Wicked!

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘He has very few friends.’ Poppet sipped her cranberry juice reflectively. ‘If it’s any consolation, Charisma, our eldest daughter, was dreadfully bullied for being severely gifted.’

  ‘Not Xav’s problem.’

  ‘They accused Charisma of being “posh”.’

  ‘Posh? Your daughter?’ said Rupert in genuine amazement.

  ‘Because she always gets A stars. Charisma, of course, is a workaholic.’

  ‘Neither of my children’s problem,’ snapped Rupert. ‘Thanks, darling,’ as a grinning Dora exchanged his venison plate for a plate of chicken.

  ‘I’ve given you lots of mushrooms, they’re really good.’

  Greedily shovelling up butterscotch ice cream, Poppet trundled on: ‘Xav yearns for acceptance by his peers.’

  ‘Peers live in the House of Lords,’ said Rupert coldly, ‘or they did before Blair gelded the place.’

  He glanced across at Taggie. Accustomed to being married to the prettiest woman in the room, he noticed her red, swollen eyes and unbecoming, unruly hair and felt outraged that Alex Bruce was wrapped in conversation with Boffin’s mother and Biffo had gone off table-hopping, leaving her stranded. A second later, Biffo’s seat had been taken by Sally B-T.

  ‘How’s Xav’s birthday going? Such a super chap.’

  ‘Are you sure we’re talking about the same child?’ Rupert answered for Taggie. ‘Six weeks into the school holidays, he’s emerging as the devil incarnate.’

  ‘Rupert,’ gasped Taggie in horror.

  Rupert crashed his knife and fork together, chicken hardly touched, fingers drumming, and turning to No-Joke Joan for heavy relief, learnt she’d been giving a paper on the evolution of the potato.

  ‘Does Bianca lack social skills?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Quite the contrary. She and Dora Belvedon never stop chattering. I shudder to think of their phone bills. I’m afraid there’s little likelihood of Bianca getting any GCSEs unless she buckles down.’

  ‘It’s a first step of the most evil tyrants,’ Alex Bruce was droning on to Boffin’s mother, ‘destroying the teaching profession. In the seventies, teachers and academics arrested by Idi Amin never re-emerged because he tortured, then murdered them.’

  ‘What a sensible man.’ Rupert took a swig out of a nearby Perrier bottle.

  As Alex went purple and stormed off, Poppet renewed her attack.

  ‘There’s a wonderful government initiative called Dads and Lads, Rupert. Fathers reading with their sons and helping them with their homework. I’m sure you could give your Colombian lad a lift.’

  ‘Dads and Lads?’ said Rupert softly.

  ‘If you and Taggie struggle with the homework,’ joined in Joan, ‘I think Bianca’s only salvation is to board.’

  ‘She will not,’ said Rupert, so sharply everyone looked round and Randal Stancombe decided to join the table, taking Alex’s chair. He made a great show of kissing first Taggie’s, then Anthea’s hands, before expressing hope that they were all going to make promises he could auction later in the evening.

  ‘What’s on offer already?’ asked Poppet.

  ‘Lord Waterlane’s offered lunch at the House of Lords,’ Stancombe consulted his clipboard. ‘Ricky France-Lynch has pledged polo lessons; Daisy his wife has offered to do a free pastel of the person of your choice. Billy Lloyd-Foxe’ – he raised his voice so Billy and everyone at the next table stopped talking and laughing – ‘has promised a tour round Television Centre, lunch in the canteen and tickets to his programme Sport and Starboard.’

  ‘Good old Billy!’ everyone cheered.

  ‘What have you offered us, Randal?’ simpered Anthea.

  ‘Two weeks in a Caribbean villa and a free flight,’ said Randal modestly to more cheers. ‘Dame Hermione—’ he began.

  ‘Christ, is she here?’ Rupert was about to dive under the table.

  ‘Dame Hermione is at a gig this evening,’ reproved Joan. ‘She has pledged tickets for Covent Garden and supper afterwards. We’re still looking for more bumper prizes.’

  ‘How about a night at the Ritz with Rupert Campbell-Black?’ yelled Billy.

  ‘Yes, Rupert,’ asked Poppet archly, ‘what are you going to pledge?’

  ‘A day at the Arc in your private box?’ suggested Stancombe. ‘And a ride back and forth in your chopper?’

  ‘Or on your chopper,’ shouted Janey Lloyd-Foxe to shouts of laughter.

