Score!

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Why do the most beautiful girls always pal up with dogs?’ said Ogborne, still sour at not being asked to share Lucy’s bed.

  ‘Because their dogs like each other,’ said Sylvestre, as Sharon the Labrador bounced up to James the lurcher, who went up on his toes and nearly sent a bowl of grape hyacinths flying with his long wagging tail.

  Tab immediately launched into the state of her marriage.

  ‘Isa was there when I got home from auditioning horses. Then he went straight out, saying he’d gotta go over to bloody Jake’s and couldn’t make dinner tonight. So I press the redial button, and guess who answered? Fucking Martie in Australia. I’m going mad, Luce.’ She drained half her vodka, hand trembling.

  ‘And what was even worse, when I ran down the garden trying to catch Isa, I saw this man on a horse, his hair white-blond in the moonlight, and for a second, I thought, by some miracle, Daddy had come to take me away from this nightmare. Then I realized it was bloody Wolfgang having a snoop. He’s furious Rannaldini’s lent us Magpie Cottage. And Rannaldini’s given him this ace job and he’s got no experience. Can’t you see The Ladybird Book of the Cinema sticking out of his pocket?’

  Lucy was about to say how sorry she was, when Rannaldini clapped his hands for silence.

  ‘I would like to welcome you all to the Throne Room at Valhalla on this very special evening,’ he said smoothly, ‘and introduce my wife Helen, our daughter Tabitha, by the fireplace, and our son, Wolfgang.’ He turned to smile at the extremely handsome but undeniably boot-faced young man standing by the window.

  ‘Wolfgang, Wolfgang,’ Hermione charged forward, ‘I haven’t seen you since you were in short pants.’

  ‘And hasn’t he turned out yummily,’ sighed Meredith, to giggles all round. Poor Wolfgang blushed dark crimson.

  ‘Tabitha, you look just laike your sibling,’ said Pushy Galore, who although only in the chorus, had somehow pushed her way into the party and, to match the décor, was busting out of red velvet braided with gold, ‘but not laike your dad or mum.’

  ‘Rannaldini’s not my father,’ spat Tabitha, ‘any more than he’s my brother.’ She scowled at Wolfgang, who scowled back.

  An awkward silence was defused by Tristan wandering in. His hair was still wet from the shower, his eyes bloodshot from late nights poring over the storyboards of each scene, which, like an extended comic strip, covered the walls of his suite upstairs.

  Tristan apologized profusely for being late and for Lady Griselda who, knowing everyone in Rutshire as well as Dorset, had gone out to dinner, for his delectable niece Simone, who needed ten hours’ sleep on the eve of a shoot, and for Bernard, his first assistant director, who was handling some row with Equity and couldn’t make it either. He was then so charming to everyone, particularly Helen, that she soon forgot about dust, breakages and chipped paintwork.

  In fact, Tristan was incredibly uptight. He always got blinding headaches before filming started, particularly after that row with Rannaldini. He needed five more hours on the score. His confidence had been jolted because his cult film The Betrothed had just lost out in the Oscars to a mainstream American comedy. He was alsosad to see the large salacious Étienne de Montigny of Abelard and Héloïse, which his father had left Rannaldini, hanging opposite the fireplace, to Helen’s obvious distaste.

  Oscar, the director of photography, and his son-in-law Valentin, however, were both jolted out of their habitual languor by the painting. ‘That’s the look we need for the shove-and-grunt scenes, Tristan,’ said Oscar, waving his green cigarette-holder in the direction of Héloïse’s left breast. ‘Beautiful flesh tones. Your father certainly knew about light.’

  ‘I love that painting too,’ said Hermione, smiling warmly at Oscar because she wanted him to light her beautifully, and because she liked the piratical good looks of his son-in-law. ‘Étienne de Montigny was always begging me to sit for him.’

  Tristan had had enough and belted off to the more reassuring comfort of Lucy, who had been deserted by Tabitha in need of more vodka, and who went scarlet when Tristan kissed her on both her already flushed cheeks. Oh, why had she worn a red wool twinset to stand by a blazing fire?

  ‘Thank you ever so much for the bluebells,’ she stammered.

  ‘I know you love them, and I remember very good poem about Lucy.

  ‘A violet by a mossy stone,

  Half hidden from the eye.

