by Jilly Cooper
He was in a twitchy mood anyway because there had been a lot of dropped telephone calls since yesterday. Rupert was only too aware of how beautiful and young his wife was, and he suspected Dr Benson’s handsome new partner and Kevin, the leftie social worker, who’d overseen Xav and Bianca’s adoption, of both being in love with her. Ghastly Kevin had even given Taggie a rose for Christmas which had been planted outside the back door, and which Rupert kicked every time he passed.
And now Kev had had the temerity to drop in – natch at drinks time – bringing Colombian wooden dolls for Xav and Bianca. He had been invited to stay on for smoked salmon and champagne by Taggie, desperate to provide Helen, very frosty from being called ‘Taggie’ and having her bottom pinched by Rupert’s father, with some intelligent conversation. Helen, who was now nose to nose on the sofa talking to Kevin about Nepalese folk music, winced in anticipation of the inevitable upheaval as Rupert swept in followed by Xavier and his usual pack of dogs.
Seeing Rupert’s bootfaced expression Kevin tried to humour him.
‘This little chap’s new,’ he said, pointing to an adorably floppy black labrador puppy with hooded tobacco-brown eyes and vast paws, who was romping with Rupert’s lurcher, Nimrod.
‘He’s mine,’ said Xav, joining both dogs on the floor. ‘Daddy gave him to me for Christmas. He’s called Bogotá.’
‘You never stop nagging me to find Xav a black friend, Kevin,’ drawled Rupert. ‘And now I have.’
‘I didn’t mean—’ began Kev, his Adam’s apple wobbling furiously.
‘Of course you didn’t,’ said Helen in outrage. ‘Why must you trivialize everything, Rupert? One simply cannot underestimate the importance of ethnic origins.’
‘Why aren’t you living in America then?’ snapped Rupert.
‘Rupert,’ said Taggie appalled, which gave Rupert the excuse he needed.
‘I know when I’m not wanted,’ he said and, gathering up Xav, stalked out of the house.
Running after him, but failing to catch him, Taggie returned to the drawing-room.
‘It’s so sad,’ Helen was saying to Kev, ‘that Rupert hasn’t got any easier over the years.’ Then, turning to Taggie, said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t cope with scenes like that, I’m going to lie down.’
There should have been eleven for dinner, five women and six men. As well as Lysander and Kitty, Taggie had invited Lysander’s father, David Hawkley, who, as a handsome widower and a headmaster, would have been perfect for Helen, but unable to face an English winter he had pushed off to Mykenos. Tab’s boyfriend, Damian, whom she tolerated as second best to Lysander, had taken umbrage, after being called a leftie yobbo by Rupert once too often, and ducked out as well. Then, after a mysterious telephone call this morning, Rupert’s father Eddie had asked if he could bring a woman friend, which meant they were two women extra.
Pre-dinner drinks were scheduled for seven-thirty. By seven o’clock Taggie had reached screaming pitch. The geese were sizzling enticingly, the Christmas pudding bubbling, the red cabbage, the celery purée, the crème de marron were warming gently in the left of the Aga and the potatoes cut round and as small as olives only needed frying very fast in clarified butter at the last moment.’
Bianca, however, had been given a maddening Christmas present – a cordless toy telephone which rang when she pressed a button and which everyone, particularly an increasingly jumpy Helen, kept mistaking for the real thing.
In addition, Taggie had been driven crackers all afternoon listening to the chatter of Mrs Bodkin, Rupert’s ancient housekeeper, who was more hindrance than help, and refereeing fights beween dogs and children. These had culminated in a screaming fit from Bianca, because a bored Nimrod had chewed the feet off Kevin’s Colombian doll. This had resulted in Taggie shouting at Bianca and dispatching a disapproving Mrs Bodkin to take her up to bed.
And Rupert wasn’t even here to write out the place names for her; it would be so humiliating if she spelt them all wrong in front of Helen. She couldn’t ask Marcus as he’d gone off to collect Flora, who, to Helen’s irritation, he had invited for moral support.
Taggie was panicking; she hadn’t even changed when there was a knock and a plump, smiling face came round the door.
‘Oh Kitty,’ said Taggie and burst into tears.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Kitty dumped brandy butter, winter fruit salad, apple sauce and mince pies down on the kitchen table.
