by Jilly Cooper
Rupert raised an eyebrow at Gerald’s glass of whisky.
‘Are we in trouble?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gerald. ‘The press are going berserk already. I told the switchboard to say you’d left. We’ll have to smuggle you out by a side door.’
Tony, having introduced the big advertisers to Rupert, went and vented his fury on Declan.
‘I thought I told you to fucking well crucify him.’
‘I tried to,’ said Declan coldly, ‘but he was too good for me,’ and, turning on his heel, he headed towards the drinks.
Seeing Tony coming to give her an earful, Cameron grabbed a plate of quiche and took it over to Rupert, who, to Sarah’s fury, turned away from the group to talk to her. After the tension of the interview, he was gripped by the lust that always used to overwhelm him after a big show-jumping class. In the old days he would have screwed a groom or a show-jumping groupie in the back of his lorry. Tonight he was sure he could choose between Daysee, Sarah or Cameron. Daysee was too thick, Sarah too possessive, Cameron on the other hand had a reckless, scrawny nymphomania and pulling her would have the added charm of irritating the hell out of Tony.
‘Well,’ he said icily, ‘I had to box bloody clever to get out of that one. I suppose Tony put Declan up to it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Cameron.
Glancing up, she found she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
‘Being sorry isn’t enough,’ said Rupert softly. ‘I’m going to get my own back.’
Cameron gasped. She could see Tony bearing down on them.
‘I was wondering if you’d like to come on another programme? It’s the third Thursday in March,’ she stammered.
‘And have open-heart surgery all over again without an anaesthetic? No, thanks. Besides it’s Cheltenham.’
‘It’s not until the evening,’ said Cameron quickly. ‘All we’d want you to do is to judge “Miss Corinium Television” with Declan. There are some beautiful girls entered.’
‘I might just be able to drag myself away,’ said Rupert, ‘as long as you promise me a night in the Cotchester Arms with the winner as second prize.’
‘What’s the first prize?’ said Cameron, knowing the answer.
‘A night in the Cotchester Arms with you,’ said Rupert, ‘and my God, I’d make you walk differently in the morning.’
It was several seconds before they both realized that a tense-looking Gerald was tapping Rupert on the arm.
‘Telephone. It’s the PM.’
‘Oh Christ,’ said Rupert. ‘Back benches here I come.’
‘Well done,’ said the Prime Minister in her rich deep voice that always sounded like Carnation Milk pouring out of a tin. ‘We were very proud of you.’
‘You were?’ said Rupert in amazement.
‘Well, what else could you have done, faced with that spiteful little pinko? You handled him very well. That interview will do us a lot of good in the opinion polls.’
‘Good God,’ said Rupert putting down the telephone, ‘she actually liked it.’
‘Was that really the PM?’ said one of the big advertisers in awe.
‘Did she mention me?’ said James, who’d rolled up from a Save-the-Aged fund-raising party.
‘I’ve booked a table for us at the Horn of Plenty at nine-thirty,’ said Cameron casually to Rupert. ‘The cars are waiting downstairs.’
Despite her off-hand manner, Rupert noticed she was quivering with expectancy, like a greyhound ordered to sit when the woolly rabbit sets off round the track. Then he caught a glimpse of Declan, looking grey and utterly shattered. Once again he remembered Taggie’s tears on New Year’s Eve.
‘Sweet of you,’ he said to Cameron, ‘but Declan and I are going back to Penscombe. We’ve got things to discuss.’
Aware of Tony watching her, Cameron hid her bitter disappointment. Being very young, Sarah had no such reserve. ‘You can’t go,’ she wailed. ‘We’ll be far too many girls.’
‘James can come instead,’ said Tony smoothly. ‘That’s if he hasn’t got to rush home to Lizzie.’
‘Of course not,’ said James.
‘That’s rather uncaring of you,’ said Sarah sulkily.
‘Work comes first,’ said James sanctimoniously. ‘And you haven’t told me what you thought of my Valentine, Sarah. I thought it was rather nice that it was sold to raise money for the Cat’s Protection League.’