  Fair as a star, when only one

  Is shining in the sky.’

  Tristan reeled off the verse in triumph.

  But no-one looks at her when all the other stars come out, thought Lucy. She’d never found the poem very flattering.

  There was a pause.

  ‘And this must be James.’ Tristan put out a hand to stroke Lucy’s lurcher, who was now curled up on the crimson throne initialled E for Excellent.

  ‘You remembered,’ said Lucy rapturously.

  ‘Of course. He is beautiful. How old is he?’

  ‘About twelve, the vet says.’

  ‘Where did you get him?’

  ‘I was on a shoot in the East End. He was running round the streets, terrified, with his lead flapping, so I coaxed him into my caravan with a bit of quiche. He was starving.’

  The words were tumbling out of Lucy’s big, trembling mouth. ‘Then he leapt on to a chair, as if he wanted me to make him up, so I took off his lead to make him feel at home and put it on the table. Would you believe it? The next moment, he’d leapt down, snatched back his lead, put it on his chair, jumped back and sat on it.’ As Lucy caressed James’s brown velvet ears, her voice broke. ‘He was desperate not to lose the only possession he had in the world. I had to keep him after that. I’m sorry,’ Lucy wiped her eyes, smearing her mascara, ‘I’m boring you.’

  ‘I would run around East End with lead trailing,’ said Tristan gently, ‘if it found me an owner like you.’

  Squawking, like a pheasant disturbed in a wood, was coming from the other end of the room. Oscar, not recognizing Hermione, had put up the terrible black of assuming Tabitha was the beautiful young girl who was going to play Elisabetta, and loudly assuring her he would have no problem lighting her at all.

  Hermione was hopping.

  Touching Lucy’s blushing cheek with one finger, Tristan shot off to calm Hermione, which also gave him a chance to say hello to Tab. But Tab had grabbed a bottle and, saying quite untruthfully that Lucy’s glass was empty as an excuse to fill her own, shot past him going the other way.

  ‘Who’s that man who looks as though a marmalade cat’s died on his head?’ she hissed.

  ‘That’s Colin Milton,’ grinned Lucy, lowering her voice. ‘Poor old boy’s been in the wilderness for years. Kept forgetting his lines and then had a nervous breakdown. He’s playing the Spanish ambassador. He’s really sweet.’

  Meanwhile, anxious to make Alpheus jealous, Chloe was chatting up Wolfgang and, to prove she was not just a pretty face, discussing Schiller.

  ‘In the play,’ she said, ‘Philip offers his mistress, Eboli, in marriage to a disgusting old courtier.’

  ‘He also offers Carlos up to the Inquisition,’ said Wolfgang bleakly, ‘because both his mistress and his wife are in love with Carlos. His religion gave Philip a marvellous excuse to murder a son he hated.’

  Wow, thought Chloe, you’re a chilly boy, ruthless as your dad. The combination of blond, chiselled, Luftwaffe-pilot looks with Rannaldini’s night-dark eyes was very disturbing.

  ‘Oh, goodee!’ Hermione clapped her hands. ‘Here’s Alpheus.’

  Alpheus, who had deliberately arrived late to make an entrance, looked splendid, deeply tanned, wearing a frilly cream shirt tucked into dark blue velvet trousers to show off his T-bone figure. Helen’s eyes widened with excitement as he kissed her hand.

  ‘Here comes the Lothario from Long Island,’ said Baby sourly.

  ‘He is handsome,’ reproached Flora.

  ‘Like a lobster,’ snapped Baby. ‘Tasty body, but a head ful
l of shit.’

  ‘Dinner is served,’ grumbled Mr Brimscombe, the gardener, who was violently opposed to Rannaldini’s plan to obliterate his flower-beds in a great Buckingham Palace sweep of lawn down to the lake, and who had only agreed to butle because so much crumpet was on view.

  As the Great Hall was being transformed by Meredith’s myrmidons into Philip II’s bedroom, they dined in the old Prussian blue dining room, which now had walls the tawny red of beef consommé, and a gold ceiling to match all the gold plate and the frames of the portraits on the walls. A brass trough filled with white daffodils stretched down the middle of the table.

  ‘“And then my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils,”’ said Tristan, who had been summoned to sit on Helen’s right, but hoped Lucy and therefore Tab might come and sit on his other side. But, tossing her ringlets, Pushy Galore nipped in and stole the seat.