‘Everything,’ sobbed Taggie. ‘Tab’s in a screaming strop. Rupert’s pushed off to the pub and I don’t think he’ll ever speak to me again for giving Ann-Marie Christmas week off and asking Helen to stay. And she’s been just awful. She hasn’t lifted a finger and can’t stop looking at everything and saying, “New picture, new carpet, new sofa,” and it’s years since she b-b-buggered off and Rupert and Lysander have worked so hard and done so well in the last two years, we’re entitled to have something new.’
Kitty patted Taggie’s heaving shoulders; she’d never seen her friend in such a state.
‘I’m sorry,’ sniffed Taggie. ‘And I’ve been vile to poor darling Bianca, and I haven’t said hallo to you, Arthur, are you having a nice Christmas?’
Arthur nodded. A blond, beaming bruiser just two and a quarter and capable of causing considerable havoc, he was clutching a toy trumpet. Having wriggled out of his blue duffle-coat, he was only interested in finding his hero, Xavier.
‘Xavier’s not back yet, darling,’ said Taggie. ‘He’s pushed off with his rotten father.’
‘Go and change,’ said Kitty soothingly. ‘Lysander’s gone to the pub to get some drink. He’ll bring Rupert back. I’ll take care of everything.’
‘If you could keep an eye on the goose and feed the dogs, and put out a bowl of puppy food for Xav’s puppy when he gets back. You do look nice,’ Taggie admired Kitty’s blue wool dress.
‘It’s a bit ’ot,’ admitted Kitty, ‘Lysander gave it to me. I’m ashamed we’ve had such a lovely day. Arfur and I didn’t get up till lunch-time and Lysander came back to bed after he and Rupert had done the ’orses, and you’ve been slaving away.’
Wearily Taggie climbed the stairs to Bianca’s bedroom where there was no lack of ethnic reminders. The yellow walls were covered with posters of Colombian countryside, sweeps of orchids, giant water-lilies and the lake where El Dorado’s gold was hidden which looked like a green yolk in a jagged grey eggshell of rock.
Bianca was never angry for long. Now, wearing new red pyjamas covered in reindeer, her dark curls tied on top of her head to keep them dry in the bath, she was bending over a doll’s pram putting her new footless doll to bed.
‘No, you tut up, Rosie,’ she was saying sternly, ‘I’ve been working my ass off all day for you.’
Giving a gasp of horrified laughter, Taggie gathered up Bianca and covered her with kisses.
‘Oh my angel, I’m sorry I swore at you. I love you so much.’
With her pale coffee-coloured skin flushed from the bath, her big black eyes and her loving smile, Bianca was the most beautiful child in the world, and had the sweetest nature, although spoilt rotten by everyone.
‘Mummy tired, mummy crying,’ said Bianca, then reaching over she pressed her new telephone.
‘Hallo,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid Rupert can’t take your call at the moment.’
Taggie giggled.
‘God knows what he’s up to,’ she took Bianca’s hand. ‘Come and talk to me while I get ready.’
But going into her bedroom, Taggie gave another utterly uncharacteristic howl of rage. Half her wardrobe had been pulled off its hangers and dropped on the floor, or on top of Nimrod, who was stretched out on the bed. He now raised a purple see-through shirt with his waving tail. Taggie’s tights drawer had been ransacked and the only sheer black pair filched. The pale pink camisole top Rupert had given her for Christmas had vanished, as well as her new pale amethyst satin blazer.
Charging into the bathroom she found her make-up box upended, and sh
ampoo, eye-drops, hair dryer and God knows what else, missing.
‘Tabitha,’ she screamed up the stairs, ‘how fucking dare you?’
‘Anything the matter?’ Helen appeared out of the bedroom opposite.
Just your bloody daughter, Taggie wanted to shout.
But, clenching her fists, she managed to control herself. ‘Sorry, I was yelling at one of the dogs.’
There was a pause. Helen was wearing long black velvet with a scooped neckline showing off jutting collar bones. Deciding to look tragic rather than stunning, she had left off her jewellery except Malise’s regimental brooch.
‘What a lovely dress,’ said Taggie dutifully.
‘It’s hanging off me,’ quavered Helen, ‘I’ve lost over a stone since Malise died.’
Shutting the door firmly behind her, she went on, ‘And I don’t have enough shoes to let Rupert’s damn dogs eat them. I suppose he’s not back. No? He was always disappearing like this when I was married to him.’
Going towards the stairs she jumped as the telephone rang.