Back at Penscombe, two Jack Russells, a young black labrador, two springer spaniels and a blue lurcher threw themselves on Rupert in ecstasy. Once inside, Rupert whisked Gerald and Declan past tapestried hunting scenes and portraits of ancestors, only pausing to point out a huge oil painting of Badger, into the kitchen, which was low-beamed with a flagstone floor, and a window looking over the valley. As Gerald found a bottle of whisky and three glasses and Rupert investigated the fridge and the larder, Declan looked at the pictures on the wall. They were mostly paintings of dogs and horses and framed photographs of two incredibly beautiful children.
‘That’s Tabitha,’ said Rupert, pointing to a little girl on a pony festooned with rosettes.
‘She’s magic,’ said Declan.
‘She’s doing bloody well in junior classes already.’
‘Does the boy ride?’ said Declan, looking at the sensitive, nervous face and the huge eyes.
‘No. He gets asthma, but he skis well, and he’s extremely clever.’ There was a slight edge to Rupert’s voice.
‘Can I have a look round?’ asked Declan.
‘Go ahead,’ said Rupert.
As he wandered through beautiful pastel room after pastel room admiring the incredible pictures: a Romney, a Gainsborough, a Lely, a Thomas Lawrence, and two Stubbs for starters, and the lovingly polished furniture, he thought the whole house was like a museum, beautiful but crying out for someone to live in it, or like a horse, constantly bridled, saddled and groomed to perfection, but with no one to ride it.
Finding the library, Declan was lost in admiration. He’d never seen such books in a private house – first editions of Scott, Dickens, Trollope, Wordsworth, Keats and Shelley, and a whole set of Oscar Wilde, and other books so rare there couldn’t be more than half-a-dozen copies in the country.
Half an hour later Rupert found him, oblivious of time, immersed in a first edition of Middlemarch.
‘Supper. Christ, you can’t read in this light!’
‘Can I come and live here?’ said Declan, shaking his head in bewildered reverence.
‘Borrow anything you like whenever you want to. No one else reads them. Helen pretended to, but never seemed to get beyond the first chapter.’
Laid out on the kitchen table was smoked salmon, brown bread, gulls’ eggs and half a heated-up chicken pie. Gerald had also made a tomato salad and fried some potatoes.
‘It’s very good of you,’ mumbled Declan. ‘I couldn’t have faced dinner with Tony.’
‘Not up to Taggie’s standard, I’m afraid,’ said Rupert, adding casually, ‘How is she?’
‘Very pleased with Gertrude’s Valentine.’
‘Oh, she got it?’ said Rupert. ‘Ironic that the first Valentine I ever sent in my life should be to a dog.’
They talked about politics, horses and sport, and then Rupert filled Declan in on local gossip, and some of the early history of Penscombe.
‘I hope Penscombe waits for me,’ sighed Declan. ‘I’ve been so busy since we’ve lived here, I’ve never had a chance to explore it. I haven’t even been into the local pub yet.’
It was not until they’d both got pretty drunk, and Gerald had gone to bed, that Rupert asked how things were at Corinium.
‘Bloody awful,’ said Declan.
‘Tony?’
Declan nodded wearily. ‘I seem to go from Baddingham to worse.’
‘He didn’t look very happy after the programme.’
‘He wasn’t. He wanted me to carve you up.’
Rupert grinned. ‘You had a bloody good try. I know why Tony
was out for my blood, but why you? Just because I’m a Tory?’
‘No, for screwing up Tag at Valerie Jones’s dinner party.’
‘Ah.’
‘And I thought you were after her at Patrick’s birthday party.’
Suddenly Declan didn’t want to mention Maud.
Rupert inhaled deeply on his cigar. ‘Would that have been so bad?’
‘She’s eighteen and desperately insecure,’ said Declan roughly. ‘She’s simply not equipped to cope. You’d break her like a moth caught in the typewriter keys.’
‘Ouch,’ said Rupert wincing.
‘I saw them all slavering this evening,’ went on Declan, ‘Sarah, Cameron, that imbecile Daysee. You could have had any of them. Just spare Taggie.’
Rupert, however, was reluctant to drop the subject.
‘But she seems incredibly competent. She cooked brilliantly for Valerie and she coped with your party on New Year’s Eve virtually single-handed.’
