestled with her dismay at him already having found someone else to talk to. ‘Two secs,’ she shouted, layering mascara on her eyelashes, and praying that tonight would be the one on which he was forced to look at her differently. ‘I’ll be right there.’

  He looked perfect in black tie, of course. Unlike her father, whose stomach strained uncomfortably over his cummerbund like a wind-filled sail, Douglas simply looked taller and straighter, his shoulders square in the crisp dark cloth of his jacket, his skin thrillingly alive against the flat monochrome of his shirt. She thought he probably knew he looked handsome. When she’d told him so, jokingly, to hide the intensity of longing his appearance had provoked in her, he’d laughed gruffly and said he felt like a trussed-up fool. Then, as if embarrassed to have forgotten, he had complimented her too. ‘You scrub up pretty well, old girl,’ he said, putting his arm round her and giving her a brotherly squeeze. It wasn’t quite Prince Charming, but it was a touch. Vivi still felt it, radioactive on her bare skin.

  ‘Did you know we’re now officially snowed in?’

  Alexander, Douglas’s pale, freckled schoolfriend, had brought her another drink. It was her third glass of champagne, and the paralysis she had initially felt, when confronted by the sea of glamorous faces before her, had evaporated. ‘What?’ she said.

  He leant in so that she could hear him over the noise of the band. ‘The snow. It’s started again. Apparently no one’s going to get past the end of the drive until they bring more grit tomorrow.’ He, like many of the men, was wearing a red coat (‘Pink,’ he corrected her) and his aftershave was terribly strong, as if he hadn’t been sure how much to use.

  ‘Where will you stay?’ Vivi had a sudden picture of a thousand bodies camped on the ballroom floor.

  ‘Oh, I’m all right. I’m in the house, like you. Don’t know what the rest will do, though. Keep going all night, probably. Some of these chaps would have done that anyway.’

  Unlike Vivi, most of the people she could see around her looked as if they stayed up until dawn as a matter of course. They all seemed so confident and assured, uncowed by their grand surroundings. Their poise and chatter suggested there was nothing particularly special about being in this stately home, even though there was a fleet of minions whose only wish was to serve them food and drink, and that they were unaccompanied by chaperones on a night when boys and girls were likely to have to stay in the same house. The girls wore their dresses easily, with the insouciance of those for whom smart evening wear was as familiar as an overcoat.

  They didn’t look like extras from a Disney film. Among the tiaras and pearls there were heavily outlined eyes, cigarettes, the occasional Pucci skirt. And despite the incongruous elegance of the wedding-cake ballroom, the many swirling ballgrowns and evening dresses, it had not been long before the band had been persuaded to drop its playlist of traditional dances, and strike up something a little more modern – an instrumental version of ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand’ had sent girls squealing on to the dance floor, shaking their elaborately coiffed heads and shimmying their hips, leaving the matrons on the sidelines to shake their own heads in perplexed disapproval, and Vivi to conclude, sadly, that she was unlikely to get her waltz with Douglas.

  Not that she was sure he’d remembered his promise. Since they had come into the ballroom, he had seemed distracted, as if he were scenting something she didn’t understand. In fact, Douglas hadn’t seemed much like himself at all, smoking cigars with his friends, exchanging jokes she didn’t get. She was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about the imminent collapse of the class system – if anything, he looked disturbingly at home among the black ties and hunting coats. Several times she had tried to say something private to him, something that re-established their shared history, a degree of intimacy. At one point, boldly, she had made a joke about his smoking a cigar, but he hadn’t seemed particularly interested – had listened with what her mother always called ‘half an ear’. Then as politely as he could, he had rejoined the other conversation.

  She had started to feel foolish, so had been almost grateful when Alexander had paid her attention. ‘Fancy a twist?’ he had said, and she had to confess that she had only learnt the classic dance steps. ‘Easy,’ he said, leading her on to the floor. ‘Stub a cigarette out with your toe, and rub a towel on your behind. Got it?’ He had looked so comical that she had burst out laughing, then glanced behind her to see whether Douglas had noticed. But Douglas, not for the first time that evening, had disappeared.

  At eight a master of ceremonies announced that there was a buffet, and Vivi, a little giddier than when she had arrived, joined a long line of people queuing for sole Véronique or boeuf bourguignon and wondered how to balance her extreme hunger with the knowledge that none of the girls around her were eating more than a few sticks of overcooked carrot.

  Almost accidentally, she had become embedded in a group of Alexander’s friends. He had introduced her in a manner that was faintly proprietorial, and Vivi had found herself tugging at her bodice, conscious that she was revealing quite an expanse of flushed cleavage.

  ‘Been to Ronnie Scott’s?’ said one, leaning over her so that she had to hold her plate away from her.

  ‘Never met him. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s a jazz club. Gerrard Street. You should get Xander to take you there. He knows Stan Tracy.’

  ‘I don’t really know—’ Vivi stepped back, and apologised when she jogged someone’s drink.

  ‘God, I’m starving. Went to the Atwoods’ do last week and all they served was salmon mould and consommé. I had to pay the girls to give me theirs. Thought I’d bloody faint with hunger.’

  ‘Nothing as mean as a mean buffet.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more, Xander. You skiing this year?’

  ‘Verbier. Parents have borrowed Alfie Baddow’s place. You remember Alfie?’

  ‘We’ll need skis to get out of this place soon.’

  Vivi found herself moving accommodatingly sideways as several conversations continued around her. She was starting to feel discomfited by the way Xander’s hand had ‘accidentally’ brushed her behind several ti
mes.

  ‘Anyone seen Douglas?’

  ‘Chatting to some blonde in the picture gallery. I gave him a wet willie as I went past.’ He mimed licking his finger and sticking it into his neighbour’s ear.

  ‘Another dance, Vivi?’ Alexander held out a hand, and made to lead her back on to the dance floor.

  ‘I – I think I’ll wait this one out.’ She put a hand to her hair, and realised, with dismay, that her curls no longer felt smooth and round, but had collapsed in stiff fronds.

  ‘Come and have a go on the tables, then,’ he said, and offered his arm instead. ‘Be my lucky charm.’

  ‘Can I meet you in there? I really need to – to powder my nose.’

  A chattering queue was snaking out of the downstairs bathroom, and Vivi, standing alone as the chatter and noise ebbed and flowed around her, found that by the time she’d reached its head she genuinely needed to go. She was rather discomfited when suddenly, with ‘Vivi! Darling! It’s Isabel. Izzy? From Mrs de Montfort’s? Don’t you look fab!’, the now limited space between her and the lavatory door was filled.

  The girl, whom Vivi only vaguely remembered (this might have been as much to do with the amount of champagne she had drunk as genuine lack of recognition) wheeled in front of her, inelegantly hoicking up her long pink skirt with one hand, and planted a kiss just behind Vivi’s ear. ‘Darling, I couldn’t just nip in front of you, could I? I’m absolutely dying. Going to disgrace myself if I . . . Marvellous.’ As the door swung open in front of them, Isabel vanished inside, and Vivi found herself crossing her legs, her bladder’s thwarted sense of anticipation turning a vague need into an uncomfortably urgent one.

  ‘Bloody cow,’ said a voice from behind her. Vivi flushed guiltily, imagining this to be directed at her. ‘She and that Forster girl have been completely monopolising Toby Duckworth and the Horseguards all night. Margaret B-W’s terribly upset.’

  ‘Athene Forster doesn’t even like Toby Duckworth. She just fools around because she knows he’s got a pash for her.’