ALL TOMORROW'S PARTIES-2

I think I was the closest thing Cassandra had to a real friend. I attended my first of her parties over twenty years ago, when I was just coming up to forty. I was dragged along by my lover of the time, Michael Cage, the editor of a small but influential literary journal.
Michael and I had met at the launch party for an anthology of verse to which I was a contributor. I had been ill at ease that night, as usual, and had drunk far too much. Michael had drunk even more and was in a disgraceful state. He spent most of the evening carrying out ad hoc character assassinations on anyone who stood near him for too long. He had tried this out on me, but I declined to fight back. After around five minutes of subtle and clever abuse his tone suddenly changed and he became quite charming. Without really knowing why, I left with him that night, and so started our brief and miserable affair. The sex was pretty good, but even in the early days this was hardly enough. If I were to be honest with myself I was so lonely that even a vaguely abusive relationship felt better than none at all.
Michael was one of Cassandra's irregular invitees, but never missed one of her parties when the call came. I have never been the gregarious type, and the thought of attending another do packed with strangers and, I imagined, society types, filled me with gloom and unease. Actually this is an understatement. I had spent most of my life until that time in the grip of a crippling shyness. Maybe this is why I became a writer - it's easier for me to communicate with others when separated by time and distance, letting my static words do the talking for me.
It would make a better story if I said that I walked through the door of Cassandra's Knightsbridge flat and was enchanted, all my reservations and shyness falling away. Sadly, this was not the case. I looked around at the mass of smartly dressed and generally beautiful people and I panicked. As I ran off to the bathroom to vomit I could imagine Michael rolling his eyes in that theatrical manner of his. After my stomach had ejected its small payload I did my best to freshen my breath and regain my composure. I fear I was still white and shaking as I made my way through the crowd. The worst part was that everyone else looked so at ease. It was as if I had wandered into a large gathering of friends and was the sole stranger. I have felt like this often, ever since childhood, but never so acutely. I was on the verge of turning and leaving when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
"Ah, there you are, Rupert," Michael boomed. "I was just saying to Cassandra that you must have called it a night already." He gave one of the short snorting laughs that signalled he was demeaning me; it was one of the many reasons I left him not long after. I was just about to attempt some suitably witty and cutting retort when I noticed the woman with him.
Now, I've known and understood my sexuality for as long as I've been conscious of it. I have never met a woman I found sexually attractive, but for a split second, when I saw Cassandra, I had a brief flash in which I could understand what straight men might see in women. I don't think anyone would have called her beautiful - she looked too much like a real person to fit any modern ideal - but she was the kind of woman who became the immediate focus of any gathering. She wore her hair short and dark then, as was the fashion, and it accentuated her thin face and its sharp cheekbones. She was tall and elegant and moved with an unstudied grace. Her eyes and nose seemed a bit too large for the rest of her face, but the whole effect was one of a woman one could trust.
"You must be Rupert Cullen," she said. "I'm an admirer. I thought _Eulogy for Angels_ was one of the most moving collections I've read."
I must have reddened. I could feel it in my cheeks. I certainly stammered. "But, I mean, how could you. There were only three hundred copies printed. It was a disaster."
"Anything but," she said. Her eyes narrowed conspiratorially, balanced by a faintly mocking smile. "For a start it means that you have at least another two hundred and ninety nine fans out there." She took me by the hand and led me away from Michael, dodging through the crowd with skill. A number of people smiled and waved, trying to start conversations, but for those few moments I was her sole focus of attention. "Let me introduce you to one of the thousands to come." We stopped before a loud and drunken group of men, all in formal evening dress. "Anthony!" One of the men turned and looked over at us. Well, at Cassandra, to tell the truth. He was several years older than me, but handsome in that way that wealthy middle-aged men who know how to look after themselves can be: distinguished, weathered and terribly sexy. "Anthony, I have someone you simply have to meet. This is Rupert Cullen. I'm sure I must have mentioned him. He's one of the most astonishingly original poets of our age. Tragically, he seems to be without a publisher at the moment."
Cassandra turned and kissed me on the cheek. "I'll leave you two to chat. I'm sure you'll find lots to talk about. I must go and mingle, I'm afraid, but if I don't see you before you go tonight I'd love to have you back again." With that she was off, back into the crowd, like a shark cutting through a school of tuna.
I turned back to my new acquaintance. He smiled warmly; it was a lovely smile. "So," he said, "You're one of Cassandra's favourite poets, then?"
"I wouldn't go that far, but she did say some pretty nice things." I grabbed a drink off a passing tray and swallowed it all in one go, without knowing what it was. I was still shaking. "Sorry," I said after a brief but awkward silence, "I didn't really catch your name."
He stuck out a hand and we shook. "Anthony Justice," he said.
I blinked for a few moments. "Erm, as in Anthony Justice Publishing?"
Obviously amused by the petrified look on my face he laughed and put an arm around my shoulder. "Yes," he said, "That Anthony Justice."

ALL TOMORROW'S PARTIES

If, in my old age, I ever find it difficult to maintain a suitably comfortable life-style, I believe I could guarantee one by writing a memoir of Cassandra's parties. Through them, I was present at some of the key moments of the history that none of our children will ever be taught. Not that I ever had children, but short of being accosted by a woman desperate to carry a baby for an old queen like me, that was always somewhat unlikely.
Ah, yes; the stories. Stories of Cassandra the broker of hidden deals, Cassandra the arch-courtesan of the post-monarchistic world, Cassandra the secret hand in British politics, Cassandra the eternal hostess. She was a legend to those who knew of her private world. To the uninitiated she was just a wealthy and somewhat eccentric woman with a love of entertaining powerful guests. And now that she's dead it should be safe to tell all. Rather, it would be, if she were actually dead.
I was there that night Cassandra spiked the drinks of delegates from the Scottish and English negotiating teams with a powerful aphrodisiac. The sexual bond that developed between them following that one drunken tryst did more to guarantee the comparative peace that has followed in the British Isles than the years of fruitless talks that had preceded. The later marriage of the negotiators also made history as the first homosexual union to be recognised officially by the Anglican church. I suspect Cassandra had a hand there too, as the Archishop of Canterbury was an occasional guest of hers.
Then there was the occasion that, against the wishes of her regular guests, she invited the increasingly powerful chairman of the Popular English Front, the most charming and media friendly British fascist since Oswald Mosley. He was doing his best to woo the gathered crowd with his trustworthiness and interest in their futures. Considering the ethnic and sexual diversity present, he was pursuing a minority. All was going to his satisfaction until Cassandra asked if he was comfortable at the party without his partner. After savouring his surprise, Cassandra brought out his catamite from one of the side rooms. The young lad announced to all there that he wanted to go home as it was past his bedtime. That small, but pivotal moment did much to define the next few years of English politics.
It was stories like these which made Cassandra a legend. It was always easiest to see her as a force of nature, or an enigmatic manipulator of the lives of the rich and powerful. She had a thousand acquaintances and no friends. Nobody gave a thought to Cassandra the person, the woman who existed in private, as well as public. Well, almost no one.