flattening into neutral, the responses of people who expected to have their answers used against them.
“The Mrs. relies on him ever so,” Doris said. “Oooh, here’s the champagne. You pour. Talking of shoes, Cynnie—”
That was the subject very firmly changed. Will accepted another unwanted glass of fizzy muck and sat back, rather than press them for answers they didn’t feel safe to give.
It was near quarter past now, Kim was due to arrive at the back door any moment, where Beaumont would let him in, and there was still no sign of Phoebe. She was often late, but surely she wouldn’t let them down tonight? Ought Will cause some sort of ruckus and draw all eyes his way if her promised diversion didn’t materialise? And how the devil would he do that?
“I might just visit the gents,” he said, rising, and at that moment realised he needn’t have worried. Phoebe’s arrival was impossible to miss.
The party crashed in like a wave, making enough noise to be heard over the band, especially since one of them appeared to have a hunting horn. It was a gaggle of young people about thirty strong, dressed with a startling combination of Bohemianism, extravagance, and grime. The men were mostly in tailcoats, some in lounge suits or exaggerated Oxford bags. Most of the women’s hemlines barely skimmed their knees; all of their dresses dipped extremely low at the front, or even lower at the back. It was a radiant mass of bare flesh, sequins, fringes, bright colours, shining fabrics, painted faces, except that some of them looked as though they’d been rolling in the gutter, with streaks of dirt up bare arms, on white shirt fronts and waistcoats, across cheeks and costly fabric. A few had ripped hems, or bedraggled trouser legs.
Next to him Cynthia sucked in a long breath. “Those won’t be worn twice.”
Doris nodded agreement without looking round. They both watched the newcomers with appalled envy, lost in the spectacle of so much glory thrown so casually away.
The Bright Young People gathered in the middle of the dance floor, tightened up into a group, then darted away in all directions like starlings scattering, leaving only Phoebe standing, tall and slender in a shimmering blue dress, face lit with glee.
“God,” Will said involuntarily.
The newcomers were everywhere, chattering and shouting, accosting people with what seemed to be demands. Some of them were diving under tables, others shouting at the band. One of them attempted to wrest away the clarinet-player’s clarinet. Several waiters were remonstrating with them. Mrs. Skyrme emerged from the office and hurried down the stairs as Fuller started to sprint down from the top balcony.
Will tore his eyes from the spectacle, looked the other way as casually as possible and saw a waiter—or, rather, a man in a waiter’s jacket, slim and dark-haired—emerge from the depths of the room behind Mrs. Skyrme, and set off up the stairs with a tray. Unmistakable to Will, unobtrusive to, he hoped, anyone else. Kim looked quite as though he was meant to be there, as long as the people who hired the staff didn’t see his face.
Will forced his attention back to the dance floor in case anyone followed his gaze. He would much rather have watched Kim’s progress along the balcony, watched him sidle up to the office and try the door. Had Mrs. Skyrme locked it? If she had, would Kim be able to deal with it?
He’d find out, damn it. Will forced himself to concentrate, and saw Phoebe was talking to Mrs. Skyrme, hands fluttering. He could almost hear the word ‘darling’. A man in Oxford bags had climbed on a table despite the mass of material flapping round his legs, and seemed to be examining one of the columns holding up the balcony. The people sitting at the table seemed to accept this with remarkable equilibrium. The same sort of thing was going on across the entire dance floor, while some of the new revellers charged up the stairs.
“What the blazes are they doing?” he asked aloud.
“Treasure hunt, I bet,” Doris said. “It’s the newest craze. They look for a clue, then when they find it, they go to the next location. They go on all night. Don’t use language like that.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I could see you thinking,” she told him, and her painted face cracked into an entirely real smile.
On the dance floor, Fuller’s mouth was clamped into a far less convincing expression of goodwill, while the set of his