  ‘That would be an exciting pledge,’ dimpled Anthea.

  ‘For whom?’ snapped Rupert.

  ‘Oh, come on, Rupert, that’s not going to break the bank,’ chided Stancombe.

  ‘Racing’s work. I can’t concentrate if I have to spend the day being charming.’

  ‘You’ll just have to try harder,’ teased Poppet.

  ‘Poor Rupert,’ murmured Mrs Walton, ‘he does look fed up. Is he ever unfaithful to that sweet, stupid wife?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Billy with rare sharpness, ‘and she’s not stupid, Penscombe would crumble without her holding it together.’

  ‘Let’s go and cheer him up,’ whispered Mrs Walton to Hengist.

  Leaving Billy, filling up everyone’s glasses with a fresh bottle of red and pulling up two chairs beside Rupert, Hengist muttered:

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Not until you find me a red-hot poker to ram up Mrs Bruce’s ass.’

  ‘Hush,’ giggled Mrs Walton.

  ‘Those emeralds are stunning,’ said Rupert, unthawing slightly, ‘and they couldn’t have a better setting.’

  ‘Randal brought them back for me from Bogotá.’

  What was Stancombe doing there? wondered Rupert. Drug centre of the world; Xav’s birthplace. Remembering the happiness and excitement when they’d brought him and Bianca home, he vowed to make things better.

  Glancing across at Taggie he saw she was shaking with terror. Toothy Susan Brooks, whose favourite subject was Boffin, had got on to GCSEs and whether it would be too taxing for her G and T son to take fourteen.

  ‘How many did you take, Poppet?’

  ‘Ten, but they were O levels.’

  ‘And you, Anthea?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘And you, Ruth?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘And you, Hengist?’

  ‘About twenty-five. That’s enough of that.’ Hengist, who’d also noticed Taggie’s twitching face, drained his glass and announced it was time for a pee break before the auction.

  But Poppet refused to leave it. ‘How many GCSEs did you get, Taggie?’ she asked loudly.

  ‘None,’ whispered Taggie, colour suffusing her grey cheeks.

  ‘Really?’ said Anthea in amazement. ‘None at all?’

  ‘I didn’t get any either,’ said Rupert quickly. ‘Never took any.’

  ‘How the hell did you get into the Blues?’ asked Hengist.

  ‘I took a civil service exam, which was the equivalent, then went before a selection board at Westbury. I was only in for a year or two before going back to showjumping.’

  ‘No O levels between either you or Taggie,’ mocked Poppet.

  ‘One wonders if you could achieve a GCSE today?’ Alex quizzed Rupert as he returned to the table.

  ‘Course I could. They’re so bloody easy. You can take in calculators and history notes and poetry books. I’d walk it.’

  ‘What a wonderful idea.’ Poppet clapped her hands with another mad jangle of bracelets. ‘You and Xav must take a GCSE together. English literature. You can read the books he’s working on and exchange views at mealtimes.’

  ‘Don’t be fucking stupid, I haven’t got the time,’ snarled Rupert.

  ‘You mean you haven’t got the bottle,’ taunted Stancombe. ‘You wouldn’t risk it, knowing you’d fail.’

  ‘I bloody wouldn’t.’ Rupert had risen to his feet, shaking with rage, about to leap across the bottles and glasses and strangle him.

  ‘Kindly don’t swear in front of our s
pouses,’ said Alex querulously.

  ‘Oh fuck off.’ Rupert turned back to Stancombe. ‘I have got the bottle.’

  ‘Prove it,’ taunted Stancombe softly. ‘I bet you a hundred grand, which I’ll pledge to the Bagley Fund, you can’t pass Eng. lit.’

  ‘I’ll sponsor you for ten thousand, Rupert,’ said Gordon Brooks, ‘but only if you get a C grade or above.’

  ‘My newspaper would sponsor you for at least fifty thousand, Rupe,’ shouted Janey Lloyd-Foxe leaping up and down in excitement, ‘as long as we can have the story. Make a fantastic diary: Rupert takes a GCSE.’ She was now scribbling on her wrist.

  Offers of sponsorship were coming in from eager mothers all over the room.

  ‘I’ll give you twenty-three pounds,’ said Dora.

  ‘We’ll have paid for the new science block in one night,’ murmured Theo Graham.

