covering up her enormous, crepey bosom. Her makeup, which would have been subtle had it been intended for a stage performance in the Royal Albert Hall, had started to run. For some reason, I could imagine this woman sobbing on the stairs at the end of the night. I surprised myself with the insight, but there was something rather febrile about her demeanor which led one to this conclusion.
“How much of your life do you think you’ve wasted queuing for the bogs?” she asked, conversationally. “They never have enough of them, do they?”
I didn’t speak, as I was trying to calculate the approximate queuing time, but she didn’t seem to mind that I hadn’t responded.
“It’s all right for the men, isn’t it?” she went on, in an angry tone. “There’s never a queue for the Gents. Sometimes I feel like just going in there, squatting over the urinal. Ha!” she said. “Imagine their faces!” She laughed, a long, smoky laugh that turned into a protracted cough.
“Oh, but I think it would be terribly unhygienic in the Gentlemen’s toilets,” I said. “They don’t seem to mind so much about cleanliness and that sort of thing.”
“No,” she said, her voice full of bitterness, “they just come in, piss everywhere and then waltz off, leaving someone else to clean up after them.” She gazed unsteadily off into the distance, clearly with a specific individual in mind.
“I feel quite sorry for them, actually,” I said. She glared at me, and I hurried to clarify my statement. “I mean, imagine having to micturate in a row, alongside other men, strangers, acquaintances, friends even? It must be dreadful. Just think how odd it would be if we had to display our genitals to one another when we finally reached the front of this queue!”
She belched, very gently, and stared with uninhibited frankness at my scars. I turned my head away.
“You’re a bit mental, aren’t you?” she said, not in the least aggressively, but slurring her words somewhat. It was hardly the first time I’d heard this.
“Yes,” I said, “yes, I suppose I am.” She nodded, like I had confirmed a long-held suspicion. We didn’t talk after that.
When I returned to the function suite, the mood had changed—the pace of the music was slower. I went to the bar and bought myself a Magners and a vodka and cola, and, after a moment’s thought, a pint of beer for Raymond. It was quite tricky to carry it all back to our little table, but I managed without spilling a drop. I was glad to sit down, after all the jigging and queuing, and finished my vodka in two gulps—dancing was thirsty work. Raymond’s denim coat was still slung over the back of his chair, but there was no sign of him. I thought he had perhaps gone outside to smoke. I had a lot to tell him, about the dancing, about the queue lady, and I was looking forward to doing so.
The music changed again, and was now even slower. Lots of people left the floor, and those who remained drifted together. It was a strange sight, like something from the natural world; monkeys, perhaps, or birds. The women all put their arms around the men’s necks, and the men put their arms around the women’s waists. They swayed from side to side, shuffling their feet awkwardly, either looking into one another’s faces, or else resting their heads on each other’s shoulders.
It was some sort of mating ritual, clearly. But then, might it not be quite pleasurable, to sway in time to slow music, pressed close against someone rather wonderful? I looked at them all again, the various sizes and shapes and permutations of them. And there, in the middle, was Raymond, dancing with Laura. He was speaking into her ear, close enough to be able to smell her perfume. She was laughing.
The drink I’d bought him was going to go to waste. I picked it up and drank it down, the whole pint, acrid and bitter tasting. I stood up and put on my jerkin. I’d visit the Powder Room one more time, and then I would get the train back into town. The party, it seemed, was over.
21
Monday, Monday. Things didn’t feel right; I hadn’t been able to relax yesterday, hadn’t been able to settle to anything. I just felt on edge, somehow. If my mood was a crossword clue, the answer would be “discombobulated.” I tried to think why, but was unable to arrive