Vile Bodies · Chapter 6 (1/3)

VI

That evening Lady Metroland gave a party for Mrs. Melrose Ape. Adam found the telegram of invitation waiting for him on his return to Shepheard’s. (Lottie had already used the prepaid reply to do some betting with. Someone had given her a tip for the November Handicap and she wanted to “make her little flutter” before she forgot the name.) He also found an invitation to luncheon from Simon Balcairn.

The food at Shepheard’s tends to be mostly game-pie⁠—quite black inside and full of beaks and shot and inexplicable vertebrae⁠—so Adam was quite pleased to lunch with Simon Balcairn, though he knew there must be some slightly sinister motive behind this sudden hospitality.

They lunched Chez Espinosa, the second most expensive restaurant in London; it was full of oilcloth and Lalique glass, and the sort of people who liked that sort of thing went there continually and said how awful it was.

“I hope you don’t mind coming to this awful restaurant,” said Balcairn. “The truth is that I get meals free if I mention them occasionally in my page. Not drinks, unfortunately. Who’s here, Alphonse?” he asked the maître d’hôtel.

Alphonse handed him the typewritten slip that was always kept for gossip writers.

“H’m, yes. Quite a good list this morning, Alphonse. I’ll do what I can about it.”

“Thank you, sir. A table for two? A cocktail?”

“No, I don’t think I want a cocktail. I really haven’t time. Will you have one, Adam? They aren’t very good here.”

“No, thanks,” said Adam.

“Sure?” said Balcairn, already making for their table.

When they were being helped to caviar he looked at the wine list.

“The lager is rather good,” he said. “What would you like to drink?”

“Whatever you’re having.⁠ ⁠… I think some lager would be lovely.”

“Two small bottles of lager, please.⁠ ⁠… Are you sure you really like that better than anything?”

“Yes, really, thank you.”

Simon Balcairn looked about him gloomily, occasionally adding a new name to his list. (It is so depressing to be in a profession in which literally all conversation is “shop.”)

Presently he said, with a deadly air of carelessness:

“Margot Metroland’s got a party tonight, hasn’t she? Are you going?”

“I think probably. I usually like Margot’s parties, don’t you?”

“Yes.⁠ ⁠… Adam, I’ll tell you a very odd thing. She hasn’t sent me an invitation to this one.”

“I expect she will. I only got mine this morning.”

“… Yes⁠ ⁠… who’s that woman just come in in the fur coat? I know her so well by sight.”

“Isn’t it Lady Everyman?”

“Yes, of course.” Another name was added to the list. Balcairn paused in utmost gloom and ate some salad. “The thing is⁠ ⁠… she told Agatha Runcible she wasn’t going to ask me.”

“Why not?”

“Apparently she’s in a rage about something I said about something she said about Miles.”

“People do take things so seriously,” said Adam encouragingly.

“It means ruin for me,” said Lord Balcairn. “Isn’t that Pamela Popham?”

“I haven’t the least idea.”

“I’m sure it is⁠ ⁠… I must look up the spelling in the stud book when I get back. I got into awful trouble about spelling the other day.⁠ ⁠… Ruin.⁠ ⁠… She’s asked Vanburgh.”

“Well, he’s some sort of cousin, isn’t he?”

“It’s so damned unfair. All my cousins are in lunatic asylums or else they live in the country and do indelicate things with wild animals⁠ ⁠… Except my mamma, and that’s worse⁠ ⁠… they were furious at the office about Van getting that Downing Street ‘scoop.’ If I miss this party I may as well leave Fleet Street for good⁠ ⁠… I may as well put my head into a gas-oven and have done with it⁠ ⁠… I’m sure if Margot knew how much it meant to me she wouldn’t mind my coming.”

Great tears stood in his eyes threatening to overflow.

“All this last week,” he said, “I’ve been reduced to making up my page from the Court Circular and Debrett⁠ ⁠… No one ever asks me anywhere now⁠ ⁠…”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Adam, “I know Margot pretty well. If you like I’ll ring her up and ask if I may bring you.”

“Will you? Will you, Adam? If only you really would. Let’s go and do it at once. We’ve no time for coffee or liqueurs. Quick, we can telephone from my office⁠ ⁠… yes, that black hat and my umbrella, no, I’ve lost the number⁠ ⁠… there, no, there, oh do hurry.⁠ ⁠… Yes, a taxi⁠ ⁠…”

They were out in the street and into a taxi before Adam had time to say any more. Soon they were imbedded in a traffic block in the Strand, and after a time they reached Balcairn’s office in Fleet Street.

They went up to a tiny room with “Social” written on the glass of the door. Its interior seemed not to justify its name. There was one chair, a typewriter, a telephone, some books of reference and a considerable litter of photographs. Balcairn’s immediate superior sat in the one chair.

“Hullo,” she said. “So you’re back. Where you been?”

“Espinosa. Here’s the list.”

The social editress read it through. “Can’t have Kitty Blackwater,” she said. “Had her yesterday. Others’ll do. Write ’em down to a couple of paragraphs. Suppose you didn’t notice what they were wearing?”

