by Jilly Cooper
She always sweated like a pig as she approached a deadline. What a relief, in her role as grotty Eulalia, that she didn’t have to bath or tart up for her date.
Alpheus’s long nose was thoroughly out of joint. Having seen a clip of him riding, Rupert Campbell-Black had pronounced he made a sack of potatoes look like Frankie Dettori and refused to let him participate in the polo shoot.
‘We can’t afford the insurance if you have a fall.’
Nor did Alpheus feel remotely compensated by the beautiful £3000 suit Griselda had hired for him to wear as a kingly spectator.
Going into the production office on Thursday night, he found it deserted except for Mikhail, four forks sticking out of a dinner jacket pocket, gabbling endearments into the telephone.
‘It will not be much longer, my darlink.’
Alpheus, who had picked up enough Russian while singing Boris, pursed his lips. Mikhail was clearly getting over Lara very quickly. Realizing he’d been clocked, Mikhail hastily hung up and clanked off. This left Alpheus to conduct a long telephonic interview with Le Monde, until he had made sure that Rozzy had departed carrying Mikhail and Baby’s dress shirts, and was able to nip into Wardrobe and appropriate his new three-thousand-pound suit.
Alpheus was pleased about his dinner with Eulalia. A double-page spread in the Sentinel would be most useful, particularly if it could be held over until September when he had a Wigmore recital and a new solo album, which would need every help to knock Rannaldini off the number-one spot.
‘You must be the handsomest man in opera. If you didn’t sing, you could make a fortune modelling,’ sighed Eulalia, putting in another roll of film. ‘So few men can carry off white suits.’
Having embarked on a rare third glass of Dom Pérignon, Alpheus was feeling romantic and manly. In the dusk at Jasmine Cottage, the dog daisies glowed like little moons. Down in the valley, tractors with headlamps were cutting Rannaldini’s hay, blotting out the din made by Hermione and Chloe.
‘Turn your head slightly, you’ve got such an imposing profile,’ went on Eulalia, ‘I’m sure when the Independent described you as wooden last year it was only in the context of a great tree sheltering the whole production.’
She was probably right, reflected Alpheus.
Eulalia, he decided, looked like a fashion model in a left-wing paper, with granny specs dominating a pale, set face, leg and armpit hair marginally longer than the hair on her head and a long floating black dress giving no advance information about the figure underneath. Pushing her on the swing earlier, he had deduced from the dark shadow between her hairy legs that she wasn’t wearing any panties.
Unfortunately, from Eulalia’s point of view, Alpheus was far more interested in analysing himself and his art and singing snatches of Don Giovanni with an engaging smile than in dishing the dirt. He had no idea who Tristan was screwing or who might have killed Rannaldini.
Having spent a further half-hour relaying how he sang his first Philip II, Alpheus leant forward, removed Eulalia’s spectacles, told her she had lovely eyes and suggested they try some of that delicious picnic to mop up the Dom Pérignon.
‘What a nurturing young woman,’ said Alpheus, selecting a gull’s egg. ‘You’ve even remembered the celery salt.’
Alas, the totally undomesticated Eulalia had not realized gulls’ eggs needed boiling, and the first one Alpheus cracked went all over his new white suit. Eulalia was unfazed.
‘Elderflower boiled with hemlock and comfrey will get egg yolk out of anything,’ she said and, next moment, had pushed Alpheus back on to the damp grass, released his cock, spread it with celery salt and had her incomparably wicked way with him.
Alpheus had never encountered such vaginal muscles: they were like the strong fingers of some pink-cheeked milkmaid. What couldn’t he do with a helpmate of such intellect, who could also cater so deliciously to his physical needs? Under those ethnic clothes and all that hair, Eulalia had a surprisingly lovely body. If she flossed and showered a bit more and wore the right clothes . . .
‘Oooooh, oooohooo.’ Looking up at the newly emerged stars, Alpheus felt himself ejaculate with all the splendour of the Milky Way. ‘That was tremendous,’ he said graciously.
Then Eulalia spoilt it all by asking if she was a better lay than Chloe, or Dame Hermione, or Pushy, and if he were screwing her to get his own back on Cheryl for going to bed with Rannaldini.
It is difficult to hit the roof when one is lying under a woman journalist. Who had told her such monstrous untruths? spluttered Alpheus.
