Джеймс Хилтон - So Well Remembered

A moment later George, still beaming from the effect of his friend’s remark, found Livia on her knees on the hearthrug, warming her hands at the fire. Her face was turned away from him as he approached; he began cheerfully: “Ah, that’s been a grand time! You should have heard what Tom thinks about you—he just told me—”

All at once he stopped, because she had turned round, and the look on her face was as startling as her first words.

“Oh, George, what a BORE! Such a SILLY old man! How can you possibly endure him? That awful, high-pitched voice, and the way he talks, talks, TALKS—”

George gasped incredulously: “You mean you don’t LIKE him? You don’t like Tom Whaley?”

“What is there to like?”

“But—but—he’s a good fellow—he’s against me on the Council, I know that—but he’s really all right, Tom is—”

“George, he’s dull and he’s pompous and he loves the sound of his own voice. And he WILL go on explaining the same thing over and over again. I thought I should have screamed while he was telling me the difference between the Local Government Board and the Ministry of Health—”

“He’s one of my best friends, anyhow.”

“Oh, George, I’m sorry… maybe I was in the wrong mood.”

“You didn’t seem to be.”

“Couldn’t you see I was pretending?”

No; he hadn’t seen it. He said, anxious to ease matters: “Well, if you were, I appreciate that much. It was nice of you to give such a good impression.”

Not till long afterwards did he guess why she had done so, but Whaley’s visit undoubtedly led to a second social occasion, far less pleasant, that showed how much further she was prepared to go. It began by her asking George if he would meet some friends of hers, Mr. and Mrs. Wallington by name, for dinner one evening in Mulcaster. It seemed she had picked up a chance acquaintance with Mrs. Wallington in a Mulcaster dress shop, and George, who thought it odd that he should be dragged into it, demurred at first, but on being reminded of how hospitably she had behaved towards Tom Whaley, consented on one condition—that he himself should be the host. “Then if I don’t like ‘em I don’t have to invite ‘em back,” he explained, with sturdy if not too flattering independence.

So in due course Livia took him to a Mulcaster restaurant where the appointment had been arranged. There he was presented, not only to the couple, but to an extra man, and also to the revelation that all of them seemed to know Livia far better than he had anticipated. Although he was usually able to get on well with strangers from the outset, he felt curiously ill at ease that evening, and as it progressed he became less and less happy for a variety of reasons, one of which was quite humiliating—he didn’t think he would have enough money to pay the bill, especially as they were all ordering expensive drinks. But apart from that, he found none of his previous pleasure in witnessing Livia’s social success; it was one thing to introduce her to a friend of his own and watch the magic begin to operate, but to see the fait accompli in the shape of already established friendships with strangers was another matter. He did not think it was jealousy that he felt, but rather a sense of annoyance that, after sneering at Whaley, she should show her preference for men like those two. For they were both of the blustery, aggressive type, especially the one who was not the husband and had not been invited. His name was Mangin, and from certain boastful references George gathered that he had lately made a good deal of money in the advertising business. There was a cold swagger about him that met more than its match in Livia’s repartee, but George himself could not come to terms with it, and was made even less comfortable by his wife’s peculiar ability to do so.

As the dinner went on and more drinks fed the bluster, he fell into a glum silence that became equally a torture to maintain or to try to break. He was relieved when Mangin made a move to leave, mentioning a train he must catch; but then came the problem of the bill; why on earth had Livia chosen such a swank establishment, and would such a place be satisfied with his personal cheque? He was trying rather clumsily to signal the waiter and learn the worst when Mangin shouted: “What the deuce are you bothering about, Boswell? Everything’s taken care of at source—don’t you know me yet? Anyhow, your wife does—that’s the main thing…” Whereupon, with a lordly gesture amidst ensuing laughter, he intercepted the waiter whom George had summoned and ostentatiously tipped him a pound note, then adding to George: “By the way, Boswell, I’d like a word with you if you can spare a moment.”

George could say nothing; to argue without enough in his pocket to pay the bill would have been even more humiliating. In his confusion he somehow found himself leaving the table and being piloted by Mangin into the restaurant lobby.

“So you’re a newspaper man, Boswell?”

George nodded, still inclined to be speechless.

“Know much about advertising?”

“Advertising?… Er… Well, I take in advertising, naturally.”

“Ever WRITTEN ads?”

“Oh yes, my customers often ask me to help them—”

“I mean big stuff—campaign advertising—things like patent medicines—”

“No, I can’t say I—”

Mangin threw a half-crown into the plate on the cloakroom counter and began putting on his overcoat.

“Well, I’ll tell you what… You don’t seem to have had any experience, but I’ll give you a chance… start at six pounds a week for the first three months and we’ll see what happens… But you’ll have to LEARN, Boswell, and learn plenty if you want to stay in the game.”

“But—but—” George was slowly recovering his voice. “But I don’t understand—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m offering you a job, that’s all. In my London office.”

“But I don’t want a job. I’ve got a job already—”

“You mean that newspaper—in—what’s the name of the place —in—”

“Aye, in Browdley. I’m owner and editor of the Browdley Guardian.”

“But I thought you wanted to give it up! Wasn’t that the idea… to try somewhere else?”

George suddenly flushed. “There must have been a mistake.”

“MISTAKE, eh? Looks like it…” Mangin smirked as he signalled the doorman for a taxi. “Better have that out with Livia… I’ve got to rush for my train… G’bye.”

George did not go back to the table immediately; he calmed himself first, then discovered (as he had hoped) that the rest of the party was breaking up. He murmured his goodbyes, and could not find words to address Livia during the first few hundred yards of their walk together along the pavement from the restaurant. Eventually she broke the silence herself. “Don’t be so angry, George, just because Mr. Mangin paid for the dinner. You know you only asked the other two—and then all those drinks… they wouldn’t have felt free to have what they wanted if they’d thought you were paying for everything.”

“Why not? How do they know what I earn? I’m not poor just because I can’t afford to buy champagne cocktails.”

“That’s it, George, you can’t afford them and Mr. Mangin can—and besides that, you don’t drink yourself—that’s another thing.”

He said, half to himself: “Seems to me there’s a more important matter than the one we’re discussing.”

She answered eagerly: “I hope so. I don’t know what Mr. Mangin said to you outside. I was afraid you hadn’t given him much of an impression of how clever you are—because you ARE clever, George—I know you are —in your own way.”

“Thanks,” he retorted. “And perhaps you’ll tell me why in God’s name you should care WHAT impression I make on a man like that?”