by Jilly Cooper
‘But objective criticism’s valuable, for Chrissake.’
‘Not to me. I only like people who think I’m perfect. I’d better get Mr and Mrs Bodkin back for the weekend. The children are coming on Saturday. They make a hell of a lot of work.’
‘Oh, don’t,’ said Cameron, suddenly excited. ‘Let’s look after them ourselves. We’ll have picnics and barbecues and all muck in. It’ll be so much fun.’
Like many insecure people, Cameron was much easier to live with when she was down. After she’d been beaten up, it was her intense vulnerability that had appealed to Rupert. Wanting to protect her, he’d asked her to move in. But as she got better, her natural aggression and stridency started to reassert itself.
The day before the children were due, Cameron decided to make a big paella for dinner; the rest could be heated up for them the following day. Discovering in the middle she’d forgotten to get any saffron or squid, she dispatched Rupert to the village shop.
‘I’m sure they won’t stock them,’ grumbled Rupert, who wanted to read Horse and Hound.
The kitchen wireless was blaring out Dame Enid’s latest tone poem; the New Statesman and the Times Literary Supplement lay on the kitchen table all giving Rupert an unpleasant feeling of déjà vu. It was too much like Helen all over again.
‘Well, drive into Stroud then,’ snapped Cameron.
She’d forgotten what a rat race paella was to make, but she was determined to cook better than Taggie.
‘And get some Parmesan as well,’ she shouted after him.
The village shop had recently been converted into a tiny supermarket with shelves all round the walls, and a partition, also with shelves on both sides, running parallel to the counter. If the ubiquitous Mrs Makepiece, who did for Lizzie and Valerie and one morning a week for Maud now, hadn’t been holding forth so noisily and indignantly at the head of the queue, Rupert would never have slid into the shop unobserved. Picking up a red wire basket, he chucked in some Jaffa cakes because the children liked them, and a tin of corned beef because he liked it; he couldn’t find any squid, but he supposed a tin of pilchards in tomato sauce would do as well – a squid pro quo.
As he moved round to the spice shelf, Mrs Makepiece, encouraged by a chorus of clicking tongues, raised her voice. ‘Declan and ‘er ladyship have pushed off on some second honeymoon in the Lake District, leaving her all on her own.’
Rupert stiffened, gazing unseeingly at rows of paprika, dill and cayenne.
‘All alone in that ‘uge ‘ouse,’ went on Mrs Makepiece, ‘and we all know it’s ‘aunted. Well, ‘alf the lights fused, so Taggie went to the fuse box and read the instructions all wrong – she’s disconnected, you know, the poor lamb, and she blew all the fuses, and had to shiver all night in the dark, with only Gertrude, that’s her little dog, for company.’
Despite the baking heat of the day, Rupert had gone absolutely cold. Taggie might have killed herself fiddling about with that fuse box.
‘She was crying her heart out this morning when I come in,’ said Mrs Makepiece, egged on by the row of shocked faces. ‘At first she wouldn’t tell me what was the matter. Then I made us a nice cup of tea and it came out – they’d all forgotten her birthday.’
Rupert was so enraged he dropped the basket and walked straight out of the shop with the pilchards, which he had forgotten to chalk up.
The moment he got home he rang Ursula. ‘Where the fuck are Maud and Declan?’
‘Windermere.’
‘Give me their number.’
‘I promised not to; they don’t want to be disturbed. This is a patch-up operation. Declan’s been devoting too much time to his biography.’
‘They forgot Taggie’s birthday.’
‘Oh, my God!’
‘And you should have bloody well reminded them. Give me the number.’
Declan and Maud were out when he rang. He left a message for Declan to ring him, saying it was about the franchise and very urgent.
Then he rang Taggie. ‘Happy birthday, darling. Cameron and I are going to take you out to dinner. No, I don’t want any “buts”. We’ll pick you up about eight.’
He was still sweating with horror at the thought of the poor little duck all alone in that big house in the dark with all those winding stairs and long passages.
‘Bloody Maud and Declan,’ he howled as he went into the kitchen.