“Yes,” said Balcairn eagerly. “All of them.”

“Well, you won’t have room to use it. We got to keep everything down for Lady M.’s party. I’ve cut out the D. of Devonshire altogether. By the way, the photograph you used yesterday wasn’t the present Countess of Everyman. It’s an old one of the Dowager. We had ’em both on the phone about it, going on something awful. That’s you, again. Got your invite for tonight?”

“Not yet.”

“You better get it quick. I got to have a firsthand story before we go to press, see? By the way, know anything about this? Lady R.’s maid sent it in today.” She picked up a slip of paper: “ ‘Rumoured engagement broken off between Adam Fenwick-Symes, only son of the late Professor Oliver Fenwick-Symes, and Nina Blount, of Doubting Hall, Aylesbury.’ Never heard of either. Ain’t even been announced, so far as I’m aware of.”

“You’d better ask him. This is Adam Symes.”

“Hullo, no offence meant, I’m sure.⁠ ⁠… What about it?”

“It is neither announced nor broken off.”

“N.B.G. in fact, eh? Then that goes there.” She put the slip into the wastepaper basket. “That girl’s sent us a lot of bad stuff lately. Well, I’m off for a bit of lunch. I’ll be over at the Garden Club if anything urgent turns up. So long.”

The editress went out, banging the door labelled “Social,” and whistled as she went down the passage.

“You see how they treat me,” said Lord Balcairn. “They were all over me when I first arrived. I do so wish I were dead.”

“Don’t cry,” said Adam, “it’s too shy-making.”

“I can’t help it⁠ ⁠… oh, do come in.”

The door marked “Social” opened and a small boy came in.

“Lord Circumference’s butler downstairs with some engagements and a divorce.”

“Tell him to leave them.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“That’s the only person in this office who’s ever polite to me,” said Balcairn as the messenger disappeared. “I wish I had something to leave him in my will.⁠ ⁠… Do ring up Margot. Then I shall at any rate know the worst.⁠ ⁠… Come in.”

“Gentleman of the name of General Strapper downstairs. Wants to see you very particular.”

“What about?”

“Couldn’t say, my lord, but he’s got a whip. Seems very put out about something.”

“Tell him the social editor is having luncheon.⁠ ⁠… Do ring up Margot.”

Adam said, “Margot, may I bring someone with me tonight?”

“Well, Adam, I really don’t think you can. I can’t imagine how everyone’s going to get in as it is. I’m terribly sorry, who is it?”

“Simon Balcairn. He’s particularly anxious to come.”

“I dare say he is. I’m rather against that young man. He’s written things about me in the papers.”

“Please, Margot.”

“Certainly not. I won’t have him inside my house. I’ve only asked Van on the strictest understanding that he doesn’t write anything about it. I don’t wish to have anything more to do with Simon Balcairn.”

“My dear, how rich you sound.”

“I feel my full income when that young man is mentioned. Goodbye. See you tonight.”

“You needn’t tell me,” said Balcairn. “I know what she’s said⁠ ⁠… it’s no good, is it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Done for⁠ ⁠…” said Balcairn. “… End of the tether.⁠ ⁠…” He turned over some slips of paper listlessly. “Would it interest you to hear that Agatha and Archie are engaged?”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Neither do I. One of our people has just sent it in. Half of what they send us is lies, and the other half libel⁠ ⁠… they sent us a long story about Miles and Pamela Popham having spent last night at Arundel.⁠ ⁠… But we couldn’t use it even if it were true, which it obviously isn’t, knowing Miles. Thank you for doing what you could⁠ ⁠… goodbye.”

Downstairs in the outer office there was an altercation in progress. A large man of military appearance was shaking and stamping in front of a middle-aged woman. Adam recognized the social editress.

“Answer me, yes or no,” the big man was saying. “Are you or are you not responsible for this damnable lie about my daughter?”

(He had read in Simon Balcairn’s column that his daughter had been seen at a night club. To anyone better acquainted with Miss Strapper’s habits of life the paragraph was particularly reticent.)

“Yes, or no,” cried the General, “or I’ll shake the life out of you.”

“No.”

“Then who is? Let me get hold of the cad who wrote it. Where is he?” roared the General.

“Upstairs,” the social editress managed to say.

“More trouble for Simon,” thought Adam.

Adam went to pick Nina up at her flat. They had arranged to go to a cinema together. She said, “You’re much later than you said. It’s so boring to be late for a talkie.”

He said, “Talkies are boring, anyhow.”

They treated each other quite differently after their night’s experiences. Adam was inclined to be egotistical and despondent; Nina was rather grown-up and disillusioned and distinctly cross. Adam began to say that as far as he could see he would have to live on at Shepheard’s now for the rest of his life, or at any rate for the rest of Lottie’s life, as it wouldn’t be fair to leave without paying the bill.

Then Nina said, “Do be amusing, Adam. I can’t bear you when you’re not amusing.”

Then Adam began to tell her about Simon Balcairn and Margot’s party. He described how he had seen Simon being horsewhipped in the middle of the office.

