‘Did you have a good Christmas?’ Lizzie asked Freddie.
‘Amizing,’ said Freddie. ‘Got some triffic presents. The staff gave me a fireman’s helmet, cos I’m always rushin’ about, and Rupert sent me a loaf of Mother’s Pride.’
Lizzie giggled.
‘Typical,’ said Valerie, her lips tightening.
‘And those bantams’ eggs you gave us were triffic, too. You can taste the difference. I ’ad one for my breakfast this morning.’ Freddie beamed at Lizzie.
‘Nonsense, Fred-Fred,’ said Valerie with a little laugh, ‘that egg came from Tesco’s.’
James, who’d skipped lunch because he was having his roots touched up, was drinking more than usual and thinking what a lot of amazingly beautiful women there were around: Joanna Lumley over there, and Patricia Hodge, and Pamela Armstrong, and Selina Scott and Ann Diamond.
Maud was looking sensational too, and there was Sarah Stratton, not looking as good as usual. There were black rings under her eyes, but she still exuded wantonness.
Sarah was, in fact, in a foul mood. She hadn’t had any lunch either, because she’d been hunting for a dress to wear this evening. She had missed Rupert horribly over Christmas. He obviously couldn’t ring her, as Paul had been home all the time, but she hadn’t even had a postcard, and then in Nigel Dempster’s column that morning there’d been a picture of Rupert skiing, with his arm round an incredibly glamorous French actress called Nathalie Perrault. She’d kill him when she saw him.
Where the hell was he, anyway? Who could she flirt with to irritate him? The most attractive men in the room, Sarah decided, were Declan, who was already drunk, and Declan’s son, a raving beauty, who was going to be very formidable in a few years’ time when he filled out. Sarah shimmied out to the marquee and, finding Rupert’s place card, moved it next to hers. How dare the bastard dally with Nathalie Perrault? Bloody Paul had read Dempster too, and made sly little digs about it all day.
Tony, to his amazement, was thoroughly enjoying the party. Shrewd enough to appreciate his vanity, Maud was treating him as the guest of honour, keeping him constantly plied with celebrities, mostly beautiful women, and introducing him to them as: ‘Declan’s gorgeous boss. You must get him to ask you down to Corinium, darling.’ Tony was soon purring like a great leopard let loose in a goat farm.
Archie, Tony’s beloved son, was getting plastered upstairs with Caitlin’s friends. Poor fat Sharon Jones was desperately shy. Caitlin had introduced her to boy after boy, ordering them to look after her, but within seconds Sharon had waddled back to her increasingly irritated mother.
‘I told you, go and make some friends of your own age,’ hissed Valerie furiously.
Mrs Makepiece sidled up to Maud. ‘Miss Taggie says we ought to eat; everything’s ready.’
‘We can’t till Rupert arrives,’ said Maud firmly. ‘Tell her to wait ten minutes.’
The doorbell rang. Perhaps this was him. She went into the hall, but Declan got there first, and it was only Simon Harris barging in with the two hyperactive monsters, and the baby in a carrycot.
‘Hullo, Declan,’ panted Simon. ‘Sorry we’re late. Nice of you to invite the whole brood.’ Then, seeing Declan’s look of horror, he explained, ‘I talked to someone called Grace, who said it’d be quite all right.’
Looking around, deciding that this was the sort of nice messy house that wouldn’t mind children, Simon let go of the two little monsters. ‘Where shall I put the baby?’
At that moment, Rupert sauntered through the open door with snow on his dinner jacket and in his hair, the dingy grey pallor of Simon Harris throwing his Gstaad suntan into even greater relief.
‘Rupert,’ said Maud joyfully, ‘you made it.’
She looked so beautiful, glowing under the hall mistletoe, that Rupert kissed her on the mouth. ‘You look sensational,’ he said.
‘Not nearly as sensational as you,’ whispered Maud. ‘You must have had wonderful weather.’
‘I can feel the temperature dropping here,’ said Rupert, as Declan turned on his heel and stalked off towards the kitchen. ‘What’s up with him?’
‘Oh he’s just in a bait.’ Maud turned to the passing Reg. ‘Bring Mr Campbell-Black a bucket of whisky.’
Going back to the kitchen via the marquee, Caitlin put her place card back on Rupert’s right and removed Wandering Aengus who was sitting on Valerie’s plate.
‘Wonderful party,’ she said to Taggie who was grimly pouring turkey soup into bowls on trays. ‘Rupert’s arrived looking like a red Indian, so Mummy says we can eat now, and Daddy’s terribly drunk.’
‘Daddy’s not the only one,’ said Taggie. ‘You should see Reg and his friends. Both Tracey and Kev have already buggered off upstairs, and good old Grace is singing “This Joyful Eastertide”.’
18
Tony Baddingham was even happier at dinner sitting between Joanna Lumley and Sarah Stratton.
‘I know by rights you should be on my right,’ Maud had whispered in his ear, ‘but I thought you deserved a treat.’
‘Freddie and Ay’ll be leaving early,’ said Valerie as she went into dinner. ‘The West Cotchester are meeting at Green Lawns tomorrow.’
‘They’re not meeting anywhere,’ said Rupert. ‘It’s frozen solid outside, so we can all get frightfully drunk.’
He wondered what had happened to Taggie. He couldn’t find her name on the seating plan.
‘You’re over here, next to me,’ Maud called to Rupert, patting the seat beside her.
‘And next to me,’ beamed Caitlin, bolting up to the table and whipping away Cameron Cook’s place card which was on his other side.
Maud could have murdered Caitlin, but she didn’t want a scene in public.
‘You better say Grace,’ giggled Caitlin, who’d been at the Malibu, ‘and she’ll come running in singing “This Joyful Eastertide”.’
It was obvious, reflected Tony with satisfaction, that Maud and Declan had had the most frightful row — probably about money. Earlier in the day Declan had very forcibly stressed that it was a tiny party, just a few friends, but there must be at least three hundred people here and by the way the Moët was being splashed about, nothing had been stinted, which was good, because the broker Declan got, the more dependent he’d be on Corinium, and the more Tony could torment and manipulate him.
Then, looking across the room at Maud’s enraptured face turned towards Rupert, her elbows pressed together to deepen her cleavage, her turkey soup untouched, he decided it was more likely that Declan was upset because his wife had a thumping great crush on Rupert. This suited Tony even better, because it meant Declan would crucify Rupert even more when he interviewed him in the New Year.
Sarah Stratton, who’d stopped to say hullo to Rupert on the way in, was looking rather bleak as she sat down beside Tony.
‘I’m glad we’re next to each other,’ he said. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’
‘Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?’ said Sarah, picking up her soup spoon.
‘Yes,’ said Tony, his swarthy pirate’s face suddenly looking as though he was going to fight off a flotilla of rival clipper ships, ‘to keep the franchise.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Sarah.
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Simon Harris across the room, helping himself to a seventh piece of garlic bread, ‘but Tony came roaring in today saying I’m not having fucking language like that on any fucking programme going out from my fucking station.’