Rivals

by Jilly Cooper

  The interview was pure Barbara Cartland. Aware no difficult questions would be forthcoming, the PM was at her most relaxed and charming, and unbent to James as she’d never done before on television.

  ‘Prepared only to see the steely side of your character, Prime Minister, some people make the ridiculous mistake of thinking you don’t care about the unemployed or the old and poverty-stricken.’

  ‘Mr Vereker – ‘the Prime Minister’s voice dropped an octave – ‘if only you could realize the sleepless nights we spend worrying about hypothermia, particularly with another winter coming on.’

  ‘How many more times is the stupid asshole going to use the word “caring”,’ snarled Cameron to Tony, who’d stayed with her in the Control Room.

  ‘Hush, she’s really unbuttoning,’ purred Tony.

  During the commercial break, the PM became positively skittish.

  ‘They’ll be into heavy petting in a minute,’ said Cameron as James leant forward in sycophantic ecstasy.

  At the end of the second half the Prime Minister even shed tears as she talked of her worries as a mother.

  ‘But you are a mother to all of us,’ said James, handing her his Aramis-scented handkerchief.

  ‘Pass me the motion discomfort bag,’ groaned Cameron.

  ‘It’s good,’ said Tony. ‘Should win her a lot of votes.’

  ‘Ten seconds to out, James,’ said Cameron, flicking on the key switch. ‘Close the programme.’

  ‘Thank you, Prime Minister, for showing us your caring face,’ said James, ‘and please come back to Cotchester again soon.’

  As the credits went up, they could be seen laughing and joking together.

  ‘I’m going to frow up,’ said the Senior Cameraman.

  ‘Come back, Declan,’ muttered the Floor Manager, ‘nothing needed to be forgiven.’

  ‘I would love a tape of that programme, Mr Vereker,’ said the Prime Minister.

  Outside, a second Corinium camera crew filmed her departure, lethargically cheered by a hand-picked crowd of Corinium staff.

  ‘I hope we get overtime for this,’ said Charles Fairburn, waving a Union Jack, as a jubilant James, Cameron and Tony accompanied the PM down the steps. Settled in her car, ready to depart to a late dinner with the Cotchester Regiment, the PM wound down her window.

  ‘I hope Mr O’Hara feels better soon,’ she said earnestly. ‘This flu virus can be very pulling down.’

  ‘About time the mighty Mr O’Hara was pulled down from his seat,’ said Cameron, as soon as she had driven off.

  ‘What a caring lady,’ sighed James.

  He woke next morning to find himself temporarily famous. Both the BBC and ITN picked up the interview, which was fulsomely praised the next day by the Tory press. Only the Mirror and the Guardian grumbled that James had let the PM get away with murder.

  By Friday the story had got out that Declan hadn’t been ill at all, but had simply refused to do the interview with the Prime Minister.

  ‘The Rows Begin Again,’ said a huge headline in the Sun.

  At the BBC and around the network, people smirked knowingly. They’d known the honeymoon wouldn’t last.

  RIVALS

  15

  Declan was having a row about money with Maud in the kitchen when the telephone rang.

  ‘Yes,’ he snapped.

  ‘This is Valerie Jones,’ said an ultra-refined, vaguely familiar voice.

  ‘Yes,’ said Declan, who was no wiser.

  ‘We met at Lady Monica’s buffet luncheon. I was wearing a cricket jumper.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Declan twigged – the extremely silly mid-on.

  ‘Fred-Fred and I were wondering if you could come and dayne on December 7th, that’s tomorrow week, just a few close friends. Tony and Monica Baddingham. . . .’

  Declan had heard enough. He was sorry, he said, but they had a previous engagement.

  Maud was absolutely furious. ‘We never go out,’ she stormed. ‘How dare you refuse for me? I might have wanted to go.’

  ‘It was that horrendous dwarf we met at the Baddinghams; bound to have been hell.’

  ‘There might have been other amusing people there. How can we ever meet anyone, if you turn down everything?’

  Maud’s sulk lasted all day. Declan was trying to get to grips with the volatile, volcanic personality of John McEnroe, who was coming on the programme on Wednesday. Maud’s black mood permeated the whole house and totally sabotaged his concentration. At dusk, unable to bear it any longer, he went downstairs and apologized.

  ‘I’m sorry; it was selfish of me. I must work, but you go on your own. I hate it, but I’ve got to get used to it. Are you lonely?’ he went on as Maud clung to him. ‘D’you want to go back to London?’

  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.

  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.’

  V
alerie 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.’