by Jilly Cooper
To Valerie’s equal horror, Maud removed the teabag from Valerie’s tea with her fingers. Then she introduced Taggie to everyone.
Smiling at Valerie, but totally ignoring Rupert, Taggie took a tin of baked beans out of the fridge and started to eat them with a spoon.
‘I’m sure we’ve met before,’ said Rupert, puzzled. ‘You’re not a Young Conservative, are you?’ Then, suddenly he twigged and started to laugh. ‘I remember now. It was at a tennis party.’
Taggie blushed even deeper.
‘Brilliant quiche, stunning mousse, marvellous chocolate cake,’ said Bas with his mouth full.
‘Oh, it was for Daddy’s supper,’ began Taggie, distressed, then stopped herself. Sometimes she could murder her mother. She was about to go upstairs when Bas grabbed her hand and, sitting her down beside him, tried to persuade her to work for him at the Bar Sinister.
‘It’s really kind of you,’ mumbled Taggie, ‘but I worked in a restaurant for two years. I want to branch out on my own.’
‘You can come and cook my breakfast any day of the week,’ said Rupert. She looked so different from the angry child who’d screamed at him about his stubble. ‘You were quite right,’ he added to Basil.
Again Taggie ignored him.
‘It’s very good of Bas,’ said Maud with a slight edge to her voice. ‘Most girls would leap at a job like that. I always had to de-emphasize my career for Declan,’ she added fretfully.
Taggie, however, was totally thrown. She couldn’t take in what Bas was saying. She was only conscious of this horrible monster, who’d haunted her nightmares for weeks, whom she’d last seen oiled, brown-skinned, erect in every sense of the word and as totally unselfconscious of his nakedness as a Zulu chief, and who was now drinking her father’s whisky and laughing at her across the table. Out of sheer nervousness, she leapt up and turned on the television.
‘Pratt,’ yelled Rupert, as James Vereker appeared on the screen.
Over at Corinium Television Sarah Stratton sat in Hospitality going greener (perhaps that was why it was called a green room), and wishing she’d never agreed to go on James’s programme.
The appalling Deirdre Kill-Programme (as everyone called her now) had visited her at home earlier in the week and worked out lots of questions that James could ask Sarah to promote discussion and bring in James’s caring nature.
Paul, furious that Sarah had been asked on, and not him, went on and on about how her high profile wouldn’t help his career at the moment. He was also furious that she’d spent a fortune for the occasion on a new black mohair dress with daisies embroidered on the front and huge padded shoulders, which she was not sure suited her. Thank God Rupert was at some Tory fund-raising bash at the moment, and wouldn’t watch the programme. Earlier, James had paid a fleeting visit to Hospitality to say hullo, rather like a famous surgeon in an expensive hospital, popping in before he removes half your intestine.
Ushered into the studio during the commercial break, Sarah was now sitting on the famous pale-pink sofa beside him. Catching sight of herself on the monitor, she wished she hadn’t worn the mohair; it was much too hot and the padded shoulders made her look like an American footballer. On rushed the make-up girl to tone down her flushed face.
‘Collar up, James,’ said Wardrobe.
‘I did it deliberately, Tessa,’ said James. ‘Thought it looked more casual. Remember to look at me, not the camera, Sarah.’ She was desperately nervous, which didn’t help. Glancing round at the idiot board to find out what question he was supposed to ask her first, he saw chalked in large letters: ‘James Vereker can’t do his programme without having a bonk first’.
‘Turn it over,’ hissed James, as a burst of ‘Cotswold Round-Up’ theme music signified the end of the commercial break.
Sarah, who had also seen the idiot board, screamed with laughter, and it was thus that the viewers had their first glimpse of her.
‘Sarah Stratton,’ said James, reading from the turned-over board, ‘you’ve been married to Paul Stratton, our member for Cotchester for nearly nine months now. How do you see your role as the wife of an MP, Sarah?’
Sarah straightened her face: ‘To support my husband in every possible way,’ she said, gazing straight at the camera.
In the O’Haras’ kitchen, Rupert turned up the sound.
‘Isn’t that Lizzie Vereker’s husband?’ said Maud. ‘I like Lizzie.’