‘I don’t figure the Sentinel would be interested in such sleaze.’
He had never cheated on Cheryl. Anyone who implied differently was jealous, probably Chloe, who had become overly possessive when he’d formed a working partnership with Dame Hermione.
‘Bollocks, you lying old hypocrite.’ Eulalia jumped to her feet.
In her floating black dress, her spectacles glinting evilly in the starlight, she suddenly looked like the Grand Inquisitor. Snatching up a handful of grass and wildflowers, shoving them between her legs, she ran down the mossy steps to her car.
Going inside, Alpheus discovered his lovely suit was covered in grass stains as well as egg yolk. He was not hunting for comfrey and hemlock at this hour. The grandfather clock in the hall was striking half twelve. Checking the kitchen calendar, which featured a guillemot with a fish hanging from its beak, rather like Bernard’s moustache, Alpheus realized it was now Friday, the thirteenth, and shivered.
The only answer was to burn the suit and blame its disappearance on Mikhail, who had admired it hugely. Then he remembered all the photographs Eulalia had taken. Somehow he’d got to stop her using them.
When Hermione and Chloe’s little scene still wasn’t in the can by twelve thirty, a despairing Tristan called a break. He was sure the crew were deliberately going slow. There were dark mutterings as they set off sulkily for the canteen. How could they be expected to flourish on roast pork, minty new potatoes, spring rolls, red cabbage and apple pie and cream without a few glasses of red?
‘Just one glass,’ Tristan pleaded with Rupert. ‘It’s getting cold.’
‘No,’ said Rupert, switching on his mobile.
Immediately it rang.
‘Don’t want to alarm you, Rupe,’ confided an old racing crony from the Sun, ‘but we’re convinced that Eulalia Harrison’s Beattie Johnson in disguise.’ Rupert felt icicles dripping down his spine. ‘Any chance of us getting your side of the Abigail Rosen story?’
‘No,’ snarled Rupert, and hung up.
No wonder Eulalia had seemed familiar. Over the years Beattie had nearly destroyed him and everything he loved. This time she wasn’t going to get away with it. He had never bedded Abby Rosen. He would kill to protect Taggie.
The telephone rang again. Talk of the angel. It was Taggie with brilliant news. Gablecross had found the man who’d driven Tabitha home on Sunday, who could give her an alibi. Rupert had never dreamt he would feel passionately grateful to George Hungerford. ‘Whatever happens,’ he told Taggie, ‘I want you to know I’ve always loved you.’
Looking up he saw what must be Eulalia/Beattie’s window in darkness. It was much colder. Everyone was putting on jerseys. The clapper-loader was changing his board to Friday the thirteenth.
Rupert’s friend on the Sun wasted no time in breaking the news of Beattie’s masquerade to Hermione, who choked on her second helping of roast pork, to Chloe, who went green, and to Flora, who looked about to faint. Soon the rumour was circulating to universal panic: nearly everyone had spoken on and off the record to Eulalia. Suddenly the large police presence, hovering in the surrounding bushes or watching from the top floor of the south wing, seemed totally inadequate.
‘Beattie’s not answering her mobile,’ said a shaken Griselda.
‘She was talking to Clive earlier. Probably buying the memoirs for the Scorpion.’
Tristan had gone very white but, determined to limit any damage, said tha
t Rupert’s friend from the Sun had probably been fishing.
‘We must stay calm,’ he told Oscar.
The crew were sourly drinking Perrier. Mikhail was appropriating more forks. Bernard retreated to a quiet corner of the canteen with a roll, a piece of Brie and his crossword. He was glad there were people around. The park beyond was very shadowy and dark.
Then he gave a gasp as his crossword swam green before his eyes.
‘It’s been completely filled in by Rannaldini.’ His hoarse voice was falsetto with fear. ‘Even his Ms are the same, like football posts.’ He brandished the pages with a frantically shaking hand, as everyone gathered round.
‘Mon Dieu.’ Valentin crossed himself. ‘Where did you leave it?’
‘On the set – on top of my briefcase, beside Tristan’s chair.’
Wolfie had gone dreadfully pale. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he stammered, returning the crossword to Bernard. ‘I swear the body was my father’s.’
‘Of course it was! How often do I have to tell you there are no such things as ghosts?’ snapped Rupert.
‘I’ll take that newspaper, if you please,’ said DC Lightfoot.
