Moonshine. Victoria Clayton

I want a woman about five feet six or seven, slender but not bony, whose hair is the colour of unsalted butter, with large, glowing eyes that vary in hue between neat scotch and seawater, who has a tendency to weep when she thinks no one’s looking. She has a fascinating way of raising one eyebrow seductively and looking at you with a positively wicked gleam, while smiling as demurely as a postulant nun.’

      ‘I think she sounds extremely irritating. I’d have nothing to do with her if I were you.’

      ‘You aren’t me. I shall have as much to do with her as I can possibly arrange.’

      ‘But we know the fascination won’t last long.’

      ‘I have a feeling she’s the exception that proves the rule.’

      ‘You’re obviously a case-hardened flirt.’ I bit into the last piece of cake and smiled as I chewed to show I did not take him seriously.

      ‘You’re the girl of my dreams,’ replied Kit, not smiling back.

      ‘Oh, look! Rain!’ I directed his attention to the window where plummeting water formed a curtain, obliterating the view of the public lavatories. ‘What a mercy! Every single man who’s been in there has waited until emerging into full view of the hotel to tuck in his shirt and zip up his trousers. Is there a law in this country against doing oneself up privately indoors?’

      ‘But it’s provided you with a conversational diversion. You needn’t be afraid that I’m going to pounce, you know. I’m well aware you’re still besotted with Mr Latimer. But, unlike you, I don’t believe that you’ll never get over it. I bet you think that from now on your life will be a sad round of charitable works and knitting hideous cardigans for your nephews and nieces.’

      ‘I hope not. I hate it when the stitches get so tight you have to practically crowbar them off the needle.’

      ‘Don’t worry. Psychic wounds always heal eventually, even if there is some scar tissue left. People who pretend their hearts are broken really want an excuse not to have to risk themselves again on the merry-go-round of human relationships. Uncle Kit knows these things.’

      He looked up as the waitress brought us the bill.

      ‘I insist.’ I snatched it up from the table.

      ‘You see,’ Kit explained to the waitress, ‘I’m a kept man. My companion is fabulously rich and she takes me everywhere with her like a sort of pug-dog.’

      The girl, who must have been about seventeen but was made up to look forty-five, was at first nonplussed. Then she melted under his friendly gaze and giggled.

      ‘Is t’at her car t’en?’ she asked, pointing through the window at the little red Alfa. ‘I’d give anyt’ing to go for a drive in somet’ing like t’at. My boyfriend’s a fishmonger and when we go out in his van I stink of fish for days after.’

      ‘Like a mermaid,’ said Kit. ‘Your boyfriend’s a lucky man.’ His blue eyes seemed to dazzle as a ray of sunlight shot through the rain-glazed window.

      She giggled again as she counted the money I had given her. ‘I wouldn’t go out wit’ him but the other boys here only have bikes and I hate riding on crossbars. Your clothes get all anyhow. I want to go and work in Dublin but me mum won’t let me.’

      ‘You’d be a smash hit there.’

      She looked at Kit doubtfully. ‘Do ye t’ink so?’

      ‘One glimpse of those eyes and they’d be hiring limousines to take you out.’

      ‘Arrah, go on wit’ you!’ She twitched her shoulders and threw up her chin to show she could not be so easily taken in but her small, painted face was beaming. ‘T’ank you, miss,’ she added when I gave her a tip of fifty pence. ‘T’at’s very kind of ye. Enjoy yer ride now.’ She gave Kit a last slaying glance over her shoulder as she went away.

      ‘You’re pretty much a smash hit yourself,’ I said, getting up and putting on my mac.

      ‘The Irish expect a little badinage. Talking’s a national pastime. It’s only good manners.’

      As I checked my reflection for crumbs in the mirror over the fireplace I saw Kit whisper something to the waitress which made her blush with pleasure. She almost curtseyed when he gave her what looked like a five-pound note.

      ‘Throat oiled and spirit soothed?’ he asked as we got into the car.

      ‘Thank you, yes. What a good Samaritan you are.’

      ‘Could we have less of the distance-making gratitude? I could swamp you with thanks for lunch and tea, but I know how to accept gracefully.’

      Opposite the entrance of the car-park was a shop that sold television sets. A small crowd had gathered on the pavement to stare at the rows of flickering screens, a bright point of interest in the dull, rain-soaked street. As we swept by I saw a man’s face, striking in black and white, and was almost certain that it was Burgo’s. I closed my eyes and swallowed down the sour taste that rose into my mouth, a combination of barmbrack and grief. For once Kit, who had been concentrating on the traffic, had noticed nothing.

      ‘Now, my fair friend and fellow voyager,’ he continued, ‘as we embark on the last part of our journey, I want you to tell me what happened after the dinner party. You needn’t look blank. You know perfectly well which dinner party I mean. The dinner party that ended in the China House with a general stand-off. I must find out what happened next.’

      ‘I can’t think why you’re so keen to hear about it.’

      ‘I told you. I’ve a passion for stories of any kind. And love stories are always the most enjoyable. Also I’m deeply interested in anything to do with you. Does that answer your question?’

      I supposed it did. So, as we drove on through rain that fell in bathtubs rather than buckets and the road became narrow and winding and the land either side of it began to rear up into frowning black mountains capped with cloud, I went on with my tale.

       NINE

      ‘So what are your plans, Roberta?’

      Simon’s car was rushing through the darkness, the headlights making a silver tunnel of the overhanging branches. Burgo and I shared the capacious back seat, he lounging with his legs stretched out while I sat primly, knees together, clutching my evening bag.

      ‘I haven’t any. Not until my mother gets better.’ I explained about the broken hip.

      ‘It hardly seems fair to expect you to suspend your life indefinitely. Can’t you get a nurse in?’

      ‘Apparently there isn’t enough money. My father’s just had a line painted round the insides of the baths so we don’t take too much hot water. It’s just as though there’s a war on.’

      ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized things were so tight. In that case it was extremely generous of your father to make such a substantial contribution to party funds.’

      ‘He hasn’t! Well! That’s the most ridiculous piece of swank—’

      Just in time I realized that Burgo could not possibly be interested in our family travails. I suppressed my indignation. Outwardly that is. I stared unseeing into the bushes as they flashed past. I was simmering with rage. How dared my father tell Brough to change all the lightbulbs in the house to forty watts so that it was virtually impossible to read at night and then make extravagant donations to the Conservative Party merely to impress a lot of men who despised him anyway?

      ‘Now you’re angry.’ Burgo sounded sympathetic.

      ‘Not at all. It was a lovely evening. Thank you so much for inviting me.’

      ‘I can almost hear the snorts of fury.’

      ‘Do