‘She’s lovely,’ said Rupert. ‘If she lost three stone, I’d marry her.’
‘James is hell,’ said Basil. ‘Put him in front of a camera, you can’t get him down with a gun.’
‘Some viewers may find the following scenes disturbing,’ said Rupert. ‘Sarah’s nervous. Look at the way her eyes are darting and she’s licking her lips. Looks bloody good, though.’
Whatever she thought to the contrary, Sarah looked stunning on camera. She was now saying how hard it was falling in love with a married man.
‘I put no pressure on Paul to leave his first wife,’ she said demurely.
‘Bollocks,’ howled Bas. ‘She carried a chisel round in her bag for years, trying to chip Paul off like a barnacle.’
‘But because he did eventually leave her for me,’ went on Sarah, ‘and he made the decision, I’m branded a scarlet woman.’
‘With some justification,’ said Rupert. ‘And her husband is as mean as the grave. It’s so hard to get a drink in his house, the PM ought to make him the Minister for Drought. Which is not something anyone could accuse you of, Maud darling,’ he added, as Maud splashed the last of the whisky into his glass.
Taggie, who was ironing sheets, was as perplexed as Rupert had been earlier. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere before,’ she muttered, then once again went absolutely scarlet as she realized that Sarah was the beautiful blonde who’d been playing nude tennis with Rupert.
‘She’s quite excellent at ball play,’ said Rupert, reading Taggie’s thoughts. ‘And you’re going to burn that sheet.’
Furiously, Taggie went on ironing. Fortunately a diversion was created with Valerie asking how Caitlin was getting on at Upland House.
‘It seems more like St Trinian’s than Enid Blyton,’ said Maud. ‘Caitlin says they all smoke like chimneys and have bottles of Malibu under the floorboards. But I had a nice half-term report from her house mistress, saying Caitlin was a dear girl who’d settled in well, but was too easily satisfied.’
‘Not something her future husband is going to grumble about,’ said Rupert, who was watching Taggie. He liked making her blush.
‘Caitlin’s like Taggie,’ said Maud. ‘Watches too much television.’
‘Sharon’s only allowed to watch occasionally at weekends,’ said Valerie smugly. ‘When I was young, my sister and I made our own amusements.’
‘So did I,’ agreed Rupert, ‘until Nanny told me it would make me go blind.’
Ignoring him, Valerie thought how much more attractive was James, with his charming boyish smile, than Rupert, who was always leading Freddie astray and making risqué remarks.
James, winding up Sarah’s interview, asked her if she had any plans for a career.
‘You must know – as a very famous man yourself,’ Sarah answered admiringly, ‘that wives of famous men have to take second place.’
‘It is possible to be famous and caring, Sarah,’ said James huskily.
‘Of course,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m just saying if you marry someone who’s been married before, you’re just that little bit more anxious to make the marriage work, to not put your own career first – to prove everyone wrong who said it wouldn’t last. So you just try harder.’
Taggie was shocked. How could Sarah say that, when she was busy having an affair with Rupert? It was only after a few minutes Taggie realized that Valerie was telling her all about the boutique.
‘You must pop in some time,’ said Valerie. ‘I know it’s difficult, dressing when you’re so tall, but I’m sure I could find something lovely for you.’
‘That’s really kind,’ said Taggie gratefully.
Rupert, watching Taggie, decided she really was very beautiful. It was as though someone had taken a fine black pen and drawn lines along her lashes and round the irises of those amazing silver-grey eyes. Her nose was too large, but the curve of the soft pink mouth emphasized by the very short upper lip was adorable, and he’d like to see all that lustrous black hair spilling over a pillow. She must be nearly five foot ten, he reckoned, and most of it legs, and she had the gentle, apologetic clumsiness of an Irish wolfhound, who can’t help knocking off teacups with its tail.
Noticing Rupert observing Taggie with such lazy, almost lustful affection, Maud felt a stab of jealousy.
‘Go and get another bottle of whisky from the larder, Tag,’ she said sharply, ‘and clear away all these plates.’
‘But it’s Daddy’s last bottle,’ protested Taggie.