‘Lucy!’ cried Simone, dragging Flora into Make Up, pointing to the white strip on her neck above the suntan, which had been revealed by her latest short back and sides.
‘That strip shows the executioner where to drop the axe,’ sobbed Flora, as Lucy blended it in. ‘If Beattie dumps, George and I are finished.’
A worried Trevor couldn’t lick away her tears fast enough.
A bored James whined irritably from his bench seat.
‘Oh, shut up, James,’ wailed Lucy despairingly.
‘I’ll walk him and Trev for you after the break,’ said Rozzy soothingly.
Helen was packing five suitcases of clothes to be unhappy in at Penscombe, when a trembling Mrs Brimscombe rushed in.
‘Oh, my lady, they’re saying that woman typing next door all week is that Beastly Johnson.’
‘Omigod!’ Helen clutched a bedpost. Eulalia had been far more supportive than the bereavement counsellor. They had spent hours and hours discussing Helen’s hangups about Tabitha, Rupert and Taggie. ‘She must be stopped,’ she whispered.
Meanwhile, talk of Bernard’s briefcase had reminded Rupert his own was still on the set. With Beattie on the prowl, he had better retrieve it.
A chill breeze scattered another snowstorm of petals from the rose arch and shook the pearly drops of the fountain. An owl hooted; ahead a cigar glowed like a tiny brakelight. Then, as Rupert’s eyes became accustomed to the dark, his blood ran cold and his heart stopped. For there, on the set, sitting in his executive producer’s chair, was Rannaldini. The collar of his highwayman’s cloak was turned up, caressing the planed cheeks of his cold, haughty face; his pewter hair gleamed in the moonlight. In a garden heady with the scent of lilies, honeysuckle and night-scented stock, Rupert was suddenly asphyxiated by a waft of Maestro.
‘Who are you?’ he managed to croak.
But as Rannaldini slowly turned towards him, Rupert bolted. Crashing through the dark garden, hurtling into the canteen, sending cast and crew flying, he rushed up to the bar.
‘Gimme a quadruple whisky.’
‘Mr Sexton insist no drink.’
‘Don’t be so fucking silly, I’ve just seen Rannaldini.’
‘Mr Sexton say no drink,’ persisted Maria.
‘I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts,’ said a grinning Baby.
Having gone behind the bar and poured Rupert a large Bell’s, Wolfie went in search of the briefcase, but when he returned with it five minutes later, he said the set had been deserted.
‘Well, there’s no way I’m putting up with this sort of thing,’ said Rupert shirtily. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he told Tristan, who tried not to look relieved. At least, they’d get on quicker.
‘I want everyone back on the set by one thirty,’ he shouted, as he picked up his mobile and vanished into the darkness.
Beattie returned to Valhalla, kicking herself for wasting time on such a jerk. As she let herself into her suite, however, she found a note, typed on dove-grey production-office paper, shoved under her door. ‘Meet me in the Unicorn Glade at one fifteen and I will tell you who killed Rannaldini.’
Beattie wanted to bay like a bloodhound. Hell! It was ten past already. She hoped she wasn’t too late. This was going to be the greatest exclusive ever. The scoop de grâce.
Quickly checking that no-one had tampered with her machine, she pressed the save button and set out for the Unicorn Glade. Thank God, when she was having an affaire with Rannaldini, she had memorized the shortcut through the maze. It was so dark and claustrophobic you could easily lose your bearings. She ran so fast she kept cannoning off the sides, the rough, clipped yew twigs scraping her face and arms.
‘Right, left, right,’ she panted, ‘and right towards the Pole Star,’ she could hear the crew chatting as they returned to work, ‘and left, right, left towards the great constellation of Pegasus,’ and she was out on the other side, leaping in terror as an icy hand clawed her face. Then she laughed, realizing it was only a weeping willow, wet from an earlier shower. Jumping the Devil’s Stream, Rannaldini’s only spring still flowing, running under a rose arch, she was into the Unicorn Glade.
Based on a fifteenth-century tapestry, hanging in the Musée de Cluny in Paris, this small, exquisite private garden had only been open to outsiders since Rannaldini’s death. Filled with scented flowers and herbs, it was populated with little stone foxes, weasels, cats and greyhounds lying down with crossed paws beside rabbits to symbolize that even natural enemies can live in harmony.