‘Oh, she’s competent enough,’ said Declan. ‘You mustn’t assume people with dyslexia are thick, just because they have difficulty reading and writing. Albert Einstein, Leonardo da Vinci and Thomas Edison were all dyslexic. So was General Patton. He could never learn the alphabet or his tables by heart.’
‘Good God,’ said Rupert in alarm. ‘So we can expect to see Taggie commanding the Third Army at any minute.’
Declan grinned.
Rupert filled up their glasses with brandy.
‘Is Tony really giving you a hard time?’
‘Septic tankwise, I’m up to here.’ Declan drew a finger across his throat.
He got up and wandered slightly unsteadily towards the window.
‘Beautiful house this. Where’s The Priory from here?’
Rupert pointed to the left, where, through a spiky fuzz of trees, a light was burning. ‘Taggie’s still awake, that’s her bedroom,’ he added without thinking. Then, when Declan instantly looked bootfaced, ‘It’s all right. I had to bodily remove some drunk from her room the night of your party because Taggie wanted to go to bed – alone.’
As Rupert joined Declan beside the window, dogs, sprawled all over the floor, sleepily thumped their tails.
‘D’you know what I’ve always wanted to do?’ said Rupert idly. ‘Buy that wood below your house.’
‘Pretty useless piece of land,’ said Declan.
‘Fifty yards to the right of the stream you could make the most perfect dry ski slope. You wouldn’t see it from the road. It’d be hidden by trees on both sides.’
‘How much d’you reckon it’s worth?’
‘About thirty-five grand,’ lied Rupert.
‘Seems a helluva lot,’ said Declan, stroking Jack Russells with both hands.
‘You could still walk through the rest of the wood if you wanted to,’ said Rupert.
But Declan wasn’t listening. Thirty-five grand would get me off the hook for the moment with the tax man, he thought, and pay the electricity bill and Caitlin’s school fees.
‘Think about it, anyway,’ said Rupert. ‘You also need a day off. Come out hunting on Saturday week. I’ll lend vou a horse.’
When Declan finally got back to The Priory, he left all the car lights on, flattened several purple crocuses on the edge of the lawn and drove slap through a flower bed.
Waiting for him on the stairs, both looking equally disapproving, were Taggie and Gertrude.
‘Why,’ said Taggie, ‘were you so g-g-gratuitously beastly to Rupert?’
RIVALS
23
On the third Monday in March Cameron Cook had the sadistic idea of summoning the entire Corinium staff to a power breakfast in Studio I at eight o’clock in the morning. While they blearily consumed croissants and muesli, and orange juice (scrambled egg was considered to contain too much cholesterol), Tony gave them a rousing pep talk on how each one of them could personally help retain the franchise.
‘This is a very exciting time,’ said Tony heartily. ‘“Dorothy Dove” and “Four Men went to Mow” have yet again been nominated for BAFTA Awards. Our new series on the elderly, “Young as You Feel”, starts next week. And we’re delighted to announce that our new presenter is going to be Naomi Hargreaves, who, as you know, climbed Everest last year at the age of sixty-five.
‘Our new networked quiz, “Master Dog”, to find the canine brain of Britain, starts recording on Wednesday. The new series of “Four Men went to Mow” starts at the end of April and a performance of Michael Tippett’s Midsummer Marriage will be recorded in Cotchester Park in early June. James Vereker’s and Sarah Stratton’s new afternoon programme starts on Monday week.’ Tony smiled warmly at Sarah, and received a black look from Cameron. ‘And we all wish them the best of luck.
‘Finally, Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ Tony added with a sigh of relief, ‘is virtually in the can. We anticipate two days re-shooting, tomorrow and Wednesday, leaving Studio I free for “Miss Corinium Television” on Thursday.’
To put Declan down, Tony had deliberately not mentioned his programme, but now, looking round the packed studio, he discovered to his fury that Declan didn’t appear to be present.
Declan, in fact, was at home, having got up at five to wrestle with his Yeats biography. Looking at the pile of scribbled notes and typed pages on his desk, he felt like Vidal Sassoon confronted by the wild woman of the West with fifty years of burrs and tangles in her hair. He wished he had Vidal Sassoon’s skills. He was so tired, he hadn’t had an original thought for weeks. Matters had not been helped by Grace finally walking out at the weekend because Declan had bawled her out for drinking all his whisky. Maud, furious at losing her ally and sparring partner, blamed Declan for the whole thing and was refusing to talk to him.
