Jilly Cooper - Harriet

‘Well quite a long time,’ said Mrs Bentley.

‘About five hundred years,’ whispered Mrs Willoughby, out of the corner of her mouth.

Fortunately the wine had been orbiting the table pretty fast at dinner and everyone laughed.

Nice car, thought Harriet, as Billy’s Ferrari roared along the narrow roads. She snuggled down under the fur rug. Perhaps it was its coating of dog hairs that made it so warm.

‘Do you ride?’ said Billy.

‘No. I’m afraid I don’t. I get taken for one occasionally,’ said Harriet.

‘You’d look super on a horse. I could teach you very quickly.’

‘Do you really think you could?’

‘We’ve got an old pony of my sister’s. It taught us all to ride. It’s as quiet as anything. Soon get you going on that.’

She’d soon be talking about running martingales with Arabella!

Billy swung the car between a huge pair of gates. Sneering lions reared up on pillars on either side; the curtains flickered in the lodge window as they went by. Ahead the big house was blazing with lights; floodlighting illuminated the blond walls. Drink had done nothing to still the butterflies in Harriet’s stomach.

The car park was a quagmire from the recent rain.

‘Up to my fucking hocks in mud,’ bellowed a hunting lady in disgust, holding her dress above muscly knees. The wind plastered Harriet’s feather boa against her lipstick.

She left her coat on a huge four-poster, its rose pink brocade tattered with age. In the distance she could hear the sensual throb of the music. It was almost eleven; the ball was in full swing. Pale-shouldered women crowded in front of the gilt-framed looking glass, putting on scarlet lipstick and slapping powder over flushed-from-dinner faces.

The frayed banners hanging from the walls shivered in the heat; a pair of huge, blue chandeliers hung from the ceiling. On the landing a group of women laughed loudly. Elizabeth Pemberton in hyacinth blue was one of them. As Harriet went downstairs, clutching the curved banisters for support, she breathed in the sweet heady scent of a huge tub of pink hyacinths.

Billy was standing looking distinguished under some antlers. ‘You’re easily the prettiest girl in the room,’ he said, taking her hand. Beyond lay the ballroom brilliantly lit. On tables round the walls champagne was plunged into ice buckets. The Master’s wife, heavily corsetted, stood in the door distributing largesse. The band had stopped; couples were drifting off the floor. There was Arabella her face looking glamorously suntanned for once against a floating white dress; and Charles Mander leaving his hand lingeringly on the bare back of a fast-looking beauty. She couldn’t see Cory anywhere.

Harriet was instantly conscious that Billy was regarded as somebody. Seeing her with him lots of people who’d ignored her at Arabella’s party said ‘Hullo,’ and were obviously trying to remember where they’d seen her before. Billy found their table and the rest of the dinner party near the band, and after knocking back a few more glasses of champagne, asked Harriet to dance.

Surreptitiously Harriet was still searching everywhere for Cory. Then, as they reached the far end of the ballroom, suddenly she saw him and felt an absolute explosion of jealousy. He was talking to a beautiful, slightly ravaged looking woman with greeny gold hair, slanting eyes, high cheekbones and a beautiful green silk dress worn off one shoulder. That must be Melanie. She had the kind of mystery and sophistication that made Harriet feel as raw as a broken egg.

‘Hullo Harriet,’ said Elizabeth, who was sitting at the same table. ‘Sammy’s dress does suit you. Harriet’s terrifyingly thick with my nanny,’ she added to the ferret-faced man in a red coat sitting beside her. ‘One shudders to think what they tell each other about us.’

Cory looked up suddenly and noticed them.

‘Hullo, Cory,’ shouted Billy, waggling his arms and legs so vigorously in time to the music that his mousy locks fell over his pink forehead. ‘I’m taking good care of her,’ he brayed with laughter.

‘I’m sure you are, Billy,’ said Cory, giving them both a rather wintry smile. He turned back to Melanie.

Harriet felt a great stab of disappointment. Suddenly she knew all the scenting and curling and orange dress had been directed at Cory, and he’d hardly glanced at her.

The ball grew more raucous. Young men were trying to lob ice cubes down the front of girls’ dresses. In the kitchen a group were engaged in feeding a long string of cocktail sausages down the waste disposal, with shrieks of laughter. Harriet had danced with nearly everyone in the party, and drunk nearly a bottle of champagne, which only deepened her despair. Billy was doing his duty dance with his aunt. Mrs Willoughby was as usual dancing out of her party. Everyone else was on the floor, except Harriet and two men in red coats who sat with their backs to her discussing a day out with the Quorn. Harriet tried to put on an animated ‘I-am-just-waiting-for-my-partner-to-return’ sort of face. She was terrified Cory would see her being a wallflower. Billy’s mother stopped at the table and whispered to one of the men in a red coat. He turned and looked at Harriet. ‘Of course,’ he said, in a long-suffering voice. ‘May I have the pleasure of this dance?’

Harriet was so humiliated, she got all hot and flustered and said sorry each time he tripped over her feet. He never apologized at all. There was Cory dancing again with the beautiful Melanie. Oh God, don’t let him fancy her too much.

The ball became wilder; upstairs the cordoned-off bedrooms were heaving with occupants. After a trip to the ladies, Harriet saw Mrs Willoughby emerge from a side room, patting her hair, with Elizabeth Pemberton’s husband, Michael. During a break between dances, a drunk poured a whole bottle of champagne over his wife, and then, picking up another, started to water the rest of his party. Two men in dinner jackets carried him bellowing out of the ballroom, his legs wriggling like a sheep about to be dipped.

Harriet was well on her way down a second bottle. She felt very above ground now and cannoned into several chairs when Billy asked her to dance.

‘I’ve got you under my skin,’ played the band.

I’ve got you under my lack of chin, thought Harriet and giggled, as Billy pressed her to his chest. Cory was dancing with Melanie yet again, her face pale and dreamy against his scarlet coat. They looked so beautiful together, quite separate from anyone else in the room. Harriet felt the music and longing eating into her soul.

‘He will not always say, what you would have him say, but now and then he’ll say something wonderful,’ played the band.

Harriet and Billy were passing Cory and Melanie now. Harriet looked up, and suddenly her eyes met Cory’s and she found she couldn’t tear them away. On and on they stared at each other, as the colour mounted in her cheeks.

Billy looked down at her, as though he could feel the current.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘are you still with me?’

‘I’d like a drink,’ muttered Harriet. She felt jolted and uneasy; her heart was thumping. She was just gulping down a second glass, when a soft voice said, ‘Would you spare a dance for an old fogey?’

She turned expectantly. It was Charles Mander, his face flushed, his cheeks veined with red. It was twenty to two, only a few minutes and they’d all be posthorn galloping. Suddenly she wanted to dance so badly with Cory, she nearly wept.

The next minute she was being mauled to bits on the floor. The tempo was very slow now and Charles was breathing down her neck, peering down the front of her dress, one warm hand wandering over her back and neck, the other which was holding her hand, nudging continually at her breast.