THURSDAY, APRIL FOURTEENTH, turned out to be one of those spring days when Washington really excels herself. For once, the Japanese ornamental cherry trees around the Tidal Basin had burst into a glorious profusion of pink blossom exactly on time, delighting the crowds of sightseers on the Mall. In the cool, sparkling sunshine, the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials had never looked more elegantly Grecian, the Washington Monument more monumental or the White House whiter. The Stars and Stripes fluttered proudly from Ministries and Departments, and the Capitol fittingly crowned the scene, like a gigantic wedding cake.
Up the hill in Georgetown, the tree-lined, cobbled streets, with their traditional red-brick pavements, were also coming to life. Gardens were waking after the hibernation of the cruel months, and decking themselves with hyacinths, tulips, and daffodils. On Wisconsin Avenue, the great shopping street that bisects the area from north to south, pavement-squatting hippies in outrageously colorful outfits were the unmistakable harbingers of spring.
The trendy boutiques festooned their windows in a riot of way-out fashions, and even the owners of dark little antique shops got busy with feather dusters. The Georgetown Coffee Shop produced a windowful of growing herbs for sale. The French Market did a roaring trade in enormous lunchtime sandwiches, and put up endearing notices in inaccurate English begging their patrons not to eat them in the car park. White-painted garden furniture was hauled out from garages and basements, scrubbed, and set up in a thousand patios. Summertime lanterns and bright umbrellas blossomed in back yards, while in grander gardens porcelain elephants and jaguars took up their summer stations.
It was the time of the year when Margaret Colville always decided that the high cost of living in Georgetown was well worth it. She and her husband had been renting a house there for four years—ever since John had been lured away from the London School of Economics to work at the World Bank. In London, they had lived in Chelsea—so, to them, Georgetown was like coming home. Margaret knew that most of John’s colleagues considered that they must be crazy to squander so much money in rent, but she would not have traded their tiny frame house and square of sunny back garden for a modern split-level rambler in any smart suburban development. Especially in the spring.
The latest excitement, of course, had been the setting-up of the Tampican Embassy in Oxford Gardens, just around the corner. Plenty of diplomats had their private homes in the area, but this was the first actual embassy to break away from the Massachusetts Avenue–Kalorama Triangle quarter and move into Georgetown. Naturally, it caused comment, curiosity and speculation.
As Michael Holder-Watts had remarked, gossip runs like a brush fire in a city the size of Washington, more especially in that small section of it which revolves on the diplomatic carousel. Under British rule, Tampica had been a holiday playground for wealthy sun-seekers from both sides of the Atlantic, and word had quickly spread about Mavis Ironmonger’s reputation. Bishop Matthew Barrington had not been exaggerating when he declared that—unencumbered by Mavis—Sir Edward would almost certainly have been elected the first prime minister of independent Tampica.
As it was, shortly before independence he had been knighted by a grateful British sovereign for services to the law in Tampica: an elderly and less able colleague had been elected prime minister, and Eddie and Mavis had been sent off to Washington to see whether Lady Ironmonger could pull herself together and learn to behave decently in time for the next Tampican general election—which, rumor had it, would be very soon, if all went well. Sir Samuel Drake-Frobisher was known to have accepted the premiership reluctantly, and was only too eager to retire and hand over party leadership to Edward Ironmonger.
Most of this information, spiced with racy episodes from Mavis Ironmonger’s past, had filtered through even to the Colvilles, and although Margaret was no gossip, she had her natural share of human curiosity and looked forward to catching a glimpse of the notorious lady. However, apart from the comings and goings of a few dark-skinned girls whom she took to be secretaries and domestic staff, Margaret had been unlucky.
One day, it is true, on her way back from the supermarket with her arms full of groceries, she had caught sight of a chauffeur-driven limousine moving away from the Embassy. In the back, elegant and relaxed in a coat of dark, supple sables, sat a blonde woman of such astonishing beauty and obvious breeding that she quite took Margaret’s breath away. Cool as an ice princess, not a hair out of place, her long fingers pale against the pigskin upholstery of the car, a single string of perfectly matched pearls at her throat, she epitomized aristocratic, understated excellence. It never even crossed Margaret’s mind that this could be the sluttish Mavis Ironmonger. She remembered that the Counsellor at the Embassy was an ex-British Foreign Service diplomat named Holder-Watts and jumped to the conclusion that the fair-haired beauty must be his wife, Eleanor. But Margaret was wrong. It was Mavis.
