Mr Lonely, page 17
Carrie went to only one function Sid could remember—a Foyle’s Luncheon. Sid stood up to speak. It was very warm and Carrie fainted as Sid said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, first of all let me say how …’ Sid looked along the table to where the noise was coming from. He was standing next to a sat-down Anna Ford, sitting next to a sat-down Jack Higgins, sitting down next to a face-down Carrie Lewis. The toast-master in his red jacket, wearing a row of six military medals—five of which there had never been a war for—dashed to help Carrie. He tripped over the lead of the microphone Sid was speaking into and the mike left the table faster than a good tip. The toast-master and three waiters lifted her over the low-top table into the audience. Sid picked up the mike and put it back into its socket. He tried valiantly to carry on as Carrie was carried out. The microphone was fortunately still in working order. He hopefully tried a few ad libs like, ‘I told her not to eat here,’ or, ‘She does this when I speak at home,’ but all these pearls of wit were drowned by shouts of, ‘Give her air,’ ‘Undo her dress’ (which one Italian waiter tried to do). Sid finished his speech in mid-stream and left with only one consolation—the next speaker after him was an unknown singer called Mr Desmond O’Connor. Sid took Carrie home and as far as he could remember it was Carrie’s last outing with him professionally. Carrie had made up her mind never to go out to one of those ‘do’s’ again, while Sid had made up his mind never to ask her.
All the mail that came to their home was opened by Sid, except anything that was specifically addressed to Mrs Lewis. Her mail was usually from her mother, addressed to her in her maiden name, or from Elspeth. Sid’s mail was mostly to do with his business: contracts, fêtes, police stag nights, luncheon receptions and now and again, small dinner parties—8.00 for 8.45; black tie; RSVP, Sir and Lady Dunkirk-Beaches, Belgravia …; Lord and Lady Oliver Newton-John …; carriages at …; theme of dress—favourite murderers; decorations will be worn. The scribbled note on the back of the card: ‘Looking forward to seeing you again. You don’t have to do anything, just be there.’
But one card stood out in particular. On the back it just said, ‘Found her as promised, Henry.’ That’s the one I’ve got to go to, Sid thought. He looked at his diary. It meant cancelling work, but, if Henry was right and the young lord usually was, it mustn’t be missed. 26 June, 8.00 for 8.45.
Sid shouted, ‘Carrie.’ No answer. Louder, ‘Carrie.’ No answer. Upstairs? ‘Carrie.’ She must be out shopping, Sid thought. I’ll phone Henry now. He dialled the number from memory.
Wilson, Lord Henry’s man, answered the phone—a man who had never had anything at all to do with women or a joke.
‘Yes.’
‘Lord Henry, please.’
‘Who’s speakin’?’
‘Well, you were when you said, “Who’s speakin’ “.’
‘Pardon? Hello? Who are you?’
‘Oh, hello, my lord.’
‘This is not Lord Henry speakin’.’ Wilson spoke like Jim Laker—left all his gs off anything ending with -ing.
‘Look, are you Wilson?’ Sid asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, Harold, will you let me speak to his lordship?’
‘Ah, I know that voice. You’re Mr Lewis, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am. How are you, Arthur?’
‘Fine, sir. Very well. His lordship is dinin’ at his club.’
‘But it’s only ten-thirty. He hasn’t gone there yet, has he?’
‘No, sir, at the moment he’s bathin’.’
‘Oh.’
‘But not to worry, sir. I’ll tell him to ring you the second he’s dry.’
‘Hurry him up, Arthur.’
‘I’m going up there now, sir.’
‘Thanks. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, sir.’
Arthur didn’t let Sid down. Within twenty minutes Lord Henry was on the phone. ‘Sid,’ he exclaimed.
‘Henry, you feel much cleaner now?’
‘Arthur helped,’ Henry lisped.
‘You dirty old devil.’
‘Not old, Sid.’
‘I saw a late film on TV about you the other night, The Picture of Dorian Gray.’
‘I should be so lucky.’
‘Sod your sex life, for the minute.’
‘I should still be so lucky.’
‘I’ve got your card for the twenty-sixth,’ Sid persevered. ‘I’m on, Henry. Who is she?’
