Blotto, Twinks and the Intimate Revue by Simon Brett

Author:Simon Brett [Brett, Simon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781472128263
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

11

She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed

‘To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune,’ said Everard Stoop. ‘To lose both would leave you an orphan.’

He was at his customary post at the Savoy American Bar, surrounded by his customary coterie, who let out their customary appreciative laughter at his latest witticism.

‘Being a parent,’ the celebrated wit continued, ‘is giving hostages to Fortune. And who knows what ransom Fortune will ask for your children’s return?’

This again was, to the coterie, Everard Stoop’s funniest remark since his previous one.

‘In loco parentis,’ he went on, feeling he had not exhausted the subject, ‘means “travelling by train with one’s parents”.’ More sycophantic laughter. ‘To be a parent is to give up—’

Everard Stoop rarely stopped in mid-aphorism. Certainly, none of his coterie would have dared to interrupt him, so, as on this occasion, he interrupted himself.

The reason for his depriving his audience of another leaden witticism was the arrival, supported by a stick on one side and the arm of her son Devereux Lyminster on the other, of the Dowager Duchess of Tawcester. They were passing through the American Bar on their way to the Grill Room. Leaving his tall stool, long tortoiseshell cigarette holder and Martini, Everard Stoop stepped towards them.

‘Your Grace,’ he said to the Dowager Duchess, ‘how enchanting it is to see you again.’

She turned on the writer the look she reserved for Labrador puppies who had misbehaved on the carpet of the Blue Morning Room. ‘And who are you?’ she asked, with a froideur which immediately halved the ambient temperature of the American Bar.

‘I am Everard Stoop, Your Grace.’ He waited for a response of recognition. Receiving none, he went on, ‘Composer. Pianist. Lyricist. Sketch writer. My show, Light and Frothy, is currently running – to reactions of audience ecstasy – at the Pocket Theatre.’ Still getting nothing back from the North Face of the Dowager Duchess, he elaborated, ‘You and I were introduced at a weekend party at the Marquess and Marchioness of Tolworth’s country house, Brinkmans, where I had the honour of providing after-dinner entertainment at the piano.’

She looked him up and down, as if examining wallpaper discoloured by yet another failure of the Tawcester Towers plumbing. Then, with the crushing force of a sheet metal roller, the Dowager Duchess announced, ‘I cannot be expected to recognise servants.’

With that, she and her son processed through to the Grill Room.

Araminta fffrench-Wyndeau was, in Blotto’s view, as pretty as a picture. A very pale picture, it has to be said. Pale skin, pale eyes; a boddo could almost see through her, like a shrimp in a rock pool.

Not only as pretty, he soon discovered, but about as articulate as a picture too. No doubt she had at some point undergone the same kind of training regime in ladylike accomplishments as his sister. He felt sure Araminta could sew, tinkle away on the piano and point a toe in the ballroom with the best of them. But she seemed somehow to have missed out on the conversation classes.

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