by Jilly Cooper
‘No, you tut up, Rosie,’ she was saying sternly, ‘I’ve been working my ass off all day for you.’
Giving a gasp of horrified laughter, Taggie gathered up Bianca and covered her with kisses.
‘Oh my angel, I’m sorry I swore at you. I love you so much.’
With her pale coffee-coloured skin flushed from the bath, her big black eyes and her loving smile, Bianca was the most beautiful child in the world, and had the sweetest nature, although spoilt rotten by everyone.
‘Mummy tired, mummy crying,’ said Bianca, then reaching over she pressed her new telephone.
‘Hallo,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid Rupert can’t take your call at the moment.’
Taggie giggled.
‘God knows what he’s up to,’ she took Bianca’s hand. ‘Come and talk to me while I get ready.’
But going into her bedroom, Taggie gave another utterly uncharacteristic howl of rage. Half her wardrobe had been pulled off its hangers and dropped on the floor, or on top of Nimrod, who was stretched out on the bed. He now raised a purple see-through shirt with his waving tail. Taggie’s tights drawer had been ransacked and the only sheer black pair filched. The pale pink camisole top Rupert had given her for Christmas had vanished, as well as her new pale amethyst satin blazer.
Charging into the bathroom she found her make-up box upended, and shampoo, eye-drops, hair dryer and God knows what else, missing.
‘Tabitha,’ she screamed up the stairs, ‘how fucking dare you?’
‘Anything the matter?’ Helen appeared out of the bedroom opposite.
Just your bloody daughter, Taggie wanted to shout.
But, clenching her fists, she managed to control herself. ‘Sorry, I was yelling at one of the dogs.’
There was a pause. Helen was wearing long black velvet with a scooped neckline showing off jutting collar bones. Deciding to look tragic rather than stunning, she had left off her jewellery except Malise’s regimental brooch.
‘What a lovely dress,’ said Taggie dutifully.
‘It’s hanging off me,’ quavered Helen, ‘I’ve lost over a stone since Malise died.’
Shutting the door firmly behind her, she went on, ‘And I don’t have enough shoes to let Rupert’s damn dogs eat them. I suppose he’s not back. No? He was always disappearing like this when I was married to him.’
Going towards the stairs she jumped as the telephone rang.
‘Hallo,’ piped up Bianca. ‘Is that Tabiffa? How fucking, fucking dare you.’
Taggie had no time to do more than wash, tie back her lank hair and put on a peacock-blue dress covered with red poppies, which Rupert loathed but which was the only uncreased thing in her wardrobe.
‘Have a drink,’ she said going into the drawing-room.
‘Oh, champagne,’ sighed Helen, ‘I wish I could afford it at home.’
She was obviously bored with Kitty who, encased in her blue wool, was getting pinker by the minute.
How could Rannaldini have married and been upset by the departure of such a frump? wondered Helen.
Everyone, except Helen, was cheered up by the arrival of Flora who was wearing a grey silk shirt tucked into black velvet knickerbockers. Her red hair, tied back with a black bow, had all the shine and bounce that Helen’s had lost. She was also weighed down with presents: a Body Shop basket for Helen; Beethoven sonatas played by his hero Pablo Gonzales for Marcus; a tape called ‘Let’s Ride to Music’ for Rupert — ‘I thought your father would at least know “The Galloping Major”; and a long clinging silver-grey silk jersey cardigan for Taggie.
‘Oh bliss,’ cried Taggie overjoyed.
‘Marcus said your eyes were silver-grey.’
‘I’ll put it on straightaway. Marcus, darling, can you open another bottle?’
‘Isn’t this room gorgeous?’ Flora looked round, then seeing Helen looking broody and sensing her despair, Flora delved into her carrier bag.
‘I forgot. Boris sent you this, Mrs Gordon.’
‘How very dear of Boris.’
‘It was dear,’ said Flora, ‘cost most of Boris’s last advance from the BBC and it’s the first present he’s ever wrapped up. “I cannot cope with this chello tape,” he kept saying.’
‘Open it, Mum,’ urged Marcus, but Helen had put it on a side-table.
‘Where’s Grandpapa?’ asked Marcus.
‘Gone to collect his mystery guest,’ giggled Kitty. ‘It’s like What’s My Line? Is she in show business? Does she provide a service?’
