by Jilly Cooper
‘Look at fucking that!’ He brandished The Times under Maud’s nose. ‘Tony’s bought Dermot MacBride’s play. Cameron must have leaked it to him.’
‘I always thought she was untrustworthy,’ said Maud, who was plucking her eyebrows.
Declan’s hands were so cold it took him a long time to dial the number of Dermot MacBride’s agent.
‘We had a deal. What the fuck are you playing at?’
‘The contract hadn’t been signed,’ said the agent defensively. ‘My duty is to get the best deal for my authors. Tony offered three times as much as you.’
‘You could have come back to me. I’d have matched his offer.’
‘He said if I talked to you the deal was off.’
‘That’s the last deal I’ll ever do with you,’ roared Declan.
‘Never mind. I’m retiring at Christmas.’
Through the window, Declan watched the Priory robin furiously driving a rival robin away from the bird table.
‘How did Tony know about our deal?’
‘Dunno. He phoned about five yesterday. I spoke to MacBride. We exchanged contracts this morning. It’ll buy a few gold watches for me.’
The moment Declan put down the telephone, Freddie rang.
‘Have you seen the Cotchester News? There’s a bloody great picture of you an’ me, an’ Rupert, an’ Basil, an’ ’Enry – all in our red coats out huntin’ wiv big grins on our faces, wiv a caption: “Do you want these butchers to run your television station?”’
‘That’s libellous,’ howled Declan. ‘Have you seen The Times?’
‘Yes,’ said Freddie grimly. ‘Unfortunately that’s not.’
‘I’m not waiting for Rupert to get back,’ said Declan. ‘I’m going round to have it out with Cameron right now.’
But when he got to Penscombe, Mrs Bodkin told him Cameron had gone out and wasn’t expected back until evening. Guilt, thought Declan in a fury.
Cameron got home around eight that evening. She knew she shouldn’t have played truant, but, having brooded agonizingly about Rupert since the hunt ball, she felt she had to get out of the house. The heavy frost had made the white valley look so beautiful that morning. Why should I give up all this without a fight? she had thought. Rupert was an alpha male, he was exceptionally handsome, funny, very rich, clever in a totally different way to herself, and, now that she’d given him six months’ intensive training on pleasing a woman rather than automatically pleasing himself, spectacular in bed.
A great believer in positive action, she drove into Cheltenham to the branch headquarters of ‘Mind the Step’, a support group for step-parents and step-children, which had just opened. Cameron figured the subject would not only make a good programme, but might help her love Rupert’s children and understand her own tortured relationship with her mother and Mike. She had a long talk with the organizer, who then gave her several names and addresses. Driving round Gloucestershire, Cameron was amazed how many people welcomed her in. At their wits’ end, hemmed in by snow and coping with step-children at home for several days, they were only too happy to talk to someone.
Listening to the shrill invective, to half-hearted attempts at love, to occasional genuine affection, to grown women blaming their own step-mothers for lack of love, which prevented them in turn loving their own husbands and children, Cameron forgot her own miseries. She decided it would make a marvellous programme and was already pre-selecting the people to interview.
Like Declan on his way to the village shop that morning, she returned to Penscombe with a feeling of optimism. She found messages from Mrs Bodkin that Rupert had rung twice, Freddie three times and Declan four.
Going into the kitchen, she poured herself a large vodka and tonic and decided to scribble down some ideas for the ‘Step’ programme while it was still in her head. Searching for a biro on the kitchen shelf, she found the yellow sachet that had been included with the flowers that Tony had sent her after he beat her up, which you were supposed to add to the water to make the flowers last longer. Stabbed with sudden misery, she wished she could sprinkle the sachet on Rupert to prolong their relationship.
With a lurch of apprehension, she heard the dogs barking in the hall. Not Rupert, the welcome wasn’t clamorous enough, but it was obviously someone they knew. She went into the hall.
‘Declan!’ Her face lit up. ‘Sorry I didn’t call back. I’ve had a great idea for a programme.’
‘On treachery?’ asked Declan bleakly. ‘You’re an expert on that subject.’
‘What are you talking about? Do you want a drink?’