Tout Washington tends to arrive late at diplomatic cocktail parties, and to leave early. However, the Tampican reception had attracted such an unusual response that cars were piling up in Oxford Gardens well before six o’clock, keeping the local police busy and causing late-comers without chauffeurs to park several blocks away. In fact, many of the guests had already arrived by the time that Franklin D. Martin led his colorful, chanting parade of protesters from Volta Place across Wisconsin Avenue and into Oxford Gardens. There were the usual banners demanding “Kill the Pigs” and “Legalize Pot,” but also a selection more appropriate to the occasion, reading “Uncle Eddie Go Home,” “Death to the White Bitch,” and even—rather obscurely—“Tampica for the Tampicans.”
It was all very friendly and good-humored. The police kept a path free so that invited guests could reach the Embassy door. The demonstrators chanted a few slogans, waved their banners, and then began to sit down in rows on the pavement, smoking and chewing. Most of the guests were perfectly accustomed to making their way into the White House through ranks of political demonstrators, and would have felt the occasion to be slightly lacking in style if none had been there. As with wire-tapping and bugging, the inconvenience of stepping over demonstrators is outweighed by the fact that their presence proves one to be somebody, doing something worthy of other people’s anger or curiosity. As Michael Holder-Watts remarked to his wife, the demonstration was just what was needed to make the evening go with a swing. Eleanor was not amused.
Inside the Embassy, everything was going suspiciously well. Lady Ironmonger, taken by surprise by the early arrival of so many guests, had been a few minutes late taking her place in the receiving line, but now the wheels of diplomatic hospitality were turning smoothly.
Sir Edward, handsome and beautifully tailored, was greeting his guests with exactly the right blend of dignity and affability, finding an appropriate remark to accompany each handshake, and keeping the line moving while appearing to have plenty of time for a personal word with each visitor. At his side, Mavis had never looked more chillingly beautiful. She wore a simple dress of very dark green wild silk with diamonds at her throat, and her ash-pale hair was drawn back into a chignon which accentuated the Garbo-like perfection of her features. To each guest, she proffered a tapering, lily-white hand, and most of the time—under Michael’s watchful eye—she kept her mouth shut. Even her occasional murmured remarks—“Pleased to meet you I’m sure” and “Ever so nice to have you”—had the beguiling innocence of Eliza Doolittle’s New Small Talk.
Every so often, while her husband chatted with a new arrival, she would refresh herself from a small glass of tomato juice. Michael noticed with satisfaction that several of Washington’s most avid sensation-mongers were beginning to look decidedly glum. The Washington Post’s photographer caught her at a most opportune moment, shaking hands regally with the wife of the French Ambassador. Yes, it was all going beautifully.
By half-past six, all the guests had arrived and most of the demonstrators had gone home. The few who remained, including Franklin D. Martin himself, were lounging on the sidewalk, banners at the droop, chatting idly among themselves. Sir Edward and Lady Ironmonger had shaken some three hundred hands, and were now free to circulate among their guests. Eddie, with unerring instinct, made his way toward the New England senator whom he knew shared the Tampican government’s view on the matter of the naval base. He intended to spend a minimum of time cementing this ally’s support, before addressing himself to charming the opposition in the form of George and Magnolia Belmont.
Michael Holder-Watts, keeping a strict but unobtrusive eye on Mavis, saw that she was conducting an apparently decorous conversation with the Otis Schipmakers. A few minutes later, he saw that Winston Nelson had joined the group and was obviously detaching Mavis from the wealthy young couple (Otis Schipmaker’s father had founded the Schipmaker chain of supermarkets). Michael suppressed a ripple of annoyance. He appreciated Nelson’s motive, but how like the man to be so ham-fisted! Here was the first grain of fuel for gossip. He could just hear Virginia Schipmaker: “My dear, little men from the Embassy positively surrounding her, not allowing her to speak to anyone...”
However, to Michael’s relief, Winston—apparently reassured—moved away from Mavis and smoothly took over the New England senator, leaving Eddie free to concentrate on the Belmonts. Michael mentally nodded his approval. Winnie could be quite intelligent at times.
Meanwhile, he saw the Schipmakers move to the other side of the room to talk to the Dutch Ambassador, while Mavis got into conversation with Prudence and Matthew Barrington. This was not so good. Michael knew the Bishop’s opinion of Lady Ironmonger, and Prudence was well known for her innocent lack of tact. Unobtrusively, he moved over to where his wife, Eleanor, was gallantly trying to find common conversational ground with a Nigerian lady in superbly flamboyant national costume.
