Rivals

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Tell you never played cricket at school,’ said Bas fondly.

  Then, drawing her close by the lapels of his coat, he slowly kissed her. They were so preoccupied, they didn’t even notice Rupert. Totally sobered up, he drove back to Penscombe.

  The rest of the weekend was like the Phoney War. Rupert and Cameron were perfectly polite to each other. She worked on the franchise, he was off to Rome on Sunday for a meeting with the International Olympics Committee, but would be home on Wednesday night.

  The only time she saw him with his guard down was when she caught a glimpse of him watching a Lassie film in the study. He was clutching Beaver and the tears were running down his cheeks.

  RIVALS

  48

  After lunch next day, having scraped the frozen snow off the bird table and fed the birds for the fourth time, Declan had great difficulty getting out of his drive to visit Freddie. The gritters had been at work on the main roads, but the side lanes were murder. For once the beauty of the black and white landscape held no charms for him. He passed several cars, totally submerged, which must have been abandoned last night, and a farmer frantically trying to dig out some sheep before dusk. The sky was a dull mustard yellow, promising more snow. What would happen if none of the Venturer consortium could get up to London for the IBA meeting? Freddie’s drive had already been lavishly gritted.

  ‘I sent the Council a grittings telegram,’ he said with a huge laugh. ‘In fact I bunged them a few tenners so they made a detour past the ‘ouse.’

  He poured Declan a large brandy and took him into his study. The house was blissfully warm after The Priory. Outside, Valerie’s garden had never looked more beautiful, totally hidden by snow, the gaudy colours wiped out, the vast rockery transformed into a mini-Andes, the garden gnomes and the plastic cherubs fluffed out into creatures of fable. Even the serried ranks of hybrid teas had become a white army hoisting up fistfuls of snow. If Valerie moved to the Arctic, reflected Declan, she might become an arbiter of garden taste, a Vita Sackville-North.

  Freddie was in terrific spirits, brandishing the Telegraph with a piece on the forthcoming franchise struggle.

  ‘It says four incumbent companies are vulnerable and names Corinium as one of them. It also says: “Venturer, Corinium’s rival must be reckoned a considerable creative and management force.” Then it goes on to say: “Corinium are strongly challenged, and as a result their shares are selling at a substantial discount to assets.”’

  ‘I don’t understand what that means,’ said Declan.

  ‘Don’t matter. It’s good, believe me. We’re on our way, boy.’

  ‘What are we going to do about Cameron and Tony?’

  Freddie chewed on his cigar. ‘I can’t believe she’s turned.’

  ‘I don’t want to, but we still haven’t discovered who leaked the names of the other moles to Tony.’

  ‘How was she in Ireland?’ asked Freddie.

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Declan wistfully.

  ‘Well then, my guess is that she’s dotty about Rupert, and when he started giving ‘er the runaround last night, Tony seized his chance and accosted her on the way back from the Ladies.’

  Declan thought it was more complex. To bolster her chronic insecurity, Cameron had to have a man in her life, and after that last night in Galway, when she’d made such a definite play for him, he didn’t think she was Rupert’s exclusive property any more. He was also furious how much seeing her with Tony had upset him.

  ‘We’ve fought this fight absolutely straight up to now,’ said Freddie.

  ‘Except for Rupert seducing Cameron in the first place.’

  ‘But so much is at stake now,’ Freddie went on, ‘that we’d better put a private detective on Tony and get Rupert to slip a tiny bug into Cameron’s ’andbag.’

  The snow was falling again, flakes tumbling down dark against the muddy yellow sky, then getting lost to view as they reached ground level.

  ‘Better not involve Rupert at this stage,’ said Declan. ‘If he realizes she’s been hobnobbing with Tony, he might get really rough and send her scuttling back to Tony for good. Anyway, she’s got a dozen bags. Rupert’s bound to bug the wrong one, and he’s off to Rome for three days tomorrow.’

  ‘OK,’ said Freddie, stubbing out his cigar and getting to his feet. ‘We’ll start wiv a private detective on Tony. I know an ace one. Leave it wiv me.’

  Declan sensed that Freddie was anxious to get rid of him. ‘Where’s Valerie?’ he asked.

  ‘Visiting her sister in Cheam.’

