Rivals

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Christ,’ muttered Tony to Sarah Stratton.

  ‘It’s Sherlock Lovely Homes,’ said Sarah, making no attempt not to laugh. ‘All she needs is a curved pipe and a spy glass.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Valerie gaily.

  ‘We were admiring your – er – outfit,’ said Sarah quickly.

  ‘All from my Spring range,’ said Valerie, looking smug. ‘Better hurry, it’s selling like hot cakes.’

  Tony oozed forward, exuding charm.

  ‘You both know Sarah and Paul Stratton of course, and my brother Bas,’ he said smoothly, and when he went on to introduce Valerie to the Lord-Lieutenant Henry Hampshire, two peers and a Duke from the next county, Valerie nearly had the orgasm Freddie had so longed to give her earlier. Fred-Fred must definitely join the Corinium Board, thought Valerie. It might be a Prince, or even a King, next time.

  ‘Hullo, Valerie,’ said Monica, who was wearing a green sou’wester over a headscarf. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Naughty,’ chided Valerie, waving a tan suede finger. ‘I said you must call me Mousie, No, I won’t have a coffee, thank you.’

  She didn’t want to have to go to the toilet behind a hawthorn bush mid-morning in front of all the gentry.

  They were about to set off when the phone rang loudly in Freddie’s car.

  ‘’Ullo, Mr Ho Chin, how are fings?’ said Freddie in delight. ‘Grite, grite. Fifty million, did you say? Yeah, that seems about right. Look, ’ave a word with Alfredo and see if ‘e wants to come in too, and phone me back. Yes, I’ll be on this number all day.’

  The guns exchanged looks of absolute horror, as Freddie extracted the telephone from the car, all set to bring it with him.

  Tony sidled up. ‘D’you mind awfully leaving that thing behind? Might put off the pheasants.’

  ‘’Course not,’ said Freddie, putting it back in the car. ‘If Chin can’t get me ’ere, he’ll ring my office.’

  ‘D’you take your telephone hunting too?’ asked an appalled Paul.

  ‘Always,’ said Freddie.

  They started off up an incredibly steep hill behind the house. It was one of those mild January days that give the illusion winter is over. A few dirty suds of traveller’s joy still hung from the trees. No wind ruffled the catkins. It was hellishly hard going. Valerie, wishing she hadn’t worn her long johns, tried not to pant.

  As it started to rain, she put up her ginger umbrella which kept catching in the branches. On the brow of the hill the guns took up their position, which they’d drawn out of a hat earlier. Except for Freddie’s distracting red-gold curls, the flat caps along the row were absolutely parallel with the gun barrels. Shooting in the middle of the line between Tony and the Duke, Freddie jumped from foot to foot swinging his gun through the line like Ian Botham hooking.

  The Duke, who had three daughters and was hoping for a son so the title wouldn’t pass to a younger brother, was not the only gun looking at Freddie with extreme trepidation.

  ‘I’m ’ot,’ said Freddie, shedding his Barbour. Seeing the Duke’s and Tony’s looks of horror at Freddie’s red jersey and Bas laughing like a jackass, Valerie, who’d been yakking nonstop to Sarah Stratton about puff-ball skirts, sharply told Freddie to put it back on. For once Freddie ignored her.

  Suddenly the patter of rain on the flat caps was joined by the relentless swish of the beaters’ flags.

  ‘Come on, little birdies,’ cooed Paul, caressing the trigger.

  I hate him for being him and not Rupert, thought Sarah despairingly.

  A lone pheasant came into view, high over Freddie’s head.

  ‘Bet he misses,’ said Paul.

  The Duke and Tony raised their guns in case he did.

  But a shot rang out and the pheasant somersaulted like a gaudy catherine wheel and thudded to the ground.

  Next moment a great swarm appeared, some steeply rising, some whirring close to the ground. There was a deafening fusillade and the air was full of feathers as birds cartwheeled and crashed into the grass.

  The whistle blew; the first drive was over. Dogs shot off to retrieve the plunder. It was plain from the number of brace being amassed by Freddie’s loader that he’d shot the plus twos off everyone else.

  ‘Freddie Jones seems a bloody good shot,’ said Bas.

  ‘Beginner’s luck,’ snapped Paul, who had easily shot the least.

