Folly Du Jour(2)
And here he was, the sole occupant of what in London would have been called the Royal Box, the target of lazily curious glances from the audience gathering below. A public figure and constantly on parade, George was unperturbed. He automatically made a gesture to adjust his already perfectly tied black tie, he smoothed his luxuriant grey moustache and eased his large frame into the spindle-legged gilt chair further from the entrance, thinking to allow easy access for his cousin when he appeared.
He settled to stare back boldly at the audience, conveying amused approval. This gathering risked outshining the performers, he thought, so brightly glittered the diamonds in the front stalls and the paste gems in the upper gallery. The gowns glowed – silks and satins, red and mulberry and peach apparently the favoured colours this season, standing out against the stark black and white of the gentlemen’s evening dress. His nose twitched, identifying elements of the intoxicating blend of tobaccos curling up from the auditorium: suave Havana cigars, silky Passing Clouds favoured by the ladies, and, distantly, an acrid note of rough French Caporals.
And every seat taken, it seemed. Definitely le tout Paris on parade this evening. George checked his programme again, wondering if he’d misunderstood the style of entertainment on offer. A turnout like this was exactly what you’d expect for the first night of a ballet – he’d been part of just such an audience, tense with anticipation, in this theatre before the war. He’d seen Nijinsky leap with superhuman agility in The Rite of Spring, delighting some, scandalizing others. George had counted himself delighted to be scandalized. On this stage, Anna Pavlova had thrilled the world with her performance of The Dying Swan. And tonight’s crowd was seething with expectation of an equally significant display. All was movement: faces turned this way and that, hands fluttered as friends were greeted across the breadth of the hall, places were hurriedly swapped and the unmistakable musical rise and fall of a chirruping French crowd on pleasure bent swirled up to him.
The sounds of such conviviality made him for a moment conscious of his solitary state. Unused to being alone, and certainly never unaccompanied at an evening’s entertainment, George swallowed the joking aside he would have murmured to his aide-de-camp. He felt in his pocket and took out a pair of ivory opera glasses. The audience were freely scanning him, he’d return the attention and search out a familiar face among them. The odds were that he knew someone down there. Might note them, wave and see them in the bar after the show perhaps?
A poor haul. His glasses passed swiftly over the barely remembered features of someone he’d been at school with and didn’t care to see again. He was probably mistaken . . . a passing resemblance. And that was it.
He was on the point of giving up when a stirring in the box opposite caught his attention. An usherette had entered to show the occupants to their seats. An inquisitive application of the glasses confirmed that the girl was his pretty ouvreuse. Obviously i/c boxes for the nobs. A favoured position, most likely. He scanned the scene, watching as a young lady followed her in, clutching her blue and gold programme. The newcomer smiled back at her escort, trailing behind. She waited for him, turning her head in a regal gesture as he tipped and dismissed the attendant, and went to stand by a chair, pausing until he came forward to hold it ready for her. As he sat down by her side, she threaded a white arm through his in a familiar way. Ignoring the man, George trained his glasses on her. What a corker! Blonde and flamboyantly pretty. And what quantities of make-up young girls wore these days, he reflected. The tiny pair of glasses was almost concealed in his great hand and he discreetly trained them lower to take in her figure. He smiled. What should he report back to the ladies of Simla regarding the latest fashions? They were certain to ask. He would say that necklines appeared to be retreating southwards while hems were advancing rapidly northwards. Disastrous collision inevitable.
An attractive colour, though, the scrap of silk the goddess opposite was wearing. Colour of a peacock’s throat. It glinted in an exotic way, flashing two colours over the void at him. George sighed. Lucky bastard – whoever he was – to have this girl on his arm! He eased his glasses sideways to take in her companion.
Christ Almighty! George lowered them hurriedly. He dropped his programme deliberately and bent to retrieve it, head lowered, using the seconds floundering about on the carpet to decide what he should do next. This could prove to be, socially, a jolly awkward moment. What bad luck that the only other person he recognized for certain in the whole theatre should be seated exactly opposite him. In clear view. Lieutenant Colonel Somerton, now a knight of the realm if George had it right, and one-time soldier. Their last meeting had been decidedly unpleasant.