Furious, Maud turned on her. ‘As if your father would deny a guest a drink in his own house.’
Trembling, Taggie switched off the iron, fetched the bottle from the larder and dumped it on the table with a crash. Gertrude was whining by the back door.
‘I’ll take you out, darling,’ said Taggie, pulling on a pair of black gumboots.
‘Do wrap up warm,’ said Valerie. ‘And if you want to get on in the country, you should wear green wellies,’ she added kindly.
‘If you really want to get on in the country,’ drawled Rupert, ‘you should get that dog’s tail straightened.’
It was the final straw. Giving him a filthy look, Taggie went out, slamming the back door behind her.
‘What’s up with her?’ asked Bas.
‘In love,’ said Maud, unscrewing the bottle of whisky. ‘Some friend of Patrick’s who hardly knows she exists. You know how moody teenagers are.’
Outside it was deliciously mild. The wind was shepherding parties of orange leaves across the lawn and sighing in the wood. The stream after the recent rain was hurtling down the garden. Above, russet clouds like stretched cotton wool didn’t quite cover the sky. Every so often through a chink glittered a brilliant star. Still shaking, Taggie tramped down the rose walk that so often in the past must have been paced by nuns, like her, praying for deliverance.
‘Oh, please God, get that horrible horrible man out of the house.’
She couldn’t stop thinking of Rupert’s lean oiled body, under the dark-blue jersey and mud-spattered white breeches. It was obvious her mother was wildly attracted to him; she’d seen the rapt expression, the flushed cheeks, the wild drinking so often before. And Rupert was leading her mother on, making those beastly salacious (there, at last she’d used her word for the day) remarks, and drinking all her father’s drink, and eating all his supper.
Despite the mildness of the night, she shivered as she contemplated the rows ahead if Maud started one of her things. She, Taggie, would get dragged in to provide alibis. Well, she wouldn’t cover up for her mother this time, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t.
Her father didn’t want hassle at the moment; he needed keeping calm. Turning towards the house, its great battlements and turrets confronting the shadowy garden with a timeless strength, she felt slightly comforted. Surely the house would look after them.
After ‘Cotswold Round-Up’, James and Sarah, both feeling rather elated, were soon cut down to size.
‘What did you think of the interview, Cameron?’ asked James.
‘I’d rather watch slugs copulate,’ snapped Cameron.
Sarah in turn rang Paul. ‘Was I OK?’ she asked eagerly.
‘You were very clear,’ said Paul. ‘Have you seen Tony?’
‘Yes,’ said Sarah sulkily.
‘Did he say anything about putting me on the Board?’
‘No,’ said Sarah.
‘Come and have a drink,’ said James, as she slammed down the receiver.
‘Yes please,’ said Sarah.
Soon after Taggie took Gertrude out, Valerie went home. Maud, Basil and Rupert carried on carousing. Going into the kitchen much later, Taggie was relieved to find only Bas and Maud.
‘Daddy’s interviewing Lord Wooton in a few minutes,’ she said.
‘My husband,’ Maud told Basil, ‘always becomes the person he’s interviewing. When he did Margaret Thatcher he spent the week wearing power suits, talking about “circum-starnces”, and calling me Denis in bed.’
Noticing Taggie’s look of disapproval, Basil patted the chair beside him and said the interview should be interesting as Tony was pulling out every stop to get Maurice Wooton to join the Corinium Board.
Rupert returned from the downstairs loo, waving the New Statesman. ‘Don’t tell me Declan reads this,’ he said in outrage.
Maud nodded. ‘And actually believes it.’
‘But he can’t be a socialist when he earns such a vast salary.’
‘I know,’ sighed Maud. ‘He’s utterly inconsistent.’
‘I expect he’d like to give some of it away,’ protested Taggie angrily, ‘if everyone didn’t spend it all.’
‘If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head,’ snapped Maud, ‘you’d better go to bed.’ She’d never known Taggie answer back like this.