  ‘Do you want to come over for supper?’

  Freddie shook his head. ‘It’s not really a night to go out, thanks. I’ve got an ’ell of a lot of work to do. I keep forgetting I’m the Chief Executive of a public company.’

  Committing adultery, Freddie reflected ruefully after Declan had gone, made one tell an ‘orrible lot of lies. James Vereker was spending the night in London at another Corinium dry run. Lizzie’s nanny was away for the weekend. He must remember to ring Valerie before he left, so she didn’t ring and find him not at home.

  As he arrived at Lizzie’s, he felt glad that the steadily falling snow would cover any wheel tracks by morning. Lizzie was looking out for him, so no doorbells should wake the children.

  She welcomed him in a primrose-yellow silk dressing-gown, rosy, warm and Floris-scented from the bath. The lights were low in the bedroom, but a fire burned merrily in the grate. Reflected tongues of flame lasciviously licked the ceiling. Making a mental note to throw away the evidence first thing in the morning, Lizzie said there was a bottle of Moëtt to be opened. Instead, Freddie opened her silk dressing-gown and felt his heart stop. Lizzie was wearing just black high heels and a black corset which pushed up her breasts, moulded her waist and stopped just above her damp blonde bush, except for four black suspenders holding up black fishnet stockings.

  ‘You are the loveliest fing I’ve ever seen,’ murmured Freddie. ‘Come live wiv me, and be my love. Leave it on,’ he added as Lizzie started unhooking.

  Kneeling down, he removed her high heels and, kissing her instep, slowly kissed his way up until he could bury his face in the soft marshmallow of her thighs. Lizzie bent down to take off his jersey and shirt, feeling his stomach muscles tauten as she unbuckled his trouser belt. There was a huge mirror on the ceiling. James adored to watch his own reflection when he made love. Beside his lithe and taut bronzed beauty, Lizzie had always felt like a Beryl Cook lady. With Freddie she felt slim and beautiful and wanted to watch the whole thing.

  ‘I never rated swucksont-nurf before,’ said Freddie happily.

  The snow had grown two inches on the window ledge. Freddie had grown several inches and diminished again. The logs had died in the grate before Lizzie leaned up on her elbow smoothing the red-gold curls on his chest.

  ‘I love you,’ she said softly, so as not to wake him.

  Freddie opened an eye. ‘I meant it when I said come live wiv me and be my love,’ he said.

  The following Tuesday morning James Vereker had a rare and intimate breakfast with his five-year-old daughter Eleanor. Usually James fled the din of little children in the morning and either had his muesli, prunes and herbal tea in bed or breakfasted at the Corinium canteen after a work-out in the gym. This week he and Lizzie were recording their second programme in the series on the way children enrich and restrict a marriage. James had already written his script which began: ‘As a caring parent, I . . .’ and was now, in between reading the Guardian, doing a little research into fatherhood.

  Sebastian, Ellie’s brother, who’d already got soaked making a snowman and nearly drowned testing the ice on the lake, was upstairs having his clothes changed by Jilly, the dependable boot of a nanny. Lizzie was working. Ellie was eating a boiled egg, dreamily dipping buttered toast soldiers into the yolk.

  ‘I hope you’ll watch “Round-Up” tonight,’ James said to her. ‘We’re visiting the zoo and filming a new polar bear cub, which is called James a
fter me.’

  ‘I saw Freddie bare the other night,’ said Ellie dreamily.

  ‘I don’t think I know Freddie Bear,’ said James. ‘Do the BBC make it, or is it one of ours?’

  ‘I saw Freddie bare,’ repeated Ellie.

  ‘I heard you,’ said James patiently. ‘Is it a new cartoon?’

  ‘No – Freddie bare. He was on the bed with Mummy. They were struggling.’

  James put down his spoon. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I wanted a drink of water, so I went into Mummy’s room. Freddie and Mummy were in bed. Freddie was bare, but Mummy was wearing long socks with her bottom hanging out.’

  James went very red in the face.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that Mummy was in bed with someone – er – someone who wasn’t Daddy?’

  ‘Yes,’ beamed Ellie. ‘Freddie with the big tummy. He’s nice, he brings us Smarties.’

