by Jilly Cooper
‘I hope you’re using a Condom Perignon,’ mumbled Lizzie half-laughing and half-crying with pleasure as he entered her.
Brahms’s Second Piano Concerto was her favourite piece of music, but from then on she forgot its existence until the last ecstatic bars of the final Allegretto.
‘You’re absolutely perfick,’ whispered Freddie. ‘You’re the big fing in my life now.’
‘I love you,’ said Lizzie.
‘And I love you,’ said Freddie.
Afterwards they had another bottle and ate all the coffee cake, and longed to make love again, but decided it was too risky. To establish an alibi, Lizzie then went shopping in Cotchester, so drunk and happy she could hardly get the clothes back on the hangers. Coming out of the chemist, having bought a huge guilt present of Aramis for James, which she thought she might give to Freddie, she heard a car tooting.
Not being vain, she didn’t even turn round when it went on tooting, and only did so when Tony Baddingham lowered his electric window and yelled out to her.
Keeping her mouth tight shut so he wouldn’t catch the champagne fumes, wondering if he could see the words ‘adulterer and traitor’ branded on her forehead, she edged towards him.
‘You’re looking great,’ said Tony smoothly. ‘Really great.
Must have been a good holiday. What have you been buying?’
‘Scent for James,’ said Lizzie.
‘How very nice,’ said Tony. ‘And it isn’t even his birthday!
You’re a good wife, Lizzie. Look forward to seeing you on Saturday week.’
‘Saturday?’ said Lizzie, bewildered.
‘Sarah Stratton’s dinner party,’ said Tony. ‘We’ll have a good talk then.’
Back at Lake House, Lizzie rushed upstairs, washed off all her make-up and scent, removed the nail polish from her toes and got into her old clothes in case James came home early. Fortunately he was very late, so she was able to watch almost the entire production of Midsummer Night’s Dream by herself. It was magical, despite Titania’s bulge, and must have won Corinium a lot of Brownie points in the franchise battle. Throughout the performance, Lizzie kept thinking of Freddie, and how cuddly and sweet and kind he’d been, and how she wanted him to make love to her over and over again.
‘Funny goings on at Venturer,’ said James in a pleased voice, pouring himself an uncharacteristic drink the moment he got in. ‘Evidently Cameron’s pushed off to Ireland with Declan, and I’ve just seen Bas coming out of the Bar Sinister with Maud.’
Funny goings on everywhere, thought Lizzie dreamily, what with James and Sarah, and her and Freddie, and Rupert probably still hankering after Taggie. It was as though they’d all been affected by Puck’s mischievous witchery like the mortals and Titania in Midsummer Night’s Dream. James fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.
‘I am the mistress of a very nice man,’ wrote Lizzie ecstatically in her diary before she turned out the light.
RIVALS
41
The first Saturday in October Taggie overslept. Working late, she hadn’t got to bed until four. She was just making a cup of coffee when Wandering Aengus, mewing horribly, padded in with a live fieldmouse in his mouth.
‘Beast,’ yelled Taggie, hurling a dishcloth at him. She missed, but Aengus was so startled he dropped the fieldmouse, which took refuge under the dresser.
Having shut the enraged and growling cat in the larder, Taggie managed to rescue the mouse with a dustpan and brush and put it in a cardboard box. Dressed in only the briefest nightie and gumboots, she carried the box across the lawn to set it free at the edge of the fields. Very gently she tipped it out, but the poor little thing didn’t move; perhaps it had died of shock. Next moment she nearly died too. Coming towards her out of the blue mist across the dew-drenched field on a big, sweating dark-brown horse, rode Rupert. As he raised his hat, Taggie put her finger to her lips and showed him the mouse which was still motionless.
‘Aengus caught it,’ she whispered. ‘D’you think it’ll survive?’
Rupert privately thought a quick shove with his boot would put the mouse out of its misery, but, knowing this would upset Taggie, said it might just be frozen with fear, and why didn’t they leave it for a bit. Gazing at Taggie’s nightgown and gumboots, he asked her if she was going out. Taggie went crimson and said she’d been doing a late dinner party. There was a long pause. Casting desperately round for something to say, Taggie mumbled that it was a nice day.
‘Very. I’ve been cubbing,’ said Rupert.
