I woke in an upstairs room, face down on bare floorboards, my body wedged into a coffin-shaped space between a divan bed (unoccupied) and a chest of drawers — which wasn’t half as uncomfortable as you might imagine. I stood up, checked for phone and wallet, and looked out of the window. Although the sun wasn’t visible in the sky, it was possible to tell by the latter’s lighter shade of grey that the day was well advanced. I went downstairs to look for my coat and to see if there was anyone else in the house.
It wasn’t a big place. Downstairs consisted of kitchen and living room, both about eight feet square. The two rooms were connected by a doorless doorway. I found my coat without having to look very hard. Looking through into the kitchen I could see two people still sitting at the kitchen table with a miniature forest of empty bottles and cans between them. The man with his back to me was wearing a blond wig and slumped in his chair at an angle of about 45 degrees. The one facing me was our hostess — I’d no idea what her name was — a short-haired woman in her early forties.
We’d danced last night, she and I. But she’d become quickly bored with that, pushed me to the floor, and ridden me like a horse instead. I don’t think we were ever formally introduced or spoke to one another all the evening. It wasn’t the kind of party where one did much speaking. If he were still alive, and had been invited, and had come, Sir Isaiah Berlin, for example, would not have found the eager audience that he might have expected. There was more shouting than speaking. And everybody sang along, I remembered, to Diana Ross and the Supremes asking very pertinently where did their love go. Otherwise I kept a fierce eye on that volume knob to make sure it was always turned up to full, and I danced and drank, first from tins of gassy lager, then Jack Daniels straight from the bottle. Joints were going around, too: miserably thin ones, which conspicuously remained the property of a select few, who kept a jealous eye on their progress as they were passed from hand to hand, which is pot, and the mean and furtive spirit of most potheads, for you.
The main point of the evening’s interest, however, if I had to name one, was our hostess’s lissom daughter, who was the very cynosure. Not only was she the younger of the only two women present, but she was also very obviously available to the highest and most persistent bidder, though tantalisingly slow in coming to a final decision. In between seeing who was the best kisser, she danced sinuously and alone with her eyes closed while
everyone gathered around and watched with the rapt and close absorption of connoisseurs.
I think that almost everyone must have had their card marked by her in the pub beforehand, and though some may have been initially disappointed to find themselves now in a world of equal opportunities, the adjustment, even for a part share, or a turn, was easily made. At one point she snapped awake and did some comedy business of checking to make sure that her mother wasn’t watching from the kitchen by arching backwards like a gymnast to get a clear sight of her through the doorway.
And then the police arrived. I looked up, and there, as if by magic, were these two big impassive coppers — high visibility fluorescent jackets, stab-proof vests, radios crackling, the lot — taking up an awful lot of space on the living-room carpet. Though a dominating presence, their hats were respectfully removed and tucked under their elbows. One of them smiled at me. Genuinely glad to see more friendly faces, I beamed back and proffered the last inch of my bottle of JD. He shook his head at me ever so slightly. Why these coppers had come, and who let them in, nobody had the faintest idea. Perhaps they’d also had their cards marked at some point in the evening, the minx. The last thing I saw, before I headed upstairs to find somewhere to lay down, was Trev, always a devilish pacesetter in the game of flirting, opening his trousers and exposing himself to her in the politest and most chivalrous way imaginable.
Our hostess looked up and greeted me with a cheery wave. Last night her hair was neat and she wore jeans and a blouse. This morning the hair was wildly disordered and she was wearing, of all things, a basque — and what’s more a very loosely anchored one. I didn’t speculate, either on that or the other fellow’s wig. I just waved back, put my coat on, and headed for the front door.
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