Turning on a little burst of charm, like a jet from a warm tap, Michael inserted himself into the conversation between the two women, and then said to his wife, “Have you had a word with Matthew and Prudence Barrington yet, darling?”
Eleanor followed his glance and took his meaning. “Oh, how nice, I didn’t realize they were here. I must go and talk to them.”
“Why don’t you show them the garden?” Michael suggested. “I know they have to leave early, and Prudence has always been interested in flowers.”
Eleanor smiled at her husband, proud and happy to be performing a really useful function, and went off to detach Mavis from the Barringtons.
Michael said, “That was a delightful party you gave last week, Mrs. Ngomo. I had never tasted Nigerian food before...” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eleanor steering the Bishop and his wife toward the hallway which led to the gardens. Another possible danger-point successfully navigated. “I hear your son is doing famously at Harvard. Wish I could say as much for my boy. Takes after me, I’m afraid.” In fact, Jonathan Holder-Watts was currently covering himself with academic honors at Cambridge University, but England was a long way away, and Mrs. Ngomo was not to know. Jonathan, as shrewd as his father and destined for the Foreign Service, would certainly not have objected to being thus thrown to the wolves in the cause of diplomacy.
Mrs. Ngomo, undoubtedly pleased and flattered, made a gracious remark and turned away to greet a friend. Michael continued his peregrinations, always finding the right word, remembering family details, raising pleased smiles. Some minutes later, he became aware of Winston Horatio Nelson at his elbow. Winnie said, quietly, “All going well, I think, Michael?”
“So far, so good.”
“I shall have to leave you soon. I am meeting the Barringtons at seven in the small library.”
“Are you?” Michael consulted his watch. “That’s a moot point. It’s two minutes to seven now. Eleanor is currently showing the Barringtons around the garden, and the sooner they are out of here, the happier I shall be.”
“Then I will go.” Winnie flashed a brilliant smile, which failed to conceal his dislike, and disappeared through the door leading to the hallway, leaving the conversational buzz of the reception behind him.
The small library was empty when Winnie Nelson got there. It was a pretty, well-proportioned room at the front of the house, furnished with English eighteenth-century pieces, most of which Edward Ironmonger had picked up on his last visit to the U.K. The glass-fronted bookcase contained Eddie’s own precious library of leatherbound English classics, and the rose-strewn carpet was handworked in grand point.
Winnie looked around him, and gave an angry little sigh. He knew that it was Eddie’s favorite room, and he could not help feeling that it was a betrayal of Tampica. Eddie knew how Winnie felt—he would laugh, his wonderfully warm laugh, and slap Winnie on the back and tell him that if he’d been up to Oxford, he’d understand. The fact remained that Winnie had not, and did not.
However, he did not have long to indulge in the luxury of irritation, before the door opened and Prudence Barrington peeped in, tentatively at first, then with a big happy smile.
“Ah, so this is the right place. Hello, Winnie dear, you’re looking very well. Come on in, Matthew, Winnie’s here. So very sorry we’re late, dear...we were looking at the garden, and there are some very interesting specimens...I’m afraid we lingered far too long...”
Winnie smiled back. Prudence might be a little ridiculous, but it was impossible to dislike her. Besides, he had known her all his life.
“But you are not late, Mrs. Barrington...see...” Winnie gestured toward the austerely elegant black marble clock on the mantelpiece, which had just begun to strike seven in a thin, severe chime.
“How very nice to see you, Winston. Are you enjoying Washington? Eddie seems to be settling in well, and even his wife appears to be...that is, one must not be uncharitable, of course...” The Bishop’s voice trailed away unhappily.
Prudence said briskly, “She is a very beautiful girl. She and Eddie should do well here.”
“I feel sure,” said Winnie, in his careful English, “that Lady Ironmonger is most sensible to the responsibilities of her new position.”
“Exactly,” murmured Matthew. “Just what I meant...”
“And now, perhaps, we should be on our way,” Winnie added. “We must not keep your excellent dinner waiting. My car is outside. If you are ready...?”
“Oh,” said Prudence. “My coat...”
“It will be in the cloakroom, Mrs. Barrington...just across the hall...after you, sir.”