‘Hallo,’ piped up Bianca. ‘Is that Tabiffa? How fucking, fucking dare you.’
Taggie had no time to do more than wash, tie back her lank hair and put on a peacock-blue dress covered with red poppies, which Rupert loathed but which was the only uncreased thing in her wardrobe.
‘Have a drink,’ she said going into the drawing-room.
‘Oh, champagne,’ sighed Helen, ‘I wish I could afford it at home.’
She was obviously bored with Kitty who, encased in her blue wool, was getting pinker by the minute.
How could Rannaldini have married and been upset by the departure of such a frump? wondered Helen.
Everyone, except Helen, was cheered up by the arrival of Flora who was wearing a grey silk shirt tucked into black velvet knickerbockers. Her red hair, tied back with a black bow, had all the shine and bounce that Helen’s had lost. She was also weighed down with presents: a Body Shop basket for Helen; Beethoven sonatas played by his hero Pablo Gonzales for Marcus; a tape called ‘Let’s Ride to Music’ for Rupert – ‘I thought your father would at least know “The Galloping Major”; and a long clinging silver-grey silk jersey cardigan for Taggie.
‘Oh bliss,’ cried Taggie overjoyed.
‘Marcus said your eyes were silver-grey.’
‘I’ll put it on straightaway. Marcus, darling, can you open another bottle?’
‘Isn’t this room gorgeous?’ Flora looked round, then seeing Helen looking broody and sensing her despair, Flora delved into her carrier bag.
‘I forgot. Boris sent you this, Mrs Gordon.’
‘How very dear of Boris.’
‘It was dear,’ said Flora, ‘cost most of Boris’s last advance from the BBC and it’s the first present he’s ever wrapped up. “I cannot cope with this chello tape,” he kept saying.’
‘Open it, Mum,’ urged Marcus, but Helen had put it on a side-table.
‘Where’s Grandpapa?’ asked Marcus.
‘Gone to collect his mystery guest,’ giggled Kitty. ‘It’s like What’s My Line? Is she in show business? Does she provide a service?’
‘That’s probably them,’ said Helen, as the dogs barked, but soon the barks turned to wimpers of excitement as Lysander weaved in, beautiful in a dinner-jacket and already drunk.
Having kissed Kitty in delight, hugged Flora, who was an old friend, clapped an arm round Marcus’s shoulder and shaken Helen’s hand, he proceeded to tell them what a wonderful time he and Rupert had had in the pub, and how much Xav had won on the fruit machine.
Lysander was a beautiful rider and his sympathy with horses had contributed hugely to Rupert’s successful transition to the flat.
‘Marcus says you’ve done brilliantly,’ Flora told him.
‘I did brilliantly at Christmas,’ giggled Lysander, ‘look what Arthur gave me.’ Raising a leg to show off luminous Father Christmas socks, he nearly fell over.
How could Kitty have left Rannaldini for such a silly boy? thought Helen in amazement.
Lysander nearly fell over again when Taggie walked. in wearing her new silver cardigan. Like Penscombe streams in the winter sunshine, it glittered so radiantly on her long slim body that no-one noticed her lank hair or her laddered tights.
A second later she was followed by Xav storming in on a new motorized tractor, followed by Bogotá and Nimrod, fighting noisily over a chewstik shoe. Xav had a glossy pudding-basin hair-cut these days. His eyes were speculative, arrogant and almost straight. He had been so happy since he moved to Penscombe that he had acquired all the confidence of a young rajah.
‘Where’s your father?’ asked Taggie through gritted teeth.
‘Changing,’ said Xavier.
‘He’s changed.’ Rupert sauntered in doing up his cuff-links, and headed straight for Taggie who ducked her head when he tried to kiss her.
‘You’re an absolute shite,’ she hissed.
‘I am a shite in wining armour.’
‘It is not funny. There are masses of bottles to open and no-one’s done the seating plan.’
‘Good, I can sit next to you, you are so beautiful.’
‘And you are so drunk and late.’
Rupert tried to pull himself together. ‘Go and open the red wine,’ he ordered Marcus. ‘And get some logs. We haven’t met.’ He nodded at Flora, then seeing Kitty, now scarlet in her blue dress, said, ‘Evening, Mrs Hawkley, you’re well rugged up.’
Kitty was terrified of Rupert and he, in turn, didn’t see the point of her at all, but she kept Lysander on the rails and got him up in the morning, even if she did look like boiled bacon.
