‘You must have lots of protection,’ said Lysander, rubbing Ambre Solaire into her pink cheeks and painting her mouth with mauve lipsalve before dropping a kiss on her squashed nose.
He was looking very flash in a tight daffodil-yellow bomber jacket and ski pants, and a kingfisher-blue sweat band keeping his curls out of his eyes, which were covered with black wrap-around glasses. He’d streaked his face and his beautiful big mouth with different coloured lipsalves like an Apache. Behind him, dazzling white peaks reared up against a sapphire sky. Chalet girls, PAs from Knightsbridge, glamorous divorcées on the prowl, au pairs who’d escaped, gazed at him in wonder.
‘I feel like a new-born foal wiv a banana skin attached to each hoof,’ protested Kitty. ‘Ooooh — I’m going to fall over again.’
‘No, you’re not,’ encouraged Lysander. ‘Stand on the edge of your skis, that’s right, now lean forward, sticks behind, sticks behind! Don’t cross them! Well done, Kitty.’
‘Weeee, I can do it.’ Kitty got so carried away, she skiied several yards. ‘Ow, my legs are going, ’elp, ’elp.’
Soon her suit of many colours was covered with snow. It was true what they said about the mountains making you feel all tingly and excited. All her tiredness had vanished.
Lysander had taken her to a comparatively deserted slope, and such was his total preoccupation with teaching her and his growing awareness of the delicious curves of her body since she’d lost all that weight that neither of them realized that the snow around them had been invaded by photographers and reporters, sliding all over the place, gabbling into telephones and tape recorders. For a horrific moment, Kitty thought they were on to her and Lysander, but they were all gazing up the mountain.
‘He’s on his way down,’ announced a reporter from the Daily Mail, switching off his telephone.
‘James Whittaker says the kid’s got a strong American accent, so Rupert must have got it from Texas,’ said a predatory blonde.
‘I thought he and Taggie were going to adopt from Bogota.’
‘Probably decided he wanted something more Aryan.’
‘Evidently the kid’s the spitting image of Rupert. It’s amazing how these adoption societies match them up.’
‘They must have got it very quickly. Taggie’s miscarriage was only a few weeks ago,’ said the Sun photographer.
‘Could be an illegit of Rupert’s he’s trying to palm off on Taggie,’ suggested the predatory blonde.
‘Oh, Beattie, you would think that.’
‘Taggie looked miserable last night and she hasn’t skiied since she’s been out here,’ said Beattie Johnson of The Scorpion shirtily.
‘She’s just lost a baby, stupid.’
‘If it is Rupert’s,’ Beattie was not to be deflected, ‘it means that he has been unfaithful to Taggie, because Nigel says the kid can’t be a day over three and he’s been married to Taggie nearly six years.’
‘Hush, here they come.’ The world’s Press adjusted their long lenses and switched on their tape recorders as a very blond child in huge dark glasses and a striped blue and white ski suit came whistling down the slope. For a second, it looked as though he was going slap into an elderly American in fuschia-pink who was gingerly picking herself up.
‘Move your ass, grandma,’ yelled the child as he shot past.
‘Come back, Eddie, for Christ’s sake,’ yelled a voice loud enough to start an avalanche and over the white brow of the slope like a shiver of lightning came a tall man in faded jeans and a thick dark grey jersey. Slithering to a spectacular halt beside the child, he hid them both for a moment in a fountain of snow. As they emerged, Lysander took in the smooth brown forehead, the thick gleaming blond hair, the beautiful Greek nose thrown into relief by the dark glasses, and the curling mouth now set like a trap.
‘Rupert Campbell-Black,’ he whispered to Kitty in wonder. ‘Just think, I come here to see you and he’s here as well. Oh, Kitty, isn’t he handsome?’
‘I fort Taggie’d just had a miscarriage.’
‘They must have adopted this one. Isn’t he sweet?’
‘Don’t you run away from me like that, you little sod,’ yelled Rupert. ‘And you can all fuck off,’ he added as the Press closed in with a frenzied clicking of cameras.
‘Where you get him from, Rupe?’ demanded the Express.
‘What’s your name, darling?’ asked Beattie Johnson.
‘Edward Bartholomew Alderton,’ said the child politely. Then, turning to Rupert, ‘Move your ass, Grandpa, I’m starved.’
As the howls of laughter subsided and Rupert disappeared in a towering rage, Beattie Johnson could be heard saying: ‘Of course, he’s Perdita’s child.’
‘Who’s she?’ asked Paris Match.
‘Where’ve you been for the last four years?’ said Beattie as they trooped back to their hotels to file copy. ‘One of Rupert’s illegits. That’s why her kid’s the spittin’ image of him. She married an American polo player called Luke Alderton.’
‘Fancy Rupert being a grandad,’ said the Mirror.
‘Not very good for his super-stud image,’ said Beattie in amusement. ‘I wonder if I can get Grandfather Cock into the copy?’
Sitting in the bar at the Hotel Versailles watching the mountains turn from rose-pink to glittering electric-blue as the gold lights came on in the village square, Rupert ignored his beautiful wife Taggie, drank whisky as brown as his face, in a mood as black as his name. He was trying not to lose his temper with Mr Pandopoulos, the rich Greek owner, who’d flown in specially to complain that his best horse hadn’t even been placed in a big race that afternoon.
In the past Rupert had notched up more conquests than Don Giovanni. The Press, deeply sceptical about his apparent fidelity to Taggie, were determined to catch him out. The Scorpion employed two reporters whose sole job was to tail him night and day. Their last scoop had indeed been four and a half years ago when the tempestuous Perdita Macleod, England’s best woman polo player, had turned out to be Rupert’s daughter. After passionate initial antagonism, Rupert had eventually recognized her as his child and given her considerable emotional and financial support. Since then the paparazzi had had nothing to go on, following him warily, aware that Rupert was rich enough to sue them witless if they stepped out of line.
But a scoop in the Daily Express about Taggie’s heartbreak over the miscarriage had triggered all the speculation off again. Apart from the loss of the baby, which had affected him just as badly as Taggie, Rupert had had a pulverizing year. Even successful owner-trainers had been stymied by the recession. Rupert’s yearlings didn’t automatically fetch six figures any more. For the first time he was having to put up with indifferent horses if the owner was rich enough to pay for them. Hence the post-mortem today. As a founder director of Venturer Television he should have made a killing but advertising was right down and they’d been forced to layoff staff.
Nor were his three children giving him much joy. Marcus, who was at Bagley Hall with Flora, was a wimp whose only ambition egged on by his mother, Rupert’s first wife, was to be a concert pianist. Tabitha, with whom Rupert had enjoyed an adoring, almost too symbiotic relationship, had suddenly turned into a brat who questioned Rupert’s every decision and attitude and who had recently, at the age of fourteen, fallen madly in love with Rupert’s tractor-driver. Removed out of temptation to Monthaut, she had sulked so badly that Rupert, in a rage, had packed her off home to her mother. Finally, Perdita, with whom Rupert had an erratic relationship — only her husband Luke could really handle her — had added a last straw heavier than a crowbar.