Carnage on the Committee
By Ruth Dudley EdwardsPoisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2004 Ruth Dudley Edwards
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-59058-133-9Chapter One
Before leaving home to meet the baroness, Amiss switched on the television news. It being August, journalists were starved for stories, so Hermione made the second item. Lady Babcock, it was reported with great gravity, who was better known as the literary luminary and high-profile New Labour peer Hermione Babcock, had died after a short illness. Her photograph flooded the screen, her handsome features dominated by the prominent nose and supercilious upper lip so many members of the House of Lords had come to hate. `Lady Babcock, who was sixty, was, perhaps, the most famous face of English literature of her generation. Here is Susie Briggs, our Arts Correspondent.'
Susie Briggs seemed grief-stricken at the loss of someone whom she deemed the grande dame of English letters and canonised as a warrior for peace and a towering cosmopolitan spirit, who was, inter alia, a fervent enthusiast for European political, economic and cultural unity. An acclaimed authority on the Bloomsbury set, her admirers and friends were legion, invitations to her salon were much sought-after and she was also this year the chairperson of the prestigious Knapper-Warburton Literary Prize, which she herself had won the previous year with Virginia Falling, the beautifully observed, tender yet haunting and ground-breaking novel about Virginia Woolf's last day.
A small forty-something in a tight denim shirt appeared on camera. Amiss groaned.
'Professor Ferriter, what is your reaction to the loss to letters of Hermione Babcock?'
'I'm, like, gutted. Just gutted.' With his familiar feeling of distaste, Amiss observed the flash of the diamond tongue-stud. 'Hermione was like the first truly postmodern Bloomsburyite. Bloomsbury was, like, cool till it became history, but Hermione, she made it relevant again by embracing its provisionality, its fragmentation, its ambiguity, its simultaneity.' As he warmed to his theme, Ferriter's little forehead wrinkled and he waved his fists around like a didactic baby. 'And then, like, she moved on. I mean what she said to me onlytheotherdayabouthowQueerStudieshasscrewedthedeconstructionist prism and reversed the whole Bloomsbury experiment, it was sooooooooo ...'
Susie had moved from sadness to desperation. 'But her work, Professor Ferriter. What about her work as a novelist?'
'Pretty dated term, that, Suz, if you don't mind me saying so. These days we don't ...'
'She won the Warburton for a novel, Professor,' cried Susie, who by now sounded cross. 'Can you tell us about it?'
'Wow! It was like ... wow! That moment when as she dies Virginia has this anti-marginalising vision of a Palestinian woman who is setting off a bomb in Jerusalem to blow up the forces of fascist colonialism while herself seeing Virginia the oppressed feminist throwing herself into the water ... is ... is ... is ...' He seemed overcome.
'Yes, very moving. Thank you, Professor Ferriter.' With evident relief, Susie turned back to face the camera. 'But what will this mean for the controversial Knapper-Warburton Prize, the focus for anger and rumour in the arts world and just reaching a crucial stage in the judges' deliberations? And in such a crucial year too, with the winner being eligible for the million-euro Barbarossa Prize?' Georgie Prothero's face and Prada ensemble loomed into view, the horn-rimmed glasses and the somber expression adding gravity to his very youthful features. 'Who can possibly take over at this short notice, Mr Prothero? Especially when the committee is so split.'
Prothero looked affronted. 'I don't know where you got such a false picture of the committee, Miss Briggs. And I'm afraid that—like all those connected with the Knapper-Warburton Prize will be—I'm still too stunned by this tragic news to think of anything else but our profound sense of loss.'
'It's common knowledge that the judges have been at each other's throats, Mr Prothero,' said Susie impatiently. 'But in any case, you'll have to find another chairperson, won't you? The rumour is it'll be Geraint Griffiths. Or perhaps you might be thinking of Professor Felix Ferriter, who I've just talked to?'
Prothero shook a minatory finger. 'Such speculation is most inappropriate, Miss Briggs. This is no time for rumour. The Warburton—now the Knapper-Warburton—is a great institution, and whatever you say, the committee is dedicated and united and we will get on with the job in hand. In the meantime, let us mourn the heart-wrenching loss of a great lady.'
'And that's all from me,' said Susie Briggs.
'Thank you, Susie,' said the newscaster. 'Now, to sport, where England has scored a surprise victory in the one-day ...'
Amiss pushed his cat off his lap, dodged the indignant swipe of her claw and went to fetch his coat. His phone rang, he looked at the screen, saw Geraint Griffiths' number and, shuddering, headed for the door.
* * *
Interrupted only by a frantic phone call from Prothero about Griffiths' success in getting his name trailed in the media, Amiss spent an agreeable half-an-hour in the Dorchester bar slowly sipping a glass of their cheapest red wine and listening to Cole Porter being played on a piano Liberace would have died for. He held in front of him a magazine he had been reading until he discovered he could see, reflected in the mirrored ceiling, the cleavages of two women sitting behind him. Amiss was no more a voyeur than the next man, but the breasts were large, the necklines plunging and the women—one black, one Chinese—were fantasy fodder. Just before eleven o'clock his reverie was broken into by calls of 'Robert! Robert! Where are you?' and he leaped up and waved.
'There you are! Why were you hiding behind a tree?' The baroness advanced in front of him, cried, 'Look at me' and twirled flirtatiously; a swathe of purple velvet swept a silver bowl off the table. She gestured impatiently at Amiss as he began to pick up the nuts. 'They'll do it. What do you think?'
Amiss abandoned the task to two waiters and sat down while the baroness plumped herself into the chair beside him and ordered from the dinner-jacketed major-domo a large ('Now mind, I mean large, a large double, and water in a separate jug and no ice, have you got that?') whisky. 'What are you having?' she demanded of Amiss.
'Another glass of red?'
'But what is it?'
'Another of the same,' said Amiss firmly. As she leaned forward he snatched his glass away before she could sniff it disparagingly. 'I don't want one of those wine conversations, Jack. You said you didn't have long. Oh, and you're looking very nice.'
She forgot about the wine. 'Nice? Nice? What do you mean nice?'
'I mean splendid. Magnificent. Superb. You look wonderful. Is that enough flattery?'
'Nearly. But the earrings? What about the earrings?'
'They almost brained me, but now they're static, I can see they're very impressive. If hardly subtle.'
She beamed. 'I don't do subtle. Green topaz and diamonds.'
'Sounds expensive. Myles?'
'No. My grannie. She didn't do subtle either. Right, that's enough preening. Get on with it, whatever it is. You'd better make it snappy. Myles will be along within half-an-hour to pick me up.'
'Where were you, anyway? Your office was extremely coy about your whereabouts.'
'I don't employ blabbermouths. I like secrets.'
...