‘Well, she’s supposed to be with me, but that’s a little white lie. Anyway, my darling, there’s twelve of us, if you know what I mean. I’m alone, but she’s coming with Mountfort.’
‘Who?’
‘You know, Lord Hamlyn St John Laurent Mountfort. My dear, he’s making a fortune at the moment. One of the biggest, and apart from that, the money is rolling in from his import business. He’s the biggest dealer of ginseng in the world. Most people get theirs from Korea or Siberia, but Hamlyn’s been so clever—’
‘What about the girl?’
‘—he gets his from the New Forest. It’s an aphrodisiac from the root of a tree. Well, love, his thought was, surely one root tastes like another. So, if you titivate the bottle … Have you seen the bottle?’
‘No.’
‘Well, it’s so phallic in shape and the pills themselves look a trifle grubby, but psychologically it works. He’s making a fortune. He’s thinking of selling the castle and going to live in or buy Bermuda.’
‘The girl, Henry.’
‘Oh, yes. You know Mountfort’s gay?’
‘Yes.’
‘He makes Oscar Wilde look like a navvy.’
‘Henry …’
‘The girl is divine. He’s bringing her for you, and she’s bringing him for me.’
‘Who else is going to be there?’
‘Frankly, I don’t give a damn, as long as Mountfort is, and Louise, of course.’
‘Louise?’
‘Lady Louise Susan Webb.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. Well, you know how beautiful she is. I think you’d better knock a few years off your age. Make yourself about fortyish, even if you have to use make-up. You can borrow some of mine.’
‘How old is she, then?’
‘Whatever she tells you. See you on the twenty-sixth, fully made up. Ciao. Unless you want to speak to Wilson again?’
‘Cobblers,’ said Sid.
‘I should be so lucky.’
‘Hey, before you slam the phone down, what kind of a party is it?’
‘Just a few friends. One or two people I owe.’
‘Your set or mine?’
‘Both, I would say. Look, Sid, we’ve known each other on and off for years. You’ve been to quite a few of my parties before. Why suddenly all the questions? It may be eight, ten or twelve people for dinner. You either want to come or you don’t. There’s a partner for you and a partner for me. It’s that simple. I’m not asking you because you’re a big star. I’m asking you because you’re a good friend. You’ve no need to bring your music, you know.’
‘I’m sorry, Henry. I’m sorry if I sounded off. But I’ve had one or two problems lately with the show and one of the writers, so I’m a wee bit uptight. I’d love to come. It should do me good.’
‘Good. And I thought your show was great the other night.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So did all my relatives. You’re very popular with my cousin Elizabeth and her husband Philip. And my aunt Elizabeth.’
‘Great. By the way, how’s business for you?’
‘As a matter of fact, it’s doing very well. I’m coming out with a new line in jeans next month. The shirts did fab, and I’m working on a new thing for men’s underwear—iridescent underpants. I think it should be a big seller. Anyway, cherub, I must go. So I’ll see you on the twenty-sixth, if not before. Oh yes, and Sid, it’s black tie.’
‘Thank you, Henry. You’re a good friend.’
‘Ciao.’ And the phone went dead.
Sid looked at it for a while, thinking of Henry. Lord Henry Kerrigan Maylon-Napier. Only one of the richest men in the country, one of the nicest, one of Sid’s best friends, and as queer as the British weather. Owner of a chain of clothing shops for the younger man, which he started because he was bored, and which made him another fortune. His father left him two million pounds and he didn’t like him. Ah well, Sid thought, as the French say, boules, or was it merde? Probably both.
The twenty-sixth duly came. Sid arrived at the house in Grosvenor Square five minutes early, at seven-fifty-five, in his dress-suit from Kilgour and French—four fittings—and a white shirt, so white it would have made an ad man for Dreft retire. With his sun-ray-tanned face, he felt like a young Robert Redford.
Wilson opened the door. ‘You are rather early, Mr Lewis.’
‘Yes, I know I am, Arthur. I allowed parking time and had no trouble.’
‘Won’t you come in, sir?’
‘It was eight o’clock, wasn’t it, Arthur?’
‘Eight, for eight-forty-five, sir. That means nobody will be here till nine-fifteen.’
‘Surely Lord Henry’s here?’ Sid asked.
