The Peacock Emporium(7)
“Can I be the fox? I’ll let you catch me . . .”
“Ugh. God, that girl would do anything for attention.”
Athene Forster. Vivi recognized the dismissive tones of the girl in the queue for the lavatory. But, like the rest, she was captivated by the unlikely sight before them. Athene had pulled her horse to a halt and was bent low over his neck, entreating a group of young men in low, gravelly tones: “Anyone got a drink, loves?”
There was a kind of knowledge in her voice; a crack of grief that would be audible even at her happiest. A sea of glasses was proffered toward her, glinting under the thousand-watt brilliance of the crystal chandeliers. She dropped her horn, lifted a glass, and downed the contents in a single gulp to local applause. “Now, which of you darlings is going to light me a cigarette? I dropped mine jumping out of the rose garden.”
“Athene, old girl, you don’t fancy giving us a Lady Godiva, do you?”
There was a ripple of laughter. Which came to an abrupt stop. The band was silenced, and Vivi glanced behind her, following the sound of a whispered exclamation.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Lena Bloomberg had arrived in the center of the room and stood squarely facing the wheeling horse, her white-knuckled hands planted firmly on her hips. Her face was pink with suppressed fury, her eyes glittering as brightly as the rocks round her neck. Vivi’s stomach clenched in anticipation.
“Did you hear me?”
Athene Forster didn’t look remotely cowed. “It’s a hunt ball. Old Forester here was feeling a bit left out.”
Another ripple of laughter.
“You have no right—”
“As far as I can see, he’s got more right than you to be here, Mrs. Bloomberg. Mr. B. told me you don’t even hunt.”
The man beside Vivi swore admiringly under his breath.
Mrs. Bloomberg opened her mouth as if to speak, but Athene waved a hand at her casually. “Me and Forester just thought we might make things a little more . . . authentic.” Athene reached down for another glass of champagne, downed it, then added so quietly that only those closest to her could hear it, “Unlike this house.”
“Get off—get off my husband’s horse immediately! How dare you abuse our hospitality in this way.” Lena Bloomberg would have been an imposing figure at the best of times; her height and the air of authority bestowed by huge wealth had evidently left her unused to being crossed. The suggestion of controlled fury had vacuumed any residual mirth from the room. People were looking anxiously at each other now, wondering which of the two participants would crack first.
There was a painful silence.
It appeared to be Athene. She gazed at Mrs. Bloomberg steadily for a short eternity, then shifted and began to turn the horse slowly back between the tables, pausing only to accept a cigarette.
The older woman’s voice cut through the stilled room: “I had been warned not to invite you, but your parents assured me that you had grown up a little. They were patently wrong, and I can promise you that as soon as this is over I shall let them know so in no uncertain terms.”
“Poor Forester,” Athene crooned, lying along the horse’s neck. “And he was so looking forward to a little poker.”
“You should think yourself lucky that the weather does not permit me to have you thrown out of here on your ear, young lady.” Mrs. Bloomberg’s icy tones followed Athene as she walked the horse back toward the French windows.
“Oh, don’t worry about me, Mrs. Bloomberg.” The girl turned her head with a lazy, charming smile. “I’ve been turfed out of far classier establishments than this.” Then, with a kick of her jeweled slippers, she and the horse leaped over the small stone steps and cantered, nearly silently, into the snowy dark.
There was a loaded silence, and then, on the instructions of the rigid hostess, the band struck up again. Groups of people exclaimed at each other, pointing at the snowy hoofmarks on the polished floor, as the ball sputtered slowly back to life. The master of ceremonies announced that the horn-blowing competition would take place in the Great Hall in five minutes, and that dinner was still being served in the dining room. Within minutes, all that was left of Athene’s appearance was a ghostly imprint in the imaginations of those who had seen her—its edges already diminished by the prospect of the next piece of entertainment—and a few pools of melted snow on the floor.
Vivi glanced over at Douglas. Standing by the huge fireplace, his eyes had not left the now closed French windows, just as they had not left Athene Forster as she sat on her huge horse, a few feet from him. While those around him had been appalled, or shocked, giggling in nervous excitement, there had been something else in Douglas Fairley-Hulme’s expression. Something still and rapt. Something that made Vivi fearful. “Douglas?” she asked, making her way over to him, trying not to slip on the wet floor.
He didn’t appear to hear her.
“Douglas? You promised me a dance.”
It took several seconds for him to notice her. “What? Oh, Vee. Yes. Right.” His eyes were drawn back to the doors. “I—I’ve just got to get a drink first. I’ll bring you a glass. Be right back.”
* * *
—
That was the point, Vivi realized afterward, at which she had been forced to acknowledge that there was going to be no fairy-tale ending to her evening. Douglas hadn’t returned with the drinks, and she had stood by the fireplace for almost forty minutes, a vague, glassy smile on her face, trying to look purposeful rather than like someone who had been left on the side like a spare part. When she realized that the group by the flower arrangement were remarking on her lonely sojourn, and the same waiter had been past three times, finally to ask if she was all right, she accepted Alexander’s second offer to dance.