‘That’s probably them,’ said Helen, as the dogs barked, but soon the barks turned to wimpers of excitement as Lysander weaved in, beautiful in a dinner-jacket and already drunk.
Having kissed Kitty in delight, hugged Flora, who was an old friend, clapped an arm round Marcus’s shoulder and shaken Helen’s hand, he proceeded to tell them what a wonderful time he and Rupert had had in the pub, and how much Xav had won on the fruit machine.
Lysander was a beautiful rider and his sympathy with horses had contributed hugely to Rupert’s successful transition to the flat.
‘Marcus says you’ve done brilliantly,’ Flora told him.
‘I did brilliantly at Christmas,’ giggled Lysander, ‘look what Arthur gave me.’ Raising a leg to show off luminous Father Christmas socks, he nearly fell over.
How could Kitty have left Rannaldini for such a silly boy? thought Helen in amazement.
Lysander nearly fell over again when Taggie walked. in wearing her new silver cardigan. Like Penscombe streams in the winter sunshine, it glittered so radiantly on her long slim body that no-one noticed her lank hair or her laddered tights.
A second later she was followed by Xav storming in on a new motorized tractor, followed by Bogotá and Nimrod, fighting noisily over a chewstik shoe. Xav had a glossy pudding-basin hair-cut these days. His eyes were speculative, arrogant and almost straight. He had been so happy since he moved to Penscombe that he had acquired all the confidence of a young rajah.
‘Where’s your father?’ asked Taggie through gritted teeth.
‘Changing,’ said Xavier.
‘He’s changed.’ Rupert sauntered in doing up his cuff-links, and headed straight for Taggie who ducked her head when he tried to kiss her.
‘You’re an absolute shite,’ she hissed.
‘I am a shite in wining armour.’
‘It is not funny. There are masses of bottles to open and no-one’s done the seating plan.’
‘Good, I can sit next to you, you are so beautiful.’
‘And you are so drunk and late.’
Rupert tried to pull himself together. ‘Go and open the red wine,’ he ordered Marcus. ‘And get some logs. We haven’t met.’ He nodded at Flora, then seeing Kitty, now scarlet in her blue dress, said, ‘Evening, Mrs Hawkley, you’re well rugged up.’
Kitty was terrified of Rupert and he, in turn, didn’t see the point of her at all, but she kept Lysander on the rails and got him up in the morning, even if she did look like boiled bacon.
‘Did you bring me a present?’ Xav asked Flora.
‘I certainly did, but you’ve got to share it with Arthur and Bianca,’ said Flora, handing him a large box of chocolate willies, which triggered off screams of laughter and excitement.
Only Helen looked disapproving. Typical Flora. What with his ex-wife and his cast-off, she was reminded of Rannaldini at every turn. And now Tabitha had stalked in, ravishing in Taggie’s pink camisole top and amethyst blazer, a purple mini round her groin, clean blond hair flopping over her angry blue eyes and flawless skin.
‘Lovely jacket,’ murmured Flora enviously.
‘That’s Taggie’s,’ snapped Rupert.
‘So?’ Tabitha glared at her father.
‘I lent it to her,’ mumbled Taggie. Oh, why was she so wet? Unable to face a showdown she fled to the kitchen where Marcus was opening bottles of Château Latour and had lit all the candles in the dining-room.
‘You are an angel,’ sighed Taggie.
&nb
sp; At least the little potatoes were a perfect golden brown as she topped them with chopped parsley. The smell of truffle-flavoured goose was too much for the dogs who formed a slavering crescent round Taggie as she edged them out of the oven.
‘You’re so lucky to be able to escape to the kitchen.’ It was Helen’s shrill voice again. ‘You shouldn’t be humping logs, Marcus. Hi, Mrs Bodkin,’ Helen embraced her old housekeeper. ‘Surely you’re not working on Christmas Day. We used to get village girls in in the old days.’
You are definitely going to get this boiling fat in your face in a minute, vowed Taggie. It was twenty-past eight, everything would be ruined if Eddie didn’t show up soon.
‘Can’t wait to see my father’s latest bimbo.’ Rupert refilled everyone’s glasses.
Then, over more barking, a deep voice cried; ‘Coo-ee, everyone, we’re here.’
‘Oh no.’ Flora looked at Marcus in horror.
‘Timeo Danaos et prima donna ferentes,’ sighed Marcus.
