darling?' enquired Lamb's si ster as Lamb entered. Her low-he eled court shoes had been kicked off and she was reading the evening paper. The tone was perhaps artificially bright, as though the conventional enquiry masked, for once, some real concern about the nature of Lamb's day.
'Mmm. Went to the Tate. Awfully crowded. And you?'
'Good day, bad day. You know how it goes. I've got the evening off. Am I going to make you some supper? Promise not a whisper of meat anywhere, or fish, no bouillon or naughty stock cubes, Chef gave me this wonderful recipe. I'm longing to try it.'
'I'm afraid I have to go out,' replied Lamb, 'and don't frown.'
'I'm not frowning,' said her sister mildly. 'I haven't said a word.'
'Well, your look was worried. I can't bear that. You're not supposed to worry about me, I'm supposed to worry about me if anyone does. It's called taking responsibility for myself. I have to go out. Do you find that odd? As a matter of fact I said I'd go to a film with Janey. It's a long one. I might be quite late.' Lamb was aware that she was speaking too rapidly.
'Sounds fun!'
'I don't know that it will be all that fun,' began Lamb in a slightly childish voice. She stopped. 'I may be late, that's all. Janey does go on a bit these days. Her parents' divorce. The whole thing.'
'But that was ages ago. I mean, you told me she'd finally got over it the last time you saw her. You were so relieved. Anyway, darling, I don't think Janey really should burden you of all people with things like that -'
It was the turn of Lamb's sister to stop. Then:
'Darling Lydia,' resumed Lamb's sister, Ione Quentin, in the same equable voice she was wont to use to Princess Amy in order to smooth over an awkward moment. 'Why not go to a cinema indeed? I'll try the recipe another night. I'm whacked as it happens. P.A. not in a good mood because Ferdel failed to show ... Really that man, although I can't help fancying him when he's actually there. He looks a bit like Daddy, don't you think? Pictures of Daddy as a young man; not as you remember him. And of course P.A. fancies him like mad, so she gets all jealous.' Ione Quentin stopped. 'Am I boring you, darling? I'm sure you don't want to hear all this. Tell me what you saw at the Tate.'
'No, no, go on,' Lydia Quentin, known in some circles as Lamb, spoke with evident sincerity. 'I love hearing about your life at cp. I like the little details. Go on about Ferdel. So what did he do? Go on about everything. What about all those awful wedding arrangements? You're so clever, Nonie, I really love hearing it.'
The Quentin sisters settled down for a nice royal gossip until such time as Lydia Quentin had to leave again to keep her appointment at South Kensington station.
About this time, in other parts of the city, various other forms of what might also be termed royal gossip were taking place. For example, it would probably be legitimate to term the remarks made by a man leaning over some emerging photographic prints, as royal gossip; even if the remarks themselves were too scabrous to be printed in any actual gossip column.
As for Jemima Shore, sprawling on the white carpet of her Holland Park Mansions flat, with Midnight flumped down blackly beside her, she might be said at the very least to be studying royal gossip. All about her were notes, charts and newspaper cuttings, preparatory to her exclusive interview with the royal couple in the near future. When the telephone rang, she realized that it must be Rick Vancy making one of those checking calls from his car telephone which somehow seemed to her to do little more than establish Rick Vancy's ability to drive and digress (on topics of the day) at one and the same time.
Jemima stretched out her hand without looking to where her own neat little telephone had been deposited on the carpet. In the course of the stretch, her hand encountered Midnight who moved out of the way with a small indignant cry.
'Hi,' said Jemima. 'How's the traffic?' -
'Mmm. Went to the Tate. Awfully crowded. And you?'
'Good day, bad day. You know how it goes. I've got the evening off. Am I going to make you some supper? Promise not a whisper of meat anywhere, or fish, no bouillon or naughty stock cubes, Chef gave me this wonderful recipe. I'm longing to try it.'
'I'm afraid I have to go out,' replied Lamb, 'and don't frown.'
'I'm not frowning,' said her sister mildly. 'I haven't said a word.'
'Well, your look was worried. I can't bear that. You're not supposed to worry about me, I'm supposed to worry about me if anyone does. It's called taking responsibility for myself. I have to go out. Do you find that odd? As a matter of fact I said I'd go to a film with Janey. It's a long one. I might be quite late.' Lamb was aware that she was speaking too rapidly.
'Sounds fun!'
'I don't know that it will be all that fun,' began Lamb in a slightly childish voice. She stopped. 'I may be late, that's all. Janey does go on a bit these days. Her parents' divorce. The whole thing.'
'But that was ages ago. I mean, you told me she'd finally got over it the last time you saw her. You were so relieved. Anyway, darling, I don't think Janey really should burden you of all people with things like that -'
It was the turn of Lamb's sister to stop. Then:
'Darling Lydia,' resumed Lamb's sister, Ione Quentin, in the same equable voice she was wont to use to Princess Amy in order to smooth over an awkward moment. 'Why not go to a cinema indeed? I'll try the recipe another night. I'm whacked as it happens. P.A. not in a good mood because Ferdel failed to show ... Really that man, although I can't help fancying him when he's actually there. He looks a bit like Daddy, don't you think? Pictures of Daddy as a young man; not as you remember him. And of course P.A. fancies him like mad, so she gets all jealous.' Ione Quentin stopped. 'Am I boring you, darling? I'm sure you don't want to hear all this. Tell me what you saw at the Tate.'
'No, no, go on,' Lydia Quentin, known in some circles as Lamb, spoke with evident sincerity. 'I love hearing about your life at cp. I like the little details. Go on about Ferdel. So what did he do? Go on about everything. What about all those awful wedding arrangements? You're so clever, Nonie, I really love hearing it.'
The Quentin sisters settled down for a nice royal gossip until such time as Lydia Quentin had to leave again to keep her appointment at South Kensington station.
About this time, in other parts of the city, various other forms of what might also be termed royal gossip were taking place. For example, it would probably be legitimate to term the remarks made by a man leaning over some emerging photographic prints, as royal gossip; even if the remarks themselves were too scabrous to be printed in any actual gossip column.
As for Jemima Shore, sprawling on the white carpet of her Holland Park Mansions flat, with Midnight flumped down blackly beside her, she might be said at the very least to be studying royal gossip. All about her were notes, charts and newspaper cuttings, preparatory to her exclusive interview with the royal couple in the near future. When the telephone rang, she realized that it must be Rick Vancy making one of those checking calls from his car telephone which somehow seemed to her to do little more than establish Rick Vancy's ability to drive and digress (on topics of the day) at one and the same time.
Jemima stretched out her hand without looking to where her own neat little telephone had been deposited on the carpet. In the course of the stretch, her hand encountered Midnight who moved out of the way with a small indignant cry.
'Hi,' said Jemima. 'How's the traffic?' -
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