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just needed something to fight about, a theory that gained more weight once they were in the library and there was some fuss about the fire being low. Ought they to build it themselves or call a servant? The chaps who had been arguing about the quote forgot the poem and started to argue about the best way to build a fire. Ava draped herself on a chaise longue and gazed disinterestedly at the shelves of leather-bound volumes; through the haze of the champagne she’d consumed, the books struck her as self-important and remote. She couldn’t summon the energy to get up and find a collection of Donne to prove that the one with the moustache was right and the other was mistaken, something she was absolutely sure of. Her feet were icy; she wished the men would stop squabbling and simply call a maid to build the fire. One of the girls found a gramophone and some records. They rolled up the rug and four or five of the most game souls started to dance again.
    Soon the music lost its flamboyant buoyancy and slower tunes were selected. Bodies melted into one another. Hands began to stray but weren’t curbed. The other girls were kissing fellows now, hungry, enthusiastic kisses. Ava watched, wondering from where they summoned up the unchecked desire. She’d never been so consumed by a man that she’d consider being indiscreet in public; desire was always on her terms and in private, and whilst she’d probably made love with many more men than any of the other women in the room, no one could be sure. Her reputation was enhanced by eager whispers and keyed-up conjecture, but not sullied by indisputable facts. Freddie sat on the floor by her feet. He caught her watching the couples and misinterpreted her look of incredulity as one of longing; he kissed her foot, opportunistically. She could feel the dampness of his lips even through her silk stocking. That was Freddie’s flaw. Wet kisses, somehow an embodiment of his general demeanour, which was one of soppy overeagerness.
    Dougie passed Freddie a small packet; he took it gratefully. He’d been given opium as a painkiller, to help after he’d been shot in the calf. He’d become rather fond, but the doctors had made a fuss, said he was addicted and refused to give him any more. He’d gone half mad with pain. Then a charming chap from America had introduced them to cocaine, and what a gift. Ava didn’t indulge herself. She’d tried it once, like most things, because she couldn’t bear not knowing. Admittedly the high had been stupendous – she’d felt invincible, alert, supreme, masculine – but it hadn’t lasted long and the downer was more ghastly than anything she’d ever had to endure. She’d vomited violently, which was undignified. Then she’d felt anxious, something she’d never experienced before; she was usually assured in her actions and presence. She’d been convinced a maid was looking at her oddly and had had her dismissed. Terribly embarrassing, once she was through it all; she occasionally wondered where that maid had ended up. So now she simply watched as the boys pushed cold needles into their arms, enjoying their expressions melt as they anticipated the sweet relief that was to follow. She stood up and blew kisses to everyone; she always left the room before they started weeping and wailing, swearing and swiping.
    Ava had been put in the South Wing, the one with the reputation as the most comfortable and close to the hostess’s private rooms. She knew it was a compliment; that or an elaborate exercise in gathering gossip. Either way she didn’t care; she had a room with an
en suite, and that was so important on these weekend jaunts to the countryside. So many of these enormous houses were hideously uncomfortable and old-fashioned. Ava absolutely preferred London, where everyone and everything was modern. When she arrived in her room, she was surprised to find Lord Harrington lying on her bed in his night clothes.
    ‘Charlie, I’d rather expected to