  For the next drive the guns formed a ring round a little yellow stone farmhouse with a turquoise door and a moulting Christmas tree in the back yard.

  Once more the shots rang out, once more the sky rained pheasants. To left and right, Freddie, the Duke and the Lord-Lieutenant were bringing down everything that came over. Tony fared less well. Valerie was standing behind him with Monica and her endless chatter put him off.

  At the end of the drive Tony’s loader, knowing the competitive nature of his boss, pinched a brace from Bas on one side and another from the Lord-Lieutenant who was gazing admiringly at Sarah.

  ‘Those are mine!’ said the Lord-Lieutenant sharply.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Tony smoothly. ‘My loader’s very jealous of my reputation.’

  ‘Jealous loader, indeed,’ muttered the Lord-Lieutenant.

  The next drive was a long one, with the guns dotted like waistcoat buttons down the valley. Valerie was bored. Only the birds and the chuckling of a little stream interrupted the quiet. Monica, who found shooting as boring as Corinium Television, was plugged into the Sony Walkman Archie had given her for Christmas. Now she was transfixed by the love duet from Tristan und Isolde, eyes shut, dreamily waving her hands in time to the music and tripping over bramble cables.

  Sarah was equally uncommunicative. Weekends were the worst, she reflected, because, knowing Paul was at home, Rupert would never ring. She’d only come out today for something to do. Spring returns, she murmured, looking at the ruby and amethyst haze of the thickening buds, but not my Rupert. He had been so keen, but suddenly after Valerie’s dinner party he had lost interest. Was it Nathalie Perrault, or Cameron Cook, or even Maud O’Hara he was running after now? Perhaps he was just busy and would come back.

  A diversion was provided by the arrival of Hermione Hampshire, the Lord-Lieutenant’s wife, who looked like a sheep, had a ringing voice and appeared to be on so many of the same committees as Monica that she even merited having the Walkman turned off.

  ‘Freddie’s been shooting wonderfully,’ said Monica kindly, and then started rabbiting on to Hermione Hampshire about shooting lunches.

  Valerie listened to them. One could pick up lots of tips about pronunciation from the gentry. But it was confusing that Monica said ‘Eyether’ and Hermione said ‘Eether’.

  In the next field she was somewhat unnerved by some black and white cows who cavorted skittishly around, startled by the gunfire. She edged closer to Monica and Hermione.

  ‘D’you know,’ Monica was saying, ‘I never spend less than forty minutes on a cock.’

  Valerie was shocked to the core. She’d always imagined Monica was somehow above sex.

  ‘I agree,’ said Hermione Hampshire in her ringing voice. ‘I never spend less than thirty minutes on a hen.’

  ‘They’re talking about plucking,’ whispered Sarah with a giggle, ‘and I don’t think either of them have heard of rhyming slang.’

  It was the last drive before lunch. Freddie, like a one-man Bofors, was bringing down pheasants with relentless accuracy.

  ‘Got my eye in now,’ he said, grinning at the Lord-Lieutenant.

  He raised his gun as another pheasant flew towards him, then swore as it crashed prematurely to the ground.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Tony, who couldn’t bear being upstaged a moment longer. ‘Thought you were unloaded.’

  This time it was carnage. The air was raining feathers. Dogs circled, loaders went round breaking the necks of the wounded.

  Lucky things, thought Sarah. I wish someone would put me out of my misery.

  ‘I love your dog,�
� she said to Henry Hampshire. ‘I saw a beautiful springer the other day with a long tail.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Henry Hampshire, appalled, and strode off leaving her in mid-sentence.

  ‘I thought you said you hadn’t shot before,’ said Tony as they walked back to the house.

  ‘Not pheasant,’ said Freddie, ‘but I was the top marksman at Bisley for two years.’

  Entering the garden, they passed two yews cut in the shape of pheasants.

  ‘You couldn’t even hit those today, could you, Paul?’ said Tony nastily.

  After so much open air and exercise, everyone fell on lunch. There was Spanish omelette cut up in small pieces on cocktail sticks, and a huge stew, with baked potatoes, and a winter salad, and plum cake steeped in brandy and Stilton, with masses of claret and sloe gin.

  Freddie was in terrific form. His curls had tightened in the rain. Looking more like a naughty cherub than ever, he kept his end of the table in a roar with stories of his army career and his first catastrophic experiences out hunting.