‘What on earth have they done now? Don’t turn it off, it’s Vivaldi,’ protested Cameron. ‘Did you get the squid?’ Then, as Rupert handed her the pilchards, ‘These won’t do, dumbass. And where’s the Parmesan and the saffron?’
‘They forgot Taggie’s birthday,’ said Rupert bleakly.
‘Well, that’s not such a big thing.’ Then, seeing the rage on Rupert’s face, ‘Haven’t you forgotten your kids’ birthdays?’
‘No – yes, I suppose so, but Helen always remembers.’
When he told Cameron what had happened, and that they were taking Taggie out to dinner, she hit the roof. ‘But it was our last night on our own. This was to be a celebration I was cooking specially for us.’
‘There’ll be plenty of time for that in the future.’
The telephone rang. It was Declan. Fuelled by indignation, and also because Declan had been so censorious about him and Cameron, Rupert let him have it. ‘You fucking hypocrite, always banging on about tyranny and exploitation. The worst case I’ve seen is going on under your roof.’
‘What the fock are you talking about?’
‘Taggie. She works like a slave for the bloody lot of you, and all you can do is leave her alone in a huge house, with the fuses blown, and then forget her birthday.’
‘Oh, my Christ,’ said Declan, appalled. ‘Have we really?’
‘You get on the telephone the moment I ring off and say how sorry you are.’
‘We ought to come back.’
‘No. Cameron and I’ll look after her tonight. You come home first thing tomorrow and bring her a decent present, not a crappy book of Wordsworth’s poems she can’t read.’
‘God, I feel terrible,’ said Declan. ‘Now, what was this urgent thing about the franchise?’
‘That was it,’ said Rupert furiously. ‘If she hadn’t worked her ass off trailing around the area, rounding up names for your bloody franchise, we wouldn’t be ahead in the race now.’
Crashing down the telephone, he poured himself a huge whisky. He was absolutely shaking with rage.
‘Well, well, well,’ said Cameron, chucking the wooden spoon on to the drying rice and switching off the hot plate. ‘What gives with Taggie O’Hara?’
‘She doesn’t deserve parents like that. She’s only a baby.’
‘Nineteen today, to be exact. Well beyond the age of consent.’
She knew it was madness to bitch, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘You’ve got a very soft spot – or is it a hard spot – for her, haven’t you? Are you nurturing some secret passion? What I want to know is where does that put me?’
Rupert looked her up and down. There wasn’t a trace of tenderness in his face now.
‘You’re living here, aren’t you?’
‘At the moment.’
‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ he said softly. ‘If you want to go on living here, stop being such a fucking bitch.’
Draining his whisky, he picked up his car keys. ‘I’m going to get her a present. You can ring up the White Elephant in Painswick and book a table for three at nine o’clock.’
Henry Hampshire’s Springer spaniel had recently had six puppies. They’d all gone to new homes except the runt whose paw, broken when someone stepped on it, was still in plaster. The puppy had a freckled face, a bright pink mouth, crossed eyes that looked as though he’d been on the booze all night, and a stumpy tail which agitated his whole body.
‘He’s a great character,’ said Henry. ‘You can have him for a hundred pounds.’
‘With a broken paw? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Plas
ter comes off next week. Then he’ll be as right as rain. Won’t stop him going all day in the field.’
‘Fifty,’ said Rupert.
‘You’ve got to be joking. The others went for two hundred and fifty each. Mother was best of breed at Crufts, father won every field trial in the country.’
‘Fifty,’ said Rupert. ‘He’ll always be slightly lame.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Henry. ‘I had lunch with Daysee Butler today.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t,’ snapped Rupert. ‘You’re bound to give away trade secrets.’
‘Well, you still haven’t laid on Joanna Lumley,’ grumbled Henry. ‘Daysee said Tony’s flown to LA to search for a new Programme Controller.’
When Rupert got back to Penscombe, Cameron had washed her hair, and changed into the clinging kingfisher-blue dress she’d worn to get her award in Madrid; it had slits to sunburnt mid-thigh on both sides. She looked apprehensive, very beautiful, and came straight up and put her arms round Rupert’s neck.
‘I was jealous. I’m sorry.’
He breathed in Fracas, the dry bitter sexy scent she always wore; it made his senses reel.