‘No thanks.’ He followed her into the drawing-room. ‘You seen The Times?’
‘Haven’t seen any papers. I’ve been playing hookey.’
Declan picked up The Times from the table. It took him ages to find the right page.
‘Here.’ He thrust it at her.
‘What a crazy photo of Tony,’ she said, settling down on the sofa for a good read. ‘They’ve made him look almost benign. Oh my God,’ she whispered a minute later, the laughter vanishing from her face. ‘I don’t believe it. How the fuck did he find out?’
‘You tell me.’
Something chilling in his tone made her look up in alarm. He had moved close and seemed to tower above her, his legs in the grey trousers rising like two trunks of beech trees, the massive shoulders blocking out the light, and, in his deathly pale face, the implacable ever-watchful eyes of the Inquisitor.
Cameron shivered. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I saw you plotting with Tony on Friday night.’
‘He was waiting for me when I came out of the John, for Chrissake.’
‘So Freddie and I had him followed.’
Cameron’s eyes flickered.
‘You’re not going to tell me you and Tony were talking just about cucumber sandwiches for an hour and a half in the Royal Garden yesterday afternoon,’ said Declan.
Cameron suddenly looked the picture of guilt.
‘Sure I saw him. We had tea. I needed advice on, on —’ she flushed scarlet – ‘a personal matter.’
‘You gave him all our programme plans, just as last month you told him the names of all the moles. No doubt he’s got lots of other info about Venturer up his pinstriped sleeve for the meeting tomorrow.’
Cameron looked furious and terrified now – the hawk cornered by her captor about to strike.
‘I didn’t tell him anything.’
‘You bloody liar,’ thundered Declan. ‘How long have you been spying for him? Ever since the beginning, since Rupert got his legover in Madrid?’
‘How could I possibly spy for Tony?’ she screamed. ‘He beat me up, for Chrissake. This —’ she waved The Times piece at Declan – ‘sabotages everything we’ve worked for. Someone else leaked it.’
‘Why did you bother to go to London on the worst day of the winter?’ snarled Declan.
Blue, the lurcher, who’d been hovering nervously, jumped up on the sofa beside Cameron and, glaring at Declan, started to whine querulously at him. The other dogs licked their lips. Beaver slunk out of the room.
‘Blue believes me,’ pleaded Cameron. ‘Why the fuck should I come to Ireland, and work so hard on the programme plans, if I was spying for Tony? He’s given my old job to Ailie Bristoe.’
‘That’s a front.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Cameron furiously. ‘Is this some kind of a nightmare? Are you back at Corinium? Am I your guest tonight? Where’s the fucking thumbscrews and the rack, or do you use electrodes and knee-capping like the fucking IRA?’
Grabbing her arm, Declan yanked her to her feet.
‘No one else knew about Dermot MacBride. How much else have you told him?’
Ignoring the low growl from Blue, he started to shake her like a rat.
‘You arrogant, pig-headed Irish asshole,’ yelled Cameron. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’
Maddened because she’d let him down, violent because he felt guilty about wanting her so
much, Declan slapped her very hard across the face. The next minute Blue leapt at him, burying his teeth in Declan’s arm.
‘Leave!’ screamed Cameron. ‘Leave, Blue.’ Grabbing the dog’s collar she tugged him off, then, almost carrying him back onto the sofa beside her, collapsed sobbing into his shaggy coat.
Pulling himself together, Declan lit two cigarettes, but, as he handed one to Cameron, Blue gave another ominous growl.
‘It’s OK, boy,’ gasped Cameron.
She wiped her eyes frantically on her sleeve, then took the lighted cigarette. Inhaling deeply, she felt she was drawing the fires of hell into her lungs. Blue struggled up on his front paws and licked her face.
‘My only friend,’ she said tonelessly. ‘You’d better have a tetanus jab,’ she added to Declan.
Massaging his arm, Declan retreated to a respectable distance in front of the empty fireplace.
‘OK, what was the personal problem? And why Tony?’
‘I know he’s a shit, but sometimes I figure he’s the only person in the world who truly cares for me.’
‘After beating you up?’
