Kronk

CHAPTER TWENTY

Camilla was now in phase two of the P 939 cycle — though, curiously, the promiscuous phase did not appear to have waned much — and was now eating a great deal. She was also putting on weight, but at the present rate of increase it would be quite a long time before she need have any worries.

On the day when Gabriel struck a blow for tranquillity with Messalina, Camilla decided to kick off with Señor Manuel Labore, chargé d’affaires to the Republic of Tierra del Fuego. It occurred to her that infiltration of the Diplomatic Corps could have far-reaching consequences. Besides, as a neighbour he was a very convenient target. So, having fortified herself with an avocado pear, three lamb cutlets and two cream cakes, she put on a flimsy house tunic, a slight misting of Je Reviens and, armed with one InSex tablet in case of emergency, went next door — ostensibly to borrow some coffee.

The InSex proved unnecessary. Señor Manuel Labore was a man of some talent where ladies were concerned. From the preliminary gin and tonic to an energetic if brief exercise on black silk sheets and pillows took less than forty-five minutes. At this rate, thought Camilla, when pulse and respiration had returned to normal, allowing for rest and travelling time, she could probably cope with six similar engagements a day.

Manuel was a darkly handsome young man, who puzzled Camilla by doing his Spanish language thing rather badly. When she asked him about it, he disarmingly confessed all. As it turned out, he was British by birth and had only recently become a Tierra del Fuegan, chiefly because as a chargé d’affaires he enjoyed a generous expense allowance, and largely as a result of his frequent connections with the daughter of the Argentine Ambassador to the Court of St. James.

Camilla liked him. She even liked his real name, which was Christopher Crumpet.

As she departed, taking the packet of coffee she did not really need, she said: “Thank you for the coffee, Christopher — and, of course, the hospitality. Perhaps there will be an opportunity to continue our conversation some time.”

He pulled a face. “Pliz, señorita,” he said atrociously. “I am theenking Manuel. I am theenking Spanish weech I may hef to spik if I ever go to Tierra del Fuego — Madre de Dios and heaven forbid!” A thought seemed suddenly to strike him, and he dropped the Spanish thing. “I say, Camilla, is your husband — disgusting word — waiting for you?”

“No. I rather hope he is busy elsewhere.”

“Good. You wouldn’t like to go to a diplomatic reception, would you? Horribly boring, really. But free drinks, free food and sometimes interesting people. It’s at the Russian Embassy. They are celebrating something or other about an old folk singer called Ivan the Camilla smiled. “Do you know, I really would like to go to a diplomatic reception. I haven’t Terrible.”

ever been to one — and, as you say, Christopher, there might be some interesting people.”

He sighed. “Pliz, mi amanti, I am theenking Manuel Labore. Pliz to put on zee dress pronto, and I weel attend you. Gracias.”

“Give me twenty minutes,” said Camilla.

Gabriel returned home late in the evening, rather pleased with himself. Camilla was out, presumably working. He felt somewhat tired and thought that he would make a pot of tea and wait for her in bed. Then, perhaps, when she returned they would compare notes in a cosy aura of domesticity. Such, he thought, were the underestimated and quiet joys of marriage.

Gabriel had some reason to be pleased with himself. After his encounter with Messalina, he had gone to an intimate club called The Flipped Lid, much frequented by artists, pseudoartists, models and pseudo-models. At The Flipped Lid, he had refreshed himself with cold lager and whisky. He had also made successive and satisfactory arrangements — later fulfilled in a private room — with what in his mature judgement seemed to be the two most promiscuous-looking females present. He had even thought of tackling a third, but then decided to save a little something in case Camilla needed consolation.

She returned to the apartment before the tea was too cold to drink. Lying in bed, looking at her as she undressed, Gabriel was aware of a great surge of affection. Not sex, not romantic nonsense, but affection. Friendship also. Perhaps this really was what marriage was about.

Camilla looked tired. She kissed him. “Tea! What a superbly delicious thought. I shall drink the pot dry and then you will have to make some more… Had a good day, darling?”

“Not bad,” he said modestly. “One guaranteed twenty-four carat nymphomaniac, two gifted amateurs. How about you?”

“Not bad,” said Camilla also modestly. Suddenly, she giggled. “The chargé d’affaires of Tierra del Fuego.”

“Our neighbour?”

“The very one.”

Gabriel grinned. “My nymphomaniac alone outranks your chargé d’affaires.”

“Plus,” said Camilla, “the Swedish military attaché, plus the Spanish cultural consellor, plus the Egyptian ambassador, plus a Russian second secretary. Now who outranks whom?”

Gabriel was amazed, mortified and filled with pride. “Terrific!” he said. “Camilla, I love you. come to bed.”

She yawned and tottered a little. “I love you too, darling — but damned if I can do anything about it just now. The spirit is willing but the Egyptian ambassador was hell.”

“Come to bed,” went on Gabriel, “and you shall drink oceans of tea and I shall hold you very tenderly.”

“I’d like that,” murmured Camilla. “I’d really like that.”

As they lay there, with Camilla sipping tea and Gabriel’s arm protectively round her shoulder, recounting to each other the day’s events, Gabriel became convinced that this really was what marriage was all about.