Legend had it that the unicorn could only be tamed by a virgin, and in the original tapestry a chaste lady sat in the centre of the garden with the unicorn crouched beside her, his front hoofs on her knee as she stroked his neck.
But, as the joke went, there had never been any virgins in Valhalla, so this touching tableau had been replaced by a lone unicorn, gleaming silver in the starlight as he tossed his head and pawed the grass.
Beattie could almost hear the proud little fellow snorting, as she leant against him to regain her breath. Caressing his smooth back, she ran her fingers up his mane, and his grooved horn, which was raised like a sword on guard. As a child, she had always longed for a pony. Rupert’s horses and Olympic gold for show-jumping had been one of the reasons she’d fallen so much in love with him. If he hadn’t dumped her, she would never have been bringing the gorgeous bastard down.
Glancing round at opulent shrub roses, towering delphiniums and massed white foxgloves, any of which could conceal the writer of the letter, she was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of doom and froze with terror as one of the shadows separated and came towards her.
Then, as the moon emerged from a scurrying black cloud, she saw Rannaldini’s face, colder and whiter than any moon, but with eyes crueller and hotter than hell. The dark cloak slid over the dewy grass, as he swept towards her on his way to conduct a requiem.
The words ‘I never meant to slag you off’ withered on Beattie’s lips. She couldn’t scream, only retreat, as he came nearer and nearer. Then she tripped backwards over a little stone fox, and felt herself falling. The pain was unimaginable.
By three o’clock in the morning the wind had risen, all the crew had put on jackets, and Hermione had grumbled bitterly enough about the treacherous night air to have appropriated Rozzy’s dark red mohair cardigan and Bernard’s duffel coat.
Noticing Rozzy shivering uncontrollably and fighting a racking cough, Tristan took off his bomber jacket and put it round her shoulders. ‘You must take care of that throat.’
In fascinated horror, Lucy watched Rozzy turn her head and drop a kiss on his hand as it rested for a second on her shoulder. Her ecstasy was unmistakable. Earlier in the day, Rozzy had been into Rutminster for treatment for her cancer, but recently Lucy had noticed her poring over the score of Der Rosenkavalier, marking in the
part of Marschallin with yellow Pentel. Had Rozzy convinced herself she could sing in the opera after all?
Wolfie, constantly taunted by nightmarish visions of Tab being photographed in the nude by his father, glanced up at Valhalla, where chandeliers blazed in nearly every window to create an illusion of a ball in progress. A light was still on in Helen’s bedroom. ‘She shouldn’t be going to Penscombe,’ he muttered furiously to Lucy. ‘She’ll only upset Tab. Christ, I miss her.’
‘Poor Wolfie.’ Lucy hugged him. ‘She’ll be back for the polo shoot.’
‘When you’ve finished snogging, Lucy and Wolfgang . . .’ called out Tristan, but so acidly no-one laughed.
‘Quiet, please,’ brayed Bernard.
At three forty-five, Pushy, deciding no-one on the set was paying her enough attention, suggested that as she was so much younger than Chloe and Hermione, she and Flora should have a carefree little bop together for the sake of continuity, while the older women discussed the ball. ‘We did have a love scene earlier,’ she pouted.
‘No,’ cried Flora in revulsion. It was the scene with Pushy that had wrecked her and George.
Seeing Flora about to bolt, and knowing he wouldn’t get another night’s filming out of her, Tristan told Pushy to pack it in. ‘We’ve got to get this ball scene in the can before sunrise and before Rupert come back and knock our heads together!’
‘No way he’ll return till Rannaldini’s safely back in his coffin,’ said Ogborne, in a sepulchral voice.
Three-quarters of an hour later Oscar, pretending to look into his view-finder, had fallen asleep. Flicking his fingers for Ogborne’s help, Valentin laid his father-in-law across two chairs. A faint pink flush in a very pale sky heralded the approach of sunrise, pigeons were cooing, blackbirds pecking the lawn for worms.
‘Cut and print. Well done, everyone, particularly Chloe,’ shouted Tristan. Thank God there were pros like her, who could dispatch a scene in one take. Thank God the deepest anxiety could be dispelled temporarily by a good night’s work.
Beyond the set, emerging from the uniform greyness of night, he could see urns overflowing with pink geraniums, white and yellow roses swarming up dark yews and cypresses. Beyond, the tall chimneys of River House soared like pale lupins.