  ‘You’re not to make up wicked fibs,’ said James furiously. ‘Jilly!’ he yelled for the dependable boot. ‘It’s time the children went to school.’

  Lizzie had the effrontery to giggle when James confronted her.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ thundered James.

  ‘No, it isn’t. Oh dear, I hope the poor darling isn’t totally put off sex for life.’

  ‘Is that all you can say? What about me?’

  ‘Nothing would put you off sex for life,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Stop being frivolous. I cannot believe you’d cheat on me with that dreadful, overweight, common little man.’

  ‘Freddie is a very nice man,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘He’s totally dishonourable and so are you.’

  ‘What about all your affairs?’

  ‘They’re finished,’ said James sanctimoniously. ‘And being in the media one is inevitably the target of certain attentions. Anyway, it’s different for men.’

  ‘Don’t blame Freddie then.’

  ‘Freddie,’ said James, working himself up into a fury, ‘is a member of the rival consortium. I feel utterly betrayed. It’s like fraternizing in the war.’

  ‘Well, I’m not having my head shaved,’ screamed Lizzie.

  ‘And what’s this about wearing long socks and your bottom hanging out?’

  Lizzie giggled again. ‘It must have been my fishnet stockings and my corset.’

  ‘You dress up like a prostitute! Whatever for?’

  ‘To excite him,’ said Lizzie simply.

  ‘You never bothered to do that for me,’ said James indignantly.

  Lizzie watched James catch sight of himself in the mirror. Smoothing his hair, he composed his features into an expression suitable for a wronged husband. He’s just the wrong husband, she thought.

  ‘I suppose you realize,’ said James nastily, ‘Freddie’s only been running after you to worm Corinium secrets out of you. I shall have to tell Tony of course. We have to report anything suspicious. He’ll be delighted to have something on Mr Squeaky Clean at last. I shan’t blame you. I’ll say being somewhat unsophisticated and unused to male attention, you fell for it.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough,’ said Lizzie furiously. ‘Freddie is the most honourable man I’ve ever met. After you junked Sarah, because Tony ordered you to clean up your marital act, she went screaming round to Rupert and told him everything.’

  James winced.

  ‘Rupert was all set to give the story straight to the News of the World. It would have been a goody: “Corinium stud ordered to give up mistress by boss in order to present image of idyllic marriage to viewers and IBA.” There were plenty of Corinium people, including Sarah, who’d have enjoyed shopping you to the press. And the whole thing would have been a lovely black blot on Corinium’s escutcheon. But Freddie wouldn’t let Rupert do it. Unlike Tony, he feels that sort of thing is below the belt. He didn’t want mine, or the children’s names, dragged in; said it wasn’t fair having them branded as the offspring of an adulterer – and a pratt,’ she added as an afterthought.

  ‘You uncaring bitch,’ spluttered James.

  ‘And what is more,’ continued Lizzie coldly, ‘if you breathe a word about me and Freddie to anyone, I’m leaving you, and then your silly marriage programme’s going to look even sillier.’

  The moment James left the house, Lizzie burst into tears. She was still crying when J illy the dependable boot got back from the school run. In the end Lizzie told her the whole story.

  ‘I’d no idea poor darling Ellie came into our bedroom that night.’

  ‘She’d have screamed if she’d been frightened,’ said Jilly comfortingly. ‘She was perfectly happy on the way to school on Monday; only interested in whether the lake would be frozen enough to slide on.’

  She picked up a table which James had knocked over as he rushed from the room.

  ‘If it comes to a split, I’d like to stay with you. You’re the best boss I’ve ever had, and I love the kids. I don’t mind taking a cut in salary if things get hard. There, there, there’s no need to start crying again.’

  Freddie was just going into a board meeting when Lizzie rang him.

  ‘I’ll come and get you.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Lizzie. ‘We’ve got to lie low. I don’t want to give Tony any ammunition at this stage. Venturer doesn’t need it, and think of Valerie, Sharon and Wayne. We’ll just have to play safe and not see each other till after 15th December.’

  ‘That’s over a fortnight,’ said Freddie aghast.

  ‘Well, we must try, anyway.’

