December 1947
The room was gradually filling up with people, the men in black tie, the women in shimmering dresses, hair done up elaborately. Some of them were hardly recognizable, dolled up like that.
He blinked twice when the next couple entered. Could that really be drab Frannie Coltrane over there, in a low-cut wine-coloured satin dress, a matching stole and her brown hair all curled? Her little blond husband looked a little funny in his tuxedo, though, very skinny and shorter than she was in her heels. An odd pair, these two.
Ian Jellicoe and that dick Roy Sanders were immaculate in their fine garb and gleaming black shoes. One had to admit the new head of department wasn't exactly an ugly man, which made him all the more suspicious in a way. Sanders's shapely dark-haired wife wasn't bad either, the Celtic type with blue eyes and pale, translucent skin.
There was Max Lindsey, his straw-coloured hair plastered down on his head with tons of pomade to keep it from sticking up the way it usually did, and hell, Ann Tibbitt was absolutely gorgeous in her ocean-coloured gown. She really ought to go without those stern glasses and dowdy clothes more often.
Next to come in was a single woman.
He was almost a little disappointed when he saw her walk in. He'd have bet his gold watch that she would have the nerve to bring that bloke she was screwing. But no, there she was, alone, in rich green silk, bare of any jewellery except for pearl earrings and a single large pearl at her throat, her hair swept up in a simple but elegant do.
She might be a floozy, but she did have style, and she was not unattractive, if one cared for the type, with a nice figure and that flaming hair and a cute little nose.
Of course, she didn't deign to look at him. She strode right over to chat with Sanders, as if her rightful place was at his side. Pretentious little bitch.
He sipped his champagne and kept circling the room slowly so nobody would notice that there was hardly anyone who'd stop to exchange more with him than just a few polite words, hoping they would soon move on to the festive dinner table that had been set up in the adjoining room.
He was curious about that illustrious guest speaker. Sanders had dropped the bomb just this morning that Bradley Claymore, of Harvard fame, would be their guest of honour tonight.
If he was honest, Claymore's approach wasn't his cup of tea, but he was very well known in the field, and it couldn't hurt to meet such a luminary face to face. And besides, it would be nice to see a fellow American, having been stuck down here for ages, in a foreign land and an academic cul-de-sac where nobody seemed to recognize his qualities.
He scanned the room and saw a new arrival whom he couldn't place.
Was Claymore here already, had he made a quiet, inconspicuous entrance?
The man, tall, well-built and immaculately dressed, was keeping to the back of the room, close to the wall, and seemed to be searching for a spot to sit down for a moment.
Funny behaviour, he thought, shouldn't someone in his position know that there are no seats at a champagne reception?
The stranger seemed to have realized the same and was now leaning against the wall by one of the high windows, watching people mill about the room, occasionally drinking from the fluted glass in his hand.
There was something sneaky about the way he stayed on the sidelines, lurking in the background, he found.
Sanders and his wife, Max Lindsey, and the red-haired trollop crossed the room to greet the man, who left his place by the window to meet them halfway.
Now it became clear why the unfamiliar guest had been on the lookout for a chair.
He remembered what he'd read - Claymore had been a fighter pilot in the war and lucky to survive a horrible crash, which must be why he walked with a pronounced limp that hinted at a bad knee injury or worse.
Other than that, the unfamiliar guest's movements were naturally elegant. Even the swaying limp had a kind of awkward charm to it.
With a mixture of envy and admiration burning in his heart, he watched as the dark-haired stranger shook hands with the men and gracefully kissed the ladies' hands, not without a twinkle of irony in his eyes, conversing in a low dark voice with a somewhat faded U.S. accent.
As the party of four flitted on from the American, he seized the chance and walked over.
"Good evening", he said boldly, "I'm very pleased to meet you."
"Pleased to meet you, too", said the stranger. "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."
"Pearce, Lewis Pearce. Cultural anthropology."
"Oh, yes", the man said, as if he'd suddenly remembered. "Does that mean you work closely with Roy Sanders and Evelyn Spence?"
"Well, not actually, no", Pearce replied. "They are … very good at what they do, but we don't always … agree on certain aspects."
