Free Cocaine Blues by Kerry Greenwood Page B

accustomed suavity. She doubted that John Andrews was ordinarily in possession of many manners, as he favoured the ‘I’m a common man, I am’ stance of those born to wealth inherited from several generations of land-snatching squatters.
    Phryne found a couple of chairs and sat Lydia down, collecting a brace of cocktails from an attentive waiter on the way. Her feet ached to dance—it was one of her best accomplishments—and she had marked out the dancer Sasha as a partner. He was presently dancing with his hostess, who moved with the rigidity of a museum specimen, and he was contriving to do impressive things, even with such a companion as Mrs Cryer. However, she had come to cultivate Lydia. Phryne lit a cigarette, sighed, and asked, ‘What brings you to this gathering, Mrs Andrews? Evidently, it does not amuse you.’
    Lydia’s eyes took on an alarmed look. She clutched at Phryne, who fought an urge to free herself as ungently as John Andrews had; too many people had been seizing her for one night.
    ‘No, no, I’m sure it’s perfectly delightful; I’m not very well, but I am enjoying it, I assure you.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Phryne politely. ‘I’m not. Such a crush, is it not? And so many people whom I don’t know.’
    ‘Oh, but everyone is here—it’s the social event of the season,’ parrotted Lydia. ‘Even the Princesse de Grasse. She’s fascinating, isn’t she? But alarming, such bright eyes, and I’m told that she’s very poor. She escaped the Revolution with only the clothes she stood up in. Since they came with the Compagnie des Ballets Masqués everyone has been inviting them, but they wouldn’t accept—the Princesse brought them, so now Mrs Cryer owes her a favour. They’ll dance for us later.’
    Phryne was shocked. This was very bad. One invited artists to social events, but only for the pleasure of their company. To invite singers or dancers to perform for their supper was inexpressively vulgar, and deserved a prompt and stinging rebuke. Phryne wondered whether the Princesse would deliver it, and if so, whether Phryne would have the pleasure of hearing it.
    ‘Yes, it’s very bad,’ agreed Lydia, reading Phryne’s thoughts. ‘One would not do such a thing at home, but things are different out here.’
    ‘Manners are the same all over the world,’ said Phryne, sipping her cocktail, which was agreeably powerful. ‘She should not have done it. However, I shall be enchanted to see them dance again. I saw them in Paris, and they were strangely compelling. They danced Death and the Maiden; did they do that here?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Lydia, a trace of animation creeping across her features. ‘It was very strange, full of meanings which I just couldn’t grasp, and the music was odd—almost off key, but not quite.’
    ‘I know what you mean,’ agreed Phryne, reminding herself that Lydia was not of such profound stupidity as she chose to appear. She offered her a cigarette, and lit another for herself. The dancers had completed their foxtrot, and Sasha was making for Phryne. Lydia pressed close to her.
    ‘I like you,’ she said confidingly in her little-girl voice. ‘And now that Russian boy is coming to take you away. Come to luncheon tomorrow—will you?’
    The little powdered face turned up with a pout to Phryne. She felt a sudden sinking of the stomach. She had met women of this cast of mind before—the clingers, fragile and utterly ruthless, who wore down friend after friend with their emotional demands, always ill and exhausted and badly treated, but still retaining enough energy to scream reproaches at the retreating friend as she fled, guilt-stricken, down the hall. And the next week to replace that friend—always female—with another. Phryne recognized Mrs Andrews as an emotional trap, and had no choice but to throw herself in.
    ‘Delighted,’ she said promptly. ‘What time?’
    ‘One o’clock,’ sighed Lydia, as the Russian boy emerged from the sea of people as sleek