‘The youngest kiddy will make a friend for Sharon, although Sharon made a lot of friends at Pony Club camp. I must get them together when the O’Haras move in,’ said Valerie.
Catching Sarah’s eye yet again, Lizzie decided Sarah was definitely going to be a mate.
A group of young waitresses from other tables were now hovering, wondering if it were the right moment to ask James Vereker for his autograph. Tony was also looking at James and experiencing a glow of pure pleasure. Corinium’s most popular presenter was feeling all the pique and disquiet of a big fish who’s been basking for years in a rock pool, then suddenly sees the fin of a shark coming over the horizon. James’s exquisitely straight nose would be frightfully put out of joint by Declan’s arrival. James, Tony decided, had been getting a shade above himself recently. There was nothing Tony loved more than cutting people down to size.
As liqueurs and cigars came round, Tony moved down the table beside Freddie Jones. Now Rupert had stood him up so summarily, he was even keener to get Freddie on to the Board. With satellite television in the offing, Freddie’s millions and electronic expertise would be invaluable.
‘When Declan arrives, we’ll get him to interview you,’ said Tony.
Valerie also changed places and sat next to Monica.
‘What a lovely meal, Lady Anthony,’ she said.
‘Oh, please call me Monica.’
‘Well, thank you, Monica,’ said Valerie gratified. ‘You may, if you like, call me Mousie. That’s Fred-Fred’s pet name for me. I only allow very special friends to become members of the Mousie club.’
Oblivious of Monica’s look of amazement and Sarah’s and Lizzie’s complete hysterics, Valerie ploughed on. ‘I wanted to pick your brains, Monica, about public schools. Wayne is eleven but he’s extra bright, so we’re thinking of Winchester or even Eton, but I just wondered if you and Tony had been satisfied with Rugborough.’
‘Well, Archie’s very happy there,’ said Monica, her raucous voice softening. ‘The only problem, if one’s got a flat in London, is that Rugborough’s on the Central Line and, whenever he gets bored, Archie keeps nipping home on the tube. It drives Tony demented. Archie’s supposed to be doing his O-levels.’
‘Our problem,’ said Valerie smugly, ‘is to stop Wayne working. Not that he’s a sissy, Monica — he’s really plucky at sport — but you know how important qualifications are.’
The band was playing ‘Red Red Wine’. The brilliantly lit ballroom beckoned. The vast springy floor was now filling up with couples. Like a shaken kaleidoscope, the red coats of the men with their flying tails clashed gloriously with the stinging fuchsia pinks and electric blues of the women’s dresses.
‘I wouldn’t mind if Tony’d given me an inkling beforehand,’ said James Vereker furiously, as, oblivious for once of the admiring glances of most of the young girls in the room, he lugged Lizzie round the floor, ‘but I looked such a pratt, knowing nothing about it, and Monica actually admitted never watching my programme. Says she prefers BBC 2. What kind of a Chairman’s wife is that?’
Lizzie let him rabbit on. She felt terribly sorry for him, but it was such exciting news that Declan was moving to Corinium, and she was fascinated by what was happening on the floor.
Monica was dancing with the Lord-Lieutenant now. For someone so mad about opera, she had no sense of rhythm. Gyrating three feet apart, they looked like two ostriches on hot bricks.
‘Red red wine,’ sang the Lord-Lieutenant over and over again, which were the only words he knew.
As the tempo speeded up, Valerie took the floor with Freddie, showing off her ‘Come Dancing’ skills, fishtailing, telemarquing, reversing, correcting Freddie sharply whenever he made a mistake. Freddie, his little black shoes twinkling, laughed and took it in good part.
‘What on earth did you find to say to James Vereker’s wife?’ asked Valerie, as the band paused for a moment. ‘What a mess, can’t have combed her hair for weeks, and that fraightful gown.’
‘Nice lady,’ said Freddie firmly. ‘I liked her a lot.’
Valerie gazed at Freddie as uncomprehendingly as Lizzie had gazed at James when, earlier, he’d called Valerie ‘a poppet’.
‘And that new wife of Paul Stratton’s looks a handful,’ she went on.
Freddie refrained from saying he’d love to have his hands full of Sarah Stratton.
Paul and Sarah were dancing together now. He was holding her close, his hands moving over her flawless gold back, as if testing she were real. Perhaps she’d made a special effort to look particularly stunning tonight, thought Lizzie, knowing Winifred was such a chum of Monica’s.
Tony devoted the rest of the evening to wooing Freddie, but he allowed himself the treat of a dance with Sarah. She was really gorgeous, he decided. One could understand exactly why Paul let his heart rule his very swollen head and ditched Winifred, but would he ever hold Sarah? She had obviously fallen in love with Paul because he was powerful and unobtainable. Now his career had taken a nose dive in the party and he’d been sacked from the Cabinet, he was neither of these things. Nervous of losing his seat at the next election, he kept angling for Tony to offer him an executive directorship on the Corinium Board.
But Paul shouldn’t have patronized Tony in the past. How much more amusing, thought Tony, to employ Paul’s new wife instead. Holding her dazzlingly full and exciting body, breathing in the scent of her thickly piled-up blonde hair, trying not to gaze too openly at the beautiful gold breasts, Tony felt the stirrings of lust. If she was any good, she’d be perfect to present the new late night show. That would really put Paul in a tizz.
‘It’s terribly exciting about Declan,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m such a fan. Those programmes are like Rembrandts. Did you see the one on Placido Domingo?’
‘You must come and meet him as soon as they move in,’ said Tony. ‘You’re going to be a distinct asset to Gloucestershire.’
Suddenly Sarah looked terribly young. Even in the dim light Tony could see she was blushing.
‘It was angelic of you to ask us tonight, knowing what friends you were, particularly your wife, of Winifred’s. Paul’s friends haven’t been exactly friendly. They think I’ve screwed up Paul’s career.’
Tony gave a piratical smile. All he needs between his teeth is a cutlass, thought Sarah.
‘You’ve given Paul a cast-iron excuse not to be Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘He’d never have made it. He has neither the bottle nor the conviction.’
‘You’re speaking of the man I love,’ said Sarah.
‘I’m sorry.’ Tony didn’t sound it. ‘I’m going to tell James Vereker to interview you for our new “Behind Every Famous Man” series.’
Sarah smiled, showing very small, white, even teeth.
‘You’d do better to interview Valerie. She drives poor Fred-Fred on with a pitchfork.’
‘Probably spent half the day reading etiquette books on the correct way to hold your pitchfork,’ said Tony.
Back at the table, the waiter poured more Krug, but Tony put a hand over his glass.
‘I’m driving to London after this,’ he said. ‘We’re announcing Declan’s appointment tomorrow, so all hell’s going to break loose.’
‘The Gloucestershire poacher strikes again,’ said Lizzie, receiving a sharp kick on the ankle from James.
As everyone swarmed out into the High Street after the ‘Post Horn Gallop’ and ‘Auld Lang Syne’, they found a thick layer of snow on the pavements. Down the road, high above them, the Corinium red ram was already wearing a white barrister’s wig of snow on his curly poll.
‘Drive carefully, Tony,’ called Monica, as Percy the chauffeur held open the door of the Rolls for her. ‘See you tomorrow evening.’ Happily she settled back in the grey seat. Soon she’d be home to at least an hour of Lohengrin before she fell asleep.