‘I could ask the same of you.’ He followed her into the room and she pitied him his awkwardness, in an evening suit that was too big for him, the tie hanging awry. He knocked against the dressing-table, upsetting Angelina’s glass bottles. ‘Damn.’
‘Oh, I’ll see to it.’ She went over and started to put everything straight.
He pulled at his collar, irritated by its stiffness. They stared at each other in the dressing-table mirror. Two miserable faces.
‘You’re the same, aren’t you,’ he said finally. ‘They get to you, don’t they?’
‘Who?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘All of them. They’re so . . . self-absorbed, aren’t they? Ed’s not so bad, he can’t help having to be responsible, but Father and Mother and my bloody sisters.’ He looked around the room and now she saw it as through his eyes. Discarded clothes were strewn over the floor, a couple of fashion magazines lay open on the pink and white frilled eiderdown; Angie had spilt a box of face powder on the floor by the basin and not bothered to clear it up. Beatrice hadn’t thought about it before, how Angie moved through life assuming that someone else would always clear up after her. Was this what Peter meant? Her own little case and the box for her dress, she had set neatly against the wall, ready for when the Brookers’ driver came for her and Rafe at midnight.
‘Peter, what’s wrong?’ she asked. He had a wild look about him. ‘Why don’t you come down?’
He shrugged. ‘I’d rather be tortured on a rack. What would I say to all those people? I hardly know them.’ She saw he hated the whole idea of the party, the small talk, pretending to look as though he was enjoying himself. ‘And that man,’ he muttered. ‘How my mother has the nerve . . .’
‘Who do you mean?’ But again she read his mind. The bold-looking man with the moustache. It must be Oenone he came to visit. ‘How do you know, Peter?’ she asked him. ‘You might be wrong.’
‘I know, all right? I’ve seen them together, Brent Jarvis and my mother.’ And he uttered a word she didn’t know the meaning of, but it sounded horrid.
‘Don’t, Peter.’
‘Why are you defending her?’
‘She’s your mother. She loves you. And she’s always been kind to me.’
‘That’s what you think, is it? Bea, she’s just using you. They’re all using you. They use everybody, don’t you see?’
‘That’s a horrible thing to say, Peter. You must be ill or something.’
‘No, it’s the truth. They all want power in their own crooked little ways – my father in his Cabinet, my mother out here, doing whatever she likes, and Angelina’s worst of all. Watch out for Angelina. If she sees someone else wants something, she takes it. She can’t help it. She has a need to be the centre of attention.’
Beatrice stared at him, her mind working, suddenly remembering the way Angie had looked at her in the mirror, her behaviour with Rafe this evening. She put her hands over her face as if to shut away the image. Peter was twisting everything, that was all. His hatred was poisonous.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, her voice dull.
‘Yes, you do.’ She felt him come close. He pulled her hands away roughly. ‘Look at me,’ he said, and she did. The anguish on his face was dreadful to see. ‘Believe me.’
‘Peter,’ she said, desperate. ‘You’ve got it wrong. They love you and care for you. They’ve been worrying all evening where you were. Didn’t they find you?’
‘Ed came up, and Mother,’ he said. He chuckled. ‘They knocked and called a bit, then when I didn’t answer they went away. As I say, they didn’t try very hard. I don’t fit in, you see. Don’t play the games they play.’
‘That’s silly,’ she said. ‘Childish.’
‘Don’t be unkind!’ he cried. ‘Not you, too.’
‘No, of course I won’t be, Peter, don’t worry, it’s all right.’ But he was looking at her so tenderly now it frightened her. She’d always been wary of him – his moods, his cutting comments – and now it was as though he stood open before her, and she saw his unhappiness down to the core. Poor Peter, the misfit. He slumped suddenly on the bed beside her, rolled over and buried his face in the eiderdown. She put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him as Rafe had tried to comfort her only half an hour ago. She knew he was wrong about his family. They did love him. They were loyal. They loved her and had been kind to her. Angelina had her faults, of course she did, but that was understandable. She was vulnerable, too. Beatrice didn’t mind that Mrs Wincanton had made her Angie’s guardian angel, she was proud to do it. And now Peter needed her help, too.