by Jilly Cooper
Switching on the light to look again at Rupert’s text, she caught sight of Ben’s photographs all round the room, which Jan had tracked down for her. Ben had disapproved strongly of adultery, particularly if one adored one’s other half. On her return, Gala had found a little moussaka, a lettuce and some chopped chicken for Gropius in the fridge.
Was it already dawn filtering through the curtains? Getting up to check, she discovered it was moonlight. Picking up a poetry book she’d borrowed from Gav, the pages fell open at James Joyce, writing of ‘the deep, unending ache of love’. Oh, how she ached for Rupert!
The big marquee with windows overlooking the lake and the valley had taken two days of great clanging and banging to put up like some giant steel Lego because the lean and handsome marquee men had been so distracted by comely stable girls. The stable girls had been even more distracted by the sight of Tristan de Montigny, the great French film director whose Oscar-winning film of the opera Don Carlos had been part-financed by Rupert and starred Baby Spinosissimo and Dame Hermione.
Tristan was now transforming the marquee walls with videos and blow-ups of Rupert’s achievements. Huge vases of dark-blue delphiniums with green leaves echoed Rupert’s colours. Each of the twelve tables was named after Rupert’s greatest horses and adorned by their photographs. A loudspeaker was belting out ‘The Galloping Major’, the ‘Post Horn Gallop’ and Mozart’s Horn Concerto, and the showjumping theme tune, which was also by Mozart.
‘Isn’t Tristan the fittest man you’ve ever seen?’ sighed Gee Gee. ‘And he’s taller than me.’
Louise and Gee Gee had spent hours on Tuesday writing out place-names tidily, as Taggie struggled to work out a seating plan, which should have been easier without Rupert around, saying, ‘I’m not sitting next to that ugly cow.’
Sapphire and Timon, who came over for tea, were full of advice. ‘Put Gala next to Grandpa – she’s always gazing at him – and Granny next to Jan – she always smells nice when he’s around.’
After which Jan decided to dispense with a seating plan as too difficult for Taggie.
‘Bloody man,’ stormed Louise. ‘Who’s running this joint? We wasted all this time writing names.’
Jan, in fact, had made himself very unpopular. Gardener Colin Caper was aggrieved that his conservatory had been stripped of flowers to decorate the tables, and being ordered to cut back more undergrowth which was masking all the animal sculptures, so Clover and Jemmy could tie blue and emerald ribbons round their necks.
Already fed up by their female staff being distracted by marquee men and Tristan de Montigny, Walter Walter and Pat Inglis were even less amused when Jan ordered both stable lasses and lads to do their work in the stables earlier, so they could be available to lay tables and blow up balloons.
‘What about the horses?’ said Walter furiously.
‘Let them eat cheesecake,’ giggled Louise – not that she minded if all the men were as lush as Tristan. Pity he had a wife, Lucy, who was going to do Taggie’s make-up.
Jan was constantly reassuring Taggie that the party was going to be a huge success. Even more wonderful, as well as running up giant beetroot tarts for each table and rubbing a paste of olive oil, coarse salt, black pepper, herbs and garlic into great haunches of venison, he had commandeered the telephone for the last twenty-four hours.
‘Terribly sorry, Dame Hermione. Numbers are very tight. Even if you are very good friends with Mr Campbell-Black, the answer is No.’ And the same to Damsire and Janey Lloyd-Foxe. He even kept the family at bay. ‘Sorry, Tab, but Taggie’s exhausted. I appreciate it’s your home but she needs an early night, not your kids breaking up the place, so we’ll see you midday tomorrow.’
Then despatching Perdita, Taggie’s sister Caitlin, and Helen, who claimed they wanted to help, in the same way.
‘Isn’t he marvellous?’ sighed Taggie.
‘And absolutely mad about you,’ reflected everyone.
Party day dawned. After finishing her horses, and leaving a furious, gleaming Quickly in his box because he was going to parade later, Gala was ordered into the kitchen to peel more potatoes. As Jan braised red cabbage and put the finishing touches to filo pastry baskets and asparagus and sweetcorn, she realized the enormity of the operation. The dogs were acting up because Jan had moved all their baskets out of the kitchen so they kept stealing back and getting under his feet.
‘You’d better feed them,’ he ordered Gala.
‘You feed them. It’s eleven o’clock – I’ve got to go and change.’
