An Awfully Big Adventure - Beryl Bainbridge [56]
‘I bleed for her,’ announced Harbour. ‘Just think of it – she suffers agonies every time she flies.’
‘She can’t bear to carry an ounce more than her usual weight,’ said Grace Bird. ‘She dispensed with the vest because it made her feel larger than life. She’s neurotic.’
‘You’re right,’ cried Babs Osborne excitedly. ‘Stanislaus said he knew people in the camps who experienced satisfaction when they started to waste. Stanislaus knew one woman who . . .’
‘I’m sure this stuffing’s off,’ said Grace, and she impaled a lump on her fork and thrust it across the cloth for John Harbour to sniff at.
Stella, who for a miserable quarter of an hour had been contemplating going to the ladies’ room and not coming back, was suddenly struck by the curiously fragmented nature of the group about the table. She had dreaded the moment when the food would be done with and the others would get up to dance, leaving her on her own at the table. Now she saw that all of them were alone, not least those who chatted so animatedly together. Contrary to what Lily might think, a twosome was an inaccurate indication of partnership. Dotty, apparently listening attentively to Desmond Fairchild, her hand on his arm, was looking at O’Hara. Even in the throes of laughing at some remark passed by Grace Bird, Bunny watched Geoffrey. John Harbour, confiding something important to Babs Osborne, kept glancing at Meredith. Babs didn’t notice; she was staring straight ahead, dreaming of Stanislaus. Only Geoffrey, tugging at his hair, sniffing, thumping the tablecloth, could be said to be concentrating on the person beside him. He was demanding something of Meredith, that much was evident. The words ‘unfair advantage’ were used, and then Stella distinctly heard Geoffrey say, ‘You’re ruining my life.’
She was amazed at his ambition; he had given her to understand he wanted to give up the theatre. She nudged him in the ribs and hissed, ‘Don’t be such a twerp. You can’t bully him into giving you better parts.’
‘Mind your own business,’ he shouted, turning on her quite violently. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Just then O’Hara rose from his chair and invited Stella to dance. ‘I’m no good at it,’ she lied and, pleased, struggled her way from the table and walked stiffly into his arms.
O’Hara wasn’t a tall man. She didn’t know the colour of his eyes because she had never looked into them. He was stocky and broad-shouldered and he had thick black eyebrows. Until now she hadn’t taken much notice of him, so she couldn’t say for certain whether he was handsome or not. There was a smear of yellow greasepaint on the collar of his shirt. His hand, clasping her own as he steered her about the floor, was somewhat cold.
At last Meredith was looking at her. I’m setting my cap at someone else, she thought, circling the room with her chin in the air.
By the time they returned to the table for the Christmas pudding John Harbour had moved and there was nowhere for her to sit except beside O’Hara. A woman came up with a red balloon and asked him to autograph it, and he took out a fountain pen and commenced a squeaky signature. The balloon burst as he scrawled the last letter. The woman said it didn’t matter. They both hunted through the debris on the floor to find that shrivelled scrap bearing his name. O’Hara didn’t ask Stella to dance again. He was too busy trying to restrain Babs Osborne from telephoning Stanislaus.
Half an hour later Meredith announced he’d had enough. Bunny and he were off to Midnight Mass. Stella hoped he might ask her to go with them but he didn’t even say good-bye, not properly, let alone wish her a Merry Christmas. One minute he was at the table and the next he was threading his way between the dancers, leaving Geoffrey asleep with his cheek resting on a bread roll, bits of tinsel glittering in his hair.
‘Shall I give you a lift