RAYNAUD PRETENDED TO LISTEN as the young man with curly hair and pimples said, “I have absolute proof. Absolute. Woodbines give you hemorrhoids. My grandaunt and first cousin—both smoked Woodbines, and now look at them. Cheaper to buy, oh, yes, much cheaper, but they give you hemorrhoids because of poor draw. Few people judge their cigarettes by ease of draw, though they should. Take Player’s Navy. Your more Establishment cigarette, yet it draws poorly. I much prefer Senior Service, do you smoke it?”
“No,” Raynaud said. “I don’t.”
“More’s the pity,” said the young man, and he drifted off. “Just remember,” he said, over his shoulder, “Woodbines are a nasty cigarette.”
Raynaud sighed and looked over the party. Through the elegant rooms of the house, fifty or sixty people wandered. They were all brightly dressed, the girls in minidresses, the men in carefully cut suits and spectacular ties, but the talk was vacant and dull.
He had run into Pet, who was wearing a pink polka-dot bell bottoms and a shimmering silver overblouse which was cut low to display her massive breasts. Pet talked endlessly of Sandra, and what a nice girl she was; she also talked about Chubby, the dear man.
Raynaud talked with her for a while, then he talked with another girl who was in rep at Chichester and had a crush on Larry; an architect who thought Sutherland had botched Coventry; an advertising man who worked for JWT and handled part of the CVP account; a forlorn medical student who wanted to become a consultant at St. Bot’s; a girl who was mad on Edwardian loving cups; a middle-aged man who manufactured foundation garments; a girl, rangy and tough, who told him of the joys of shooting pheasant in northern Ireland; a sleepy-eyed literary agent who handled Ron Shaw, an absolute bastard of a man, but so talented, did you see his Claudius against Leighton’s Hamlet on BBC?
Then there was an action painter who kept scratching his crotch as he talked about New York, which he wanted to visit; a girl who did figure studies for Ed, such a dear chap, really a sweetie; a flat-chested matron who announced in a funereal tone that Mirabelle was finished since they lost Jacques; a heavyset German in a dinner jacket who claimed that Dutch girls were the best in bed; a bespectacled Scotsman who wore a kilt and was doing classical research at the Ashmolean, numismatics mostly.
Among everyone present, there was a bored, desultory way of speaking, as if they were all waiting for something, marking time. Even Pierce seemed bored.
“Say,” Raynaud said. “Where’s Sandra?”
“Coming, coming. She likes a grand entrance.”
Half an hour later, Sandra appeared. He coughed on his scotch when he saw her.
She was not tall, but slender, and her face was delicately beautiful. Her hair was brown, with highlights of blond, and curved softly around her face and shoulders. Her eyes were large, a piercing clear green. Her nose was beautiful; her lips were soft; her chin was firm. Her body had a gentle, sensual quality, and her manner was cool, calm, understated.
There was a peacefully sexual look about her that was immediately arresting. Raynaud stared, until a girl impatiently tapped his arm.
“I’m still here,” she said. She sounded both annoyed and amused.
“She’s quite something,” Raynaud said.
“Yes,” the girl said. She was a well-built girl who danced in a West End discothèque, the Ancient Land. “But cold as ice. Can you see that?”
“No,” Raynaud admitted.
“Well, she is. It’s surprising, when you think she’s Italian. After all, the Italians are supposed to be mother earth, aren’t they?”
Beaming, showing her off like his latest and most expensive gadget, Pierce led Sandra around the room. When they came to Raynaud, Pierce made the introductions with a grin.
“Richard tells me you live in Mexico,” Sandra said. “I should like to talk to you about it sometime. When I was at Naples University, you know, I studied archaeology.”
Raynaud was surprised. “You did?”
“Yes,” she said. “I intended to get a doctoral degree. Then I won a beauty contest.”
She gave a peculiar smile, as if the memory did not entirely please her.
“I can understand why,” Raynaud said.
Pierce tugged slightly at her arm, and they began to move off.
“I hope we shall meet again,” Sandra said.
As they left, Pierce looked over his shoulder and winked.
Later, while Sandra was talking excitedly to a group of girls, Pierce came over to Raynaud.
“What did you think?”
“She’s a nice girl.”
“You sound unhappy.”
“No. It’s just that somebody should tell her.”
Pierce laughed. “I will,” he said. “I will lay bare all my faults. Later.” He lit a cigarette. “We’re going to Wales. Tonight. Be gone for the weekend.”
“Enjoy yourself.”
“Will you be here when I get back?”
“Probably.”
“Well then,” Pierce said. He extended his hand. “Have a good time,” he said, “at the snake convention.” They shook hands.
Soon afterward, Raynaud left the party.
As he unlocked the door to Richard’s flat, Raynaud suddenly regretted not having picked up a girl. Pet had been after him, licking her lips as she talked; it would have been easy. Now, the prospect of being alone in the apartment, alone with his thoughts, depressed him.
He passed through the living room, into the kitchen, where he mixed himself a drink. He made it very stiff; it would be his last before retiring. Something to help him sleep.
As he drank it, he sniffed the air. Perfume. Still sniffing, he went into the bedroom, which was empty. Then back to the living room.
“Bon soir,” said the husky voice.
She was seated in the corner, in darkness, smoking a cigarette. Her legs were tucked up under her in a rather girlish fashion. In the flare of her cigarette he saw the haughty face—high cheekbones, dark eyes, firm mouth. Her hair was glossy, dark blond, falling over her face. Impatiently she swept it back.
“Hello, Lucienne,” he said.
She smiled. “How are you getting on?”
“Fine.”
“Does he suspect?”
“No. He suspects nothing.”
“Excellent,” she said, puffing on the cigarette. “Now come and kiss me hello.”