by Jilly Cooper
She’d just got out of her bath and was painting her nipples rose-madder when she heard a car door slam outside. Goodness, Drew was early. Tearing off her bath cap, shaking out her very clean hair, she dived into the clinging bottle-green wool dress she’d bought specially, dragged on the fantastically expensive brown boots Drew had brought her back from Deauville and, squirting Je Reviens behind each ear, charged downstairs. Drew was pounding on the door. He must have left his key behind.
‘Darling, how heavenly!’
‘Yes, I thought you’d be pleased to see me,’ said Violet, standing pink-faced on the doorstep in her navy-blue school uniform. ‘We spent the afternoon inspecting some ghastly Roman fortifications at Cotchester. They said we could have the night off yesterday but I thought I’d surprise you. Have you got a tenner for the taxi?’
As Daisy scrabbled up a shoal of coins from her bag, her mind was racing. She daren’t ring Drew on his car telephone in case he was giving someone a lift. Besides, if she warned him, he might not come and after a week’s absence she couldn’t bear it.
‘That’s nine-fifty,’ said Violet.
‘There might be a pound in the lining of my dark blue coat,’ said Daisy.
As Violet went out to pay the driver Daisy tugged the blue bow off Ethel. She’d just have to brazen it out. Mercifully Violet seemed far more interested in Rupert Campbell-Black’s memoirs, which were plastered all over The Scorpion and in abridged form in the late editions of every national newspaper. Daisy had been too preoccupied with Drew’s visit to turn on the wireless or read a paper all day.
‘Absolutely riveting stuff, Mum,’ said Violet in excitement. ‘Rupert had an affair with this journalist, Beattie Johnson, who was supposed to be writing his memoirs, then he ditched her and she’s had her revenge by telling everything about Rupert and his women in The Scorpion. The Daily Express said it would have brought the Government down if the Tories were still in power.’
There was a hiss as the potatoes boiled over on to the gas flame.
‘We were all reading it on the coach,’ said Violet, turning down the gas, ‘until bloody Miss Lovett-Standing confiscated it. All about kinky foursomes and Rupert’s ex-wife being frigid and even implying Rupert might be a bit gay. Tomorrow it’s going to be all about under-age schoolgirls, lucky things, and how Rupert got into politics by sleeping with the Foreign Minister’s wife, who loves being spanked.’
Violet giggled and blushed, which clashed with her red hair. She was nearly very pretty now.
‘Oh, poor Rupert,’ said Daisy, for a moment distracted from her panic over Drew. ‘I didn’t know anything about it.’
‘You are out of touch,’ said Violet fondly. ‘You must have been painting all day. Gosh, I’m starving. Something smells delicious. What are we having for supper?’
‘Fish pie,’ said Daisy faintly. ‘I haven’t mashed the potatoes yet.’
‘I’ll mash them.’ Violet prodded the potatoes with a fork.
Then, to Daisy’s horror, she opened the fridge and discovered passion and kiwi fruit salad, two bottles of champagne and a large plate of smoked salmon.
‘Yum,’ said Violet, peeling off a slice of salmon, ‘who’s coming round?’
Suddenly she took in the huge bunch of freesias on the table, the pink candles, the two laid places and the bowl of chocolates.
‘Mum, you’ve got a lover!’
‘Of course not.’ To hide her blushes Daisy grabbed the salt and added more to the potatoes.
‘Drew Benedict’s coming round. Sukey’s away and he’s been so good to Perdita, I invited him to take pot luck.’
‘Luck’s the word,’ said Violet. ‘Christ, this smoked salmon’s good. Drew’s a great friend of Rupert’s, isn’t he? He’ll be able to give us all the lowdown.’
Grabbing pieces of iceberg lettuce with the avidity of a starved rabbit, Violet suddenly noticed a painting of a Springer spaniel emerging from the reddening bracken which was propped up against one of the kitchen chairs.
‘That’s lovely. Bit like Ethel. Who’s it for?’
‘Drew and Sukey,’ mumbled Daisy.
She was doing it for Drew, then, as a way of getting it into the house, he could give it to Sukey. The subterfuges they resorted to were quite awful.
‘Drew – er – commissioned it,’ lied Daisy. ‘It’s a surprise present for Sukey. Drew’s coming round to fetch it this evening.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Violet. ‘I love it when husbands love their wives enough to surprise them like that. You haven’t painted in its left ear.’
‘So I haven’t,’ said Daisy, then jumped as Ethel’s great bass-baritone bark rang out. She must warn Drew before he let himself in with a latch key.