  ‘Then it’s a done deal.’ Stancombe jumped on to a chair, shouting, ‘Rupert Campbell-Black has agreed to take an English lit. GCSE and has already been sponsored to the tune of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds if he gets a C grade or above.’

  Rage no longer robbed Rupert of speech.

  ‘I fucking haven’t,’ he howled. ‘I’ve got a yard and a television station to run and there is no way I’m taking any exam,’ and he stalked out of the hall.

  Table Ten were very slow in getting coffee, petits fours and their ordered liqueurs, because Dora, their waitress, had retreated to the sixth-form common room.

  ‘Wicked!’ she was whispering into her mobile. ‘Rupert Campbell-Black is going to take a GCSE. Yes? I swear. At a promises auction at Bagley. Parents have sponsored him to over a quarter of a million already. It happened after a row with horrible Randal Stancombe, who was taunting Taggie and Rupert for not having any O levels. English lit., I think, although according to his daughter Bianca, Rupert only reads Dick Francis and the racing pages.’

  There was no way Dora was going to let that old tart Janey Lloyd-Foxe pip her to the post.

  84

  Taggie raced after Rupert as he strode towards his helicopter.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. You were so kind to defend me, it was all my fault.’

  As he waited for clearance to fly, Rupert rang Lysander, his assistant, who said everything was as quiet as a mouse.

  ‘Most of the horses are out, except Peterkin and the ones racing on Monday. No sound from the house, hardly any lights on and no music for ages. Party must be over, frankly I didn’t see anyone arrive.’

  Flying into Penscombe, Rupert looked down at the empire he had created without a single O level. There was the ancient blond house with its billowing woods and venerable oaks skirting a fast emptying lake, more than a hundred horses out in the fields, all-weather gallops, indoor school, tennis court, swimming pool, animals’ graveyard, and the moonlit ribbon of the Frogsmoor stream, like a white parting down the valley. An empire built up by his own hard work. There was no way he was going to take any fucking GCSE.

  He was so angry he ignored the fact his wife was crying. On landing, he went straight to the yard. Penscombe Peterkin whickered at his master’s approach, hopeful of being let out to join his friends. The son of Rupert’s Derby winner, Peppy Koala, Peterkin had been born and brought up at Penscombe, where everyone loved him. When one of Rupert’s jockeys used a whip on him in a race for the first time, the little colt was so outraged, he stopped in his tracks and was never whipped again. Since then, he’d never lost a race. A huge amount was already on him for the St Leger. Rupert patted and gave him a handful of pony nuts and wandered back to the house to find chaos and his wife frantically wiping up pools of sick in the hall.

  The dogs had obviously raided Taggie’s supper. Stalker, Rupert’s favourite Jack Russell, was polishing off a chicken pie abandoned on the terrace table, from time to time dropping pieces on to the flagstones for a patiently waiting Bogotá to hoover up.

  Mrs Bodkin was still asleep in front of some X-rated film. Xav’s presents were still unopened, little beast.

  ‘I told you not to give him a party,’ growled Rupert, avoiding another pile of sick, then catching sight of a black leather jacket over the banister.

  Feral had had so many girls before, but this was the real one. The problem was keeping Bianca’s love in check. She was so anxious to give him everything. He had removed her bra and stroked her sweet, tip-tilted breasts; he had buried his face in her scented shoulders, stroked her hair and kissed her on and on. They were too preoccupied with one another to hear anyone arriving.

  Suddenly the door burst open.

  ‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing? Get away from her, you black bastard,’ howled Rupert.

  Only when Feral reared up, shaking off the duvet, did Rupert realize Bianca was only naked to the waist and Feral still wearing his black jeans. Standing, he was almost as tall as Rupert.

  ‘I ain’t no black bastard, man,’ he said with quiet dignity. ‘Back in the dark ages, my dad was married to my mum.’

  Next moment he had leapt on to the blue striped sofa and jumped out of the window, falling on a yew hedge. But as he dropped down on to the lawn, landing awkwardly, a sharp pain gripped the right ankle of his shooting foot. He gave a groan as he limped away, keeping to the shadows.

  ‘Daddy, how could you?’ screamed Bianca. ‘We were just snogging. How dare you call Feral a black bastard? I made all the running.’

  ‘You shouldn’t bloody be in bed with him,’ said Rupert, slightly shaken. ‘I suppose your brother’s passed out?’

  But Xav, sobering up and lurking on the landing, had overheard the row.

