by Jilly Cooper
‘That’s Declan’s other daughter, Caitlin,’ went on Janey, as a pretty teenager with grass-green hair clumped by in a black cloak and Doc Marten boots. ‘She refused to be a bridesmaid unless she could wear jeans,’ she added, as Caitlin slid into a pew two rows in front, already inhabited by her brother and Cameron Cook, and promptly lit a cigarette.
Daisy was aware of Drew going steadily back and forth bringing in different people, smiling slightly in her direction. He made so much less din and worked twice as efficiently as the other ushers, particularly Bas, who couldn’t resist squeezing and joking with every girl he accompanied. I love Drew, thought Daisy, I love his dependability and sense of responsibility.
‘Interesting, she’s turned up,’ said Dommie, offering Daisy a swig of brandy, as the arrival of Rupert’s ex-wife Helen caused a ripple of interest. She was wearing a dark grey suit with a white, puritan collar and a tiny grey hat with a veil over her huge, yellow eyes.
‘She’s stunning,’ sighed Daisy.
‘Bit earnest,’ said Janey. ‘Beattie Johnson was dead right describing her as a lead balloon at an orgy. That’s their son, Marcus, sweet boy, never got on with Rupert. Taggie might bring them together.’
A colossal cheer went up from outside the cathedral as Dancer came in, glamorously emaciated in a light grey morning coat, his glittering, grey eyes emphasized by kohl, his streaked, tousled mane coaxed forward to hide the Mantan join on the hairline.
‘He’s going to sing the anthem,’ said Dommie.
‘And I’m the only member of the press Rupert’s allowed in to witness it,’ said Janey smugly, ‘although that acolyte who’s just whisked by in that white laundry bag looks suspiciously like Nigel Dempster. I’ll kill Nigel if . . . That’s the one I want,’ went on Janey lowering her voice and her neckline by a button.
‘Who?’ asked Daisy.
‘El Orgulloso,’ murmured Janey, pointing at Ricky who’d just sat down beside Dancer. ‘Look at that duelling scar and those hard, hard cheekbones beneath those dark, dark eyes, and all that sadness waiting to be comforted. And he still never takes off that black tie in mourning for Will.’
‘He is lovely,’ agreed Daisy.
‘I could cheer him up. In fact I’m going to have a crack at him this evening.’ Janey had to raise her voice above another even more deafening burst of cheering, accompanied by pealing bells. ‘Oh look, here comes my husband and the bridegroom.’
Having not seen Rupert for eighteen months, when he’d been chatting up pretty mothers and cheering on his daughter Tabitha at the Pony Club Championships, Daisy was shocked by his appearance. He must have lost a stone and a half, and was as white as his carnation. As he stalked up the aisle, he was followed by Janey’s husband, Billy, whose top shirt button was missing and whose morning coat had split on the left seam. Running to keep up with Rupert, smiling and waving at everyone, he paused to kiss Janey.
‘Rupert’s in the most frightful tiz. I’ve been trying to force-feed him quadruple brandies, but he won’t drink because he’s got to fly the helicopter afterwards. See you later,’ and he was off to the front pew, simultaneously trying to calm Rupert down and turning round to chatter to Rupert’s score of stepparents in the rows behind.
‘What a lovely man,’ said Daisy.
‘Isn’t he?’ said Janey, who was, however, looking at the bridegroom’s cold, unsmiling face. ‘Perhaps Rupert’s having second thoughts. I never thought Taggie was very pretty.’
‘That’s because you’re not a man,’ said Dommie, offering Daisy another swig. ‘We’re awfully late starting. Oh, do look.’ He started to laugh. The next moment Janey, Daisy and Seb had joined in. For on Caitlin O’Hara’s heavily laddered black knees sat a little black-and-white mongrel Gertrude, with a pink bow round her neck bristling with disapproval and shutting her eyes to avoid Caitlin’s cigarette smoke.
‘I do think you ought to take that dog out,’ said her mother petulantly. ‘It’s so selfish of Rupert not to allow the television cameras in.’
Rupert looked at his watch.
‘Go and ring and see what’s happened,’ he snapped at Billy.
‘Do use Sir Victor’s phone,’ said Sharon Kaputnik, graciously waylaying Billy on the way down the aisle and cutting off a furious Victor in mid-call to New York.
‘Oh, look,’ whispered Janey to Daisy. ‘Here comes Sukey Benedict. Silly old fossil always doing up other people’s buttons. That’s a nice suit, Sukey,’ she called out as Bas maliciously showed Sukey into the pew in front.