  Henry Hampshire, who had a lean face and turned-down eyes, shed his gentle paternalistic smile on everyone, even Sarah.

  ‘D’yer really think Springers look better with long tails?’ he asked her.

  Sarah had a lot to drink at lunch. She looks like a Renoir, thought Tony, all blonde curls, huge blue eyes and languor.

  ‘Have you made up your mind about joining Corinium?’ he asked her.

  ‘Yes, I’d love to. I’ll come in and sign the contract tomorrow.’

  ‘Only a three months’ trial,’ said Tony, who never took chances, ‘but I think you’ll love it. This will be a very exciting year.’

  Christ, I’d like to take her to bed, he thought. Cameron was being very uptight at the moment.

  ‘Not too worried about me getting you on the telecasting couch?’ he added, lowering his voice.

  Sarah went crimson. ‘Cameron must have told you about that. I picked her brains, I didn’t realize you and she . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t give it a thought,’ said Tony, pouring her some more sloe gin.

  ‘No more Stilton, Fred-Fred,’ chided Valerie. ‘What a lovely meal, Monica.’

  ‘Taggie O’Hara did the whole thing,’ said Monica. ‘I can’t thank you enough for putting me on to her. She’s going to fill up the deep freeze before the children come home at half-term.’

  Valerie, who was feeling a little out of things because everyone was laughing at Freddie’s jokes, turned to the Duke. After two glasses of claret she’d be calling him your grouse in a minute.

  ‘We have a lovely home,’ she said complacently. ‘Green Lawns. I hope we shall receive you there one day. The Hunt was supposed to gather there on New Year’s Day. Do you ride to hounds?’

  ‘Well, a bit,’ said the Duke, who had his own pack.

  ‘Freddie’s been asked to hunt with the Belvoir. That’s the smartest pack in the country,’ boasted Valerie.

  Everyone except Valerie knew that Belvoir was not pronounced as it was spelt. Everyone except Tony was well-bred enough to keep their traps shut. Buy Tony was fed up with her stupid chatter.

  ‘If you were really smart, Valerie, you wouldn’t call it Belvoir. It’s pronounced Beaver.’

  There was an embarrassed pause.

  ‘How long have you lived in Gloucestershire?’ asked the Duke, who was a kind man.

  The women went off to various loos. Freddie went off to take a telephone call from Tokyo.

  ‘What a very amusing fellow Freddie Jones is,’ said the Lord-Lieutenant.

  ‘And very very bright,’ said Tony. ‘That’s why I need him on my Board. Cable and Satellite isn’t just about technology or delivery systems, you know; it’s about marketing programmes. Freddie’s a genius at marketing. Shame we couldn’t include his jumped-up bitch of a wife as part of the bag.’

  ‘Not on a cocks-only day,’ said Bas.

  Everyone laughed.

  The guns were waiting to start off for the last two drives of the day. Freddie was still on the telephone to Tokyo. Valerie was admiring the azaleas in Monica’s conservatory.

  It was unfortunate that when Freddie came into the hall he found Sarah Stratton in Valerie’s deerstalker giggling frantically and brandishing Valerie’s tan mackintosh cape, at which Basil was pretending to charge like a bull.

  ‘Olé,’ said Tony, who was grinning in the doorway.

  ‘It’s selling laike hot gâteaux,’ squealed Sarah. Then, seeing Freddie, she went very pink and asked him if he thought the deerstalker suited her.

  At that moment Valerie came into the hall.

  ‘You look delaightful,’ she said excitedly. ‘I’ve got identical ones in stock. I’ll set one asaide for you.’

  ‘I really feel I’ve made a breakthrough with Sarah Stratton,’ Valerie kept telling Freddie as they drove home.

  Having done her stuff in the morning and during lunch, Monica felt justified in staying behind in the afternoon and doing some gardening. Before she got stuck into pruning, she popped into the kitchen to thank Taggie, but found her looking absolutely miserable standing on one leg.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ said Monica, alarmed. ‘Everything was wonderful.’