  ‘How the hell did she get in here?’ Chloe hissed to Flora.

  ‘Sexton brought her. In that dress, she looks as though he ordered her from the Past Times Christmas catalogue. The last shall be first – she’ll probably end up marrying Tristan.’

  ‘Having cased the joint, she’ll more likely become the next Lady Rannaldini. As Helen clearly hasn’t thought we were worth a seating plan, shall we sit together?’

  Flora nodded, clutching a furiously growling Trevor to stop him attacking James. She was actually in a state of shock. She’d had no idea her old flame Wolfie was working on the film or that he’d grown so devastatingly attractive. If only she’d bothered to wash her hair and change.

  In honour of the stag hunt with which Don Carlos opens, they dined on the darkest, meltingly tender venison steeped in a rich red wine sauce.

  ‘The secret of venison is that it should be well hung,’ announced Hermione, scooping up most of the delicious celeriac purée.

  ‘Like blokes,’ agreed Baby.

  ‘Sublime, Rannaldini,’ announced Alpheus, determined to raise the tone. ‘How d’you make it so goddam tender?’

  ‘I eenjeck the marinade into the tissue with a hypodermic syringe,’ purred Rannaldini.

  ‘How gross,’ snapped Tabitha, and fed her venison to Sharon under the table.

  Colin Milton wasn’t eating his venison either. ‘“Great Henry, the glorious King of France,”’ he muttered to himself, ‘“wishes to bestow the hand of his daughter . . .”’ Oh, hell, what came next?

  His hand was shaking so dreadfully that when he tried to raise his glass of Château Mouton Rothschild 1949 to his lips, he spilt it.

  ‘Don’t waste that stuff, Colin,’ shouted Rannaldini, down the table. ‘Eet cost a fortune.’

  Bastard, thought Lucy, who was already embarrassed because she had refused the venison.

  Sitting beside her, Wolfie noticed her empty plate.

  ‘I don’t eat meat,’ she stammered. ‘I’ll be fine with vegetables.’

  Wolfie stood up. ‘I’ll have a word with . . .’ he glanced up the table at Helen ‘. . . er, Mrs Rannaldini.’

  ‘Lady Rannaldini,’ howled Rannaldini. ‘Have you lost your manners, Wolfgang?’

  An ugly flush spread over Wolfie’s face and his white-knuckled hands clenched the table. Lucy felt terrible, particularly when Mrs Brimscombe hobbled in, apologizing, with the most delectable vegetable lasagne.

  ‘I make it specially for you, Lucy,’ called Rannaldini, determined to ingratiate himself with Tabitha’s friend.

  You’re still a bastard, thought Lucy, delighted that Wolfie was now defiantly emptying tomato ketchup over his venison.

  When everyone was eating the lightest primrose yellow syllabub with bitter chocolate sauce, Tristan stood up. Having thanked Rannaldini and Helen for allowing their house to be invaded, he went on to talk about Don Carlos, repeating Verdi’s description of:

  ‘“A family drama in a princely house”, which must have been very like Valhalla. It is also a story about sexual jealousy and loneliness in high places.

  ‘Both Schiller and Verdi were obsessed with oppression,’ Tristan continued, ‘the tyranny of Philip II over his family and his subjects, the tyranny of the Church over everything. Today, the Church has loosed its stranglehold, instead we – and particularly the Royal Family and the government – are controlled by the media. That is why we have set our Don Carlos in modern dress, with a corrupt press baron replacing the Grand Inquisitor.’

  As part of her job Lucy never stopped watching faces. Seeing the rapt attention of Flora, Chloe, Pushy, Hermione, Helen and even Tab, her heart sank. How stupid to think she had a hope against such dazzling competition. Lost as a star, when all the rest are shining in the sky, she thought sadly. As if to comfort her, James laid his long nose on her knee. At least she hadn’t had to go abroad this time and leave him behind.

  In the flickering candlelight, Tristan’s face had lost its hollows and yellow-greyish pallor. His eyes glowed with conviction.

  ‘None of us is going to get him into bed,’ murmured Meredith to Baby. ‘Like Spielberg, he only fucks the movie.’

  ‘In real life Don Carlos was horrible person,’ Tristan was now telling his audience. ‘He roast animals alive, he gallop his horse to death, he assault and flog palace maids, he even bit the head off a pet lizard and ate it.’

