A Girl’s Guide to Kissing Frogs - Victoria Clayton

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as quickly as the cast allowed and had nearly fallen over twice.

      ‘For God’s sake, don’t break the other one. Not before you’ve had dinner, anyway. I asked for Charlotte Malakoff for pud, specially for you. It always used to be your favourite.’

      ‘You didn’t? Not really? But how truly kind! Fancy you remembering that.’

      ‘It was thoughtful of me, wasn’t it! Now stop a minute and stand under the light and let me look at you.’

      The hall was still the brilliant shade of Chinese Emperor yellow I had always admired. Isobel and I paused beneath the brass lantern and stared at each other. I was quite as curious as she. Isobel was taller than me by four inches and her frame was much bigger than mine. She was not fat but curvy, with a pronounced bosom I envied. Her movements were sinuous, so the overall impression was one of litheness, like a well-fed cat. Her thick fair hair was bobbed at her shoulders and framed a long Grecian nose, delicately arched brows and slanting grey eyes. It was a lovely face. She used to complain that her lips were too thin and her chin too small. As her face was rarely still, these defects, if they existed, were insignificant. This particular evening she was looking tremendously chic in a strapless dress of dark green moiré. Round her neck was a string of green stones cut into large cubes and linked by gold threads. I felt suddenly conscious that my dress was second-hand and mended, my pearls fake and my leg wrapped in plaster.

      ‘You delicious little creature!’ She seized my earlobe and pinched it hard. ‘I’ve a good mind to send you straight home. Everyone’s going to be looking at you instead of me.’

      She took my crutches from me and rested them against the massive hall table. I got that tingling feeling again when I saw it. Once Isobel and I had pretended to feed jam tarts to the lions that propped up the marble top, and there had been a row as apparently the table was by someone important called William Sussex. Or was it William Kent? Apparently it had taken Evelyn two hours and a packet of cotton buds to remove the jam.

      ‘Where did you get this gorgeous coat?’ Isobel helped me out of it. The hall was chilly despite a log fire. It had never been possible to heat Shottestone Manor adequately. I tried not to shiver too obviously.

      ‘I borrowed it from a friend. You’re looking wonderful.’

      ‘Oh, this old thing. It does for Mummy’s dreary dinners. But really, Marigold, it’s too annoying. How dare you make your old friends feel shabby by dropping down among us, wearing something that makes you look a spirit briefly visiting earth? Honestly, is that a fair return for my unselfishness about the pudding? You know I hate black cherries.’

      ‘Do you really think it will do? It’s only an old thing from Wardrobe. I had to steep the bits under the arms in Omo to get the sweat stains out.’

      This was true. But I heard the old placatory tone in my voice.

      ‘It’s perfect. Come into the drawing room and meet the others.’ She lowered her voice as she handed back the crutches. ‘Did Dimpsie tell you about Rafe?’

      I nodded.

      ‘He’s been so good. You’d hardly know he’s been through unimaginable hell. He was completely deaf for a while but thank God his hearing’s come back. Don’t mention wars or people dying if you can help it. He’s as brave as a lion but anyone would be knocked off their perch by something like that.’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘As for Daddy, just smile and pretend everything’s fine. Oh Lord, it doesn’t sound as if it’s going to be much fun, does it? And the others are such bores … Never mind, we’ll be able to have a good talk while the men are sitting over their port. I’ve got masses to tell you. Come on.’

       9

      The other guests were standing close to the fire in the drawing room. Evelyn was conspicuous because of her formidable chic. Her hair, cut short, was silvery white and had been for years. Though she was nearly sixty her skin was hardly lined and her figure was excellent. On Evelyn’s face, Isobel’s features, the slanting eyes, the Grecian nose and the slightly receding chin, had sharpened and refined further with age. She reminded me of a beautiful hawk. She wore a full-length black-velvet-flocked chiffon dress, beautifully cut with a wide satin belt fastened with a diamante clasp. The drawing room, with its panelled walls painted several shades of grey, was the perfect background for her. I would have liked to be invisible for a few minutes so I could glide about uninterrupted and reacquaint myself with the furniture and objects in this most elegant of rooms.

      ‘Marigold!’ Evelyn advanced with outstretched arms. ‘My poor wounded girl!’ She enfolded me briefly in Après L’Ondée, the scent she had always worn. ‘It’s been too long, darling. I don’t count that marvellous ballet. Such a crush and I was in a hurry. Too lovely, all those swans …’ There had not been so much as a cygnet in The Firebird but I knew better than to contradict her. She ran her eye quickly over my dress. ‘Hm. Unusual. A good colour with your hair.’ Sheltering me with her arm as within a palisade, she turned back to her guests. ‘Everyone, this is Marigold Savage. I have known Marigold since she was a baby and I’m very proud of her. She is a prima ballerina.’

      Most of the other guests looked blank but one man said, ‘Not really! Well, this is exciting!’ He stepped forward to shake my hand. He had pale wispy hair and a thin, lanky body. The only substantial thing about him was his enormous nose. ‘Duncan Vardy. I’m something of a balletomane. Marigold Savage.’ He wrinkled his nose as he thought, exposing a forest of nostril hair. ‘I can’t quite … which company are you with?’

      ‘The Lenoir Ballet Company,’ I said. ‘And I’m not a prima ballerina, I’m afraid, just a principal dancer.’

      ‘Jolly good.’ He laughed uncertainly.

      ‘Duncan is a writer,’ said Evelyn. ‘I’m reading his most fascinating book at the moment about …’ she paused, hardly perceptibly, ‘the Cosmic Visions of Volupsà.’

      Evelyn liked to leaven the dough of hunting Tories with the yeast of artists and intellectuals.

      ‘Voluspà,’ corrected Duncan with an air of patience. He must have been used to people not quite grasping his subject. ‘Are you interested in Old Norse, Miss Savage?’

      ‘I’m sure I would be if I knew anything about it.’

      Duncan’s pale eyes gleamed. ‘You have heard, I’m sure, of the Nornor.’ He sucked his lower lip and looked at me expectantly.

      ‘The gnaw-gnaw?’

      ‘Yes, the Fates of Scandinavian myth. They spin the threads of man’s destiny and when they decide that his end has come they cut the thread.’ Duncan made a snipping movement with two fingers in illustration. They are usually represented as harbingers of suffering and misfortune. They tend the Yggdrasil.’

      ‘Egg-drazzle?’

      ‘Ig. Ig. It’s an evergreen ash that connects heaven, earth and hell. At its foot is a fountain of wonderful virtues. In the tree are an eagle, a squirrel and four stags. A dragon gnaws at its roots.’

      ‘Really!’ I tried to imagine it but there were too many components for a clear picture.

      ‘Marigold.’ A jolt ran through my nervous system as I felt a hand on my elbow. Rafe – my idol, my prince lointain, the top brick of my childhood chimney – stood beside me, holding a glass of champagne. ‘Come and sit by the fire and rest that leg. You can talk to her later, Duncan.’ He smiled down at me. ‘Look, she’s blue with cold.’

      I smiled back. ‘I hope not literally.’

      Rafe was taller even than I remembered him, perhaps six foot three inches, and his shoulders were proportionately broad.

      ‘Yes, your arms are the colour of forget-me-nots. It’s perfectly charming.’

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