"I see. So what is your …"
Pearce launched into a lengthy monologue before the other man had finished speaking and finally ended, "You see, we differ on many levels. Those younger people are of the more … modern variety. And … well, how to put it … on a private level, I'm afraid Mrs. Spence is involved in some … some relationship I personally think a bit … inappropriate."
The American inclined his head ever so slightly, narrowing his large vivid eyes by a fraction, as if to ask what the dickens Pearce was meaning by "inappropriate".
"Some kind of ... adventurer, a rather uncouth type, I would say. Wonder if the bloke even has a job. Well, it's probably none of my business anyway", he hurried to assure when the stranger's face assumed a look of disapproval. Apparently, he wasn't susceptible to gossip, and Pearce hastily went on, "Enough of me, this is supposed to be your night after all. How is your work coming along?"
"Very well, thank you", the man smiled, the fine creases that radiated from the corners of his eyes deepening. "But let's not talk of work any more tonight. I have to confess I tend to find that rather boring if it gets too much at social events."
Pearce was dumbstruck for a second. When he had regained his wits, he said, "Always good to meet a fellow American, even if I'm only half a Yankee. My father was Scottish, but my mother hailed from Denver, and I was born there. I've always felt a lot more American than anything else. I wished they'd have let me fight for my country in the war, but I was too old when it started. You have seen action, or so I've heard?"
"Too much of it", said his counterpart, tapping his knee to produce a little hollow metallic sound.
Jesus, the poor sod wore a leg brace, or was it as bad as a prosthetic leg? No, Pearce decided, he was walking too well for that.
Pearce was about to start discussing the war in detail when Sanders's voice rose above the hum of conversation.
"Dear colleagues and friends, may I ask for a little moment of silence?" The noise ebbed away quickly, and the guests turned to where Sanders stood.
"Please welcome our special guest, Professor Bradley Claymore. I am very glad and honoured that you are with us tonight, Brad." He nodded to the man next to him, a nondescript short figure with greying brown hair and a close-cropped beard who smiled shyly when people began to applaud the famous researcher.
It was all Pearce could do to keep his jaw from dropping and his mouth from gaping open.
If the little man over there was the famed Bradley Claymore, who on earth had he been talking to all the time?
Claymore said a few warm words of thanks and praise to Sanders, who then took over again and asked everyone to proceed into the neighbouring room to be seated for dinner.
Pearce hesitated for a moment before he got going, and so did the unknown man with the dark wavy hair and the limp.
Sanders approached them with a particularly smug smile as they entered the dining area and said, "Ah, I see you've already met my good friend Michael Carpenter, Lewis! You know, he's not technically an anthropologist, but he has a good deal of intercultural experience and is quite well-travelled, so I wanted to give him the opportunity to listen to Brad Claymore speaking. Hope the two of you had a good chat. Do come along now, please. Lewis, if you'll take the seat next to Ann over there? Mick, you'll be joining my table, right here between Laura and Evelyn Spence. I'm sure you will enjoy Evelyn's company."
"Certainly. I've seen her before, you know." The American grinned inexplicably.
"Oh yes, I know." Sanders winked at his friend.
The moment they walked off, the penny dropped, and Pearce realized with distaste who the well-dressed, smart-looking stranger actually was.
Again and again, the little slut made him marvel at her temerity. And Sanders just looked on.
"Really, the world's going to hell in a handcart", he muttered to himself as he took his place, pretending he had not uttered a word when Ann Tibbitt gave him a questioning look.
As Mick and Roy took their seats to each side of me, their eyes were sparkling in a way that clearly told me our little charade had worked even better than expected.
Pearce was still standing where they had left him, his mouth hanging half open, gawking at us for a moment, apparently trying to digest that my lover wasn't a seedy unwashed yokel or a shaggy bearded caveman with no manners to speak of, before he stumbled over to sit down at his table.
Good to see that he was now wedged between my resolute friend Ann Tibbitt and Frannie Coltrane's tongue-tied husband. Neither was very likely to lend a willing ear when he started to let fly about me.
Judging from the pinched look on his face, he certainly didn't enjoy the evening, and when he left so early that it was almost impolite, nobody missed him.
When we left, way after midnight, I whispered my thanks to Mick.
He only grinned. "There's nothing quite like putting a jerk into his place, and even more so if it's for you."