Jilly Cooper - Harriet

The two young men giggled.

‘Jeremy and Jeremy,’ said the handsome actor. ‘You haven’t met Simon.’

‘We’ve heard so much about you,’ said the young men in chorus. ‘Quite the rising star, aren’t you?’

‘Simon,’ said a sulky-looking redhead with a mouth like a rubber tyre, ‘can’t we draw the curtains? All the plebs are looking in.’

‘My friend here,’ said Simon, giving Harriet a smile, ‘enjoys the view, so we’ll leave the curtains open.’

The redhead exchanged glances with the blonde in the white shirt.

‘How’s Borzoi, Simon?’ said the actor taking another drag at the blonde’s cigarette.

‘Gone to the States,’ said Simon.

‘For long?’

‘For good I hope,’ said Simon, filling Harriet’s glass.

The actor raised his well-plucked eyebrows.

‘Like that, is it? Imagine she was a bit of a handful.’

‘At least if she tries to come back, she’s such a bitch she’ll have to spend six months in quarantine,’ said Simon.

Everyone laughed. More people arrived. Harriet watched the undercarriage of the gulls dark against the sky. The railings in the street were losing their shape now.

‘I must do something about my hair,’ said a wild-looking brunette.

‘You could try brushing it,’ said her boyfriend.

Simon, the actor and the two Jeremys started swapping such scurrilous stories of stars of stage and screen that everyone stopped their conversations to listen.

‘Not boys, my dear, two girls at a time. His wife doesn’t mind; she’s got her own girlfriend anyway,’ said the actor.

‘I bet she minded her notices last week; they were ghastly,’ said one of the Jeremys.

‘Evidently in her costume she looks just like the Emperor Vespasian in drag,’ said Simon. Harriet’s eyes were out on stalks.

A rather ravaged beauty came through the door, wearing a fur coat and trousers. No-one took any notice, so she went out and came in again.

‘Deirdre,’ everyone shrieked.

‘I’m exhausted,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been to bed.’

‘Darling,’ said the actor, kissing her. ‘I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.’

Someone put on a record.

‘My very good friend the milkman says, that I am losing too much sleep,’ sang Fats Waller.

Mark Macaulay came and sat down by Harriet, and filled up her glass.

‘How’s your coccyx?’ he asked. ‘I ought to work this afternoon, but I shan’t.’

‘What are you going to do after schools?’ said Harriet.

‘I thought of having a stab at a Dip.Ed.’

‘I didn’t know you wanted to teach, Markie,’ shrieked Deirdre. ‘You hate children.’

‘I know, but a Dip.Ed’ll give me another year to look around. They don’t work one very hard, and by the end of another year, one might have decided what one wants to do.’

‘I’ve got an interview with a military publisher next week,’ said a boy in jeans with flowing blond hair. ‘I expect they’re awfully straight. Have you got a suit you can lend me?’

‘Simon has,’ said Mark. ‘You’d better get a haircut too.’

The snow had deadened the roar of the traffic in the Turl to a dull murmur. A little bunch of protest marchers were struggling down the street with placards.

‘The acne and anorak brigade,’ said Mark. ‘What are they banning this time, reds or fascists?’

‘More jobs for teachers, I think,’ said Harriet, trying to see without her glasses.

‘Aren’t they just like Good King Wenceslas and his page?’ said Deirdre. ‘Through the rude wind’s loud lament and all that.’

‘I’m sure Wenceslas had something going with his page boy,’ said Simon.

‘I wish I had principles,’ said Mark, looking at the marchers.

‘I like people better than principles,’ said Simon, ‘and I like people with no principles best of all.’

‘Oscar Wilde,’ muttered Harriet.

‘Clever girl,’ said Simon. ‘Dorian Gray’s my next part. OUDS are doing an adaptation.’

He’ll be marvellous at it, thought Harriet, watching him move off to fill someone’s drink. Even amidst the glittering menagerie of tigers he surrounded himself with, his beauty made him separate.

Two girls looked out of the window.

‘That car’s been parked there for ages,’ they said, ‘let’s go down and write something awful all over it.’

They rushed out of the door, and a minute later their shrieks could be heard, as, lifting their slim legs up like Hackney ponies, they raced across the snow.

On the wall opposite was pinned a poster of a beautiful girl with long streaky hair and cheekbones you could balance a tray on.

‘Who’s that?’ she said to Mark.

‘Borzoi, Simon’s ex,’ he said.

‘Why did they split up?’

‘Inevitable, darling. They both spent far too much time arguing with the mirror which was the fairest of them both. Borzoi’s doing better than Simon too, at the moment, and that doesn’t help. She’s also extremely spoilt.’

He looked at Harriet in amusement. ‘That’s why he fancies you.’

‘He couldn’t.’

‘Sure he does, and that’s what’s making Chloe so uptight.’ He nodded his head in the direction of the sulky redhead who was flirting determinedly on the sofa with the handsome actor. ‘She was convinced she was next in succession.’

Oh golly, thought Harriet, but the warm excited feeling inside her persisted.

Back came the two girls from the snow.

‘I only got as far as “Bugg”,’ shrieked one, ‘when a policeman came along.’

‘Everything looks so white and virginal,’ said the other, huddling by the fire.

‘Don’t know any virgins,’ said the actor. ‘Bit of a collector’s item these days.’

‘Moppet Wilson is,’ said Deirdre. ‘Never bares anything but her soul.’

‘What’s she saving it for?’ said Mark.

‘The man she marries. She thinks it's something one gives him like a pair of cuff-links on one’s wedding day.’

‘I’d rather have cuff-links,’ said Mark draining his glass.

‘Virgins must be boring to go to bed with,’ said Chloe, looking directly at Simon. ‘They don’t know first base from second.’

Harriet looked up. Simon was looking straight at her. He gave her his swift, wicked smile. He knows, she thought in panic, and felt herself going scarlet again. Oh why the hell had she worn red? She turned her burning face to cool it against the window pane.

‘When I was a child I liked popping balloons, and fuchsia buds,’ said Simon softly. ‘I always like putting my finger through the paper on the top of the Maxwell House jar. I like virgins. You can break them in how you like, before they have time to learn any bad habits.’

There was a long pause. Harriet got up and stumbled to the lavatory. Her heart was thumping, but her thoughts had taken on a strange, sensual, dreamlike quality. In the bathroom was a bidet, which seemed the height of sophistication. She toned down her face with some of Simon’s talcum powder.

As she came back into the room, the actor was leaving.

‘Must go, darling. I’ve got a matinée. If I drink any more I’ll fall off the stage. Come along Jeremy and Jeremy,’ he added to the boys, who were feeding each other grapes.

‘Do put in a good word for me to Boris,’ said Simon casually. ‘He was coming to see Cat , but he never made it. Tell him I’m doing Dorian Gray at the end of term.’

‘Sure will, baby,’ said the actor. ‘We’ll all have dinner one day next week.’

‘He doesn’t like the hours I keep. He suggests that you should marry me,’ sang Fats Waller.

‘Where shall we eat, Simon?’ said Chloe. ‘What about the Parisian.’