‘You look fine as you are. All you need put on is a Happy Birthday Rupert sweatshirt. They’re in the utility room.’
After she’d filled up the dog bowls, Gala said, ‘I’m amazed you haven’t asked me to feed the badgers as well,’ and flounced out.
Jan had got so bossy. God, she missed Gav and Eddie with whom to bitch about him.
One person Jan couldn’t shift was Geraldine, who shimmied in wearing a neat little emerald-green dress with a Rupert’s colours blue scarf.
‘Go and make a list of the presents coming in and who sent them,’ Jan ordered her.
To which she replied: ‘I’m here as Rupert’s PA. I know everyone – it’s essential I mingle and circulate.’
77
Simmy Halliday, Rupert’s Estate Manager, had tuned into the Flight Radar App charting Rupert’s progress across Europe. Cheers greeted the news on the loudspeaker that he and his plane were over Italy.
Tears filled Gala’s eyes. ‘But, please God, not over me.’
A reluctant Cathal and Jemmy had set off for Nottingham with Beijing Bertie.
‘Cheer up,’ said Louise. ‘The party’ll still be going when you come back.’
Certainly the loveliest autumn in years had come out to welcome Rupert. His chestnut avenue had thinned, its leaves wrinkled rust and olive, but his beeches retained enough red to raise a towering inferno to the cloudy skies. Berries soft pink and orange shone on the spindles, glowing ruby on guelder rose bushes. The gutters ran with crimson crab apples.
Bao had departed to Heathrow to await Rupert at the VIP terminal. Having had a lunatically large bet on Beijing Bertie and having been beseeched by Taggie not to give the game away about the party, he couldn’t stop shaking. He had deliberately not taken the Racing Post, which on the cover had a large picture of Cosmo gloating over Eddie, his new stable jockey, who, on returning from the Breeders’ Cup, had had a double at Southwell yesterday.
Back at Penscombe, the turned-out horses were lining up at the fence, to admire ‘Happy Sixtieth Birthday Rupert’ superimposed on the lawn, and bobbing six-zero balloons waiting to be released by the staff in their blue Happy Birthday sweatshirts.
‘Hoohoo, yoohoo.’ It was Helen, an hour early, in a lovely gold silk suit, perfect with her red hair. ‘I know there’s something I can do – I am family. Let me arrange those flowers. I can’t think why Rupert’s being so uptight about being a great-grandfather when our Queen’s a great-grandmother and he so admires her.’
Even though guests were being discouraged to go into the house, Taggie was panicking around making sure photographs of every child, stepchild or grandchild were equally on show.
Jan, however, discovered Tabitha taking down Perdita’s photograph in Rupert and Taggie’s bedroom.
‘What the hell are you doing? Where are your kids?’
‘Watching television.’
‘Well, get out of here at once.’
‘Why, have you moved in?’
‘Don’t be obnoxious – and put that dress back.’
‘You’re not my father, although I know you’d like to steal his job.’
‘Don’t be fatuous.’ Jan grabbed her arm. For a moment she thought he was going to hit her, then hearing a shriek, he let go and racing downstairs found a distraught Taggie and a glistening dark-grey Forester, who’d rolled from top to toe in badger crap. ‘I must bath him.’
‘I’ll do it, mam. Bloody dog,’ roared Jan, grab
bing Forester’s collar.
‘He only does it to make himself more attractive,’ pleaded Taggie, ‘like Issey Florale.’
‘Go and get changed, mam.’
Upstairs, Tristan de Montigny’s wife Lucy had arrived to do Taggie’s make-up; she said her lurcher James had always rolled at the wrong moments.
‘Rupert’s over Paris,’ said the loudspeaker.
Dragging Forester to an upstairs bathroom, Jan compromised by getting in the shower with the dog. Having washed and dried them both, he retreated to change. On his bed he found a large wrapped parcel.
Dear yan, thank you for awl yor help, luv Taggie, said the message on the label. Inside was a big dark-brown cashmere jersey and a honey-coloured corduroy jacket.
Taggie herself got a round of applause when she came down in clinging rose-red silk which had given colour to her ashen cheeks. Lucy had emphasized her huge eyes, hidden the dark circles beneath them and painted her lovely mouth rose-red to match her dress.
How could I ever compete with that? thought Gala wistfully. She’s prettier than anyone in the world.
Jan clearly thought so.
‘You are quite breathtaking, mam – wow,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Thank you for the marvellous gear, mam. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve them. Helping you in any way is my pleasure. God, you look lovely.’
