She shook her head violently. ‘I just miss my friends. I was wondering if we could give a tiny party for Patrick’s birthday on New Year’s Eve.’
Declan’s heart sank. ‘Not really, not this Christmas. We simply can’t afford it.’
‘It’s his twenty-first,’ pleaded Maud. ‘He’s always had such lousy birthdays, having them so near Christmas. Just the tiniest party, half a dozen couples. Taggie can do the food; it’ll be good training for her. She’s not getting any response from those cards.’
Declan was about to say they still hadn’t paid for the Fulham Farewell when the telephone rang again. Taggie picked it up in the kitchen. Five minutes later she rushed, pink-faced with excitement, into the drawing-room.
‘The most p-p-prodigious —’ her word for the day — ‘thing has happened. Valerie Jones got one of my cards and she’s asked me to do her dinner party next Friday. Isn’t it prodigious?’
‘It is, indeed,’ said Declan, disentangling himself from Maud and hugging her.
‘She asked us,’ said Maud fretfully. ‘What are you going to cook for her that we won’t get?’
‘I’ve got to go over tomorrow and discuss menus,’ said Taggie.
Maud seized her chance. ‘Daddy’s agreed we can have a little party for Patrick on New Year’s Eve,’ said Maud, ignoring Declan’s look of horror, ‘so you can start thinking up some nice food for that.’
Taggie’s already euphoric face lit up even further: ‘What a prodigious idea.’
Upstairs in her turret bedroom, she clutched herself, pressing her boiling face against one of the thin, cool ecclesiastical windows. If Patrick was having a party, how could Patrick’s best friend not be there? She was going to see Ralphie again.
Cooking for Valerie’s dinner party was Taggie’s first big job, but her nerves were nothing to Valerie’s. Valerie was livid with Freddie for asking Rupert, who was coming down to Gloucestershire for a constituency meeting and to present the cup at the Cotchester — Bristol football Derby. Originally he was supposed to be bringing some French actress, but she’d got stuck on location in Scotland. So Valerie’d had to find a spare woman at the last moment. She settled for Cameron Cook who had just won an American award for a documentary about arranged marriages which she’d produced last Spring. Having talked to her briefly at Declan’s first programme, Valerie had no idea she was Tony’s mistress.
And now Valerie wouldn’t stop flapping round the kitchen tasting and criticizing everything Taggie was making — ‘A soupçon more cayenne in the cucumber sauce, Agatha —’ or fretting whether they should have cheese before pudding, or who should sit next to whom.
‘It says,’ she announced, poring over the etiquette book, ‘that the most important man should sit on my right.’
‘That’s me,’ said Freddie, roaring with laughter.
‘Don’t be silly, Fred-Fred,’ snapped Valerie, ‘and don’t pick.’
‘That fish pâté’s champion,’ said Freddie, who’d only been allowed a small salad at lunch.
‘Are you going to be all day with that dessert, Agatha?’ said Valerie, beadily looking at the huge ice cream and meringue castle, around which Taggie was curling whipped cream to simulate pounding waves. ‘The place is a fraightful mess.’
‘I promise I’ll clear up in time. Everything’s done but this.’
People were due at eight to eight-thirty to dine at nine. The pheasants, simmered with cranberries and ginger, had to go in at six forty-five.
‘You’ve still got the menus to write out, one for each end of the table,’ said Valerie. ‘It would be naice to have them in French.’
Taggie went pale. She couldn’t even spell them properly in English; she’d always had trouble with pheasant. She started to shake.
‘I’m going to check the rest of the house,’ said Valerie.
The lounge looked beautiful. She’d got florists in to provide two beautiful pink arrangements. The dining-room was also a symphony in pink, with a centrepiece of roses. Valerie adored pink; it was so feminine and went so well with her mauve velvet evening gown with the flowing skirt and the trumpet sleeves. She was glad they weren’t having soup — Freddie drank it so noisily. She’d worked out where everyone was going to sit. Now, standing at the end of the table, Valerie practised her commands:
‘Bring in the appetizer, please, Agatha. Take away the entrée, Agatha. Bring in the dessert.’
Then there was the tricky bit, catching all the women’s eyes. She glanced at alternate chairs. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’
What happened if that awful Rupert read the message wrong and followed her upstairs too? He was quite capable. For safety, she’d better say: ‘Shall we ladies go upstairs?’
‘We’ve got a right one ’ere,’ said Reg, the hired butler, who was already well stuck into the Mouton Cadet. ‘Yakking away to herself in the dining-room.’
‘What am I to do about this menu?’ said Taggie helplessly.
‘I’ll help you. I’m doing French for O-levels,’ said Sharon, the daughter of the house, who’d inherited her father’s bulk and his sweet nature. ‘I’m sure the French for pheasant is payson.’
Mrs Makepiece, Valerie’s daily, who’d come to help with the washing up, was just raking the shagpile in the lounge, flicking away non-existent dust when Valerie rushed in and realigned the Tatlers and Harpers, leaving the Gloucester and Avon Life specially open at a picture of herself at the NSPCC fashion show in Cheltenham. It was seven o’clock. She’d better take a bath and change.
In the kitchen, Taggie finished the pudding and put the pheasants into the oven. She must remember to add chopped dill to the prawn sauce. She wished Valerie hadn’t wanted things quite so elaborate. Everything was going swimmingly until Valerie came down dressed, and insisted Taggie put on a maid’s black dress and a white apron which came miles above her black-stockinged knees, and then made her put her hair up. Even Taggie baulked at the white maid’s cap.
‘I expect you to answer the door,’ said Valerie, ‘supervise everything in the kitchen and wait at table.’
‘You’re in the army now,’ sung Reg, the hired butler, now on his third bottle.
‘Will you come and watch “Dynasty” with me?’ Sharon asked Taggie.
‘You’re not watching rubbish like that, Sharon. You’re to hand round nibbles and make yourself pleasant,’ snapped Valerie, nearly jumping out of her skin, as music blared out from the speakers all over the house.
‘It’s Daddy’s signature tune,’ said Taggie in delight.
‘Turn that horrible din down, Fred-Fred,’ screamed Valerie.
‘Monica loves classical music,’ said Freddie.
‘Oh well, leave it on, then.’
The doorbell rang. ‘Go and answer it, Agatha. Put the men’s coats in the downstairs toilet, and the ladies’ coats upstairs in the master bedroom, and then direct them towards the lounge, where Mr Jones and I will receive them.’
It was Paul and Sarah Stratton. For a second Taggie and Sarah stared at each other, remembering their previous encounter on Rupert’s tennis court. Then, with a wicked little smile, Sarah took off her red velvet cloak. Her tan had gone, but a black taffeta dress, off-the-shoulders and with a bustle, showed off her beautiful, opulent figure. Never having seen Paul before, Taggie thought he looked dreadfully old and careworn to be married to such a glowing over-excited young girl.
The next arrival was Cameron Cook, who Taggie recognized from Declan’s description and tried not to hate. Declan had omitted to say she was so beautiful, and wonderfully dressed this evening in a dark-red smoking jacket and black tie with a wing collar, her hair sleeked back to show off her smooth white forehead and thick black brows. She looked straight through Taggie, and, having no coat to take, stalked past her into the drawing-room.