  ‘Black bastard?’ he yelled. ‘Black fucking bastard? I’m black and I’m a bastard. Now I know what you really think of me.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, it’s just a figure of speech.’

  ‘How dare you insult Feral?’ sobbed Bianca. ‘We were only kissing.’

  ‘Go to bed,’ shouted Rupert.

  But Xav was fired up.

  ‘My birthday was the day I was wrenched from my mother and chucked out on the streets to die. If only I had died. I’ve always had shit birthdays.’

  ‘Xav,’ pleaded Taggie, running up the stairs, ‘that’s not true.’

  Xav turned on her. ‘Shut up! I never wanted you as a mother, I hate you, hate you. You never loved me either, because I’m fat, ugly and useless.’

  He ran sobbing out of the house, slamming the door in poor limping Bogotá’s white face, heading out for the yard. Peterkin was delighted to see Xav, who had been the first person on his back and had often slept in his box. Both horse and boy had moped when Xav went away to Bagley. Xav led Peterkin into the yard by his head collar, jumped on to his back and set off across the fields, flat out towards the main road. Moonlight, more silvery light than day, sculpted dark grey trees and pale grey walls.

  ‘Black bastard, black bastard,’ yelled Xav in time to Peterkin’s galloping hooves. Cocaine and booze had cushioned him against fear. He wasn’t frightened of anything, not even his father. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.

  Rupert had poured himself a quadruple whisky and was just telling himself Xav would come home as soon as he sobered up, when the best horse he’d ever owned and trained passed the window, hurtling towards the main road on rock-hard ground. Rushing out to the yard, Rupert leapt on a mare who was racing on Monday. He’d have to head Xav off.

  Xav by this time had turned Peterkin round and, rejoicing he’d got his nerve back, was riding quietly home across the fields, when Rupert thundered up and whacked Xav across the face, yelling:

  ‘Get off that horse, you can bloody well walk home.’

  As Xav slid to the ground, he felt all his fuses blow. He watched Rupert pull off his tie and slot it through Peterkin’s head collar, then began almost conversationally:

  ‘I know all about you.’

  As Rupert paused, he went on:

  ‘I know how much you drugged and boozed. I know you beat up your
horses and your first wife. I know you bullied Jake Lovell witless on the showjumping circuit. You’re an utterly crap role model. I don’t belong to you any more, I want a divorce.’ Xav’s quiet voice had risen to a scream of pain.

  ‘I dug out my secret files in the cellar. I know I was battered and left for dead as a baby because they thought my birthmark was the sign of the devil. Well, now I’m older, your fingermarks on my face are worse than any birthmark. They’re the sign of a devil.’ He spat at his appalled father’s feet. ‘The curse of being your son and a Campbell-Black.’

  Hearing screams and shouts, fearful it might be Rupert after him, Feral hobbled faster. Glancing back, he saw Rupert’s drive stretched out in the moonlight like a bandage to bind up his broken heart or his totally fucked ankle. No trial, no Bianca.

  Next morning, Peterkin was as crippled lame as Feral. All the late editions of the papers picked up the Independent’s story about Rupert taking a GCSE.

  85

  For the first time in her life, Bianca Campbell-Black was utterly miserable. She had always been so proud of her parents, but now her father had revealed himself as a foul racist – and after all her coaxing, Feral had shot back into the jungle again. She kept imagining his cat’s eyes shining out of the beech wood behind the house.

  The Saturday after Xav’s party, she and Dora went into Larkminster to see I Capture the Castle, a film Dora loved because she identified with the diary-writing heroine and her large eccentric family. Afterwards, she and Bianca went on to a Chinese restaurant where, as they rolled duck, sliced cucumber and dark sweet crimson sauce in pancakes and harpooned sweet and sour prawns, Bianca relayed the events of the last few days and Dora’s eyes grew bigger and bigger.

  ‘Your father was horribly hassled before he left Bagley,’ she said in mitigation. ‘He’d been trapped by Joan, Mrs Fussy and my mother all evening, then he was manoeuvred into that GCSE which he’s been forced to agree to take.’

  ‘That was shocking. Someone must have leaked it to the papers that very night.’

  ‘Shocking,’ agreed Dora. ‘Some people have no principles.’ Then, hastily changing the subject – after all, dinner tonight was being paid for by the Independent’s cheque: ‘Do you think Feral would be caught in bed with me if I paid him? How ballistic would Mummy go? OK, OK, only joking.’