The Bear Pit Read Free Page B

was by Prada, her diamond necklace by Cartier and her looks by her mother, who had been one of Bucharest’s most beautiful women and had never let her three daughters forget it. Juliet’s escort was her hairdresser, lent for the evening by his boyfriend.
    â€œMrs. Vanderberg,” said Juliet, leaning across Ladbroke and giving him a whiff of Joy, “it must be very taxing, being a Premier’s wife. All these functions—”
    â€œNot at all.” Gertrude Vanderberg had never had any political or social ambitions. She was famous in political circles for her pumpkin pavlovas, her pot plants and her potted wisdom. She had once described an opponent of her husband’s as a revolutionary who would send you the bill for the damage he had caused; it gained the man more notoriety than his attempts at disruption. “Hans only calls on me when there’s an election in the wind. The rest of the time I do some fence-mending in the electorate and I let him go his own way. Politicians’ wives in this country are expected to be invisible. Roger here thinks women only fog up the scene.”
    â€œOnly sometimes.” Ladbroke might have been handsome if he had not been so plump; he had spent too many days and nights at table. He had been with Hans Vanderberg over twenty years and wore the hard shell of those who know they are indispensable.
    â€œI think you should spend a season in Europe,” said Juliet.
    â€œIn Bucharest?” Gert Vanderberg knew everyone’s history.
    â€œWhy not? Roumanian men invented the revolving door, but we women have always made sure we never got caught in it.” You knew she never would. She looked across the table at the Opposition leader’s wife: “Mrs. Bigelow, do you enjoy politics?”
    Enid Bigelow was a small, dark-haired doll of a woman who wore a fixed smile, as if afraid if she took it off she would lose it. She looked around for help; her escort was her brother, a bachelor academic useless at answering a question like this. She looked at everyone, the smile still fixed. “Enjoy? What’s to enjoy?”
    Juliet, a woman not given to too much sympathy, suddenly felt sorry she had asked the question. She turned instead to the fourth woman at the table.
    â€œMadame Tzu, do women have influence in politics in China?”
    Madame Tzu, who had the same name as an empress, smiled, but not helplessly. “We used to.”
    â€œYou mean Chairman Mao’s wife, whatever her name was?”
    â€œAn actress.” Madame Tzu shook her head dismissively. “She knew the lines, but tried too hard to act the part—and she was a poor actress. Is that not right, General?”
    Ex-General Wang-Te merely smiled. He and Madame Tzu were the mainland Chinese partners in Olympic Tower, but there had been no room for them at the top table. Foreign relations had never been one of The Dutchman’s interests and it certainly had never been one of Jack Aldwych’s. Aware that everyone was looking at him he at last said, “I haven’t brought my hearing-aid,” and sank back into his dinner suit like a crab into its shell. He knew better than to discuss politics in another country, especially with women.
    â€œRonald Reagan was an actor,” said Juliet.
    â€œHe knew the words,” said Ladbroke. “He just didn’t know the rest of the world.”
    â€œYou’re Labor. You would say that.”
    And you’re Roumanian, cynical romantics . But he knew better than to say that. Instead, he gestured up towards the top table. “Your husband and your father-in-law seem to be doing all right with Labor.”
    The Aldwyches, father and son, were leaning back with laughter at something the Premier had said. He was grinning, evilly, some might have thought, but it was supposed to be with self-satisfaction. Which some might have thought the same thing.
    Then he looked down at the man approaching them