Provender Gleed (3 page)

'Cyn, honest, it wasn't how it looked,' said Prosper, when they were out of the girl's earshot.

'Prosper, you know as well as I do that it was exactly how it looked. And while I couldn't give two hoots about your infidelities, attempted or otherwise - I'm way past caring about those - don't you think you could give it a rest, just for one evening? It is our party, after all. People are watching us.'

'They wouldn't necessarily know it was me,' Prosper said, touching his mask. The
larva
was made of fine waxed cloth, with large eyeholes. Undoubtedly it disguised Prosper but it also left enough of his physiognomy visible that you could still tell he was good-looking, in an ageing, roguish, roué way. There were those grey eyes, in their charming beds of wrinkles. There was that bifurcated chin with its small underflap of skin that spoke of a man well-preserved for his age but displaying just an enticing hint of dissipation.

'Of course they'd know it's you,' Cynthia said. 'They'd know it's you by the puddle of drool around your feet. And anyway, why were you bothering with her?'

'What do you mean?'

'She's English. You've done England already. You've done all the major countries. It's only the smaller nations left on your checklist now. Djibouti, Tajikistan, Sao Tome and Principe, Vanuatu...'

Prosper had made it goal in life to commit adultery with at least one representative of every known country. He had never actually admitted as much to Cynthia but she had heard about it from reliable second-hand sources and indeed read about it in the Family column of one of the more scurrilous tabloid dailies. Prosper Gleed would, it seemed, not rest until he had philandered his way across the entire globe. Rather in the manner of the great empire builders of old, he hoped to see the map of the world coloured red with his conquests.

'Well, yes, but... You can't blame a chap for trying. Besides, I think she may have had some Welsh ancestry.'

'But you've done Wales too.'

'Wales. Ah yes, Wales.' Prosper's eyes took on a wistful, faraway look. 'There was certainly a welcome in
her
valleys.'

Cynthia ignored the remark. 'So you're adding hybrids to the list now, is that it?'

'Actually, that's not a bad idea.'

'Prosper...'

'No, dear. No, I'm not. Just kidding.'

'Ha ha.'

'So, what did you have to talk to me about?' Prosper snatched a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing Columbine, giving the girl the once-over as he did so. Sheer force of habit. 'Something important? Or was it just a pretext to sabotage my chances with the delectable what's-her-name - Sophie?'

'Both. But mainly I was wondering if you'd seen Provender yet.'

'Here? Can't say I have. Why, should he be here?'

'Of course he should. Apart from anything else, it's only polite. His absence will be noticed.'

'Well, I'm sure he'll make it.'

'I'm not.'

'And I suppose the reason you want him here is you have some fine, marriageable little filly lined up for him to meet.'

'Naturally. Two of them, in fact. You may recall my mentioning them at breakfast just this morning.'

'Yes, absolutely,' said Prosper, evidently having no memory of the conversation in any way, shape or form. About which Cynthia was not surprised. Half the time, things she said to her husband simply did not register. He might nod and go 'Hmph', as though he were listening, but she knew the information was pouring down some bottomless hole in his brain as fast as it arrived there.

'You may also recall my saying that I have a good feeling about these two,' Cynthia went on. 'Neither's Family, but they're both well-born, interesting, intelligent, attractive...'

'Attractive?' Prosper perked up. 'Don't suppose I ought to meet them, eh? You know, check them out beforehand. Vet them. Just to be on the safe side.'

'Dearest husband, I am not letting you anywhere near those girls.'

'Not even just a look?'

'Not even that.'

'Spoilsport.'

