was having another in some unknown mid-European language.
‘How marvellous!’ she said, with only a trace of an accent (pre-war B.B.C.). ‘Wait for me, Di. We must spread her very thin!’
‘We must wait for Hetty.’ Lady Dione took a small cigar out of her lizard handbag.
‘I must say that when you said Annabel had sent you, my heart sank. That girl thinks of nothing but money and is quite ungifted. If you live on your connections – as opposed to your
attractions – under the age of twenty, you are in for the most ghastly middle age.’
Mrs Potts finished her conversation, and having replaced her receiver, took it off again.
‘Oh – all right,’ Lady Dione did the same.
‘Now. You can get three guineas for cooking up to six, and more for more. I take it you just want to do dinners?’
‘What are your qualifications?’ Mrs Potts’s voice, though chameleon to the point of virtuosity, had a certain edge which those non-committal creatures do not, in their neutral
moments, seem to possess.
Elizabeth took a deep breath.
‘I spent a year at Esprit Manger, six months Cordon Bleu, and three months with Mme Germaine. Orange,’ she added.
Lady Dione and Mrs Potts looked at each other in a way that made Elizabeth feel quite important. Then Lady Dione said:
‘How many evenings would you like to work? Don’t do more than you feel like,’ she added earnestly.
Elizabeth thought. ‘About four?’
‘That’s simply marvellous of you.’ She turned eagerly to Mrs Potts. ‘What do you think Hetty? I mean there are just scads of people who –’
‘I think we shall be able to suit you, Miss Seymour,’ Mrs Potts interrupted smoothly. ‘Perhaps we could call you later in the day?’
The moment Elizabeth got to her feet, the Yorkshire terrier leapt, with one neat spring, into the chair, where it gazed up at her with burning, reproachful eyes.
‘We have your telephone number, Miss Seymour?’
Elizabeth nodded. Mrs Potts had met her eye some minutes ago, and continued, Elizabeth found now, implacably to meet it. Elizabeth wondered rather uncomfortably whether Mrs Potts was perhaps a
Lesbian, but then she thought no you couldn’t be Hungarian and a Lesbian, it would be too much of a coincidence getting two minorities in one person . . .
‘Right then – sweet of you to come.’ Lady Dione’s dark glasses were back into position. ‘And do remember,’ she called as Elizabeth reached the door,
‘that if you don’t like anyone we send you to, you needn’t ever go again.’
‘You can report to us,’ confirmed Mrs Potts – with a smile as sugary and firm as Brighton Rock.
When she got home, she found Oliver lying on the sitting-room floor poring over an enormous sheet of paper.
‘I’ve had a brilliant idea – a new board game based on the Battle of Britain. I’m going to call it “Dogfight”: it’ll make a fortune – you’ll
see,’ he remarked. ‘Get me your nail scissors, there’s a duck, and I would love a Welsh rarebit.’
So she wrote to May, whom she knew would be really interested to hear about her new job, and waited to tell Oliver when he felt more like it.
Lady Dione rang up a few days later to say would she mind awfully doing a dinner that very night? No. Right: had she got a pencil? She’d get one. She was to go to some
people called Hawthorne in Bryanston Square. ‘They’re quite young from the sound of her voice,’ Lady Dione had said, ‘just married, and she can only cook one thing she
learned from Cordon Bleu. She wants you there at five thirty; dinner for six, and she’ll have bought all the food. Right? Right. And the best of British luck to you,’ she added, more
amiably than people usually make that remark.
‘Do you want me to fetch you?’ asked Oliver, who was now entering into the spirit of the thing. ‘I can easily borrow Sukie’s car by taking her out first. Haven’t
been out for days.’ The game was now permanently on the sitting-room
‘How marvellous!’ she said, with only a trace of an accent (pre-war B.B.C.). ‘Wait for me, Di. We must spread her very thin!’
‘We must wait for Hetty.’ Lady Dione took a small cigar out of her lizard handbag.
‘I must say that when you said Annabel had sent you, my heart sank. That girl thinks of nothing but money and is quite ungifted. If you live on your connections – as opposed to your
attractions – under the age of twenty, you are in for the most ghastly middle age.’
Mrs Potts finished her conversation, and having replaced her receiver, took it off again.
‘Oh – all right,’ Lady Dione did the same.
‘Now. You can get three guineas for cooking up to six, and more for more. I take it you just want to do dinners?’
‘What are your qualifications?’ Mrs Potts’s voice, though chameleon to the point of virtuosity, had a certain edge which those non-committal creatures do not, in their neutral
moments, seem to possess.
Elizabeth took a deep breath.
‘I spent a year at Esprit Manger, six months Cordon Bleu, and three months with Mme Germaine. Orange,’ she added.
Lady Dione and Mrs Potts looked at each other in a way that made Elizabeth feel quite important. Then Lady Dione said:
‘How many evenings would you like to work? Don’t do more than you feel like,’ she added earnestly.
Elizabeth thought. ‘About four?’
‘That’s simply marvellous of you.’ She turned eagerly to Mrs Potts. ‘What do you think Hetty? I mean there are just scads of people who –’
‘I think we shall be able to suit you, Miss Seymour,’ Mrs Potts interrupted smoothly. ‘Perhaps we could call you later in the day?’
The moment Elizabeth got to her feet, the Yorkshire terrier leapt, with one neat spring, into the chair, where it gazed up at her with burning, reproachful eyes.
‘We have your telephone number, Miss Seymour?’
Elizabeth nodded. Mrs Potts had met her eye some minutes ago, and continued, Elizabeth found now, implacably to meet it. Elizabeth wondered rather uncomfortably whether Mrs Potts was perhaps a
Lesbian, but then she thought no you couldn’t be Hungarian and a Lesbian, it would be too much of a coincidence getting two minorities in one person . . .
‘Right then – sweet of you to come.’ Lady Dione’s dark glasses were back into position. ‘And do remember,’ she called as Elizabeth reached the door,
‘that if you don’t like anyone we send you to, you needn’t ever go again.’
‘You can report to us,’ confirmed Mrs Potts – with a smile as sugary and firm as Brighton Rock.
When she got home, she found Oliver lying on the sitting-room floor poring over an enormous sheet of paper.
‘I’ve had a brilliant idea – a new board game based on the Battle of Britain. I’m going to call it “Dogfight”: it’ll make a fortune – you’ll
see,’ he remarked. ‘Get me your nail scissors, there’s a duck, and I would love a Welsh rarebit.’
So she wrote to May, whom she knew would be really interested to hear about her new job, and waited to tell Oliver when he felt more like it.
Lady Dione rang up a few days later to say would she mind awfully doing a dinner that very night? No. Right: had she got a pencil? She’d get one. She was to go to some
people called Hawthorne in Bryanston Square. ‘They’re quite young from the sound of her voice,’ Lady Dione had said, ‘just married, and she can only cook one thing she
learned from Cordon Bleu. She wants you there at five thirty; dinner for six, and she’ll have bought all the food. Right? Right. And the best of British luck to you,’ she added, more
amiably than people usually make that remark.
‘Do you want me to fetch you?’ asked Oliver, who was now entering into the spirit of the thing. ‘I can easily borrow Sukie’s car by taking her out first. Haven’t
been out for days.’ The game was now permanently on the sitting-room
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