The black policeman on duty outside the Embassy recognized Winnie, and gave him a smile and a friendly salute as he came out with the Barringtons. One or two of the protesters shouted ruderies about “Uncle Toms” and “Pigs” as Nelson and his white friends picked their way through the supine bodies on the pavement, but any small amount of steam which had ever propelled the demonstration had run out. A minute later, Winnie was behind the wheel of his gleaming silver Chevrolet, heading northward for Chevy Chase and trying to make some sense of Matthew’s extremely confused directions as to the best route.
***
In the reception room at the Embassy, Michael Holder-Watts watched with impatient irritation as Winnie Nelson disappeared in the direction of the small library. Then he continued his progress among the guests. He was apparently relaxed and certainly charming, giving each visitor no more than half-a-minute of his time, and yet leaving each feeling subtly flattered and self-important. Within a few minutes, he had located and spoken with the most important of the visitors, and he allowed himself to glance in the direction of Lady Ironmonger.
All seemed to be well. Mavis was standing very straight, ice-cold and elegant as a snow princess, keeping her mouth shut. A Third Secretary bustled up with a swarthy, handsome gentleman in tow. Michael heard an indistinct murmur. “Lady Ironmonger...don’t think you have met...Attaché...Israeli Embassy...may I present Mr. Finkelstein?”
Mavis, swaying just slightly, turned to the newcomer. She extended a drooping, lily-like hand, and at the same moment burst into song. To the tune of The More We Are Together, Her Excellency the Tampican Ambassadress bawled, at the top of her voice—
“Balls to Mr. Finkelstein, Finkelstein, Finkelstein
Balls to Mr. Finkelstein, silly old—”
“Oh, Christ,” said Michael Holder-Watts.
One stride brought him to Lady Ironmonger’s side. She gave him a ravishing smile, hiccoughed, and launched into the verse.
“Fuck Mr. Finkelstein—”
Michael somehow got her into a sort of judo-hold, pinning her arms behind her back, and twisted her body so that the unseemly words of the song disappeared into the lapel of his impeccably cut suit. He looked round desperately for help. Winnie, blast his eyes, must be well on the way to Chevy Chase with the Bishop. Eddie, on the far side of the room, was charming Senator Belmont and seemed unaware that anything was wrong—which was just as well. Otis Schipmaker, on the other hand, was standing alone, watching the scene with goggling fascination. The Third Secretary had turned purple and Mr. Finkelstein green, between them giving a tolerable impersonation of the new Tampican flag, and both were temporarily bereft of speech.
It was with the emotion of a drowning sailor who spots a lifeboat that Michael saw his wife come back into the room. She hurried over, and Michael practically threw Mavis into her arms, hissing, “Get her to her room and lock her in!”
Mavis showed signs of resistance, but Eleanor Holder-Watts was tall and wiry and stronger than she looked. She led the Ambassadress away, as Michael enveloped Mr. Finkelstein in a vast diplomatic handshake, which involved placing his other arm around the Israeli’s shoulder and maneuvering him into the crowd and away from the scene of the crime.
“Poor Lady Ironmonger...victim of a rare allergy...being treated with one of these fancy new drugs...some idiot of a waiter...smallest amount of alcohol absolutely fatal...afraid she’ll have to miss the rest of the reception...so brave...doesn’t like it talked about...people don’t realize what she goes through...”
The honeyed words poured out. They could not, of course, efface the blatant fact of Mavis Ironmonger’s inexcusable behavior, but at least they gave Mr. Finkelstein time to recover, and provided a face-saver. Michael knew Finkelstein and respected him as both brilliant and charming. He also knew that he had suffered under Hitler in Germany, and he wondered how much a man could forgive. Brutality is sometimes easier to endure than ridicule.
Mr. Finkelstein squared his shoulders with a little shudder—a movement which served the double purpose of straightening his jacket and disengaging Michael’s arm. He said, very quietly, “I am extremely sorry for Lady Ironmonger. Also for Sir Edward. May I ask you to present my respects and say my farewells? I fear I have another appointment and must leave now.”
“My dear fellow...of course...so kind of you to find time to drop in...” Michael watched the strong, sturdy backview disappearing into the crowd of guests. “Dangerous,” he thought to himself. “Very dangerous.”
Meanwhile, there were other cracks to be papered over. Thanks to Eleanor the incident had been managed swiftly and efficiently, and Michael did not think that more than a handful of people had been aware of it. Of the foreign diplomats who had been in the vicinity, mercifully few spoke English with any real fluency. They might report that Lady Ironmonger had appeared to be intoxicated, and had been quietly removed from the reception, but with any luck they would remain unaware of the enormity of her offense.
