The Acceptance World - Anthony Powell [26]
‘Do you run round with all those people?’ she went on. ‘I used to myself. Then—oh, I don’t know—I lost touch with them. Of course Peter doesn’t much care for that sort of person, do you, sweetie?’
‘Rubbish,’ said Templer. ‘I’ve just said how much I liked Mr. J. G. Quiggin. In fact I wish I could meet him again, and find out the name of his tailor.’
Mona frowned at this refusal to take her remark seriously. She turned to me and said: ‘You know, you are not much like most of Peter’s usual friends yourself.’
That particular matter was all too complicated to explain, even if amenable to explanation, which I was inclined to doubt. I knew, of course, what she meant. Probably there was something to be said for accepting that opinion. The fact that I was not specially like the general run of Templer’s friends had certainly been emphasised by the appearance of Quiggin. I was rather displeased that the Templers had seen Quiggin. To deal collectively with them on their own plane would have been preferable to that to which Quiggin had somehow steered us all.
‘What was the flick like?’ Templer enquired.
‘Marvellous,’ said Mona. ‘The sweetest—no, really—but the sweetest little girl you ever saw.’
‘She was awfully good,’ said Jean.
‘But what happened?’
‘Well, this little girl—who was called Manuela—was sent to a very posh German school.’
‘Posh?’ said Templer. ‘Sweetie, what an awful word. Please never use it in my presence again.’
Rather to my surprise, Mona accepted this rebuke meekly: even blushing slightly.
‘Well, Manuela went to this school, and fell passionately in love with one of the mistresses.’
‘What did I tell you?’ said Templer. ‘Nick insisted the film wasn’t about lesbians. You see he just poses as a man of the world, and hasn’t really the smallest idea what is going on round him.’
‘It isn’t a bit what you mean,’ said Mona, now bursting with indignation. ‘It was a really beautiful story. Manuela tried to kill herself. I cried and cried and cried.’
‘It really was good,’ said Jean to me. ‘Have you seen it?’
‘Yes. I liked it.’
‘He’s lying,’ said Templer. ‘If he had seen the film, he would have known it was about lesbians. Look here, Nick, why not come home with us for the week-end? We can run you back to your flat and get a toothbrush. I should like you to see our house, uncomfortable as staying there will be.’
‘Yes, do come, darling,’ said Mona, drawing out the words with her absurd articulation. ‘You will find everything quite mad, I’m afraid.’
She had by then drunk rather a lot of champagne.
‘You must come,’ said Jean, speaking in her matter-of- fact tone, almost as if she were giving an order. ‘There are all sorts of things I want to talk about.’
‘Of course he’ll come,’ said Templer. ‘But we might have the smallest spot of armagnac first.’
Afterwards, that dinner in the Grill seemed to partake of the nature of a ritual feast, a rite from which the four of us emerged to take up new positions in the formal dance with which human life is concerned. At the time, its charm seemed to reside in a difference from the usual run of things. Certainly the chief attraction of the projected visit would be absence of all previous plan. But, in a sense, nothing in life is planned—or everything is—because in the dance every step is ultimately the corollary of the step before; the consequence of being the kind of person one chances to be.
While we were at dinner heavy snow was descending outside. This downfall had ceased by the time my things were collected, though a few flakes were still blowing about in the clear winter air when we set out at last for the Templers’ house. The wind had suddenly dropped. The night was very cold.
‘Had to sell the Buick,’ Templer said. ‘I’m afraid you won’t find much room at the back of this miserable vehicle.’
Mona, now comatose after the wine at dinner,