Lizzie opened her mouth to ask him to supper, then closed it again. Simon was so boring at the moment, and she knew James, who was convinced Simon was about to get the bullet, would think it a waste of time.
The panting labradors struggled to their feet, waving their tails as Monica appeared at the conservatory door.
‘Lunch,’ she said. ‘You stay outside with the children,’ she added firmly to Simon. ‘I’ll get someone to bring you something out. I like children normally, but Simon’s two will keep pulling the dogs’ ears, and they keep knocking over my new plants,’ she added in an undertone to Maud.
As Maud walked into the dining-room, Declan came towards her looking really happy for the first time that week: ‘Darling, you must meet Rupert. He knows Johnny very well. He’s given me some great stuff about him. It’s added a totally new dimension to his character.’
Maud caught her breath. How could I ever have mistaken James Vereker for that, she wondered.
Rupert and Declan were both tall and broad in the shoulder, but there the resemblance ended. Declan, with his heavily lined, broken-nosed, shaggy-haired splendour, was like a battle-scarred charger returning from the wars. Rupert was like a sleek capricious thoroughbred, rippling with muscle and breeding, about to win the Derby at a canter. Yet in their great fame and their intrinsic belief (despite Declan’s current self-doubts) that they were still the greatest in the world at what they did, they were the same, and therefore separate from the rest of the party. At that moment both James and Maud felt a bitter stab of envy, that Declan had been admitted so effortlessly to the same club to which Johnny Friedlander and Rupert belonged.
‘Welcome to Penscombe.’ Rupert kissed Maud on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t at home when you moved in, but I’ve been frantically busy.’
‘So we hear, Rupert,’ said Charles archly. ‘What’s this about fire engines and a burning bush?’
‘Fuck off, Fairburn,’ said Rupert, grinning.
‘Come on, don’t hold up the queue,’ said Monica, beckoning from behind a long white table. ‘You’re getting Coronation chicken again, I’m afraid.’
Maud stood in front of Declan and Rupert, gulping down her third glass of wine and feeling totally unnerved.
‘I know your house very well,’ Rupert told her. ‘I remember pursuing something that wasn’t a fox across your haha at one party. Ended up ripping the front of my trousers off on the barbed wire. How’s the garden?’
‘A groundsel estate, and the nettles are on the warpath,’ said Declan.
‘Better get those tackled professionally,’ said Rupert, ‘or you’ll never get rid of them. I’ve got a man who’ll do it for you.’
‘What about the wood?’ asked Declan.
‘Forestry commission’ll give you a grant for that. They’ll whip out all the dead stuff and plant you new young trees as a quid pro quo for the firewood.’
‘How wonderfully positive you are,’ murmured Maud. ‘Perhaps you can give me advice on re-decorating our bedroom?’
‘Re-decorating’s never been a priority of mine. Not in bedrooms,’ said Rupert.
‘Tuck in, Maud,’ said Monica impatiently. ‘And you haven’t met my brother-in-law, Bas. He’s dying to meet you.’
Bas was about five inches taller than Tony and decidedly attractive in a sleek, wicked, Latin way. He kissed Maud’s hand, then turned it over and buried his lips in her wrist.
‘Calêche,’ he murmured. ‘I adore it. Do you wear it all over?’
Maud laughed. ‘Are you local?’
‘Near enough as the helicopter flies. I can land on the palm of your hand. I’ve got a wine bar in Cotchester High Street,’ he went on. ‘Most of my evil brother’s staff gather there to plot against him. No doubt your famous husband will shortly join them. You must get him to bring you in one day.’
‘Don’t be silly, Bas,’ said Monica briskly. ‘You haven’t met Paul Stratton, Maud, our MP for Cotchester, nor his wife Sarah.’
She looks more like his daughter, thought Maud. With his anxious, lined, somewhat petulant face, and his brushed-forward blue-grey hair, Paul looked like one of those once-famous television personalities who eke out a middle-aged existence advising housewives to buy soap powder in television commercials.
Even Maud, who had a dismissive attitude to the charms of her own sex, had to admit that the wife was ravishing.
‘Ah, the newly-weds,’ said Bas, kissing Sarah on the mouth. ‘When are you going to start being unfaithful to Paul? We’re in Beaufort country here, you know, high fences and low morals.’
‘Basil,’ snapped Monica. ‘Do stop holding up the queue. And you haven’t met Freddie Jones, our electronic whizz kid have you, Maud?’
‘Oh my goodness, you are smashing,’ said Freddie in wonder. ‘I ’ear Rupert’s going to provide your ’usband with an ’orse.’
Maud felt marvellous. It was such a long time since she’d been admired by so many attractive men, so much more macho than all those wimps in London, and for once people were paying more attention to her than Declan. This dress always worked.
‘Come along, Mrs O’Hara,’ said Rupert, who, while Maud was busy fascinating, had loaded up two plates, acquired a bottle of white and two glasses, and put them on a tray. ‘D’you want to be indoors or out?’
‘Indoors,’ said Maud joyfully. ‘I freckle so easily.’
Rupert found them a window seat in the conservatory.
‘Monica’s done this rather well,’ he said, looking round. ‘I gather it’s cost Corinium even more than your husband’s first week’s salary. You want to avoid this house in winter; it’s the sort of place eskimos send their children as punishment.’
On cue, Simon Harris’s two hyperactive monsters roared past, sending an aspidistra flying. Ten seconds later they were followed by Simon Harris, with Coronation chicken all over his beard. The baby in the sling was bawling its head off.
‘Did they go this way?’ asked Simon frantically.
There was a crash from the drawing-room.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Rupert.
Maud wrinkled her nose as he rushed out.
‘That baby needs changing.’
Rupert laughed. ‘All his children do. I’d take the lot back to Harrods if I was him.’
Rushing almost as fast in the opposite direction came Paul Stratton searching for Sarah, who was sitting on a wall giggling with Bas.
‘Paul’s jeans appear to be castrating him even more than his new wife,’ said Rupert, forking up chicken at great speed. ‘If he bends over, his eyes will pop out.’
Maud admired the length of Rupert’s pale-brown corduroyed thighs. After four large glasses of wine, she suddenly had an irresistible urge to touch one of them.
‘She’s beautiful, his wife,’ said Maud.
‘She’s a tramp,’ said Rupert, ‘and Paul’s living in Cloud Cuckold Land.’
‘What’s Bas like?’ asked Maud, putting her chicken down on the floor untouched.
‘Divine,’ said Rupert. ‘One of my best mates. Runs a phenomenally successful wine bar, dabbles in property, hunts four days a week in winter, plays polo all summer, and screws all the prettiest girls in four counties. Can’t be bad.’
‘He doesn’t look like Tony,’ said Maud.
‘They had different fathers. After twenty-three years of utter fidelity to Lord Pop-Pop, Tony’s mother fell for an Argentinian polo player. The result to everyone’s amazement was Bas. Hence the name of the wine bar — the Bar Sinister.’
Maud laughed. Many men had told her that her laugh was beautiful — low, musical, joyous.
‘Tell me about your children,’ said Rupert, who’d finished his chicken.
‘I’ve got a son, Patrick.’