LITMIR.BIZ

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of the room without anybody noticing. But he was still nervous.

      ‘Liz!’

      ‘Don’t you want to?’

      ‘Well … yes … of course. Of course I do. But.’

      ‘Oh! “But” again. But what?’

      ‘I’m the groom’s father. You’re the bride’s mother. It’s their wedding day.’

      ‘Is doing it any worse than wanting to do it?’

      ‘No, but … I mean … they might come in themselves.’

      ‘In the middle of their wedding reception? Besides, I have the key.’

      ‘Yes, but … they’ll be cutting the cake. There’ll be the speeches.’

      ‘We’ll be back. Nobody’ll miss us in this crush.’

      ‘Yes, but … we’re pillars of the local community. I mean … Liz! … they don’t do things like that, pillars of the local community. They don’t.’

      ‘Yes, they do. They just don’t get found out. As we won’t. We’ll never get a safer moment.’ She moved closer towards him, so that briefly their bodies touched. He had to admit that the sensation beat washing up into a cocked hat. ‘I thought you were a man of nerve,’ she said.

      ‘Oh heck,’ riposted the man of nerve.

      ‘We’re off on holiday tomorrow. A month with Laurence! I want to remember you and me every day of that month, Ted. Give me something to remember.’

      ‘Bloody hell. Bloody hell, Liz.’

      ‘Room 108 in five minutes.’

      And then she was gone.

      ‘Oh heck,’ said Ted. ‘Oh utterly and confounded heck. Oh good God almighty.’ Rita was approaching. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

      ‘Can I have a word, Ted?’ said Rita anxiously.

      ‘Yes, if it doesn’t take too long. I mean … oh God.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      Rita chose an alcove on the other side of the garden, as far away as possible from the one in which she had talked to Paul. That was one recess she never wanted to see again!

      The sun was high in a sky that was now almost entirely blue. Ted’s bushy eyebrows asked the rather weary question, ‘What is it this time?’

      ‘It’s Paul,’ said Rita. ‘He’s gone.’

      ‘Gone?’ said Ted. ‘They’re never splitting up already! I know youngsters don’t regard marriage as sacred, but …’ He glanced at his watch. ‘… an hour and ten minutes!’ He wished he hadn’t looked at his watch. It reminded him that three of the five minutes had already gone.

      ‘No! He’s gone to have his hair cut.’

      ‘Is he mad? Rita!! You’ve been on at him, haven’t you?’

      ‘I may have just touched on it.’

      Rita began to cry. The immaculate Neville Badger approached them. He was adrift on the afternoon’s unfamiliar currents, and was looking for somewhere to drop anchor. He saw that Rita was crying, and developed a sudden interest in silver carp.

      ‘Love!’ said Ted desperately. ‘What’s up, love?’

      ‘Everybody says what a picture Jenny looks.’

      ‘Well … she does.’

      ‘Nobody says what a picture Paul looks.’

      ‘Well … he doesn’t.’

      ‘Bolivian tin miners indeed!’

      ‘You what?’

      ‘She’s changing him. He’s never even mentioned Bolivia before. He’s never even sent charity Christmas cards.’

      ‘He’s never sent any Christmas cards.’

      ‘This is what I say. She’s changing him.’

      An airship was drifting slowly overhead. It had the name of a cigarette firm printed on it in huge letters, and was travelling towards the athletics meeting which the firm had sponsored in a moment of guilt. Did anybody look down from the airship? If so, could they have seen Ted glance surreptitiously at his watch? Five minutes and seventeen seconds. Zero hour plus seventeen. Oh good! Oh God!

      He stood up.

      ‘Don’t leave me alone,’ implored Rita. ‘I hate functions. I feel so … dreary … drab … dull.’

      ‘Don’t be silly, love,’ said Ted, trying desperately to encourage her, and swiftly. ‘Don’t be so self-conscious. I mean … nobody’s looking at you.’ He realized, even as he said it, that it was not the most felicitously expressed piece of encouragement in the history of the world.

      ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘I’m just a grey smudge.’

      ‘Love!’ he said. ‘You aren’t a grey smudge. You’re not! I mean … love … I’m a man of discernment. A leader of industry. Would I have married a grey smudge? I mean … would I?’

      ‘I wasn’t a grey smudge when you married me!’

      ‘Rita! Love! Look, I’m an Englishman. I’m a Yorkshireman. So, I can’t come out with sweet nothings. I mean … I just can’t. But … I promise you, love … you aren’t … to me … in any way … a grey smudge.’ The die was cast. He knew that he couldn’t not go to room 108, whether he wanted to or not. He would always feel that he should have gone. ‘So … come on. Circulate. Mingle. We’ll never establish our social equality with the Rodenhursts by sitting in comers and moping, will we?’

      He led her in through the French windows, into a wall of talk.

      Behind them, Neville Badger gloomily dropped a dollop of pilchard mousse into the pond. The silver carp fought for the privilege of devouring their distant relation.

      ‘There’s Laurence,’ said Ted. ‘Talk to him. Do your bit. Use your charm. Establish our social credibility.’

      ‘Where are you going?’ Rita was near to panic.

      ‘If you must know,’ said Ted, lowering his voice, ‘I feel a pressing need to perform a certain natural function.’ It wasn’t a total lie.

      ‘Ted!’ said Rita, scandalized. ‘You don’t talk about that sort of function at this sort of function!’

      ‘Well, you asked.’ He steered her over to Laurence, who was moving away from the champagne table with a recharged glass. Ted carried straight on towards the doors which led into the bowels of the hotel.

      Rita glared at him, then turned to Laurence and gave him what she hoped was a charming smile. It wasn’t.

      ‘It’s a lovely buffet,’ she drooled, hating her ingratiating voice. ‘The tuna fish vol-au-vents are a revelation.’

      ‘They have a good reputation here.’

      ‘It’s a lovely do altogether. I do like lovely dos.’ Oh shut up, Rita. Listen to yourself. Unfortunately, Laurence had shut up as well. The seconds ticked by, and Rita felt that everyone in the room was gloating over her discomfiture. She felt absolutely enormous, and also about two inches high.

      ‘Have you had your holidays yet?’ she heard Laurence ask from what seemed like a great distance.

      She heard herself start up again. ‘No. We’re going to the South of France with Rodney and Betty Sillitoe. You met them. He’s the one who’s the big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens.’ Oh God, Rita, why did you have to drag that in? ‘We like France. Well, let’s face it, it’s a bit more sophisticated than Spain these days.

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