Cameron fingered her reddened cheek and shrugged. ‘Seems to be catching.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Cameron took a deep breath. ‘I saw Tony because Rupert doesn’t love me any more, and I can’t handle it.’
‘Just because he was bloody-minded at the ball,’ said Declan scornfully. ‘We’re all uptight at the moment.’
Cameron’s lip was trembling again. ‘Rupert doesn’t give a shit about the franchise. All he cares about is Taggie.’
‘Taggie?’ said Declan, flabbergasted. ‘My Taggie? Are you out of your mind?’
‘He saw her when we were in Ireland. In his bottom desk drawer, under the lining paper, he’s hidden pictures of her with his kids.’ Cameron gave a sob. ‘And he’s also kept some totally illiterate thank-you letter she sent him.’
Declan was utterly appalled.
‘Rupert and Taggie,’ he growled so furiously that Blue started rumbling back at him, like rival storms across a valley. ‘I’m not having that profligate bastard laying a finger on Taggie.’
‘But it’s OK for him to finger me,’ hissed Cameron, ‘I’m only a mole.’
Earlier that afternoon Rupert had flown in from Rome and gone straight to his office in Whitehall. Ignoring a long list of telephone messages, he signed his letters, gathered up the rest of the post, made sure he was paired for the Finance debate that evening and set out for Gloucestershire. Slumped in the corner of a first-class carriage with his hand round a large Bell’s, he looked at the snowy landscape turned electric blue in the twilight. Even in London it wasn’t thawing. It had been a wasted visit to Rome. He’d made no contribution to the International Olympics Conference. He hadn’t been able to sleep, or eat, or think straight, he was so haunted by the image of Taggie and Basil on the Bar Sinister balcony, or of Taggie’s gasping with pleasure in Basil’s expert embrace.
He tried to concentrate on the Standard, but beyond the fact that Corinium shares had unaccountably rocketed, and Patric Walker forecast a stormy day for him tomorrow, and warned Cancers, which was Taggie’s sign, to ignore all outside influences, he couldn’t take anything in. Sitting opposite, an enchanting blonde was eyeing him with discreet but definite interest. Glancing at her slim knees above very shiny black boots, Rupert reflected that by now, in the old days, he would have bought her a large vodka and tonic and been investigating the prospect of a quick bang at the Station Hotel, Cotchester – if not at Penscombe. What the hell was happening to him? His secretary in London had given him a carrier bag of Christmas cards to sign for constituents and party workers. Wearily he scribbled Rupert Campbell-Black in a few, but not love, not for anyone in the world except that feckless Taggie.
Unknown to him, Taggie was slumped, shivering and equally miserable, in a second-class carriage down the train. She’d been doing an early Christmas lunch for some overseas sales reps in Swindon which had seemed to go on for ever. She always found train journeys unnerving, having to read all the strange station names and the platform directions and the train times. Today by mistake she’d got on a train going back to London and had to get off and wait in quite inadequate clothing on Didcot station for half an hour.
As Declan had taken the new Mini, Maud had borrowed Taggie’s car to buy a new dress for her audition for A Doll’s House tomorrow. She’d promised to meet Taggie at Cotchester if Taggie rang and told her what train she was coming on. But when Taggie had tried to ring her at Didcot there was no answer.
Rupert thought he was dreaming when he saw Taggie ahead of him on the platform at Cotchester. The snakey curls had dropped; she was back to her old ponytail. As she walked up the steps of the bridge, he noticed a man behind admiring her long black-stockinged legs. Fucking letch; Rupert wanted to kill him. As she turned to hand in her ticket, under the overhead light bulb he noticed the black shadows under her eyes. Too much sex, he thought savagely.
No one was there to meet her; there were no taxis; the telephone box didn’t work. Peering out through the square glass panes, Taggie’s legs nearly gave way beneath her as she saw Rupert getting into his car. Rushing out into the street, she waved at him. There was a moment of blind hope as she thought he waved back as he stormed past spraying snow all over her, but he was only adjusting his driving mirror.
