“You’ve just had fresh air.”
“It isn’t rationed, Ma.”
“Should be,” Nellie said.
Ramsay walked round to the alley at the back of the Amethyst. The club had a secret exit here, “the escape hatch,” Nellie called it, where those members of the Establishment who were particularly favoured by Nellie could make a hasty exit in the case of a police raid.
To reach the escape hatch you had to follow a tortuous route that took you into the courtyard at the back of the club where the outside toilets were and then through an unlocked door into the backyard of an adjoining shop, an ironmongery （the ironmonger was remunerated on a weekly basis）， through the ironmonger’s and thence through a door into the street. Many a Cabinet minister, peer of the realm and even the occasional bishop had escaped by this undignified means, like criminals on the run. It was not unknown for some to become confused and find themselves in the adjoining cellar of an Italian restaurant, stumbling around amongst the flagons of olive oil and Chianti.
Ramsey took out his cigarette case. It was chased gold with a ruby clasp, engraved inside with his name. From a shop in Bond Street, an unexpectedly generous twenty-first-birthday present from his mother. （“Cost a fortune,” Nellie said every time he took out a cigarette.） He plucked out a cigarette, lit it and inhaled, feeling his lungs inflate like a pair of leaky bellows. He smoked Balkan Sobranies, strong and tarry, bought on the basis that he was attracted to the exotic picture on the carton. They said smoking was good for you, but Ramsay wasn’t so sure.
He wasn’t allowed to enjoy his cigarette as Vivian Quinn rounded the corner and approached. “There you are. I was wondering where you’d got to, you old camp. Are you avoiding me, Coker?”
“No, Quinn. Of course I’m not avoiding you.”
“Give us a fag, then, will you?” Quinn said.
Reluctantly, Ramsay offered the cigarette case.
“A light?” Quinn prompted. Ramsay sighed and produced a box of matches. Quinn cupped his hand around Ramsay’s to shield the flame—the alley was always gusty. Ramsay wanted to shake him off, but he endured Quinn’s touch stoically to avoid one of his scathing responses.
“The Match King’s in,” Quinn said, prompted by the sight of the flame.
“Kreuger. I know.”
“The man’s a fraud, you know,” Quinn said. “Off-balance entities, gold debentures, derivative contracts. It’ll come crashing down eventually, you’ll see. House of cards.”
Ramsay had no idea what Quinn was talking about. Kreuger made matches, for heaven’s sake. A lot of matches. Possibly all the matches. Why else would he be christened king of them?
Quinn dragged on the cigarette and spluttered and coughed.
“Christ, Coker, this is hellish stuff.”
“Turkish tobacco. It’s an acquired taste,” Ramsay said. He couldn’t restrain his curiosity. “Is it true you’re writing a novel, Quinn? What’s it about?”
“About? Does a novel have to be about something?”
“Generally speaking.”
“How banal. Well, I suppose it’s about ‘Bright Young People become tarnished’ sort of stuff.”
“Does it have a title?”
“A rather good one—Folderol.”
Ridiculous title!
The thing was, no matter how much Ramsay denied it, he and Quinn were friends, albeit the kind of friends who didn’t like each other much. They had chummed up out of necessity when Ramsay returned from Switzerland and Quinn, who had just been employed to write his column, was looking for someone to knock about London’s nightlife with. Ramsay had been grateful to have a friend, even one who seemed only interested in his own advancement.
But then Quinn had made a clumsy pass at him in the cloakroom of the Sphinx, deep amongst the forest of furs and Crombies and men’s evening cloaks, and Ramsay had been forced to wriggle like a weasel to try to get away from him. It was only the sudden appearance of Gerrit, yanking aside the coats and saying, “Everything all right here, Ramsay?” that put an end to it.
“Oops,” Quinn had said, “we don’t want to make the Flying Dutchman jealous, do we?”
“I’m not like that,” a blushing Ramsay said to Gerrit when Quinn had gone, and Gerrit laughed and said, “You don’t know what you are, Ramsay.”
* * *
—
“Is it a roman à clef, Quinn?” Ramsay persisted. He couldn’t bear to say that stupid title.