‘Drew chose it,’ said Sukey, lowering her voice in deference to her surroundings. ‘Hello, twins, hello, Daisy. I absolutely adore the picture of Flash. Drew couldn’t resist giving it to me before Christmas. Such a good likeness.’
Drew, on his way back from delivering yet another of Rupert’s stepmothers, froze in his tracks when he saw where Sukey was sitting. Bloody Bas stirring it again.
‘Hello, darling,’ stage-whispered Sukey. ‘Just telling Daisy how much we love Flash.’
Drew’s eyes flickered. ‘It’s very good.’
A great party of show-jumpers and their wives, who’d obviously just finished a good lunch, were ushered into a side aisle as a returning Billy sat down beside Rupert whispering that Taggie was on her way.
With stately dignity the Bishop mounted the steps to the pulpit, which was topped with pink-and-white carnations, leaning out for a first glimpse of the bride. He looked thunderous. The heathen had invaded his church.
‘I should like everyone to spend the next five minutes before the bride arrives,’ he announced heavily over the microphone, ‘in silence, praying for the happiness of Rupert and Agatha and examining their own marriages.’
Everyone’s jaw dropped in amazement. Then, because none of them wanted to think about their marriages, they all started yakking again, ignoring the Bishop stomping furiously back down the aisle.
‘Rather suspect vowel sounds,’ said Rupert’s mother.
‘Who on earth’s Agatha?’ grumbled Rupert’s father. ‘Thought Rupert was marrying someone called Taggie.’
‘D’you think Rupert’s got AIDS?’ murmured Sharon Kaputnik nervously. ‘He looks so thin. Oh, do stop phoning for a second, Victor.’
‘Where the fuck is she?’ snarled Rupert. ‘I bet Declan’s had a shunt. I should never have let her out of my sight.’
His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the pew. A muscle flickered non-stop in his cheek.
Just a simple service, thought the Bishop, inflating like a bullfrog as he began the long procession up the church, followed by choirboys and acolytes.
‘I’m sure that’s Nigel Dempster,’ said Janey. ‘Nigel . . .’ she hissed.
The passing acolyte flicked his censer in her direction, winked and moved on.
I want to marry Drew, thought Daisy, as Handel’s Water Music petered out and the organ swelled to the soaring yellow roof with ‘Here comes the Bride’. Rupert, who was tone deaf, didn’t recognize the tune, but the congregation stumbled to their feet.
‘It’s OK. It’s your opening number,’ said Billy soothingly.
And slowly up the long, long aisle came Declan O’Hara. His hair was almost all silver now, the worry of the fight for the franchise had dug great trenches on his forehead and on either side of his mouth. His morning coat was crumpled, he was wearing odd socks, tears poured down his cheeks, but Daisy, glancing round, thought his face should have been hewn out of rock on Mount Vernon. Surreptitiously taking a pencil out of her bag, she started to draw him on the back of her service sheet.
Beside him, almost as tall but half the breadth and shivering frantically like a young poplar in a force-ten gale, walked the bride. She wore Rupert’s mother’s tiara, shaped like the new moon, in her cloudy dark hair, now covered by the slightly yellowing Campbell-Black family veil. Her dress of heavy, ivory silk, only finished two days ago, was already too big for her. The train glittered in the candlelight like a dragonfly’s wing an
d seemed to have a life all its own as it slithered, iridescent, over the faded flagstones.
‘Look at that body,’ sighed Seb. ‘Oh lucky, lucky Rupert.’
The Bishop of Cotchester waited in his gold robes on the red-carpeted steps. Rupert glanced round. For a second he gazed unbelievingly at the trembling white figure, then the tension seemed to drain out of him. Walking straight down the aisle with his arms out, a huge smile suddenly transformed his face, the handsomest man in England once again. Meeting Taggie just level with Daisy’s row, he drew her against him, shutting his eyes for a second, stilling her trembling, checking she was real. Then he looked down at her and mouthed, ‘I love you.’
‘Hello, Daddy,’ interrupted the shrill voice of Tabitha Campbell-Black, angelic in light and dark pink striped taffeta with a coronet of pink-and-white freesias over her nose. ‘D’you like my dress?’
A rumble of laughter went through the cathedral.
‘You look gorgeous,’ said Rupert, taking her hand, then, turning back to Taggie and putting his arm round her shoulder: ‘Let’s get this over with.’