‘Did you bring me a present?’ Xav asked Flora.
‘I certainly did, but you’ve got to share it with Arthur and Bianca,’ said Flora, handing him a large box of chocolate willies, which triggered off screams of laughter and excitement.
Only Helen looked disapproving. Typical Flora. What with his ex-wife and his cast-off, she was reminded of Rannaldini at every turn. And now Tabitha had stalked in, ravishing in Taggie’s pink camisole top and amethyst blazer, a purple mini round her groin, clean blond hair flopping over her angry blue eyes and flawless skin.
‘Lovely jacket,’ murmured Flora enviously.
‘That’s Taggie’s,’ snapped Rupert.
‘So?’ Tabitha glared at her father.
‘I lent it to her,’ mumbled Taggie. Oh, why was she so wet? Unable to face a showdown she fled to the kitchen where Marcus was opening bottles of Château Latour and had lit all the candles in the dining-room.
‘You are an angel,’ sighed Taggie.
At least the little potatoes were a perfect golden brown as she topped them with chopped parsley. The smell of truffle-flavoured goose was too much for the dogs who formed a slavering crescent round Taggie as she edged them out of the oven.
‘You’re so lucky to be able to escape to the kitchen.’ It was Helen’s shrill voice again. ‘You shouldn’t be humping logs, Marcus. Hi, Mrs Bodkin,’ Helen embraced her old housekeeper. ‘Surely you’re not working on Christmas Day. We used to get village girls in in the old days.’
You are definitely going to get this boiling fat in your face in a minute, vowed Taggie. It was twenty-past eight, everything would be ruined if Eddie didn’t show up soon.
‘Can’t wait to see my father’s latest bimbo.’ Rupert refilled everyone’s glasses.
Then, over more barking, a deep voice cried; ‘Coo-ee, everyone, we’re here.’
‘Oh no.’ Flora looked at Marcus in horror.
‘Timeo Danaos et prima donna ferentes,’ sighed Marcus.
The next moment, Eddie, wearing a dinner-jacket green with age, and leering like Old Steptoe, walked in with Hermione, who was wrapped in a cranberry-red wool cloak with an ermine-lined hood looking as deeply silly as she did stunning.
‘So caring of you to include me in your festivities,’ she said, advancing on a flabbergasted Rupert with outstretched hands.
&nbs
p; ‘I didn’t know you knew my father.’
‘Eddie and I are old friends,’ said Hermione with a roguish twinkle. ‘Other dear friends begged me to sing at their Christmas Eve soirée, it was so late when I got to bed and the Christmas Day flights are so hopeless, Eddie persuaded me to fly out tomorrow.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Rupert.
‘To Rannaldini’s, where else? My partner Bobby and little Cosmo are already out there. Rannaldini’s taken a Bohemian castle for the festive season, he likes to have all his children and ex-wives around him.’
‘Not all,’ said Lysander, putting an arm round Kitty.
‘Oh, there you are, Kitty,’ Hermione ignored Lysander. ‘What’s happened to my Merry Widow contract?’
Sliding out of her red cloak and a red-and-white Hermes scarf, she handed them to Eddie.
‘Put them in the hall, dear, and bring in my gifts.’
She was looking wonderful in boned red velvet with a bell skirt which showed off her comparatively small waist and pretty legs. A huge ruby pendant glowed above her big breasts.
I cannot believe this, thought Helen in mounting hysteria, Rannaldini’s ex-wife, his cast-off and now his mistress.
Having handed round CDs of her latest hit, ‘Santa of the Universe’, Hermione was now embracing Taggie before presenting her with a box of last year’s crystallized fruits and the salmon-pink gladioli, wrinkled in their Cellophane, which she’d been presented with the night before.
Barely acknowledging Flora, whom she detested, she turned joyfully on Helen.
‘How are you? How are you? We met many moons ago with Rannaldini at Bagley Hall.’
‘How is he?’ whispered Helen.
‘Oh, full of beans. He was telling me your late husband—’ Hermione bowed her dark head. ‘I’m so sorry, we won’t discuss it – wrote a wonderful book on the flute. I want you to have an advance copy of “Only for Lovers”.’
Helen looked down at the CD case which showed a smirking Rannaldini with his hands on Hermione’s bare shoulders.
‘Thank you,’ she mumbled, then leapt as the telephone rang. Rannaldini must have got the number from Hermione, but Rupert had already picked it up.