‘Oh, poor little things,’ said Taggie in horror. ‘Did you kill any?’
‘No,’ lied Rupert. ‘I brought you these,’ he went on, producing some huge mushrooms out of his riding-coat pocket.
‘Oh, aren’t they beautiful?’ Distracted, Taggie examined their pleated pink undersides, ‘How really kind. Thank you so much.’
Anyone would have thought he’d given her another Fabergé egg, thought Rupert. Stammering furiously, she asked him if he’d like some breakfast.
‘I hoped you’d say that. I’ll drop off my horse and come back.’
Taggie raced upstairs and was appalled to see that her nightie had a huge tear, her eyes were full of sleep, and her mascara was all smudged. Frantically she washed, put on an old pair of black sawn-off cords and a dark-brown T-shirt which seemed to be the only things Maud hadn’t pinched, and started cooking breakfast. She steeled herself to the possibility that Rupert would get caught up in some drama at the yard, or at home, and forget to return; or that Maud, smelling frying bacon, would come down and join them. But he was back in a quarter of an hour with a bottle of champagne for Buck’s Fizz, and Maud stayed upstairs, perfecting a song called ‘Jogging in a one-horse gig’.
‘She really is working at it,’ said Rupert, edging the bottle open with his thumbs.
‘It’s wonderful. She’s so much happier,’ said Taggie, thinking how black and luscious the white mushrooms had gone, and tipping most of them onto Rupert’s plate.
‘I hope Tony Baddingham and your father don’t bump into each other on the first night,’ said Rupert as the cork flew through the window into the long grass outside, ‘or either your mother or Monica really will be a merry widow!’
He picked up the Guardian which had a grim front-page story about the rocketing AIDS figures. Thank God he’d had that test.
It was such a lovely day, they had breakfast outside on the peeling white bench. Despite the warmth, the cedars, wellingtonias and yews flanking the house were already full of orange leaves from the nearby horse chestnuts, and the ground was littered with conkers. Lavender, roses, and evening primroses still bloomed on, bravely waiting for the first frost.
‘I’ve never felt such hot sun in October,’ said Rupert, taking off his jersey. ‘With a few more leaves off the trees, I’ll be able to see your house again.’
‘How was America?’ asked Taggie, dividing her bacon rind between a slavering Gertrude and Claudius.
‘Good,’ said Rupert, deciding not to mention four magnificent days hunting in Virginia. ‘I’ve found a marvellous stallion, and a brood mare for Freddie. Which reminds me, I saw Freddie’s red Jaguar parked outside Mrs Vereker’s house while “Cotswold Round-Up” was on the air last night. If he’s going to err and stray, he ought to find a more discreet car.’
Taggie giggled. ‘Lizzie’s so nice, isn’t she?’ she said, breaking a sausage in half for the dogs.
‘She certainly deserves some fun. James treats her like an old wheelchair he can fall back into in old age. This breakfast is quite marvellous. Why are you giving all yours to the dogs?’
‘I don’t usually eat breakfast,’ mumbled Taggie, taking a slug of Buck’s Fizz.
Rupert ran his eyes over her. ‘You’re losing weight. I’ll have to start adding molasses and carrots to your oats.’
‘Jogging in a one-horse gig, any time of night or day,’ sang Maud from upstairs, ‘Careless of the weather, very close together, lovers fa
ll in love that way.’
Rupert raised his eyebrows and filled up Taggie’s glass.
Please God, she prayed, make this moment go on for ever and ever. The next moment Gertrude had joined them on the bench seat on Taggie’s side, not giving herself enough room, so Taggie had to move closer to Rupert.
‘Well done, Gertrude,’ said Rupert, grinning. ‘You really are on my side.’
Taggie’s heart seemed to be beating completely out of time to Maud’s singing. Frantically, she stroked Gertrude.
‘Heard from your father?’ asked Rupert.
‘No,’ stammered Taggie. ‘Have you heard from Cameron?’
‘Not recently.’
There was another long pause. A conker plummeted on to the shaggy lawn. Laughing and watching her, Rupert waited.
‘You mustn’t worry about Daddy and Cameron being on their own together for so long,’ Taggie finally blurted out. ‘I know Daddy’s wildly attractive, but he is utterly obsessed with Mummy.’