‘So do you.’ Jan was wearing the cashmere jersey the same rich brown as his eyes. The cord jacket showed off his magnificent shoulders.
‘Look at those two,’ muttered Louise. ‘Those must be the clothes she bought in Cheltenham last week. God, he scrubs up well.’
‘Wery wirile,’ agreed Marketa. ‘Someone ought to chuck a bucket of water over them.’
‘High time Super Bastard came home to claim his rights.’
Taggie looked out of the window as the clouds darkened. ‘Oh gosh, I hope it’s not going to rain.’
Instead guests poured in and she was soon going spare, welcoming, introducing, stumbling over names, assuring everyone over the deafening party roar that Rupert would be here soon. Jan was in the kitchen carving venison, but emerging every few minutes to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and murmur that everything was going brilliantly.
Soon, despite her worries, she was overwhelmed with joy to see Bianca, ravishing in mid-thigh-length flamingo pink and her handsome boyfriend Feral Jackson, the star striker, who was soon playing football on the lawn with all the children.
‘So funny, Mum,’ giggled Bianca. ‘Dad rang up and tried to persuade Feral and me to fly down for the Melbourne Cup. I had to pretend Feral had a match.’
Bianca was soon joined by her brother Xavier and his Indian girlfriend Aysha, who were in turn enchanted to see Janna and Emlyn Hughes, the headmistress and history master who’d got them through GCSEs and who now showed them photographs of their sweet children. Screams of delight greeted Dora and Paris, who’d been at Bagley Hall taking GCSEs at the same time, and their headmaster Hengist Brett-Taylor and his wife Sally.
Another noisy, ecstatic group was the England polo team whom Rupert had galvanized, back in the 1990s, to annihilate America in the mighty Westchester Cup. They included Ricky France-Lynch the captain, married to Perdita’s mother Daisy. As Young Eddie’s grandmother, Daisy had been commissioned by her grandson, before he’d been fired, to paint a portrait of Love Rat for Rupert’s birthday. She had brought the portrait with her, and later would be screwing up courage to beg Rupert to reinstate Eddie. Perdita and Luke, who’d looked after Gav in America, were soon nose-to-nose with Rupert’s other polo-playing chums, Bas Baddingham, roué and bloodstock agent who owned the Bar Sinister, and Drew Benedict, whose son had been killed in Afghanistan, and whose wife Sukey had put on weight. Howls of delight greeted the Carlisle twins: Seb and Dommie, also part of the team, who used to pretend to be each other to seduce the other’s girlfriends. They now announced they had brought Rupert a Zimmer and a ton of Viagra.
The noise level was rising; everyone was wolfing Jan’s canapés.
‘Gav not here?’ Luke asked Taggie.
‘He’s in Kentucky, he hates parties.’
‘Nice guy, attractive too – how’s his love-life going?’
‘Hi, Luke!’ shouted Fenella Maxwell, and Dino Ferranti, Rupert’s old showjumping cronies. ‘Eddie did great in the Breeders’ Cup.’
Flora Maguire, daughter of pop megastar George Maguire, who herself had starred in Don Carlos, and her husband George Hungerford, who’d bankrolled the Rutminster Orchestra, were now swapping music gossip and baby photographs with star violinist Abby Rosen and her husband, horn-player Viking O’Neill. They were soon joined by Tristan and Lucy de Montigny, all speculating whether Baby Spinosissimo and Rupert’s brother Adrian would make the party or were still celebrating Dave winning the Melbourne Cup.
More shrieks of joy followed as Rupert and Helen’s son Marcus, the pianist, and his boyfriend Alexei, the great ballet dancer, arrived from Moscow.
‘Marcus, Marcus, you came.’ Helen rushed forward. ‘How wonderful you look.’
‘She always liked him better than me,’ said Tabitha sourly. ‘So does Daddy – went all the way to London to Marcus’ Prom. Only time he gets a few decent hours’ sleep.’
‘Amber,’ cried the GCSE gang, as Billy and Janey Lloyd-Foxe’s daughter, looking ridiculously beautiful and happy, wandered in with her husband, champion jump jockey Rogue Rogers.
Having four years ago ridden Master Quickly’s mother to victory in the National, Amber said she must go and congratulate Quickly on his second in the Breeders’ Cup.