As for Mrs. Ngomo, although English was her second language, Michael was reasonably sure that she was too well-brought-up to understand Mavis’s obscenities. In any case, she had moved away and was now engaged in an animated discussion of pre-school education in Washington with the wife of the Indian Cultural Attaché. Michael mentally ticked her off as safe, and started looking for Virginia Schipmaker.
He soon spotted her, on the far side of the room, talking to Magnolia Belmont. Gossip had already informed him that Virginia and Magnolia hated each other with the peculiar intensity of two southern belles who had adopted different politics and life-styles—for although the Schipmakers and the Belmonts were both Democrats, they were as far apart politically as the Kennedys and the Wallaces. It was also rumored that Otis Schipmaker had his eye on George Belmont’s senatorial seat. Michael felt reasonably sure that the close-knit bitchiness of the present conversation could have prevented either Virginia or Magnolia from noticing anything else that was going on. He breathed a small sigh of relief and moved to where Otis Schipmaker was presenting a square-cut back-view to the room, apparently engrossed in one of Sir Edward’s Currier and Ives prints.
Michael laid a hand on Schipmaker’s arm, saying quietly, “Nice to see you again, Otis. Let me get you a drink.”
Otis Schipmaker turned slowly to face him. He had gone very pale, but his voice was light, almost amused, as he said, “Good grief. Michael Holder-Watts. What on earth are you doing here?”
“I work here. Hadn’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“My new job. Counsellor to His Excellency Sir Edward Ironmonger, Ambassador of Tampica.” Michael gave a little stiff mock bow.
Otis said, “But you’re British—”
“No longer. Tampican. We were all given the option, on Independence Day. I thought it might be...amusing.”
There was a pause. Then Schipmaker said, “I presume you also act as Counsellor to Lady Ironmonger.”
“You presume correctly. Lady Ironmonger has always liked to be surrounded by close friends—as you doubtless remember.”
Otis said, “See here, Michael. It was a long time ago—”
“And in another country. And besides...how’s Virginia?”
Schipmaker’s lips clamped into a hard line. “She’s fine. And I hope that Lady Ironmonger is feeling better by now.”
Michael looked at him steadily. “So do I. She’s not at all well, I’m afraid, and some of the drugs they give her have unfortunate side effects. She has gone to lie down.”
“It must make life difficult for Sir Edward,” remarked Schipmaker, musingly.
“Life can be made difficult for lots of people, Otis,” said Michael, brightly.
“Is that a threat?”
“Certainly not. What an idea. Just a random remark.”
Under his breath, and masked by a social smile, Schipmaker said, “You’re just the same little shit you always were, aren’t you, Holder-Watts?”
Michael smiled broadly. “So delightful to come across old friends. I’ll go and see about that drink...”
He moved away among the guests. A smiling word with Mrs. Ngomo...a reassuring pat on the arm for Dorabella Hamilton, the Ambassador’s secretary, who looked shaken and in need of a morale boost...a friendly chat with the British Ambassador, who was an old acquaintance...the reception was in gear again, and running smoothly. In fact, it manifested that sure sign of a successful party—reluctance of the guests to go home. Eight o’clock came and went, and still the room was crowded. By quarter-past, however, people were thinning out, and Sir Edward was kept busy shaking hands in farewell. Despite the success of the evening, he looked strained and worried, and, catching Michael’s eye, motioned imperceptibly that he required his presence.
Michael was at the Ambassador’s side in a moment. Quietly, Eddie said, “Where the hell is Mavis?”—and then, to a parting guest, “Good-bye, Senator. So very glad you could come...”
Equally quietly, Michael said, “Upstairs. Resting. Not well.”
“So very nice to have met you, Mrs. Braithwaite...” Sir Edward shook another hand, and added, sotto voce, to Michael, “What does that mean?”
“Drunk,” said Michael.
“Go and get her and bring her down,” muttered Sir Edward. “Must say her good-byes.”
Michael glanced at his watch. Twenty-five past eight. He supposed Mavis might have sobered up. “O.K. If you think it’s wise.”
“Just do as I say... Good-bye, Mrs. Belmont...yes, it is a pretty house, isn’t it?”
Michael made his way through the remaining guests and climbed the stairs to the first floor.