Rupert was about to deny that he was remotely worried about Cameron. Instead he removed a long dark hair from her shoulder and put it in his shirt pocket.
‘I dreamed about you last night.’
‘You did?’ said Taggie in amazement. ‘Was it nice?’
‘Lovely, and extremely disturbing.’ He trailed the back of his fingers down her arm. Taggie quivered and stopped stroking Gertrude.
‘It’s the last night of the Horse of the Year Show tonight,’ went on Rupert. ‘Tabitha’s in the final of the mounted games. It’s a good evening. Why don’t you come with me? We could have dinner afterwards.’
Taggie nearly wept. ‘Sarah Stratton’s giving a dinner party. I’ve got to work.’
‘Pity,’ said Rupert lightly.
Gertrude stuck her nose under Taggie’s trembling hand, jerking it upwards, urging Taggie to stroke her again. Gertrude and me, thought Rupert.
‘The Baddinghams and the Verekers are going, so they’ll all talk about the franchise. I’ll probably be made to stay in the kitchen,’ babbled Taggie.
‘Well keep your ears open and put a pint of arsenic in Tony’s whisky. They certainly won’t get Buck’s Fizz like this tonight. Paul’s so mean he makes it with Babycham.’
Damn, damn, damn, thought Taggie as she followed him to the door.
‘I’m off to the Tory Party Conference next week,’ said Rupert, getting into his car. ‘I’ll ring you when I get back. That was a lovely breakfast, thank you. By the way,’ he added ultra-casually as he drove off, ‘I hope you noticed I didn’t burn my stubble this year.’
In a complete daze Taggie finished off the Buck’s Fizz. Rupert had dreamt about her, and he’d asked her out, and he hadn’t burnt his stubble. The whole thing was desperately confusing. She ran upstairs and looked out of her window. It was true. Instead of charred patches all over the valley, his cornfields were still yellowed by stubble, or reddy-brown after being ploughed up. She couldn’t possibly be the reason, but it was so nice of him to say so.
There were so many things she ought to do, picking apples, planting the indoor bulbs, getting in the geraniums. There were large bowls of picked mulberries and blackberries reproachfully gathering fluff in the fridge, waiting to be turned into jam. And she must make some tomato chutney, not to mention painting the bench and mowing the lawn.
Suddenly she heard an enraged mewing from the larder. She’d forgotten Aengus. She couldn’t even get cross that he’d eaten half the turbot mousse she’d made for the first course this evening. At least when she went out to search for the fieldmouse it had run away.
By the time she’d reached the Strattons’ house she’d sobered up. Paul was still out playing golf. Sarah was in a panic because she wanted everything to be perfect for Tony, her boss, and even more so for James.
‘Giving a dinner party is far worse than going on television,’ she moaned. ‘Look, I know it sounds horrendously Valerie Jones, but do you mind pretending I’ve done the cooking tonight? Especially the main course, which is a particular favourite of a friend of mine,’ added Sarah, going pink. ‘If anyone rings, pretend you’re our daily, Mrs Maggs.’
Then, leaving Taggie with a mile-long list of instructions, she swanned off to Bath to buy a new dress.
At least everything was tidy, the table laid and the house clean. Taggie got out the French recipe that Rupert had translated for her. An hour and a half later, she was getting on well. The beef daube was sizzling in the oven, the pudding was in the fridge and just needed whipped cream and sugared violets, and she’d done the vegetables earlier. All she had to do was to make another fish mousse. Perhaps she’d just better double-check the beef.
‘Oh, my God,’ she said aghast as she licked the spoon. She tried again from the other side of the dish, and then the centre, where it was even worse. She must have been so distracted by her encounter with Rupert that she’d added a tablespoonful of salt instead of sugar. She tested the sugar in the glass bowl and went green. It was definitely salt.
The beef was quite inedible, absolutely impregnated with salt, and she’d used up all the other ingredients. It was after five and she’d never get to Cotchester in time. She gave a whimper of horror. She’d wrecked Sarah’s party and she knew Sarah could be extremely difficult if things didn’t go right.
The telephone rang. Oh God, she sobbed, I’ve got to remember to be the daily. Trembling, she picked up the receiver.
‘Hullo,’ crackled a voice from a car telephone.
‘Mrs Stratton be shopping, thank you very much. Who be you?’ mumbled Taggie.
