She was shortly followed by Tony and Monica. Tony’d been away at a conference, and for once, because he was cleaning up Corinium’s act, hadn’t taken Cameron with him. Now he was unflatteringly unpleased to see her. The big smile he switched on like a light bulb switched off as though there’d been a mega powercut. He always felt twitchy when Cameron and Monica were in the same room, and, even worse, Cameron, it seemed, had been invited for Rupert, his old rival. And there was Declan’s bloody signature tune blaring out. He was still extremely off Declan, but his hopes of having a good bitch about him this evening had been foiled by the presence of Declan’s stupid daughter.
‘This music is wonderful,’ exclaimed Monica.
‘Come and see it in action,’ said Freddie, bearing her off to witness the electronic wizardry in his study.
‘Have you got any Wagner?’ said Monica.
Next moment, to Valerie’s horror. Siegfried’s funeral march pounded deafeningly through the house.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ hissed Tony to Cameron.
‘I was asked,’ said Cameron coldly.
‘We must be very careful.’
‘Of course,’ said Cameron, holding her glass out to Reg for an instant refill. ‘We mustn’t jeopardize the franchise.’
Valerie was telling Paul about the house: ‘We replaced those dreary old mullioned windows with picture windows.’
‘How on earth did you get planning permission?’ said Paul in horror. ‘I thought this was a listed building.’
‘Grade 1,’ said Valerie smugly. ‘Fred-Fred has friends in high places.’
‘Please God, don’t let the sauce curdle,’ prayed Taggie in the kitchen as she added egg yolks and vinegar.
‘Door, love,’ said Reg, giving her a pinch on the bottom. ‘You look much the sexiest of the lot.’
It was Lizzie and James, who’d plainly had a row because of Lizzie’s catastrophic navigation. James loved making an entrance, but not arriving half an hour after his boss, who was looking bootfaced and standing as far away from Cameron as possible talking to Paul Stratton. James immediately gravitated towards Sarah and thought how nice it was to see Cameron out of her depth socially, and for once rather insecure.
Lizzie, who looked awful (she’d worked too late on her novel again and had not had time to wash her hair), had brought some bantams’ eggs for Freddie and Valerie, and was thrilled to see Taggie: ‘I know it’ll all be delicious; don’t worry.’
Valerie looked at her watch yet again: quarter past nine and no Rupert.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Freddie, filling up everyone’s glasses. ‘Nice to relax on a Friday.’
‘Freddie’s equipment is quite staggering,’ said Monica returning from the study.
Sarah caught Lizzie’s eye and giggled.
Mashing the potatoes in the kitchen, Taggie was going frantic. Everything would be ruined unless they ate soon.
‘Off you go,’ said Reg, as the doorbell rang.
Crimson with rage and embarrassment, bending her legs to make her maid’s dress look longer, Taggie answered the door. Grinning, Rupert walked into the hall. ‘Called any good fire engines lately?’
‘Would you like to take off your coat?’ said Taggie stiffly.
‘I’d much rather take off your dress,’ said Rupert. ‘You look like the object of all red-blooded men’s fantasies. I’m late. I’d better go and make my peace.’
Valerie hid her rage less well than Taggie: ‘Rupert, where have you been?’
Cameron choked on her champagne. Having never actually met Rupert and having been poisoned by Tony’s almost pathological jealousy, she’d expected him to just be another loud-mouthed, upper-class English shit. In the flesh he was glorious, and much more American-looking than English.
Having apologized to Valerie, Rupert turned to kiss Monica.
‘You haven’t met Cavendish Cook, have you, Rupert?’ said Monica.
‘How do you do, sir,’ said Rupert, admiring Cameron’s smoking jacket.
‘Cavendish works for Tony,’ went on Monica. ‘I gather you won another prize last week, Cavendish; jolly good show. I meant to watch the programme last summer, but unfortunately they were doing Meistersinger on BBC 2 the same night, and I was videoing that as well as watching it.’
James was in ecstasy — Cavendish Cook! There were some advantages in Monica’s addiction to BBC 2 after all.
Seeing Sharon sneaking through the hall towards the kitchen, Valerie gave an eldritch screech.
‘Sharon, Sharon, come in here and give Auntie Monica some nibbles. She keeps sloping off to watch “Dynasty”,’ she added to Monica. ‘I won’t have my kids watching soaps.’
‘Oh I love “Dynasty”,’ said Monica, smiling at Sharon. ‘Do tell me whether Blake and Crystal have made it up.’
Rupert walked over to James, who was still talking to Sarah.
‘That was a bloody good interview you did with the PM,’ he said. ‘And she thought you were marvellous. Asked me for your address so she could write to you.’
James, who’d always hated Rupert, melted faster than a snowball in the microwave. Then Rupert turned to Sarah, kissing her white shoulder.
‘Evening, my darling, that’s an incredibly sexy dress, I don’t know why you bother to wear any clothes at all. Bloody cold outside. I think it’s going to snow.’
‘I can never get home if it snows,’ grumbled James. ‘I’m thinking of installing a put-you-up in my office.’
Seeing Tony was still talking to Paul, Rupert said: ‘Tony Baddingham’s got a put-you-down in his office.’
Cameron laughed.
James, who was not going to be egged on to bitching about Tony in front of Cameron, said, ‘I always feel Tony is much maligned.’
‘I entirely agree,’ said Rupert, draining his whisky, ‘but not nearly enough.’
Sitting next to Rupert at dinner, Sarah found herself talking gibberish. The awful thing about adultery, she thought, was that one had to remember in public that one hadn’t heard things that one’s lover had told one in private.
‘I saw your “Behind Every Famous Man” interview with James,’ said Rupert, as he unfolded his napkin. ‘Very good. Were you nervous?’
‘Desperately,’ said Sarah, blushing.
As they had discussed the whole thing and how ghastly James had been at length in bed yesterday afternoon, and because, under the table, Rupert’s hand was already creeping up between the slit in her skirt, Sarah found it impossible not to giggle.
‘I think I’ve found you a horse,’ went on Rupert, giving her his blank, blue-eyed stare. Then he solemnly proceeded to describe it down to its last fetlock. As he’d also given her the same details yesterday, she found it even more difficult to keep a straight face, particularly as Paul, pretending to listen to Valerie, had ears on elastic trying to hear what they were saying.
Fortunately, distraction was provided by Taggie bringing round the fish mousse. Not remembering her left from her right, having served Monica, she moved backwards to serve James.
‘Clockwise,’ screeched Valerie.
There was another awful moment for Taggie when she saw Rupert and Lizzie having hysterics over the menu.
‘Gingered French peasant, cravat sauce and desert château,’ translated Rupert.
‘Our hostess’s French is slightly Stratford atte Bowe,’ whispered Lizzie.
‘What’s that?’ said Valerie sharply from the other end of the table.
For a second Lizzie caught Taggie’s anguished eye, and instantly identified the author of the menu: ‘Just saying how good your French is,’ she said to Valerie.