"Of course I told them they wouldn't have to wait long."
There was something artless in Toby's delivery; he was working in the family tradition of teasing, but he was too relenting
and couldn't yet match Gerald's heavy archness. When he had stood up he was strikingly pale, like someone about to faint,
but when he relaxed a little the colour suddenly burned in his cheeks, and his grin was a nervous acknowledgement of his blush.
He said, "I'm not going to say much —" vague groans of disappointment—"but above all I want to thank my dear sweet generous
Uncle Lionel for having us all here tonight. I can't imagine anything more wonderful than this party—and I have a horrible
feeling that after this the rest of my life is going to be one long anticlimax." This brought cheers and applause for Lord
Kessler, who was surely used to being thanked, but not to such public declarations of love. Again the family note was strong
and sentimental, and a little surprising. Nick was smiling at Toby in an anxious trance of lust and encouragement. It was
like watching a beautiful actor in a play, following him and wanting him.
"I'm also really touched," Toby said, "that my old friends Josh and Caroline have come all the way from South Africa. Oh,
and I understand they're also squeezing in a wedding ceremony while they're here." There was good-natured applause, though
no one really knew who Josh and Caroline were. Nick found himself listening almost abstractly to Toby's voice, hearing its
harmless pretensions, which were the opposite of Gerald's. Gerald was a knowing, self-confident speaker, trained at the Oxford
Union, polished at innumerable board meetings, and his tone combined candour and insincerity to oddly charming effect. Toby,
like many of his friends, spoke in the latest public-school accent, an inefficient blur of class denial. Now he was a bit
drunk, and under pressure, and older vowels were showing through as he said that it was "awfully good of" his parents to have
tolerated him. He too seemed not to know what the point of his speech was; he came over like a cross between a bridegroom
and the winner of an award, with a list of people to thank. His boyish technique was to deflect attention from himself onto
his friends, and in this he was also the opposite of his father. He made various jokes such as "Sam will need two pairs of
trousers" and "No more creme de menthe for Mary," which clearly alluded to old disgraces, and began to bore the MPs. Nick
sensed a touching nostalgia for the Oxford years, on which a door, an oak perhaps, seemed gently but firmly to have closed.
He himself was not referred to; but he took this as a sign of intimacy. His gaze embraced Toby, and from behind his helpless
grin and raised applauding hands he saw his dream-self run forwards to hold him and kiss his hot face.
Up in his room Nick slipped out of his jacket, and sniffed at it resignedly: time for a further dowsing in "Je Promets." He
went into his bathroom, and opened the little turret dormer; he splashed cold water on his cheeks. It was the toasts that
had done for him—there was always one glass that tipped him over, unfairly and jokingly, into being drunk. And there were
hours of the party still to come. It was a great ritual of fun, a tradition, a convention, which everyone was loving for its
lavishness and truth to form. Now there was going to be a move to the dance floor, and all the couples would be allowed to
make love to each other with their hips and thighs and sliding hands. Nick gazed in the mirror and saw someone teeteringly
alone. The love he had felt for Toby ten minutes before migrated into a sudden hungry imagining of Leo, his transfiguring
kisses, his shaving rash, and the wonderful shaved depth between the cheeks of his arse. The exactness of memory, the burning
fact of what had happened, blinded him and held him for a while. When he came back, perhaps only seconds later,
There was something artless in Toby's delivery; he was working in the family tradition of teasing, but he was too relenting
and couldn't yet match Gerald's heavy archness. When he had stood up he was strikingly pale, like someone about to faint,
but when he relaxed a little the colour suddenly burned in his cheeks, and his grin was a nervous acknowledgement of his blush.
He said, "I'm not going to say much —" vague groans of disappointment—"but above all I want to thank my dear sweet generous
Uncle Lionel for having us all here tonight. I can't imagine anything more wonderful than this party—and I have a horrible
feeling that after this the rest of my life is going to be one long anticlimax." This brought cheers and applause for Lord
Kessler, who was surely used to being thanked, but not to such public declarations of love. Again the family note was strong
and sentimental, and a little surprising. Nick was smiling at Toby in an anxious trance of lust and encouragement. It was
like watching a beautiful actor in a play, following him and wanting him.
"I'm also really touched," Toby said, "that my old friends Josh and Caroline have come all the way from South Africa. Oh,
and I understand they're also squeezing in a wedding ceremony while they're here." There was good-natured applause, though
no one really knew who Josh and Caroline were. Nick found himself listening almost abstractly to Toby's voice, hearing its
harmless pretensions, which were the opposite of Gerald's. Gerald was a knowing, self-confident speaker, trained at the Oxford
Union, polished at innumerable board meetings, and his tone combined candour and insincerity to oddly charming effect. Toby,
like many of his friends, spoke in the latest public-school accent, an inefficient blur of class denial. Now he was a bit
drunk, and under pressure, and older vowels were showing through as he said that it was "awfully good of" his parents to have
tolerated him. He too seemed not to know what the point of his speech was; he came over like a cross between a bridegroom
and the winner of an award, with a list of people to thank. His boyish technique was to deflect attention from himself onto
his friends, and in this he was also the opposite of his father. He made various jokes such as "Sam will need two pairs of
trousers" and "No more creme de menthe for Mary," which clearly alluded to old disgraces, and began to bore the MPs. Nick
sensed a touching nostalgia for the Oxford years, on which a door, an oak perhaps, seemed gently but firmly to have closed.
He himself was not referred to; but he took this as a sign of intimacy. His gaze embraced Toby, and from behind his helpless
grin and raised applauding hands he saw his dream-self run forwards to hold him and kiss his hot face.
Up in his room Nick slipped out of his jacket, and sniffed at it resignedly: time for a further dowsing in "Je Promets." He
went into his bathroom, and opened the little turret dormer; he splashed cold water on his cheeks. It was the toasts that
had done for him—there was always one glass that tipped him over, unfairly and jokingly, into being drunk. And there were
hours of the party still to come. It was a great ritual of fun, a tradition, a convention, which everyone was loving for its
lavishness and truth to form. Now there was going to be a move to the dance floor, and all the couples would be allowed to
make love to each other with their hips and thighs and sliding hands. Nick gazed in the mirror and saw someone teeteringly
alone. The love he had felt for Toby ten minutes before migrated into a sudden hungry imagining of Leo, his transfiguring
kisses, his shaving rash, and the wonderful shaved depth between the cheeks of his arse. The exactness of memory, the burning
fact of what had happened, blinded him and held him for a while. When he came back, perhaps only seconds later,
Similar Books