His black gloom was interrupted by Ursula ringing up to say she had flu.
‘Poor thing. Stay in bed,’ said Declan. ‘Can I bring you anything?’
‘No, but I’m terribly sorry, I forgot to remind you about Cameron’s power breakfast,’ said Ursula.
At Corinium Tony was winding up his peroration: ‘I have no doubt that Corinium will retain the franchise, but I cannot remind you too strongly that this year we are on show. The IBA will not only be monitoring our programmes more closely, and examining our finances and our staff relations, but they will be looking to see how we conduct ourselves both as individuals and as a company. Any complaints from a local body, pressure group or a restaurateur will count as the blackest mark. Seb Burrows’ twenty-first birthday party last week, for example, completely broke up the Beaufort room at the Cotchester Arms. If you ever have another twenty-first birthday, Seb —’ Tony’s big smile flashed on – ‘you’ll be fired.’
Realizing some sort of joke had been made, the staff tittered feebly.
‘Finally I must warn you that that scourge of violence and, particularly, sex, the Reverend Fergus Penney, ex-Prebendary of the Church of England, will be visiting the station tomorrow, so for Christ’s sake behave yourselves and make him feel welcome. And remember above all, appearance does matter.’
Exactly on cue, Declan walked in, deathly pale, hair unbrushed, stubble blacking his jaw, and his jersey inside out.
‘I’m sorry, Tony,’ he said, ‘1 forgot.’
‘We’ve just finished,’ said Tony coolly. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the boat, but that’s nothing unusual.’
‘Where are you going?’ shouted Cameron, as Declan turned towards the exit.
‘Home,’ snapped Declan, ‘I’ve got a lot of lying down to do.’
The next day, 21st March, was the first day of Spring. The Head of News sent a crew off to photograph lambs playing in a field. James wore a new primrose yellow tracksuit to urge viewers to join his new sponsored Slim-for-Spring campaign to raise money for heart research, and Declan came in to interview Guilini. The programme, for once, was being recorded as Guilini was flying to New York for a concert straight afterwards.
The fair Daysee Butler, keen to do her bit for the franchise,
accepted an invitation to lunch from someone almost as grand as Guilini. As it was programme day, she only sipped Perrier and ate one course of chefs salad. Her very distinguished companion, however, departed from his usual Perrier and put away a large whisky before lunch, a whole bottle of claret during, and a large brandy afterwards. He hardly touched his monkfish, but was charmed that Daysee should peel his Mediterranean prawns for him as she told him, admittedly rather monotonously, how she got every programme out on time.
On the drive back from the restaurant, which was several miles outside Cotchester, Daysee’s very distinguished companion, mindful that it was the first day of Spring, pulled into a side road to admire some leaping lambs and leapt on poor Daysee. By the time he had torn half the buttons off her yellow angora jersey with the picture of Donald Duck on the front, and grabbed goatily at her thighs, laddering her stockings, Daysee was so frightened she dashed out of the car and, taking off her high heels, ran sobbing across Cotchester water meadows, across the tarmac of the car park and in through the back door of Corinium Television. Here she collided with Tony, who had lunched not wisely but too well. The sight of poor Daysee with her blonde hair awry, her mascara streaked with tears, her stockings muddy and laddered, and her yellow jersey half torn off her beautiful body, melted even Tony’s stony heart.
‘My dear child, what is the matter?’
‘Someone’s just tried to rape me,’ wailed Daysee.
Next minute she was whisked up in the fast lift to Tony’s office and ensconced on the squashy leather sofa, sobbing her heart out while Tony poured her a vast brandy.
‘There, drink this.’
‘I mustn’t,’ sobbed Daysee. ‘I’ll never be able to count Declan’s programme out on time.’
‘Nonsense! One glass of brandy won’t hurt you. Anyway, it’s only some tinpot conductor.’
Getting out his red silk handkerchief smelling of Paco Rabanne, Tony dried Daysee’s eyes. She was really very, very pretty.
‘Now, tell me who it was.’
‘I c-c-can’t.’
‘Come on, you can trust me.’ He sat down on the sofa beside her.