  ‘Ooh,’ squealed Pushy.

  ‘I could have murdered a whole lizard at Champney’s last week,’ called out Baby.

  ‘You are very beautiful now, so it pay off,’ laughed Tristan, then serious again. ‘Tomorrow we begin filming the first act, which is perhaps the most tragic. Dusk is falling on a great forest. The huntsmen are riding home. Elisabetta and Carlos experience le coup de foudre, first love striking like lightning. They have few moments of ecstasy, thinking they will live happy for ever. Then it is over.’

  Noticing the desolation on Tabitha’s face, he was ashamed to feel a flicker of satisfaction her marriage might not be working out. He had been haunted by dreams of her lean, jeaned body and garlanded head ever since the wedding.

  After he’d wished everyone good luck for the morning, there was applause, coffee and liqueurs.

  Down the table Hermione was telling Alpheus that Rannaldini often lent her his Gulf IV for overseas engagements. Why shouldn’t the Maestro do the same for his principal bass?

  Misinterpreting the excitement on her lover’s face, Chloe tried once more to galvanize Wolfie. ‘Do you like opera?’ she asked.

  ‘I liked you in Nabucco,’ admitted Wolfie, ‘when the ENO brought it to Munich.’

  ‘It’s pronounced Na-book-o,’ snarled an eavesdropping Rannaldini.

  I hate my father, thought Wolfie, I should never have come back. I hate Helen. She had always been a pain in the arse when her son Marcus and Wolfie had been at school together. And now she had put him back in his old room, which she’d obviously been using as a spare room, then expected him to rave over the chintz curtains and the flower paintings on the pretence she’d redecorated it especially for him.

  I loathe Tabitha, he thought. She’s a spoilt brat, worse than Little Cosmo, more arrogant than her father, and now in possession of the nicest cottage on the estate. And there, laughing across the table with Chloe, was Flora, his old love, bloody gold-digger, covered in his father’s fingerprints, now shacked up with a guy as old as and probably richer than his father. He had forgiven neither her nor Rannaldini, and Flora, seeing the antagonism battling with the longing in Wolfie’s eyes, found it very disturbing. As solid as Tebaldo’s gun, she fingered the mobile in her jeans pocket, willing George to ring.

  Rannaldini was now talking about Valhalla.

  ‘Part of the house is twelve century. It has been owned since the beginning by aristocrats or monks.’

  ‘Certainly by neither today,’ said Tabitha sourly, as she reached through the white daffodils for the Kummel.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Rannaldini ignored her, ‘on summer nights we ’ear the most beautiful plainsong from the chapel, but no-one is there. A sad, weeping l
ady in grey, Caroline Beddoes, is often seen gazing out of a blocked-up window on the north side. She has blood on her dress and a little dog in her arms. Sometime she glide through doors which exeest no longer. You can hear the hiss of her silk skirts on the flagstones.

  ‘And, of course, as in many great houses, there is a legend that when the lake dries up the head of the family will die.’

  ‘It looked promisingly low on the way down,’ murmured Baby.

  Everyone laughed nervously, glancing furtively into the shadowy corners – except Alpheus.

  ‘Did you really manage to negotiate a cash settlement?’ he was asking Hermione.

  ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Sir Roberto?’ quavered Pushy.

  The lights seemed to dim.

  ‘I believe, my dear,’ the excited throb in Rannaldini’s voice was growing more insistent, ‘in a great departure lounge crowded with spirits desperate to get to the next world or to return to this one, to avenge themselves or to clear their name or find a lost love.’

  ‘Attractive, isn’t he?’ whispered Chloe.

  ‘Satanically,’ shivered Flora.

  ‘Been to bed with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So have I. Brilliant, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We also have the legend of the Paradise Lad, a beautiful novice,’ Rannaldini’s eyes gleamed, ‘flogged to death by the monks for falling in love with a village girl. Sometime we hear him sobbing. Listen.’ As Rannaldini held up a white hand, a moan came from the chimney and everyone jumped in terror. ‘But it is probably only the wind.’

  The port and brandy were orbiting like formula-one cars. Suddenly the door creaked slowly open. People screamed and clutched each other, as no-one entered. Then Rannaldini’s white cat, Sarastro, padded in.