‘They’re giving the focking party for us. Why the hell don’t they put names on their houses in the country?’
‘You don’t.’
‘That’s because I don’t want anyone to come and see me.’
Declan was also aware that, although his wife was looking a billion dollars in a very low-cut black silk dress, a green shawl which matched her eyes, black stockings and black high heels, with her shiny red hair piled under the big black hat, she was quite unsuitably dressed for Sunday lunch.
‘There it is,’ said Declan at last, as he drove through two lichened gate posts topped with rather newer stone rams. ‘Christ, people are leaving already.’
As a dark-green BMW passed them coming the other way, the woman who was driving wound down the window:
‘Love your progamme. Frightfully sorry, we’ve got to go to a christening. Welcome to Gloucestershire; you must come to dinner. Better hurry or there won’t be any drink left.’
‘Jesus,’ muttered Declan.
The Baddinghams’ splendid Queen Anne house lay in a hollow surrounded by lush parkland. The stable clock was always kept twenty minutes fast so that people might worry they were late, and be encouraged to leave early.
In huge gold letters against a black background above the second door of the porch was written: Peaceful is the Country that is strongly armed. In the hall, stuffed heads of deer, tiger, stag and buffalo gazed down glassily.
‘My head’ll be up there next,’ muttered Declan as Tony came out of the drawing-room, plainly in a bait.
‘Can’t you ever get the time right, Declan? We’ve been trying to have lunch for three-quarters of an hour.’
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Maud in her most caressing tones. ‘Declan and I are used to London hours.’
‘Well, you’d better acquire a few rural habits. The Pimm’s has run out; what d’you want to drink?’
‘Oh, there you are.’ Monica swept in wearing a blue cotton shirtwaister and open-toed sandals on her big bare feet. ‘Taggie said you were on your way; pity you didn’t bring her, I’ve got so many spare men. Have a quick drink, and then we’ll have lunch. It’s probably the last time we’ll be able to eat outside this year,’ she added wistfully, thinking how much she’d prefer to be dividing the regale lilies.
Having given Maud a drink, she led her through the vast tapestried drawing-room out to the new conservatory, which stretched the entire back of the house at ground floor level and was crammed with statues of goddesses, iron seats painted white, lilies, palms, aspidistras and plants still wrapped, which people had brought as conservatory-warming presents.
‘Beautiful,’ murmured Maud, taking a huge slug of whisky.
Everyone, gathered on the lawn, turned round and stared.
‘Come into the garden, Maud,’ bellowed Charles Fairburn, who was already tight. Mistiming his kiss, his round red shiny face cannoned off Maud’s like a billiard ball.
‘Looking beautiful as usual,’ he said, drawing her aside.
‘You’re not to monopolize her, Charles,’ said Monica bossily.
‘I promise I’ll introduce her to everyone,’ said Charles. ‘Your husband’s certainly been stirring things up at Corinium,’ he added, lowering his voice.
‘Really,’ said Maud, only mildly interested.
She’d never been wild about Charles. He knew too much about her, and with such fantastic men around she didn’t want to waste her first party on one who was both drunk and gay.
‘Is that very good-looking man over there Rupert Campbell-Black?’ she asked.
‘Unfair to Rupert,’ said Charles. ‘That’s James Vereker, Corinium’s most popular presenter, drinking Perrier and working the room. He’s fearfully put out by your husband joining Corinium.’
James was, in fact, absolutely furious. He’d arrived as late as he dared in order to make an entrance, then Declan had swanned in even later. Now he was trapped by three of Monica’s friends who ‘did an enormous amount for charity’, silly old bags who all wanted him to open their Autumn bazaars and Christmas fayres for nothing. To look at Monica’s toe nails, thought James in disgust, you’d have reckoned she weeded the garden with her feet; and Paul Stratton, who’d put on a hell of a lot of weight, looked ludicrous in those tight new jeans, and a denim shirt undone to the waist to reveal scanty grey chest hair. James, who’d nearly worn jeans and an unbuttoned blue shirt, was so glad he’d put on instead a new grey jersey with a pink elephant on the front, knitted by one of his adoring fans.
‘Come and meet Maud O’Hara, James,’ yelled Charles Fairburn.
James extracted himself from the old bags and wandered over. Maud O’Hara was certainly extraordinarily beautiful.
‘Is that pink elephant on your bosom meant to reproach the rest of us for not drinking Perrier?’ said Charles.
‘If the cap fits, Charles,’ smirked James. ‘Don’t you think it’s a nice sweater, Maud? Sent me by a fan.’ He smiled engagingly.
Charles peered at the sweater: ‘Not sure about the collar.’
‘It might look better if you wore a brooch,’ said Maud.
James suddenly decided he didn’t think Maud was beautiful at all.
‘Hullo,’ said Lizzie Vereker, coming over and hugging Maud, ‘lovely to see you, I’m so pleased you’ve met James. Thank you for all that lovely whisky the other day. Are you straight yet?’
‘Don’t ever ask me that question,’ said Charles with a shudder. ‘What’s all this about five fire engines rolling up at Rupert’s house and catching him playing nude tennis with a blonde. Talk about Wobble-don.’
Lizzie giggled: ‘Rupert’s convinced some animal rights freak called the fire brigade because she thought he was cruel to burn his stubble.’
‘Who was the blonde?’ asked Charles. ‘Beattie Johnson?’
‘No, that finished months ago. Rupert won’t say. The on dit is that she’s the girl playing Mustard Seed in Midsummer Night’s Dream.’
‘Have you heard that Titania’s so petrified of getting AIDS, she’s refusing to kiss Bottom until he’s had a blood test?’ said Charles.
‘Is Rupert here?’ asked Maud, who was not interested in Corinium gossip.
‘Somewhere. Probably wandered off down one of those garden glades in which everyone except Monica behaves badly,’ said Lizzie.
‘Speak for yourself,’ said James disapprovingly.
It was certainly a beautiful garden. Rising out of a sea of lavender, roses coming up for a second pale-pink innings rampaged up the walls of the house. Pastel drifts of delphiniums, Japanese anemones, and Michaelmas daisies were sheltered from the bitter winds by yew hedges nine feet high. Two plump labradors panted on lawns as smooth as an Oxford quad. Beyond was a fish pond and a water garden, fed by the same winding River Fleet that flowed through Cotchester.
‘What are you going to do about the Priory garden?’ asked Lizzie.
‘Get a donkey to keep down the lawn,’ said Maud.
‘I hope to God we eat soon,’ said a harassed-looking man with a moth-eaten yellow beard, and a sleeping baby hanging from a baby sling. He was also hanging on to two frantically struggling children by the scruffs of their necks.
‘There is a limited amount of time one can entertain one’s kids feeding Tony’s fish,’ he added helplessly.
Lizzie introduced Simon Harris. All his skin seemed to be flaking in the open air, thought Maud.
‘How’s Fiona?’ asked Lizzie.
‘Still in hospital for another three weeks. It’s the nanny’s day off, or I’d never have brought this lot,’ said Simon, as the two hyperactive horrors strained at their collars like bull terriers after a cat. ‘If they get at Monica’s Meissen I’m finished. I just couldn’t resist a square meal,’ he added pathetically.