‘He’s bathin’.’
‘All right if I go up and see him?’
‘Oh I don’t know, sir. I mean, his lordship is bathin’.’
‘I’ll nip upstairs, and I promise I won’t look.’
‘He’ll be upset if you don’t, sir.’
Sid heard Wilson creak across the hall. When he first came to the house, he thought it was Wilson’s shoes that were creaking, but it wasn’t. It was Wilson.
‘Arthur, how many here tonight, and who?’ he asked.
Wilson turned round. ‘Twelve. Lord Henry and his boyfriend, you and Lady Louise Webb …’
‘You don’t miss much, do you?’
‘Very little,’ Wilson smiled. ‘And that fella from the government. Sir Cecil Bland and his wife.’
‘I haven’t met them,’ Sid said.
‘You haven’t missed much, sir. He never stops talking, while she’s like a frightened mouse. And she’s got a twitch in her eye, so don’t think it’s a come-on. She can’t help it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sid grinned. ‘Who else?’
‘One of your lot … that actor, er, you know. He’s in that programme, er …’
‘What’s he look like?’ Sid asked.
‘Tall, young, about forty, he’s in that series about murder, “Nightkillers”.’
‘Oh, Carl Travers.’
‘Yes, him. And Miss Chewing-Gum of 1977 or something.’
‘I see,’ said Sid.
‘Then there’s Mr and Mrs McCartney, coming from Scotland.’
‘Paul?’ Sid asked.
‘No. Mr and Mrs Duncan McCartney. He runs his lordship’s clothing factory near Glasgow. Nice people. And two American tennis players.’
‘Men or women?’
‘Most likely.’ Wilson went through to the dining-room.
Sid ran up to the bathroom on the second floor. He knocked loudly on the door.
‘Yes?’ a voice answered.
‘It’s me, Sid.’
‘Good God, you’re early.’
‘No, I’m on time,’ he shouted back through the door. ‘Would you like me to fetch you a drink?’
‘No thank you. I’ve got a bottle of champagne in here. Come on in. It’s unlocked.’
Sid walked into the bathroom. His lordship was covered in a chocolate towelling dressing-gown, with a hood that would have made Muhammad Ali proud. The room was enormous. There were mirrors everywhere, a sunken bath, murals on the ceiling, a chaise-longue, armchairs, a dressing-table, sinks, a door leading to the loo and a bidet. Everything was cream and chocolate.
‘Well, Sid. This being your first trip to my bathroom, how do you like it?’
Sid looked round. ‘It’s knockout, really. It’s like standing in the middle of a Mars bar.’
‘Help yourself to the champagne,’ Henry said.
Sid poured a drink into a toothbrush glass. ‘What time will Lady Louise be here? Should I call her my lady, your lady, your ladyship?’
‘I’ll introduce her to you as Lady Louise.’
‘Great.’
‘That’s quite a nice suit you’re wearing. Yours?’ Henry smirked.
‘No. Moss Bros,’ Sid smirked back.
‘Looks like it was made for both of them.’
‘Ha, ha, ha. You, young sir, are knocking five hundred pounds. Cary Grant has his suits made where I bought this.’
Henry smiled. ‘Oh, I see. You’re wearing one of Cary Grant’s old suits.’
‘Don’t you like it, honestly?’ Sid followed Henry into his adjoining bedroom. It was enormous. He went straight to a full-length mirror and looked at his suit. ‘What’s wrong with it, Henry?’
‘It’s too conservative.’
‘How can it be too conservative? Anyway, I am a conservative.’
‘Ah, that’s as maybe. But you have a socialist’s face.’ Sid looked at himself again, and started to move from side to side. ‘Sid, if you say Ju-dy, Ju-dy, Ju-dy, I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
Henry’s suit was laid out for him on the bed. Sid said, ‘You’re not wearing that suit tonight, are you?’
‘And why not?’
‘It would hurt my feelings if you did.’
‘Why?’ Henry looked slightly worried.
‘Because I know the fella that was buried in it.’
‘Out. Get out. Go. Out,’ said Henry.
‘I’ll see you downstairs, then.’
‘Yes, and Sid, be a dear, send Wilson up.’
‘Henry, he’ll never make it. It could take him a week.’
‘Please, Sid.’