The next moment, Eddie, wearing a dinner-jacket green with age, and leering like Old Steptoe, walked in with Hermione, who was wrapped in a cranberry-red wool cloak with an ermine-lined hood looking as deeply silly as she did stunning.
‘So caring of you to include me in your festivities,’ she said, advancing on a flabbergasted Rupert with outstretched hands.
‘I didn’t know you knew my father.’
‘Eddie and I are old friends,’ said Hermione with a roguish twinkle. ‘Other dear friends begged me to sing at their Christmas Eve soirée, it was so late when I got to bed and the Christmas Day flights are so hopeless, Eddie persuaded me to fly out tomorrow.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Rupert.
‘To Rannaldini’s, where else? My partner Bobby and little Cosmo are already out there. Rannaldini’s taken a Bohemian castle for the festive season, he likes to have all his children and ex-wives around him.’
‘Not all,’ said Lysander, putting an arm round Kitty.
‘Oh, there you are, Kitty,’ Hermione ignored Lysander. ‘What’s happened to my Merry Widow contract?’
Sliding out of her red cloak and a red-and-white Hermes scarf, she handed them to Eddie.
‘Put them in the hall, dear, and bring in my gifts.’
She was looking wonderful in boned red velvet with a bell skirt which showed off her comparatively small waist and pretty legs. A huge ruby pendant glowed above her big breasts.
I cannot believe this, thought Helen in mounting hysteria, Rannaldini’s ex-wife, his cast-off and now his mistress.
Having handed round CDs of her latest hit, ‘Santa of the Universe’, Hermione was now embracing Taggie before presenting her with a box of last year’s crystallized fruits and the salmon-pink gladioli, wrinkled in their Cellophane, which she’d been presented with the night before.
Barely acknowledging Flora, whom she detested, she turned joyfully on Helen.
‘How are you? How are you? We met many moons ago with Rannaldini at Bagley Hall.’
‘How is he?’ whispered Helen.
‘Oh, full of beans. He was telling me your late husband-’ Hermione bowed her dark head. ‘I’m so sorry, we won’t discuss it — wrote a wonderful book on the flute. I want you to have an advance copy of “Only for Lovers”.’
Helen looked down at the CD case which showed a smirking Rannaldini with his hands on Hermione’s bare shoulders.
‘Thank you,’ she mumbled, then leapt as the telephone rang. Rannaldini must have got the number from Hermione, but Rupert had already picked it up.
‘Cun I speak to Tubitha?’ he said acidly. ‘Can’t you ever find a boyfriend who speaks the Queen’s English?’
Snatching up the telephone, Tabitha flounced out.
Helen was looking round at the Turner of Cotchester Cathedral against a rain dark sky, at the Landseer of mastiffs and the Stubbs of two chestnut mares under an oak tree.
‘That’s new,’ she said, nodding beadily at the Lucian Freud of a whippet and a rather muscular nude.
‘It reminded me of Nimrod,’ Rupert smiled down at his lurcher, who was striped black and brown like a bull’s eye.
Having romped all day with his new friend Bogotá, Nimrod was stretched out on the sofa, fawn belly speckled with mud, paws in the air, chewstik shoe in his mouth, gazing adoringly up at his master out of one shiny onyx eye.
‘What used to hang in its place?’ asked Helen perplexed.
‘The Ingres, I sold it.’
‘How could you?’ said Helen appalled.
‘I hate big dark lard-like women,’ said Rupert, glaring at Hermione, who bored with charming Eddie, came bounding towards him. Rupert was her real prey.
‘What happened to that Colombian lad you were thinking of adopting?’
‘He’s here,’ said Rupert, beckoning Xav.
Getting no reaction from the boy’s impassive, watchful face, Hermione cooed: ‘May I have one of your chocolates?’
As she helped herself, putting her red lips over the knob, Lysander got such giggles he had to hide behind the curtain.
‘I bet you don’t know what my name is,’ Hermione smiled winningly.
‘Yes I do,’ said Xav.
‘Bet you don’t.’
‘Yes I do. It’s Mrs Fat Bum.’
‘Rupert’s father’s brought a bumbo,’ murmured Flora, as a shaking Lysander disappeared again.
‘Dinner,’ announced Taggie.