‘Oh, how sweet,’ mumbled Daisy, wiping her eyes. Glancing round, Drew smiled at her fleetingly.
‘Dearly Beloved,’ intoned the Bishop, who managed to conduct the entire service without once looking at Rupert. It was disgraceful that such an utter bounder should have captured such a beautiful, innocent child.
‘I, Agatha Maud,’ stammered Taggie gazing in wonder at Rupert, ‘take thee, R-r-rupert Edward Algernon.’
‘Forsaking all others,’ said the Bishop.
‘Forsaking all others,’ repeated Rupert squeezing Taggie’s hand.
‘That’ll be the day,’ said Janey still scribbling.
Everyone jumped out of their skins as Victor’s telephone rang.
The Bishop’s temper was further taxed when Gertrude, the mongrel, who’d been held up to watch, unable to bear being put asunder from her mistress a moment longer, wriggled out of Caitlin’s arms. Again the congregation rocked with laughter as she scampered along the pew, up the aisle, her claws clattering on the flagstones and stationed herself firmly between Rupert and Taggie, who both had to exert the utmost self-control not to laugh as well.
‘I would like to take as my text the words: Forsaking all Others,’ began the Bishop heavily, and launched into a long rant about AIDS, the perils of infidelity and the low morals of his congregation. Gertrude the mongrel, listening intently, started to pant.
‘Let flesh retire, speak through the earthquake, wind and fire, oh, still small voice of calm,’ bellowed the congregation.
‘I wish my flesh would retire,’ whispered Janey, fingering the beginning of a spare tyre. ‘I find weddings frightfully unsettling, don’t you? Particularly when the couple are so madly in love. One starts looking at one’s own marriage, or lack of marriage in your case, Daisy, and saying why aren’t I as happy as them. Oh look, they’re going to sign the register and here comes Dancer to sing the anthem.’
Lucky Rupert, lucky Taggie, thought Dancer as he adjusted the microphone and gazed out over the sea of cynical, mocking faces, waiting for him to make a cock-up. As the lovely strains of Gluck’s Orpheus swept over the cathedral like a river of sunlight, Dancer’s eyes were automatically drawn to Ricky’s face, as pale and frozen as Rupert’s had been a quarter of an hour before. Dancer had given his heart irrevocably to Ricky three years ago in prison, but Ricky would never have any idea.
‘What is life to me without you,’ sang Dancer in his haunting light tenor. He played it absolutely straight – no frenziedly flying blond mane, no jabbing fingers, no juddering pelvis, just a slight smile lifting his sad clown’s face. A shiver of amazed joy ran through the congregation. Daisy’s cheeks were not the only ones to be soaked with tears.
‘I like that crooner,’ said Rupert’s father loudly. ‘Didyer say he’d made a record or he had one?’
‘What a pity he didn’t take up opera,’ whispered Sukey.
‘Don’t think he’d have made so much money,’ said Seb, ‘and he certainly wouldn’t have been able to support a polo team.’
Nudging Daisy, he pointed to Sukey’s fingers which were tangling with Drew’s, paddling the centre of his palm and caressing the inside of his powerful wrist.
‘Captain Benedict’s going to get it tonight,’ whispered Seb in Daisy’s ear. Then, seeing her look of anguish, squeezed her hand. ‘’Spect all this reminds you of your own marriage. Don’t cry. Everyone thinks you’re stunning.’
At last the organ broke into the Wedding March and down they came, Taggie and Rupert glued together. Taggie, with her veil back, dark tendrils escaping on to her forehead, eyes huge with love, all her lipstick kissed off in the vestry, kept breaking into laughter at Rupert’s outrageous asides.
‘You’d think Rupert had won a gold and the World Championships all in one,’ said Janey, opening another notebook. ‘I must say she is pretty now.’
‘He absolutely adores her,’ said the Leader of the Opposition, checking her mascara in a powder compact, ‘and she’s so enchantingly unsmug about getting him.’
Out into the snow went Rupert and his bride and the cheers and the bells rang out as the flashes of a thousand photographers lit up the High Street.
‘I mustn’t cry,’ Daisy told herself, as she followed the twins out.
‘Must just go and have a word with the horse physiotherapist,’ said Sukey, bolting off down a side aisle.
Then, so quickly Daisy couldn’t believe it was happening, a warm hand slid into her frozen one and Drew’s voice whispered, ‘Wow! I want to worship you with my body.’