‘I’m sorry too,’ he said. ‘I over-reacted, but I feel so sorry for her.’
Under the blue dress he could feel Cameron’s nipples stiffening. Glancing at the kitchen clock he saw that it was a quarter to eight.
‘We haven’t got time. It’d muss you up.’
‘You have,’ said Cameron.
Dropping to her knees, she unzipped his flies. This was one skill she knew she was better at than Taggie O’Hara.
A battered dark-green GTI was parked outside The Priory as they drove up. The front door was open; the hall was filled with clothes, books and suitcases.
‘Perhaps she won’t want to come out to dinner,’ murmured Cameron hopefully.
‘’Course she will,’ said Rupert.
It was debatable who got the worse shock, Cameron or Rupert, when they went into the kitchen and found Taggie sobbing in the arms of a tall black-haired, incredibly beautiful young man. The only difference was that Cameron instantly recognized Patrick, whereas Rupert did not. Patrick looked round, still with his arms round Taggie.
‘Well?’ he said icily.
Taggie glanced up, gave a gasp, then tugging herself away from Patrick, blindly snatched at some kitchen roll, frantically wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Hullo, Rupert, hullo, Cameron. How are you?’
She was amazed to see Rupert glaring at Patrick with such hostility. Perhaps he resented him as Cameron’s ex.
‘I don’t think you’ve met my brother Patrick, have you?’ she said quickly.
‘Your brother!’ Instantly the hostility was gone. ‘I didn’t twig. It was your party on New Year’s Eve, wasn’t it? How did your finals go?’
‘Perfectly all right,’ said Patrick shortly.
Turning back to Taggie, Rupert dumped two bottles of Dom Perignon on the table beside Patrick’s white carrier bag of duty free.
‘Happy birthday, angel. They’re just out of the fridge. Open them,’ he added to Patrick, totally unaware of the look of utter loathing that Patrick was shooting in his direction.
Oh hell, thought Cameron, poor Patrick. Taggie must have told him about me moving in with Rupert.
Cutting short Taggie’s stammering thanks for the champagne, Rupert seized her hand and led her out to the car. ‘Come and see your proper present.’
‘You d-don’t have to bother,’ stammered Taggie in the hall. ‘I’m having a lovely birthday. Mummy and Daddy have just rung. They’re bringing my present back tomorrow afternoon. They couldn’t pick it up until today, and Patrick brought me back the most gorgeous Arran sweater. He’s just got back. He had so much stuff to bring after three years.’ She was rattling now, on the verge of tears again.
‘Sweetheart, what’s the matter?’
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she said. How could she possibly explain to him that the blown fuses, the night in the dark, and the forgotten birthday, were mere irrelevancies, that it was Cameron finally moving in with him that had brought the world down round her ears.
She knew he couldn’t ever be serious about someone as stupid and unsophisticated as she, but, as they’d gone round the country together, they’d become friends, and now she’d never see him again without Cameron.
‘You were all on your own last night in the dark,’ he said.
‘Who told you?’
‘Mrs Makepiece told the whole village shop.’
‘It was my fault. I read the directions on the fuse box wrong.’ She tried to smile. ‘I seemed to spend the whole night pushing poor Gertrude round the house in front of me. Things seem to creak so much if you’re in the dark.’
Rupert took her hands. ‘Look, next time something awful happens, will you promise to ring me? That’s what I’m across the valley for. It crucifies me to think of you all by yourself and frightened like that.’
She wouldn’t look at him – all he could see was her reddened, swollen eyelids. Reluctantly he let her go.
Outside, the puppy, with its speckled paws on the car ledge, was grinning out through the open window.
‘Oh, how adorable,’ breathed Taggie. ‘What’s he done to his paw?’
‘It’s nearly better. He’s your birthday present. I was going to buy you a guard dog, but I got sidetracked.’
Taggie was in ecstasy. No one had ever given her anything so lovely.
‘Gertrude will be very jealous to begin with,’ warned Rupert, as the puppy rushed off on to the lawn, quartering frantically, pursuing various cat and dog smells. ‘You’ll have to make a lot of fuss of her.