All Taggie’s efforts to make the dining-room look pretty had paid off. The pale scarlet walls and ivy-green curtains were echoed by a centrepiece of snowdrops, holly and Christmas roses. The only lighting reflected in glass and silver came from the flickering fire, fifty white candles and the picture lights over the family portraits.
‘That was me,’ said Eddie, nodding at a handsome youth in uniform.
‘Oh, what a relief,’ Helen’s voice quavered. ‘You’ve changed nothing here.’
‘Except wives,’ said Rupert. That’ll teach her to be nicer to Taggie, he thought, as Helen brimmed and bit her lip.
Rupert, on the other hand, had taken a shine to Flora and, as there was no seating plan, put her on his left with Hermione as the lesser of three evils on his right, and Helen between her and Eddie, who was on Taggie’s right. Marcus, Tabitha, Lysander and Kitty could sort themselves out.
‘It’s perfect,’ he called out to Taggie as he cut into the goose, dropping the first slice into Nimrod’s waiting jaws.
‘That’s far too much for me,’ whimpered Helen as he handed her the first plate.
‘I’ll have it,’ said Hermione, piling on most of the little brown potatoes.
Having filled up glasses and handed round the vegetables, Marcus found himself sitting next to Kitty. She might have a face like boiled bacon, but she was so adorable and, having worked for Rannaldini, had lots of gossip about soloists, conductors and helpful agents.
She refused red wine, when he tried to fill up her glass, because she was having another baby.
‘Lysander’s coming to the ante-natal classes,’ she said proudly.
‘I love rolling around on the floor with a lot of women,’ yelled a jubilant Lysander down the table.
‘That goose was something else,’ sighed Flora, finally putting her knife and fork together.
‘Have some more,’ said Taggie.
‘Yes please,’ said Eddie.
Tabitha didn’t even bother to toy with a piece of goose as she read Dick Francis under the table.
Please give me Lysander, she prayed.
Please let Rannaldini call, prayed her mother.
‘I think we ought to drink to the cook,’ said Eddie, with his mouth full, ‘To Helen,’ he said, draining his glass.
Everyone, except Helen, howled with laughter.
‘I love you,’ mouthed Rupert down the table at Taggie.
‘I think we ought to drink to absent friends,’ Hermione smiled round, ‘Bobby and Cosmo.’
‘Abby,’ said Flora and Ma
rcus.
‘And Malise,’ said Helen with a sob.
‘Of course,’ said Rupert, ‘Malise!’
After everyone drained their glasses there was an embarrassed pause.
‘And I think we ought to drink to absent fiends,’ said Flora, as Rupert filled her glass again. ‘To Rannaldini!’
SEVENTEEN
The flickering bright blue halo had retreated like a genie into the Christmas pudding. Chateau d’Yquem gleamed topaz in the wine glasses. Gertrude, Taggie’s little mongrel, bristled in a green paper admiral’s hat on her mistress’s lap. Xav, who never seemed to go to bed, was sprawled on his father’s knee, tunelessly singing ‘Cars in the bright sky look down where He lay’ because it made Rupert laugh.
Why doesn’t my father love me a millionth as much as that? thought Marcus wistfully. He was so frantic to practise he was beginning to twitch like a junkie. All the pieces he’d been learning seemed to be sliding away. Across the table his mother looked shell-shocked.
‘I cannot believe you are forty-four,’ Hermione was telling her. ‘I hope I’ll be as lovely as you when I reach your age.’
‘Which is in about two minutes,’ said Flora crossly.
‘Why don’t you take an evening class?’ urged Hermione. ‘There are courses for antique restoration, archery, ball-room dancing — you might find a new chap there. They’ve even got a class for understanding teenagers.’
‘My father would profit from that,’ said Tabitha acidly, glancing up from Dick Francis. ‘Where’s Grandpa?’ she asked Marcus.
‘Ringing my grand-mugger,’ said Xav.
‘I didn’t ask you, smart ass,’ snapped Tabitha.
‘It’s true.’ Rupert came to Xavier’s defence. ‘He proposes to her every Christmas.’
Bored with counselling, Hermione looked sourly at Xav, still on Rupert’s knee, which was exactly where Hermione would like to have been. Rupert had always had a strong head, but he had drunk so much during the day, and Xav’s eyes were so much improved that it was debatable as to which of them was now squinting the most.
‘Very caring to take on a coloured lad,’ observed Hermione.