'Prosper.' Cynthia was becoming annoyed now. 'This may all seem terribly funny and trivial to you, but it's no laughing matter. We're talking about your son. We're talking about the last and only male on the primogeniture line. The only branch left on the trunk of the Family tree. The future of the Gleeds. Provender must marry. He must produce an heir. If he doesn't - if, God forbid, he dies without leaving a son - then we're sunk. We fade into obscurity. We lose continuity and status and all that makes us a Family. You know this as well as I do, and yet you still can't seem to take it seriously. And here I am, doing my best to get our son paired off, going to all this effort on the Gleeds' behalf, and I'm not even a born Gleed, I just married into your damn --'

She broke off, interrupted by a salutation from a guest, some jowly non-Family plutocrat whose name temporarily escaped her but whose obeisant overtures could not go unacknowledged. By the time she and her husband had finished assuring the plutocrat that yes, he was 'in' with the Gleeds - and she had consented to the man's request of the honour of a dance later - Cynthia had lost the head of steam she had built up. She was still angry with Prosper, still incensed that she alone was bearing the burden of finding a mate for their son, but the moment had passed. Continuing to remonstrate with her husband was not going to get her anywhere. Tonight was not the time for it; the party was not the place.

'Look,' she said, 'I realise how you like to appear frivolous, Prosper. I realise how important it is to you to be the playboy, the rake, the frequenter of casinos and racetracks. It's all very lovely and beguiling, believe me. It's why I fell for you, and even as I married you I hoped I might be able to change you while knowing I never would. The point is, deep down I know you care about this Family as much as I do and I know you're keen to see Provender settled down and I know you wouldn't exactly hate the idea of a grandson - never mind the continuity a grandson represents - simply because you'd love to play grandfather to one. So just ... help me, that's all. Support me. That's all I ask.'

Prosper looked chastened, though not for long. Contrition wasn't really in his repertoire. 'Whatever you say, Cyn,' he said. 'Point taken. You're the boss. No argument here. Et cetera, blah blah blah.'

Cynthia, for the third time in the space of quarter of an hour, heaved a sigh. She wheeled away from her husband and took herself to the waterside end of the piazza, where she rested her elbows on the balustrade and peered out over the Grand Canal. The sky was twilight purple and the canal was dark, though its surface glittered intermittently with reflected light. The water itself came from the mains but had been dyed to an authentically green Venetian murk. A gondolier paddled past, yodelling an operatic aria. He was one of several dozen tenors from the Gleed Academy of Music, Drama and Dance who had undergone a fortnight's intensive coaching, courtesy of genuine Venetian gondoliers, in the art of propelling and steering that particular mode of transport. The genuine gondoliers had grumbled that no amateur should be piloting a gondola, even around a fake Venice. None of them, however, could sing opera, and that was the main criterion for the job at the ball. Besides, they had been well paid for sharing their expertise with the tenors, so the grumbling had been perfunctory, more for form's sake than anything. It allowed them to go home with their consciences clear, the Gleed money that stuffed their wallets rinsed satisfactorily of the taint of professional compromise.

Cynthia thought of this and all the other snags she had had to deal with on the way to making the ball a reality. It was the same every year - a horde of obstacles to overcome, pitfalls to anticipate, wounded egos to soothe - and no sooner was one ball over than she had to begin making plans for the next. She gave this Family her all. She did everything for them. She dedicated herself, sacrificed herself, for the greater good of the Gleeds, and asked little in return. And yet for all her efforts she was still unable to furnish them with the one thing they needed most. And this was becoming more and more anguishing to her.

Oh Provender
.

Cynthia glanced up at the sky. When it was fully dark... No, when Uncle Fortune came. Then Provender would be joining the party, whether he liked it or not.

3

'I'm scared,' said the Columbine, in a quiet voice. 'Really scared.'

'Don't be,' said the Harlequin. 'Everything'll be fine. This is going to work.'

'But what if something goes wrong?'

'It won't.'

'And what if he doesn't even notice me? What if he just ignores me?'

'He'll notice you, not a doubt about it. Especially with that little lot on show.' The Harlequin gestured at the Columbine's breasts, which were naturally large and whose largeness the balconette bustier of her dress was doing very little to disguise. Her breasts, indeed, appeared to be in competition as to which of them was going to squeeze itself free of the bustier first.

The Columbine placed an arm across her cleavage, unhappy at the Harlequin's leering scrutiny.

'What's the problem?' the Harlequin said. 'You shouldn't be ashamed. Tits like those. Should be proud. And anyway, it's not as if I haven't seen them before.'

'It's different.'

'If I remember rightly, you even wanked me off with them once.'