43
Daisy had always longed to see inside Rupert’s house, which she’d admired so often from the Penscombe-Chalford Road, lying serene and golden against its pillow of beech woods, now thickly counterpaned with snow. Inside Dom Perignon flowed faster than the Frogsmore after a rainstorm as a wildly yelling party spread through the ground floor out into a large marquee where a band was playing ‘You’d be so easy to love’.
The line-up took less time than usual because Rupert was more interested in talking to Taggie than any of the guests, and Rupert’s father, Eddie, was busy chatting up Maud O’Hara and sniping at his first wife, Rupert’s mother.
Daisy wandered from room to beautiful pastel room, absolutely knocked out by the pictures – two Gainsboroughs, a Van Eyck, a Manet, several Stubbs, a Rembrandt and a Cotman for starters – and listening to the comments of Rupert’s army of exes.
‘Hasn’t let go of her hand for one moment, has he?’
‘Terrified of someone telling stories out of school.’
‘Good thing she was too dyslexic to read the memoirs.’
‘She’ll never hold him.’
‘I just cannot believe Rupert’s ability to bounce back. Those memoirs must be the most damaging publicity anyone’s ever had, but now he’s hitched to this sweet young thing all the press and the shadow cabinet are clamouring for him to stay.’
‘He’s told the Leader of the Opposition he’s not even going to stay on as an MP because it involves too many late nights.’
‘Ah well, we’ll all have to find someone else. That Dancer’s dead sexy, isn’t he?’
‘Darling, he’s gay.’
‘I heard he goes both ways, and he is Ricky’s patron, and the way into Ricky, and you know how much we all want that.’
‘I think Ricky’s more attractive than Rupert.’
‘More unobtainable – up until now – you mean.’
Wandering on, Daisy heard desperate weeping. Peering into Rupert’s dark green study, she saw Rupert’s ex-mistress, Cameron Cook, slumped over the desk.
‘I can’t help it. I know Rupert wouldn’t have made me happy, but I’d rather be miserable with him than happy with anyone else,’ she sobbed.
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ said Declan’s son, Patrick, gently stroking the back of her neck. ‘We both knew today would be a nightmare for you, right. You just
hang in with me.’ He was so young and handsome and certain.
Lucky Cameron, thought Daisy. She wondered where Drew was. There were so many beautiful women around. She felt a wave of relief that she wasn’t married to Hamish any more. He’d have been belting round, kilt aswirl, attempting to get off with all of them.
The Irish contingent were already dancing. In one corner the twins were having a fight, scuffling like bear cubs.
‘You bloody well could have given me a cut of that five grand,’ Dommie was saying. ‘I gave you half the money from that pony of his I sold back to Victor.’
Sitting under a mournful Landseer bloodhound, Daisy found Tabitha Campbell-Black drinking champagne and feeding profiteroles to Rupert’s pack of slavering dogs.
‘I’ve had eight profiteroles,’ she informed Daisy. ‘D’you think Daddy’s fertilized Taggie yet?’
‘I wouldn’t think so,’ said Daisy. ‘D’you like her?’
‘Yes, but Daddy won’t let me go on the honeymoon.’
‘Shall I draw a picture of you?’ asked Daisy.
‘Yes, please,’ said Tabitha.
Later, having danced with the twins and Bas and several foreign showjumpers, and rocked and rolled for an amazingly sexy, energetic ten minutes with Dancer, Daisy wandered upstairs to repair her face.
Going through a door, she found a bathroom. The wall was covered with photographs of Rupert in his show-jumping days. In one he was riding a splendid chestnut mare and being presented with a cup by a famous middle-aged beauty. Underneath she had scrawled: ‘So happy to mount you – Grania.’ How would Taggie cope with that every time she had a pee, wondered Daisy. Hamish had never really coped with her past.
Opening the door on the other side, Daisy found herself in a bedroom with old rose walls, pink-and-yellow silk curtains and a great Jacobean four-poster which was so smothered in fur coats that it seemed to have a slumbering animal life of its own. Perched on a yellow chaise-longue, in an olive green overcoat, was Sukey Benedict talking to Mrs Hughie.
‘Hello, Daisy,’ said Sukey. ‘Love your outfit. So original, don’t you think, Edwina? How are you getting on in Snow Cottage? Not too lonely?’ Then, before Daisy had time to answer, ‘Drew and I were just saying we must find you a super chap. Drew’s brother’s home on leave soon. Perhaps you’ll come and have kitchen sups when he’s staying?