He noticed Taggie was still wearing jeans and an old torn red-and-white-striped shirt of Declan’s.
‘Aren’t you going to change? We’ve booked a table for nine. Patrick can come too. I’ve never met him properly.’
Taggie blushed. ‘It’s terribly kind of you but we’re fine on our own.’
‘Don’t be silly, I’m not having you cooking on your birthday.’
‘Patrick and I haven’t seen each other for ages.’
‘You’ve got the rest of the summer.’
‘He’s going abroad tomorrow. He – er – he—’
‘Yes,’ said Rupert, pulling her down beside him on to the old bench on the side of the lawn.
Taggie blushed even more deeply. ‘He adores Cameron, you see, and he’s absolutely d-d-devastated about her moving in with you.’
‘Ah,’ said Rupert.
Taggie was frantically peeling paint off the bench. As the puppy bounded back to them, she gathered him up, cuddling him for comfort.
‘Patrick could accept her having an affair with Tony because he thought she was doing it for her career, b-but you’re different.’
‘Why?’ said Rupert, suddenly anxious to know the answer.
Taggie buried her crimson face in the puppy’s ginger ears.
‘Because one wouldn’t need any incentive . . .’
‘Is that your word for the day?’
‘No.’ She shook her head frantically. ‘. . . any incentive to move in with you.’
Inside, Cameron was gazing at Patrick. He’s grown up, she thought. He’s much tougher and more detached and less vulnerable.
‘How did you really get on in your finals?’
‘Got a first.’
‘Have they told you?’
‘No, but I know.’
He got a packet of Marlboro’s out of the duty-free bag and lit himself a cigarette without offering her one. As the match flared she could see the bitterness in his face.
‘I gather you’ve just become our next-door neighbour,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you going to wish me joy?’
‘What joy? He’ll only make you miserable. Christ, you’ve got awful taste in men,’ he added irritably. ‘Tony was a disgusting thug. This man —’ he couldn’t bring himself to say Rupert’s
name – ‘is like a foxhound. Can’t you understand? You can’t domesticate him. He’ll always be hunting for something new. It’s in his blood. He’ll get bored with you in a few weeks, and if he doesn’t, you’ll get bored with him; he’s the most ghastly philistine, never read a book in his life.’
‘He’s street-wise.’
‘That expression always seems to me a euphemism for someone with extremely shady morals, which means he’ll dump you sooner or later – and he’ll smash your career. Tony at least encouraged that.’
‘You’re just jealous.’
‘Not any more,’ said Patrick wearily. ‘I am ashes where once I was fire.’
‘He’s very funny. You’ll like him when you get to know him.’
‘I’m not going to give myself the chance. I’m going abroad tomorrow.’
Cameron was put out. She liked talking to Patrick. Now they weren’t hamstrung by Tony’s jealousy, she’d hoped he might grow into a friend, and that his admiration, like Tony’s, would act as a spur to Rupert.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Australia – to work on a sheep farm. I’m not hanging round for the rest of the year seeing you all scrapping over the franchise and watching your relationship with that bastard self-destruct.’
‘He isn’t all bastard. Look how kind he’s been to Taggie.’ Cameron was fishing now.
‘He’s totally fucked her up.’
Cameron’s throat went dry. ‘Has he tried anything?’
‘Nothing according to Tag. Just swans in in his bloody droit de seigneur, Lord Bountiful fashion, bombarding her with presents – silver necklaces, Fabergé eggs.’
‘Fabergé eggs?’ said Cameron, appalled.
‘Oh, Taggie didn’t know that it was. He brought her that back from Madrid. I don’t know what’s on offer today. A Monet perhaps, or a Henry Moore!’
‘A puppy,’ said Cameron in a frozen voice. ‘This is it.’
The next moment Aengus shot into the kitchen, tail fluffed out like a lavatory brush, growling ferociously, and took refuge under the kitchen dresser. The puppy frolicked after him, trying to join him under the dresser, then let out a piercing shriek as Aengus caught him with a punishing right hook on his pink nose. Instantly Gertrude bustled in, the personification of outrage. The puppy bounced up to her, then let out another shriek as Gertrude bit him sharply on the ear.