‘You’ll need earplugs. He’s been confined to box and yelling his head off because he’s got to parade later,’ Dora told her.
‘Didn’t he do well?’ said Etta, who’d just rolled up with Valent.
On her way, Amber had popped into Penscombe churchyard to put flowers on Billy’s grave. Later she managed to murmur to Taggie how dreadfully sorry she was that her mother kept writing ghastly things about Rupert.
‘She’s got a man called Colin Chalford, met him online and refers to him as Mr Fat and Happy. He’s sweet, much too nice for her.’
Tabitha was determinedly chatting up her ex-boyfriend, Tristan de Montigny, and ignoring her producer husband Wolfie, Cosmo’s stepbrother, who’d turned up with Sarah Western, his nymphomaniac leading lady, who was playing opposite Paris in Le Rouge et Le Noir.
‘Good thing Jan’s over-catered, she’d devour the lot,’ sniped Tab. ‘Who did you eat for breakfast?’
‘Worse than Sauvignon,’ murmured Dora.
‘Sauvignon’s more interested in power than sex.’
Gossip was seething, everyone surreptitiously asking what was going on with Sauvignon and Eddie – had Rupert really kicked him out for good? – and hoping he’d turn up at the party.
People were spilling out on to the lawn, high heels pegged by the soft going.
Bas Baddingham, the bloodstock agent, was looking at the horses in the field, wondering which might be worth buying for someone else.
‘Where’s Rupert?’ he asked his harassed hostess on his return. ‘God, you look pretty. Do you remember I took you to that hunt ball in another red dress, and we danced to “Lady in Red”, and I think it dawned on Rupert that night that he was absolutely mad about you. You’re even more gorgeous now, I should have hung on to you.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ reproved Taggie. ‘Are you getting enough to drink?’
Less surreptitious was Helen, her lovely silk suit matching the gold of a nearby gingko, as she loudly asked: ‘Where’s Eddie? I must congratulate him on that brilliant win on I Will Repay, and I’m really looking forward to meeting Sauvignon – she looks quite lovely. Do introduce me, Taggie.’
‘She’s not actually coming,’ stammered Taggie.
‘Not exactly persona grata, Mum,’ hissed Tab.
Helen shivered. ‘It’s quite chilly. Lend me your jacket, Jan.’
‘I’ll get you a wrap,’ Ja
n told her firmly.
The roar increased, more helicopters landed, champagne flowed, canapés were devoured, as 1.45 p.m. approached.
‘Have you ever seen fitter men?’ Marketa sighed to Louise. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Lysander Hawkley. He’s lovely – used to be Rupert’s Head Lad, now set up on his own. He married Rannaldini’s second wife Kitty, a friend of Taggie’s. She’s marvellous, copes with all the admin, leaving Lysander to sort out the horses. They’re doing very well.’
‘Wish he’d come back instead of Walter Walter.’
Valent Edwards was nose-to-nose with George Hungerford, discussing trading with China and trying not to eat too many canapés. Etta was talking to George’s wife Flora, one of her favourite singers, when Flora cried: ‘Look, our Don Carlos has arrived, Baby, Baby – over here. How the hell did you get back from Melbourne quicker than Rupert?’
‘We took a private plane,’ whispered Baby, hugging her. ‘God, you look great. Oh, there’s Tristan,’ he rushed off to kiss his ex-director, ‘and Lucy darling,’ hugging her, ‘just the person I need: can you whizz upstairs and give me a bit of base and put in a few Carmens? It’s such a hell of a long journey.’
‘Where’s Adrian?’ asked Fiona.
‘Coveting the Stubbs,’ grinned Baby.
‘Oh look, here’s Mum.’ Flora flew across the lawn to hug a beautiful older woman, whose red hair and fake-fur red collar were being ruffled by the wind.
‘That’s Georgie Maguire,’ squeaked Etta to Valent and George Hungerford.
‘My mother-in-law,’ said George proudly.
‘I love her records,’ babbled Etta, ‘and goodness, there’s Dancer Maitland. I love his records too. Isn’t he gorgeous?’
‘He sponsors Ricky France-Lynch’s polo team,’ explained George Hungerford, as yells of ‘Dancer, Dancer,’ greeted him from the polo contingent.
In the same way that their hands shoved forward their horses to encourage them on the gallops, Marketa, Louise, Roving Mike, Shaheed and Clover were brilliant at pushing bottles at guests and taking the odd swig themselves.
