bright sunlight to catch the bus I could feel the wild beasts slinking away with their tails between their legs, balked of their rightful prey.
It was a wonderful blue cold day, with the last yellow leaves reprieved on the terrace of plane trees by the bus stop: almost one of those aqueous and lunar days when everything is charged with its own clarity. The colours of the houses and the brick were glowing and profound, and the small children playing in the streets looked as though they were on the way to an entrancing future. I had a good day at work, with a few odd compliments from above, and my good mood was still with me when I returned home in the evening to change for David’s party. Deciding what to wear was a pleasure instead of the usual burden: I took down my dresses and skirts with an affectionate proprietary familiarity, and tried on this and that without once thinking that I looked a fright. In the end I put on an enchanting linen dress with pleats and a yoke, rather like a gym tunic, which I had bought two years ago, long before such things became fashionable. It was a wonderful and exhilarating dress to wear because it left me complete freedom of movement: it had no belt to sever my legs from the movement of my shoulder, it didn’t mould or make me any way, it just met me where I went out to meet it, with a casual friendliness. It was a perfect garment to feel happy in. I hung a lump of amethyst on a silver chain which Simone had once given me round my neck, then looked for my lilac eyeshadow: I couldn’t find it, so decided that eyeshadow was anyway vulgar. I spent five minutes putting my hair up, and then took it all down again. I thought I looked fine either way. Then I spent another ten minutes looking for the invitation with the address on it, which had slipped behind the clock on the mantelpiece. Then I decided it was getting very late, so I grabbed my coat and the first book I could see, and ran for the bus. I always take a book with me to parties, I find it is a girl’s best chaperone, but I did wish I’d picked up something more likely than
Paradise Lost
.
To get to NW6 from N5 one has to go into Piccadilly and change. It took time, but I enjoyed myself looking out of the bus at the shop windows, which were all lit up in garish Christmas colours, red and green and tinsel and electric blue. Christmas Offers had begun to replace the cut prices. I loved it all, all the candles and the posters and the cold bonfire air.
When I got to David’s the party was in full swing. I could tell that from the bottom of the stairs. They were rather cold, grey, office-like stairs. In fact they were office stairs: he and Simon live on top of an accountant’s. There was a raucous noise descending—not the even, beelike murmur of cocktail conversation, but a much more extrovert, high-pitched roar, with a background of music and feet shuffling, from which an individual voice rose from time to time in a wail or shriek of gaiety. I took all this in, quietly, before I drew a deep breath, remembered that I was my love’s lovely angel, and pushed open the door. I found myself in their crowded hall, full of smoke and heaps of coats and people. After the preliminary dazzle, I distinguished David with his back to me, so I made my way over to him and attracted his attention by shouting ‘David’ in his ear: he lurched round, scattering white wine all over the girl whose glass he had been filling, and said, ‘
Sarah
, I’m so glad you came. Wasn’t it nice of you to come? There’s a terrible scrum in here, isn’t there?’
‘Terrible,’ I agreed, ‘but it’s just what I feel like.’
‘Is it really? I’ve had enough. I wish they’d all go home. Except that would mean they hated my party and that would be too depressing, wouldn’t it? So they’ll all have to stay till morning.’
‘They will, you needn’t worry,’ I said, looking round. Everyone looked very much settled down for the night. David himself
It was a wonderful blue cold day, with the last yellow leaves reprieved on the terrace of plane trees by the bus stop: almost one of those aqueous and lunar days when everything is charged with its own clarity. The colours of the houses and the brick were glowing and profound, and the small children playing in the streets looked as though they were on the way to an entrancing future. I had a good day at work, with a few odd compliments from above, and my good mood was still with me when I returned home in the evening to change for David’s party. Deciding what to wear was a pleasure instead of the usual burden: I took down my dresses and skirts with an affectionate proprietary familiarity, and tried on this and that without once thinking that I looked a fright. In the end I put on an enchanting linen dress with pleats and a yoke, rather like a gym tunic, which I had bought two years ago, long before such things became fashionable. It was a wonderful and exhilarating dress to wear because it left me complete freedom of movement: it had no belt to sever my legs from the movement of my shoulder, it didn’t mould or make me any way, it just met me where I went out to meet it, with a casual friendliness. It was a perfect garment to feel happy in. I hung a lump of amethyst on a silver chain which Simone had once given me round my neck, then looked for my lilac eyeshadow: I couldn’t find it, so decided that eyeshadow was anyway vulgar. I spent five minutes putting my hair up, and then took it all down again. I thought I looked fine either way. Then I spent another ten minutes looking for the invitation with the address on it, which had slipped behind the clock on the mantelpiece. Then I decided it was getting very late, so I grabbed my coat and the first book I could see, and ran for the bus. I always take a book with me to parties, I find it is a girl’s best chaperone, but I did wish I’d picked up something more likely than
Paradise Lost
.
To get to NW6 from N5 one has to go into Piccadilly and change. It took time, but I enjoyed myself looking out of the bus at the shop windows, which were all lit up in garish Christmas colours, red and green and tinsel and electric blue. Christmas Offers had begun to replace the cut prices. I loved it all, all the candles and the posters and the cold bonfire air.
When I got to David’s the party was in full swing. I could tell that from the bottom of the stairs. They were rather cold, grey, office-like stairs. In fact they were office stairs: he and Simon live on top of an accountant’s. There was a raucous noise descending—not the even, beelike murmur of cocktail conversation, but a much more extrovert, high-pitched roar, with a background of music and feet shuffling, from which an individual voice rose from time to time in a wail or shriek of gaiety. I took all this in, quietly, before I drew a deep breath, remembered that I was my love’s lovely angel, and pushed open the door. I found myself in their crowded hall, full of smoke and heaps of coats and people. After the preliminary dazzle, I distinguished David with his back to me, so I made my way over to him and attracted his attention by shouting ‘David’ in his ear: he lurched round, scattering white wine all over the girl whose glass he had been filling, and said, ‘
Sarah
, I’m so glad you came. Wasn’t it nice of you to come? There’s a terrible scrum in here, isn’t there?’
‘Terrible,’ I agreed, ‘but it’s just what I feel like.’
‘Is it really? I’ve had enough. I wish they’d all go home. Except that would mean they hated my party and that would be too depressing, wouldn’t it? So they’ll all have to stay till morning.’
‘They will, you needn’t worry,’ I said, looking round. Everyone looked very much settled down for the night. David himself
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