Over in Studio 3 Declan always went into himself before a programme, but he nodded when Tony came on to the floor, reeking of brandy and waving a huge cigar. Tony was in an excellent mood; two of Corinium’s news stories had been used with a by-line by ITN; he’d just had an excellent dinner with Maurice Wooton, and now he’d got his way about Declan doing this interview, it was the thin end of the wedge. Declan couldn’t refuse to do other specials now – Freddie Jones next week, perhaps.
‘Maurice is just having a pee. He’s been made-up,’ he said to Declan. ‘Give him a nice easy ride. He may have a reputation as a hatchet man, but he runs a huge empire, he’s devoted to his grandchildren and does an enormous amount for charity. He’s also delightful if you get him on to opera or his cats.’
‘Just show his caring face, Declan,’ said Cameron from the control room. ‘And Camera 2, can you try to avoid Lord Wooton’s bald patch?’
Tonight’s vision mixer, sitting in front of her row of lit-up buttons, massaged her neck and opened a Kit Kat. It had been a long day. Daysee Butler fingered her stopwatch. In his earpiece Declan could hear her talking about her boyfriend: ‘He’s cooking supper for me tonight, cod in cheese sauce out of a packet. He’s got such charisma.’
Lord Wooton was now being ushered in by the floor manager. He had plainly had too much to drink with Tony, but Make-up had toned him down with green foundation, and blacked out his greying sideboards. His revoltingly sensual face with the big red pouting lower lip was just like one of Tony’s orchids, thought Declan, as he rose to his feet to welcome him.
‘Very warm night,’ said Lord Wooton.
‘Very,’ said Declan.
The introductory package, which Cameron had written, was full of nice stills and clips of Lord Wooton romping with cats, visiting children in hospital, playing cricket with grandsons, watching the first bricks of various buildings being laid, and collecting an OBE at the Palace. He was plainly delighted.
‘Don’t know where they dug up all those old photographs,’ he said untruthfully.
‘Ten seconds to end of opening package, Declan,’ said Daysee from the control room.
Surreptitiously Declan removed his earpiece and put it in his pocket. His first question was sycophancy itself.
‘As the leading property developer in Gloucestershire, probably the whole of the West Country, you must be proud of your achievement.’
Maurice Wooton put his hands together happily.
‘One is only as good as the people who work for one, Declan,’ he said smoothly. ‘You must know that. I have first-rate people, hand-picked of course.’
‘Pity you don’t take better care of them,’ said Declan amiably.
He then proceeded to carve Maurice Wooton up, starting with one of his managers who
’d been sacked while he was in hospital recovering from open-heart surgery, then proceeding to another who’d been given no compensation when he broke his back falling off some scaffolding.
Tony rang Cameron in the control box.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he roared. ‘Tell him to ask Maurice about his fucking grandchildren.’
‘I can’t get through to him,’ yelled Cameron. ‘He’s taken out his earpiece.’
‘Well, tell the floor manager to tell him to put it fucking back in again.’
Ignoring all Maurice Wooton’s spluttering denials, Declan moved on to illegal takeovers, shady deals, and then produced a just-published secret Town Hall report, which claimed that, despite a huge grant from the Council, his firm had built a block of flats cheap to faulty specifications.
Temporarily speechless now, Maurice Wooton was mouthing like a great purple bull frog.
‘Another even more unattractive aspect of your business career,’ went on Declan relentlessly, ‘was the way you bribed three Labour councillors in the housing department at Cotchester Town Hall to give you the contract for the tower block development on Bankside.’
‘This is preposterous,’ exploded Maurice Wooton.
‘You deny it?’
‘Of course I do.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Declan could see the floor manager making frantic signals for him to replace his earpiece.
Ignoring them, he said: ‘Why, then, do Councillor Bridie, Councillor Yallop, and Councillor Rogers have five thousand pounds entered on their bank statements, paid in by you from a Swiss bank account? Here are the photostats of the bank statements, the cheques, and your letters to them.’ Declan brandished them under Maurice Wooton’s hairy expanding crimson nostrils, then threw them down on the table. ‘Thank God there are some Town Hall officials left with integrity.’
Cameron was so insane with rage, she stubbed her cigarette out by mistake on the hand of the vision mixer, who, screaming, pressed the wrong button, which ran in telecine of a lot of very fat schoolgirls doing an eightsome reel.