  Taggie hung her head. ‘I’m desperately sorry, Lady Baddingham, but I didn’t realize it was a shooting lunch. I know it sounds p-p-priggish, but I don’t app-p-prove of shooting. I think it’s very cruel; all those poor pheasants, and I’d rather not cook for those kind of lunches any more. You probably won’t want me to do any more cooking now. I’m so sorry, as I like working for you so much.’

  Monica’s face softened. ‘Don’t give it a thought. It was very brave of you to stick up for your principles. The shooting season’s virtually over now, anyway. I quite understand, as long as you go on doing other lunches and dinner parties for me and filling up the freezer.’

  When Tony came out of a meeting on Monday morning, Miss Madden greeted him with the news that Freddie had rung.

  ‘Get him for me, would you?’ said Tony.

  He smiled expansively as he was put through.

  ‘Freddie, hullo. You shot bloody well. Everyone was most impressed.’

  ‘Thank you very much for asking us,’ said Freddie.

  ‘We must make it a regular thing next season.’ Tony made a thumbs-up sign to Cameron.

  ‘I don’t fink so,’ said Freddie coldly. ‘I’m not joining your board.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ said Tony, astounded.

  ‘I don’t like people patronizing Valerie. I know you was all laughing at her.’

  ‘It was a joke,’ protested Tony. ‘We’re all devoted to Mousie.’

  ‘I don’t mind anyone laughing at me, but no one puts ‘er down.’ And Freddie put down the receiver.

  The tragedy was that Valerie was absolutely livid with Freddie, who was not prepared to hurt her by telling her why he’d backed off. Valerie – over whose head the cracks about the Belvoir and the boutique had gone completely – ranted on and on about how Monica had become such a good friend and Tony had promised to film the boutique and put her on ‘Behind Every Famous Man’, and what amusing people the Duke, the Lord-Lieutenant, the Strattons, Bas and even the O’Haras were, and now she supposed all they’d do was mix with boring businessmen.

  Even when Tony dispatched Sarah to the boutique to buy the cloak, the knickerbocker suit and the deer stalker, Freddie didn’t relent.

  RIVALS

  21

  Tony couldn’t directly blame Declan for Freddie Jones’s defection, but he blamed him for everything else: for inciting rebellion in the newsroom with his subversive lefty attitudes, for egging Charles Fairburn on to put in larger and larger expenses, for Cameron’s bad temper which was no doubt caused by Declan’s handsome son Patrick, for Declan’s trouncing of Maurice Wooton, which had made Tony so anxious to get Freddie on the Board and waste so much time and money wooing him, only to be rejected.

  It was generally agreed at Co
rinium that Tony had never sustained a mood of utter bloody-mindedness for quite so long, and the only way Declan could redeem himself would be to crucify Rupert Campbell-Black when he interviewed him on St Valentine’s Day – a massacre Declan looked forward to with grim relish.

  As he researched the programme, Declan found himself increasingly fascinated by the complexities of Rupert’s character. He was obviously very good at his job. The Ministry for Sport, when Rupert was offered it, had been merely a PR post, answerable to the Ministry of the Environment, with the Home Office dealing with any major disasters like football riots.

  Rupert, however, had refused to take on the job unless he was given sole responsibility for all sport in the country and any trouble that ensued. The gamble paid off. He had had spectacular success in curbing football hooliganism, he had raised a vast amount of money for sport, particularly the next Olympics. He had had rows with the Teachers’ Unions over the decline of competitive sport in schools, with the Football Association, rows with fellow ministers, even rows with the PM. But he got things done and he cut through waffle. Utterly sure of his own judgement, he was sometimes too arrogant, and, having been a great athlete himself, he tended to side with the players rather than the management, but when he went against officials it was always because he’d discovered a weakness in their argument. He was extremely lucky in Gerald Middleton, his private secretary.

  Declan also noted Rupert’s appallingly deprived childhood, not of material things, but of love and stability. His beautiful mother was on her fifth marriage. His father’s fourth marriage had just come unstuck. Then there was his taking over of the family home at Penscombe, with its four hundred acres, when he was only twenty-one and just making the big time in show-jumping, and soon having it running at a thumping profit. There were the frequent rumblings in the press about his cruelty to his horses, or at least ruthlessly overjumping them. There was the compulsive womanizing that hardly stopped with marriage or divorce. Even today, when he should be setting a good example, far too many women appeared only too anxious to say ‘Yes Minister’.