'It's different,' the Columbine insisted. 'Things are different now.' Colour had come to her cheeks and she could not meet the Harlequin's gaze. 'I'm not your girlfriend any more.'

'That could change.'

'No, it couldn't.'

The Harlequin let it lie, although his eyes said he didn't believe her. She was protesting too much. She still fancied him. Of course she did. Bloke like him? Strong? Worked out at the gym a lot? Smart? Committed? With a cause? Irresistible.

'Listen,' he said, his voice softening, becoming almost gentle, 'you're going to do fine. I mean it. The plan's sound. You - you're intelligent, beautiful. You'll play your part just right. I have every confidence in you.'

The Columbine looked up at him again. In spite of her better judgement, against her every instinct she had, she was consoled by his words. She wanted to believe in him. He had hurt her in the past. He could be cruel. But she was convinced that at heart he was good. She was sure she could trust him. And if he had confidence in her, there was no reason why she shouldn't have the same confidence too.

'All right,' she said, and she took a deep breath which helped stiffen her resolve and which was also, from the Harlequin's point of view, a good thing because it resulted in a temporary increase in the ratio of exposed breast flesh to unexposed. 'All right,' she said again, exhaling. 'I'm fine. Everything's going to be fine.'

She picked up a salver of drinks, the Harlequin did likewise, and together they exited the catering marquee, returning to Venice and the party.

4

Uncle Fortune - Fort for short - had elected to arrive at the ball this year by parachute.

For him, in all sorts of ways, this was no mean feat. For one thing, Fortune was not of a naturally athletic build or disposition. He had the kind of figure that was most politely described as cuddly, the kind that, far from being aerodynamic, best lent itself to plummeting like a stone. For another thing, he was notoriously bibulous. He seldom did anything without alcohol in his veins (and that included eat breakfast).

The parachute instructor he hired to teach him, however, was aware of his reputation and impressed on him the unwisdom of skydiving while under the influence of alcohol. One might, the instructor said, if one jumped drunk, make a careless mistake. An irrevocable mistake. Such as, for example, forget to pull one's ripcord.

So it was a strange and novel experience for Fortune to embark on a potentially life-threatening enterprise without his customary cushion of inebriation. But he knuckled down and got on with it. First in tandem with the instructor, the two of them joined by a harness like Siamese twins, and then solo with the instructor alongside him, Fortune performed a series of jumps from his private dirigible at ever increasing altitudes. By the end of the course of lessons, he had become a proficient parachutist, able to hit a ten-foot roundel painted on the croquet lawn at the back of his manor house every time without fail. Apart from slightly spraining his ankle during one landing, he had not suffered any sort of injury and was proud of that.

Now, on the night of the ball, shortly before nine p.m., his dirigible nosed across Dashlands at a height of two thousand feet with its running lights doused so that it was all but invisible - if spotted, it would in all likelihood be taken for a cloud. Below, the party site glowed bright, unmissable. Fortune strapped on his parachute pack, went through his final equipment checks, slid open the cabin door, bid farewell to his pilot, reflexively groped for his hip-flask, remembered he hadn't brought it, and threw himself out into the night.

Everything went according to plan - almost. After a ten-second freefall Fortune yanked the ripcord, the parachute billowed open above him with the customary explosive
snap
, his harness constricted around him, not unpainfully, and for a while he swung dizzyingly to and fro. When things settled down, he grabbed the guide-rope handles and began steering. Venice loomed beneath his feet and the partygoers swelled from milling dots to identifiably human shapes. The Piazza San Marco was his goal, although landing in the Grand Canal remained a possibility - he hated the idea of a soaking but the stunt would be funnier and more memorable if he came down with a splash.

Soon Fortune was low enough that he could even make out, or so he thought, his brother. He was about to yell out Prosper's name, and thus alert everyone to his imminent arrival, when a sudden crosswind caught him. In order to counter it he dipped one side of his parachute, but he could still feel himself being driven relentlessly and inexorably off-course, away from the piazza, towards the rooftops. The Campanile rushed up at him.
Please, O Lord, don't let me die
, was Fortune's brief, fervent prayer.
Not like this. Not sober
. Then he screwed his eyes tight shut and braced himself for impact and possible impalement.