  Freddie was utterly distracted at the meeting. When an outside director congratulated him on the new billion-pound deal with the Japs, he looked blank. When another informed him that the ex-Chairman, General Walters, had died of a heart attack, Freddie said, ‘Triffic news. Keep up the good work!’

  Outside in the beautifully kept company gardens, the sun, like a huge red Christmas bauble, was setting down the side of a large yew tree. Freddie shivered at the thought that the sun might be setting on his relationship with Lizzie. Then one of his secretaries summoned him from the meeting. There was a call, she said, on his very, very, very private line whose number was only known to Lizzie – and now the private detective. It was the latter ringing: he’d seen Tony and Cameron go into the Royal Garden Hotel early that afternoon. They’d spent ninety minutes in the Residents’ Lounge. He’d walked through twice and there’d been no one else there.

  Freddie’s heart sank. He told the detective to keep on tailing Tony and immediately rang Declan, who was utterly shattered. They both decided, however, that if Cameron had spilled any more beans, it was too late to muzzle Tony now. If, as was just possible, she hadn’t, she was still too important a trump card with the IBA to be frightened off.

  They decided to wait until Rupert returned from Rome tomorrow before tackling her.

  Next morning, after a restless night, Declan woke up to more snow, and, not wishing to risk either car, walked down to the village shop to get the papers. Yesterday at The Priory, they’d had a power cut and frozen pipes. Today the washing machine and the tumble dryer were kaput, and it was warmer out than in. Three-foot icicles hung from the faulty gutters. The evergreens lining the drive were bent double by the snow. Every blade of grass edging the road was rimed with frost and burned with a white heat of its own.

  The traffic was crawling so slowly that Declan didn’t bother to put the dogs on leads. Gertrude, a bit lame from the hard ground, still rushed into every cottage front garden and barked at the snowmen. Claudius, encountering his first snow this year, was wild with excitement, plunging into drifts, leaping to catch the snowballs Declan hurled for him. As Declan passed the white church, he sent up a prayer that Venturer might win. On such a beautiful day, one couldn’t fail to be optimistic. But as he walked into the village shop Mr Banks, who was a great newspaper reader, waved The Times.

  ‘Lord Baddingham’s been blowing his own trumpet again.’

  Declan felt his throat go dry, his stomach churned.

  ‘Page fiv
e,’ went on Mr Banks, handing the paper to Declan.

  ‘Baddingham Set for Victory,’ said the headline. There was a very nice picture, taken from above and at a slight angle to reduce the heavy jowl. Tony was smiling and showing excellent teeth. The interview had been written by a well-known financial journalist.

  As he was so confident of retaining the franchise, Tony had told him, he was only too happy to reveal Corinium’s plans for next year. They were very happy to welcome three new directors on to the Board, all production people, including Ailie Bristoe, who’d just spent three years in Hollywood and who would be Director of Programmes. They were also very excited about their new networked thirteen-part series on marriage which, Tony predicted, would turn James and Lizzie Vereker into big stars.

  It was safe enough stuff. Declan sat down on the snow-covered window-ledge outside the shop, obscuring the postcard advertisements for lost gerbils, daily women and secondhand carrycots in the window.

  Corinium, he read on, had also made arrangements with the Royal Shakespeare to televise special productions of whatever Shakespeare plays children in the area would be taking for O- and A-levels each year. Then they would offer the videos for sale. They’d also be filming Johnny Friedlander’s Hamlet, which had been postponed until the summer.

  Shit, thought Declan in horror, those were both Cameron’s ideas. But most exciting of all, he read on, was that Corinium had signed up a new play by Stroud-born playwright, Dermot MacBride, with an option on the second. There followed a lot of guff about MacBride’s towering genius, and how happy Tony was to welcome this lost son of Gloucestershire back into the fold.

  ‘We paid a lot for MacBride,’ Tony had admitted.

  But, as the financial journalist pointed out, the publicity value alone would be worth thousands of pounds to Corinium.

  ‘Please don’t obscure my advertisement,’ said a shrill voice. ‘I’ll never get a cleaner that way.’

  Looking up, Declan discovered an old lady with a red nose glaring at him. Looking down he saw Gertrude and Claudius sitting at his feet, shivering miserably. Slipping and sliding, falling over twice, moaning with rage, Declan ran home to The Priory.