The only answer was to walk into Cotchester and find another telephone box, or perhaps ask Bas to run her home. Why the hell hadn’t she worn boots? She wasn’t thinking straight at the moment. The icicles glittered from the station roof as she went past. Ahead she could see the white spire of Cotchester cathedral glinting in the moonlight with all the coloured windows lit up by a service inside. The next minute a car skidded to a halt beside her.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Trying to find a telephone box to ring Mummy,’ she muttered through furiously chattering teeth. Her lips were a livid green, her nose bluey-brown in the orange street light.
‘Get in,’ said Rupert. Viciously he punched out the number he knew so well. He let the telephone ring for two minutes. There was no answer.
‘Mummy’s on the toot as usual,’ he said. ‘I’ll run you home.’
‘Oh please don’t bother.’
‘It’s not exactly out of my way,’ he said sarcastically.
The frozen snow twinkled like rhinestones in the moonlight. Once they’d got out of Cotchester on to the country lanes there was only room for single-line traffic between the huge polar drifts. They didn’t speak for a few miles, then, glancing sideways, Rupert saw the tears pouring down her face.
‘What the fuck’s the matter now?’
‘I thought we were friends.’
‘Then why did you go to bed with Bas?’
‘I didn’t. I meant to, because I was so miserable about you. I thought if I got some really good experience, you might fancy me a bit, but when it came to the crunch, I couldn’t do it. I love you too much.’
Rupert stopped the car, pulling it into a gateway.
‘I’m desperately sorry,’ sobbed Taggie, groping in her bag for a paper handkerchief. ‘I know it must be boring having every woman you meet in love with you. I didn’t want to be one of them. I’ve tried so hard to get over you. Work doesn’t help at all. It’s just that you’ve been so kind looking after us, sorting Mummy out the other night and getting all that food when I made an up-cock at Sarah Stratton’s dinner party, and giving me all those lovely things, and buying the wood for far more than it’s worth.’
‘Who told you that?’ said Rupert, appalled.
‘Ursula did. She saw Daddy’s bank statement. It was the only good thing in it. I’m sorry for being such a drip.’
Rupert raised clenched fists to his temples in a superhuman effort not to reach out for her. Taggie mistook the gesture for sheer horror at being propositioned by yet another girl.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For Christ’s s
ake stop apologizing.’ Rupert started speaking very slowly and deliberately as if he was addressing some loopy foreigner. ‘Look, it wouldn’t work. I’m terribly fond of you, Tag, but I’m far too old. Remember that hamburger bar manager who thought you were my daughter? I’ve never been faithful to anyone for more than a few weeks, and I’m not going to ruin your life by having a brief fling with you.’
‘My life’s ruined already,’ sobbed Taggie, who’d soaked one paper handkerchief and was desperately searching in her pockets for another.
‘You’ll get over me,’ said Rupert, handing her his.
‘Like that five-bar gate in front of us,’ said Taggie helplessly.
What made it worse was that the car got stuck and they had to push it out and Taggie slipped over and Rupert picked her up, then almost shoved her away, as though she was white hot, so desperate was his longing to take her in his arms.
The Priory was in darkness when they got back.
‘Tell your father I’ll ring him later,’ said Rupert, cannoning off a low wall in his haste to get away.
Across the valley he could see lights on in his house. He couldn’t face Cameron at the moment. If only he could dump on Billy, but it was Wednesday and Billy would be at the television centre presenting the sports programme. Mindlessly he drove back to Cotchester and parked outside Basil’s flat.
One look at Rupert’s set white face was enough. Bas poured him a large whisky.
‘Taggie said there wasn’t a leg-over situation.’
‘There wasn’t,’ said Bas. ‘Not through lack of trying on my part. She is utterly adorable, but she utterly adores someone else, you lucky sod.’
Rupert drained his whisky.
‘I’m not going to do anything about her.’
‘Why ever not?’ said Bas incredulously. ‘It’s on a plate.’
‘I’m too old, shopsoiled, evil . . .’
‘Oh, don’t be so fucking self-indulgent. All these histrionics and tantrums are just the last frantic struggles of the lassooed bronco. You’ve never been in love before. It’s really very nice, if you stop fighting it. Everyone’s got to hang up their condom sometime. Taggie’d be worth it.’