Worth

Chapter 8 (cont.)

Showered and stretched, Violet literally slapped on a pin-up girdle of a bathing suit. White with re-enforced panels front and back, a skirted finish at the bottom for modesty's sake and small yellow daisies around the bust-line, it fit like a casing and yet was perfectly comfortable. Someone had had enough thoughtful foresight to provide robes, so she tucked hers over her arm and obediently moseyed down to the poolside. The noon hour had just passed, but the sun still blazed above the loungers, its reflection on the water's surface making it seem swimmers were diving into liquid light. Violet decided against swimming for now. Lunch was being served. While everyone else was stuffing themselves with barbequed hamburgers, she had to be satisfied with a flat grilled Portobello mushroom that wasn't fooling anybody.

She sprawled out on a deck chair. It all made for a nice post card: "Forced Fun in the Sun!" In no time, however, there was little to do but relax, belly-up, like otters on rocks minus all the gossip. Certain loose lips spilled the beans as far as whose character had to do what by the end of the night. Violet knew Rolph had to steal again and Paul had to catch him at which point Marcia should cry violently about her lover being stolen from her. Elizabeth could not drink and so would soberly, and probably with great zeal, have to spread the rumour of Rolph's suspected love affair with a young actor. She knew Thomas and Joan had to have an argument because they had solicited her help in the fight to take place at dinner time, and she knew Vera had to comment on the couple's extravagant spending habits of late. Edie, it was obvious, had to faint because she'd already tried twice in the first hour of lazing only to have Philroy say, "Not now," rather harshly. Two people would have to kiss and someone would have to catch them doing it. She hoped it would be one of the servants.

John helped himself to the chair bedside Violet's. She was flattered. She wondered how much she could like him before it was considered treason. At any rate, as a pair they could shield one another from being singled out for abuse.

"I'll race you to see who can stay whitest longest," he said, rightfully confident he had her beat hands down.

As he adjusted to comfort, Violet was able to appreciate that, while although John was fair-skinned, his pale was still a shade darker than the piglet pink-white of frequent sunburn victims, or the blue-while of skim milk and so-called 'health nuts'.

"Do freckles count as a tan?" she asked.

"Only if they're touching. Freckle stretching, by the way, is about as athletic as I get." His body, while not a sculpted form, was lean evidence he was lying.

"You play a pretty good tennis game."

"I'm vainer than I have a right to be."

"It was very gallant of you to save us all from the closet last night."

"If Pearce had run in with you instead of back to Walla Walla I might have let things play out."

"Yipes." Violet shivered at the thought. "I was sure I was going to have nightmares last night, but I think my brain was too tired. I slept like a baby."

"I think I ought to tell you that I caught Paul breaking his neck to see into your window last night. He didn't see anything, but I'd watch out for underwater goggle-ogling if I were you."

"I know he didn't see anything," Violet said, "because I always change in the –" She was about to say 'dark' but she couldn't remember when or how she got into her pyjamas the night before, she'd been so tired.

"What?" John asked, waiting.

"What?"

"What were you going to say?"