Rupert laughed. ‘That is the worst Gloucestershire accent I’ve ever heard. How’s it going?’
Taggie burst into tears. ‘It was James’s favourite recipe and she’s supposed to have made it for him,’ she sobbed.
‘Cheer up or you’ll cry more salt into the beef,’ said Rupert calmly. ‘Get on with the fish mousse. I’ll be over in half an hour.’
He arrived twenty-five minutes later. He screeched the Aston-Martin to a halt in a cloud of dust and nearly tipped Beaver and Blue, who were sitting on the back seat, through the windscreen, then he sauntered into the kitchen with a huge casserole dish containing boeuf Bourguignon for twelve from Luigi’s, the local five-star restaurant in Cheltenham.
‘Oh, you’re lovely,’ said Taggie, flinging her arms round his neck.
‘Hands off! We’ve no time for dalliance!’ said Rupert briskly, as he emptied the Bourguignon into one of Sarah’s big bowls and chucked Taggie’s salty remnants into Luigi’s casserole dish. ‘Don’t tell Paul and Sarah what happened,’ he added. ‘Just pretend this is how the recipe turned out. They’ll all be too pissed to notice, anyway. I’d better beat it, or she’ll be back from shopping and start accusing me of bugging the room.’
Still stammering her thanks, Taggie followed him out to the car. An owl was hooting. A semi-circle of orange moon was rising out of the sycamores.
‘The moon was a mandarin segment, as Valerie Jones would say,’ said Rupert.
‘I can’t ever begin to thank you,’ bleated Taggie.
Rupert pulled her towards him, dropping a kiss on her cheekbone.
‘Oh yes, you can, angel. Just wait till I get back from Blackpool.’
The patron saint of cooking guided Taggie that evening. The food was positively ambrosial, and Sarah took all the credit, particularly for Luigi’s boeuf Bourguignon, which was so tender you could cut it with a spoon.
‘D’you remember that daube we had at the White Elephant at Painswick?’ whispered Sarah to James as they went in to dinner. ‘Well, I wrote to them for the recipe and I’ve made it for you tonight.’
Putting on his horn-rimmed spectacles to have a closer look across the table, Tony Baddingham decided he hadn’t been wrong about Lizzie Vereker. Whether it was the Marbella sun or a stone off, or just some new inner contentment, she looked sensational.
The talk during dinner was mostly of the rocketing AIDS figures. They also drank to ‘Mas
ter Dog’ which was edging up on ‘EastEnders’ in the ratings; but they waited until Taggie was safely out of the room to discuss the franchise.
‘There are some quite fascinating developments,’ Tony said tantalizingly, ‘but I’m not prepared to leak them until November, when it’ll be nearer the IBA meetings and people are properly back from their holidays and reading newspapers again. And then, my God, Venturer will wish they’d never tried to take us on.’ He paused as Taggie came in with the salad.
Not that she would have taken anything in that night. In the kitchen she was frantically trying to watch the Horse of the Year Show, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rupert. At least she saw Tabitha in the mounted games – utterly adorable and so like Rupert as she jumped up and down waiting for the baton, then grabbing it and scorching up the arena. The finals were just coming up when Sarah summoned Taggie to clear away the pudding.
By this time Tony was banging on about AIDS again.
‘By the year 2000, unless we get our act together in this country, we’ll have sixteen million cases. The message from America is loud and clear, affairs are passé.’ He gazed down the table. ‘Monogamy and fidelity in marriage are in fashion again. It’s vital that everyone is made aware of the dangers of AIDS. It’s up to us at Corinium to set the ball rolling.’
James felt that Sarah had been so very very caring to go to all that trouble with the daube that, in the hall after dinner, he was foolish enough to behave in a thoroughly unmonog-amous fashion and be caught by Tony not only kissing her, but putting his hand inside her new silk dress.
On Monday morning Tony summoned James to his office. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation about AIDS on Saturday night,’ he began briskly. ‘I’ve decided it’s time for you to have your own series, which we’ll almost certainly sell to the network.’
‘That’s very good of you, Tony,’ said James.
‘I want to make a series examining all aspects of marriage,’ went on Tony.
‘Financial, dual careers, how much housework should the caring husband do,’ rattled off James excitedly. ‘Sex, rows, decorating the house.’