Lizzie giggled. ‘What a typically Rupert remark. Has she finished ghosting his memoirs yet?’
‘Probably providing material for the last chapter at the moment,’ said Freddie. Digging a serving spoon into a creamy mass of potato dauphinoise, he gave a big helping to Lizzie, and was just helping himself when Valerie called sharply down the table, ‘No tatties, Fred-Fred.’
‘It’s Friday,’ said Freddie, the Cockney accent wheedling, as the spoon edged towards his plate.
‘No tatties, I said.’ Valerie’s voice was pure steel.
Freddie put back the potatoes.
Looking across at Lizzie, Sarah Stratton gave her a ghost of a wink.
‘You can have my roll, Fred-Fred,’ she said, lobbing it across the table to him.
Valerie opened her rosebud mouth and shut it again. She knew one must behave like a lady at all times, and not brawl with one’s hubby in public. Then she suddenly noticed that James, who’d ground to a halt with Monica, was looking very put out.
‘What’s your programme about on Monday?’ Valerie asked him across the table.
Paul Stratton, on Monica’s left, seized his opportunity. Turning to her, he said in a low voice, ‘It’s awfully good of you to take Sarah under your wing this evening. I know how close you were to Winifred.’
Monica almost choked on her roast beef. She didn’t want to talk about Winifred.
‘It meant so much to Sarah,’ went on Paul. ‘She was so worried about coming tonight.’
She doesn’t look worried now, thought Monica, watching Sarah laughing up at Bas.
‘I felt guilty at the time,’ said Paul rather heartily. ‘But we are all sinners, are we not? What happened to Sarah and me was part of a loving relationship. All sides behaved with dignity. I feel I can now walk down Cotchester High Street with my head held high.’
Do you indeed, thought Monica furiously.
‘But one can’t destroy something that’s lasted twenty-five years over-night,’ said Paul, spearing a piece of Yorkshire pudding. ‘I still miss Win and the girls, particularly when I see old friends like you and Tony.’
He wants my sympathy, thought Monica incredulously. He’s utterly destroyed my best friend, and he wants me to feel sorry for him.
‘Do you correspond with Win?’ asked Paul.
Fortunately deliverance appeared in the form of one of the hall porters, who whispered a message in Monica’s ear.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said, and banging the table with her spoon, yelled down to Tony at the other end, ‘That was a message from Rupert. He can’t make it after all. Something urgent has come up.’
‘Probably Rupert’s cock,’ said Lizzie idly, earning herself a thunderous look of disapproval from James.
‘Pity,’ said Sarah lightly. ‘I was 50 looking forward to meeting him.’
‘There’ll be other occasions,’ said Bas, leaning back as a waitress removed his plate.
Tony, for a minute, was unable to disguise his rage.
‘Of all the fucking bad manners,’ he exploded.
Rupert’s defection put a considerable dampener on the evening. It was not until the syllabub had been handed round in tall glasses that Bas Baddingham, who was among other things a partner in a local estate agents, made an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
‘Has anyone else heard a rumour that Declan O’Hara’s bought Penscombe Priory?’ he asked.
For a second there was a stunned silence. Then all the women acted with the frantic excitement of dogs when their leads are rattled.
‘I’m going on a crash diet tomorrow,’ squeaked Lizzie, dropping her spoon with a clatter.
‘Oh why didn’t we buy a house in Penscombe rather than Chalford?’ wailed Sarah Stratton.
‘How much did he pay for it?’ asked Valerie Jones.
‘Half a million’ said Bas.
There was a long pause as everyone did frantic sums to work out how much that now made their houses worth.
‘That’s an awful lot,’ grumbled Valerie.
‘But it’s such a romantic house,’ sighed Lizzie, ‘and that lovely wild garden.’
‘Hellishly cold,’ shuddered James.
‘And faces North,’ said Valerie.
‘So does Declan O’Hara,’ said Sarah dreamily, earning herself a sharp look from Paul.
‘Rather a lot to pay for a weekend retreat,’ said James, looking put out.
To hell with impressing Rupert with the secret he’d been hugging to himself all day, thought Tony. He had a good enough audience as it was, and it was too late for any of them to leak the story to the press tonight.
‘Declan’s going to live here,’ said Tony, looking slowly down the table. ‘He’s joining Corinium in September.’
There was a gasp of excitement, followed by another stunned silence.
Troublesome, tetchy, but monumentally talented, Declan O’Hara was simply the BBC’s hottest property. His weekly interviews with the great and very famous went out at prime time and were avidly watched and discussed by the entire nation. Nothing like the normal chat show host, he indulged in no back slapping, nor drinking in the green room, nor bandying round of Christian names before a programme. Nor did he bounce around on long pastel sofas, cosily exchanging confidences.
His victims sat facing him, and, once on air, like a Jesuit priest, he really listened to them, relentlessly probing with the most devastating questions and waiting so unbearably long for an answer that they invariably stumbled into a confession. To the intense disappointment of his armies of female fans, the camera was constantly trained on the person he was interviewing rather than on Declan himself.
Poor James, thought Lizzie, oh poor, poor James. That must be the series of networked interviews scheduled for the Autumn.
‘How the hell did you persuade Declan?’ asked Bas.
‘He’s fed up with the Beeb,’ said Tony. ‘The last straw was axing his interview with Paisley. People who saw the video said it was absolute carnage. They didn’t think Paisley would go the fifteen rounds. Then they hacked great contentious chunks out of his interview with Reagan. He wants to go out live, so this kind of thing can’t happen. He will when he joins us.’
‘You’ll never get people like Reagan coming down to Cotchester,’ said Paul Stratton.
‘You will for Declan,’ said Freddie. ‘The BBC must be as sick as a parrot.’
‘They’re not pleased,’ Tony was purring like a great leopard now, ‘but it’s not exactly our job to please the Beeb.’
Clicking their tongues, the waitresses removed the untouched syllabubs.
‘Declan’s a bit of a pinko,’ said Paul, disapprovingly.
‘That’s putting it mildly,’ said Tony, ‘but as it looks as though the socialists will be in power next year unless you lot get your act together, we can’t afford to be too right wing any more.’
Trying, for James’s sake, to curb her excitement, Lizzie turned to Monica. ‘Have you met him?’
‘They came to lunch,’ said Monica. ‘Declan seems a super chap.’
Sarah and Lizzie caught each other’s eyes again and giggled at such a totally inadequate description.
‘A bit remote,’ Monica went on, ‘probably shy. His wife is charming.’
‘Beautiful?’ asked Lizzie.
‘Oh yes, exceptional.’
‘Pity,’ sighed Sarah, earning another scowl from Paul.
‘And three utterly ravishing children,’ said Monica. ‘A boy of twenty at Trinity, Dublin, and two teenage girls about seventeen and fourteen.’
‘With Rupert living just across the valley,’ said Lizzie, shaking her shaggy head, ‘Declan must be barking. He’ll have to lock his wife and both daughters up in chastity belts.’