Nina said, “Yes, that’s amusing. Go on like that.”

The story of Simon’s whipping lasted them all the way to the cinema. They were very late for the film Nina wanted to see, and that set them back again. They didn’t speak for a long time. Then Nina said apropos of the film, “All this fuss about sleeping together. For physical pleasure I’d sooner go to my dentist any day.”

Adam said, “You’ll enjoy it more next time.”

Nina said, “Next time,” and told him that he took too much for granted.

Adam said that was a phrase which only prostitutes used.

Then they started a real quarrel which lasted all through the film and all the way to Nina’s flat and all the time she was cutting up a lemon and making a cocktail, until Adam said that if she didn’t stop going on he would ravish her there and then on her own hearthrug.

Then Nina went on.

But by the time that Adam went to dress she had climbed down enough to admit that perhaps love was a thing one could grow to be fond of after a time, like smoking a pipe. Still she maintained that it made one feel very ill at first, and she doubted if it was worth it.

Then they began to argue at the top of the lift about whether acquired tastes were ever worth acquiring. Adam said it was imitation, and that it was natural to man to be imitative, so that acquired tastes were natural.

But the presence of the lift boy stopped that argument coming to a solution as the other had done.

“My, ain’t this classy,” said Divine Discontent.

“It’s all right,” said Chastity in a worldly voice. “Nothing to make a song and dance about.”

“Who’s making a song and dance? I just said it was classy⁠—and it is classy, ain’t it?”

“I suppose everything’s classy to some people.”

“Now you two,” said Temperance, who had been put in charge of the angels for the evening, “don’t you start anything in here, not with your wings on. Mrs. Ape won’t stand for scrapping in wings, and you know it.”

“Who’s starting anything?”

“Well, you are then.”

“Oh, it’s no use talking to Chastity. She’s too high and mighty to be an angel now. Went out for a drive with Mrs. Panrast in a Rolls Royce,” said Fortitude. “I saw her. I was so sorry it rained all the time, or it might have been quite enjoyable, mightn’t it, Chastity?”

“Well, you ought to be glad. Leaves the men for you, Fortitude. Only they don’t seem to want to take advantage, do they?”

Then they talked about men for some time. Divine Discontent thought the second footman had nice eyes.

“And he knows it,” said Temperance.

They were all having supper together in what was still called the schoolroom in Lady Metroland’s house. From the window they could see the guests arriving for the party. In spite of the rain quite a large crowd had collected on either side of the awning to criticize the cloaks with appreciative “oohs” and “ahs” or contemptuous sniffs. Cars and taxis drove up in close succession. Lady Circumference splashed up the street in goloshes, wearing a high fender of diamonds under a tartan umbrella. The Bright Young People came popping all together, out of someone’s electric brougham like a litter of pigs, and ran squealing up the steps. Some “gatecrashers” who had made the mistake of coming in Victorian fancy dress were detected and repulsed. They hurried home to change for a second assault. No one wanted to miss Mrs. Ape’s début.

But the angels were rather uneasy. They had been dressed ever since seven o’clock in their white shifts, gold sashes and wings. It was now past ten, and the strain was beginning to tell, for it was impossible to sit back comfortably in wings.

“Oh, I wish they’d hurry up so we could get it over,” said Creative Endeavour. “Mrs. Ape said we could have some champagne afterwards if we sang nice.”

“I don’t mind betting she’s doing herself pretty well, down there.”

“Chastity!”

“Oh, all right.”

Then the footman with the nice eyes came to clear the table. He gave them a friendly wink as he shut the door. “Pretty creatures,” he thought. “Blooming shame that they’re so religious⁠ ⁠… wasting the best years of their lives.”

(There had been a grave debate in the servants’ hall about the exact status of angels. Even Mr. Blenkinsop, the butler, had been uncertain. “Angels are certainly not guests,” he had said, “and I don’t think they are deputations. Nor they ain’t governesses either, nor clergy not strictly speaking; they’re not entertainers, because entertainers dine nowadays, the more’s the pity.”

“I believe they’re decorators,” said Mrs. Blouse, “or else charitable workers.”

“Charitable workers are governesses, Mrs. Blouse. There is nothing to be gained by multiplying social distinctions indefinitely. Decorators are either guests or workmen.”

After further discussion the conclusion was reached that angels were nurses, and that became the official ruling of the household. But the second footman was of the opinion that they were “young persons,” pure and simple, “and very nice too,” for nurses cannot, except in very rare cases, be winked at, and clearly angels could.)

“What we want to know, Chastity,” said Creative Endeavour, “is how you come to take up with Mrs. Panrast at all.”

“Yes,” said the Angels, “yes. It’s not like you, Chastity, to go riding in a motor car with a woman.” They fluttered their feathers in a menacing way. “Let’s third-degree her,” said Humility with rather nasty relish.

(There was a system of impromptu jurisdiction among the Angels which began with innuendo, went on to crossexamination, pinches and slaps and ended, as a rule, in tears and kisses.)

Faced by this circle of spiteful and haloed faces, Chastity began to lose her air of superiority.