‘Okay.’
‘There’s a good little boy.’
Sid left. As he walked down the stairs, which were enormous, he looked at his tiny watch. It was eight-forty. He reached halfway down the first flight when he heard Wilson creaking across the hall towards the door.
‘Arthur.’
The creaking stopped. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Sir wants you, I’m afraid.’
‘Bathroom?’
’ ‘Fraid so.’
‘Very well.’ Wilson turned slowly, and with his hand on the banister, hauled himself upstairs step by step, creak by creak, and pain by pain. As he almost reached the top of the first flight, the doorbell rang. Wilson’s shoulders visibly sagged.
‘Arthur, you slide down the banister, and I’ll deal with Henry.’
‘You’re very kind, sir.’ He now dragged himself down the stairs, while Sid bounded up them, two at a time.
Wilson eventually got to the door, took a deep breath and opened it. ‘Good evening, sir, my lady. I’m sorry I took rather a long time to get to the door. It’s the legs. Please come in.’ He took their coats and showed them into the drawing-room. Wilson creaked towards it, like the mast of a windjammer in a storm, while Sir Cecil and Lady Bland followed behind like two sails.
‘Would you care for an aperitif?’ Wilson asked.
‘I see we’re first,’ commented Sir Cecil. ‘A dry sherry for me, and a sweet one for my wife.’
Wilson looked at her and she twitched her right eye twice. He began to pour, as the bell went again. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘It’s the door.’ He hobbled off, leaving them to pour their own drinks.
Henry and Sid came downstairs as the creaking Wilson was almost at the door.
‘Wilson,’ Henry whispered loudly.
‘Sir?’ Wilson said, tacking slightly to the right.
‘Who’s here?’
‘Sir Cecil and Lady Vera.’
‘Thank you,’ Henry said, as he and Sid walked towards the drawing-room. The door-bell rang again as Wilson shoved off towards it. Sid and Henry walked into the drawing-room.
‘Hello, Vera. How lovely you look,’ Henry said easily, and winked at her. She twitched back two very quick twitches. Henry leaned forward to kiss her cheek, brushing it with tightly-closed lips. It was the nearest thing she’d had to sex for ten years.
‘And Cecil, how are you? You look marvellous. Government work must agree with you. Do you both know my dear friend, Sidney? Sid Lewis—Sir Cecil and Lady Vera Bland.’
Sir Cecil put a hand out to be shaken. Sid was at his urbane best, all straight-eyed, a wide smile and an actor’s genius for making them think he was looking at Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward, instead of something that David Attenborough had devoted fifty minutes to in ‘The World About Us’.
‘Hello,’ Sid smiled. He then took Lady Vera’s hand and kissed it. She twitched her right eye once and her left eye twice, blushing the same colour as the back of her husband’s neck, which was hanging over his shirt collar.
The door creaked open. It was either the door or Wilson. Wilson stood there, blocking the way, as he announced, ‘Mr Carl Travers and Miss –’ here he looked at a card ‘–Dawn Dawson.’
‘Carl,’ smiled Henry. ‘And of course, the beautiful Dawn.’ He walked over to them, leaving Sid with Cecil and Vera.
‘Lucky to be here tonight,’ Sir Cecil began.
‘What do you do, Lady Vera,’ Sid asked, ‘while your husband is running the country?’ He looked right into her eyes. They twitched.
‘She does charity work in my constituency,’ Cecil answered for her.
‘Oh, I see.’
‘And what do you do?’ Sir Cecil asked.
It had been a long time since Sid was asked that question. He said, quite seriously, ‘I’m a jockey.’ Vera’s eyes twitched rapidly, while Sir Cecil just looked at him with eyes that couldn’t somehow focus.
‘You’re too tall, surely,’ Sir Cecil spluttered.
‘Not for the long races,’ Sid said quickly. ‘Will you excuse me for a moment?’ He went to join Carl and his young lady, picking up a drink on the way. Wilson led in Mr and Mrs Duncan McCartney as if he was first in the America’s Cup. Henry took them over for a while.
‘Hello Carl, Dawn—how are you both?’ Sid said.
‘Fine, Sid. And you?’ Carl replied.
‘Never better. But I’ve had a bit of a shock.’
