Free Vanished Years by Rupert Everett Page A

croaks. ‘He knows
everything
!’
    ‘Isn’t it ghastly?’ I reply, suave, debonair, feeling very cosy by now on the Percocet. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if his next series is called
History of the Universe
, part one.’
    The embassy is a brilliant reflection of our British sense of ownership. It is a Queen Anne mansion on one side and a Southern plantation house on the other. You walk through the British Empire into its American backyard. Now I am standing under the columns of this Southern porch, watching the pageant unfold inside the house. It is about half past nine and the light is going. The gardens are fairy lit behind me. Huge lanterns shine dimly under the colonnade. Crammed behind the windows, the party explodes with colour and noise, the men in black and white crushed against the rainbow of colour worn by the fascinating females of Washington. Smokers observe from the shadows outside, the orange dots of their cigarettes hovering around them like personal fairies as they talk.
    Inside, above the crowd, a towering beauty with a long neck and short honey-coloured curls makes her way across the room towards the garden. A path is cleared for her as people recoil and whisper as she moves by. She throbs with an invisible energy, an alien in an empire-line dress. She stops only once – to talk to an ancient man in a chair. He is Alan Greenspan, the keeper of the American purse, and he rises like a failing erection, gloating as she stoops to hug him, his glasses squashed comically against her collarbone. She holds him to her, and then thrusts him away, grasping his shoulders in her manicured hands as if he is a favourite shih tzu scooped up from itsbasket. Alan’s glasses are lopsided as he glares at her beatifically, sustained by the energy of her interest and little else. As soon as the towering beauty moves on, he collapses back into his seat, drained but radiant, and the lady comes out onto the terrace trailed by a small man in spectacles holding a jewel-encrusted handbag.
    ‘Give me my bag,’ she orders.
    ‘Her husband,’ whispers a horsy voice beside me, as if reading my thoughts.
    I turn around. A jolly woman in a sensible black dress has materialised from the gloom.
    ‘You look like you need a top-up. Hi. I’m Amanda Downes. I simply wurship you.’ She takes my glass and snaps her fingers at a passing waiter. ‘I’m the housekeeper here. Barry darling, look sharp and get Mr Everett another drink.’
    ‘Who is the lady with the tiny man?’ I ask.
    ‘You don’t know Beth Dozoretz?’ she asks incredulously, eyes bulging. ‘Fancy that! Is this your first time in town?’
    ‘Yes.’
    She leans in close for a theatrical aside. ‘She’s a rahlie close frund of the President’s. Shall I introduce you?’ Without waiting for a reply she strides over to the alien Empress, her hand outstretched.
    ‘Why, Amanda,’ purrs the beauty. ‘What a wonderful night.’
    ‘Thank you, Beth. Ronald, have you met Rupert Everett?’ She gestures towards me to join the group. ‘He’s a part of the delegation.’
    Amanda reminds me of my mother. Sensible court shoes, a wide stride and a handsome face. Her dark hair is swept back by a gilded Alice band. She has twinkly eyes and humorous lips made for giving orders rather than head. I immediately love her. More importantly, she will be a marvellous character in
Mr Ambassador
.
    We settle on wicker chairs and look out over the garden and Beth quizzes Amanda about the latest drama to unfold at the embassy. The ambassador’s wife has apparently lost her children.
    ‘How many?’ I ask.
    ‘Two-can-you-beat-it,’ replies Amanda.
    I try – and fail – to adapt an Oscar Wilde quote. ‘Really! To lose one child is unfortunate, et cetera …’
    ‘It’s a terrible story,’ drawls Beth, unamused. ‘They were kidnapped by her ex-husband. Isn’t that right, Amanda?’
    ‘No, Beth. They weren’t kidnapped,’ Amanda says firmly. ‘Right after she