Skidding down the frozen garden path, the night air hitting her burning face like a cold shower, she crashed into Drew who was getting carrier-bags full of drink and duty-free scent out of the car.
‘Hello, darling, lovely welcome. That’s a nice dress.’
‘Violet’s here,’ gasped Daisy.
‘Christ!’ Suddenly, as cold and distant as the stars above, Drew reversed back into his car. Daisy couldn’t bear it.
‘She knows you’re coming,’ she gabbled. ‘She hasn’t turned a hair. I told her you were picking up Flash’s picture, and I’d asked you to supper because Sukey was away.’
Drew havered. He’d been looking forward to getting mildly pissed and screwing Daisy all night for the past week. A stilted dinner with a beady schoolgirl, who might easily sneak to Perdita, and limited booze because he had to drive home was no substitute.
‘Please stay. I’ve missed you.’
‘OK.’ Drew chucked the carrier bags back into the car. ‘But we must be careful.’
‘Hi,’ said Violet, who was emptying the cream intended for the passion fruit salad into the potatoes and reading about Rupert in the Daily Mail, which had extensive extra coverage on all his exes. ‘Isn’t it awful? The Mail says Venturer’ll never get the franchise now.’
‘They won’t,’ said Drew. ‘Rupert was always the wild card in that consortium. The IBA won’t like his escapades one bit. I spoke to Bas before I left Dubai this morning. Rupert’s in a frightful stew, tried to resign from Venturer, but Declan and Bas won’t let him, saying they’ve got to stick together, but I reckon he’s cooked their goose. Poor Rupert.’
Drew expressed sympathy but didn’t feel it. Rupert, arrogant enough to think himself above the law, had always been flagrantly indiscreet because he’d never cared what people thought. Drew believed that discretion was much the better part of valour and the only way of having your cake and eating it.
‘Rupert’s dead attractive.’ Violet added half a pound of unsalted butter to the potatoes. ‘And it’s not as though he’s married now. I think it’s disgusting married men playing around, but Rupert’s been single for ages.’
She turned to Daisy who hadn’t had time to put on any make-up. ‘You look exhausted, Mum. I’ll put the potato on top of the fish pie. You go and have a drink with Drew.’
Taking the bottle of Moët from Daisy, Drew followed her into the sitting room where Daisy’s apple logs had nearly gone out.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she moaned, noticing that Drew, after a week in temperatures of more than 100°, was shivering like a whippet.
Crouching down in front of the fireplace she pulled four more firelighters out of their packet and, shoving them under the logs, started frantically to puff.
‘What a stupid mess, I couldn’t get in touch with you. Did you win?’
‘Lost one, won two,’ said Drew, filling up three glasses and taking one into Violet. Returning, he waited until he could hear the crash of the potato masher on the bottom of the pan, then said, ‘Let me help you.’
Kneeling down, he put his hands under Daisy’s skirt and encountered bare Daisy. ‘Jesus Christ!’
Daisy gave a muffled squawk. ‘I didn’t have time to put any pants on. Violet arrived as I was getting out of the bath
.’
Slowly Drew ran his hand over her generous buttocks, then slid it between them to her still damp bush.
‘No! Violet! We mustn’t,’ gasped Daisy.
‘She’s only got to page two of the memoirs,’ murmured Drew. ‘Three to go. Shut up and enjoy it.’
Daisy could feel his breath on the back of her neck, as gently, assuredly, his fingering continued.
‘All right, Violet?’ gasped Daisy a minute later.
‘Fine, thanks.’
Drew propped the drawing-room door shut with his back as, with trembling hands, Daisy unzipped his flies and slid her mouth over the rampant red fireman’s helmet. It was over in ten seconds.
‘Oh, goodness, your cock’ll smell of firelighters,’ said Daisy collapsing on to the sofa.
‘Come on baby, light my fire,’ said Drew, handing her her glass.
‘That was crazy,’ mumbled Daisy as the apple logs sprung into merry flame.
‘But incredibly nice,’ said Drew, sitting down close to her. ‘Very Rupert sort of behaviour.’
‘Is he OK?’
‘Not at all. Crucified he’s let Venturer down and worried sick about the effect the memoirs are going to have on the children. Worst of all he’s now decided he’s madly in love with Declan’s daughter, Taggie, and there’s no way now Declan’ll ever let him marry her.’ He put a hand on Daisy’s thigh. ‘When’s Violet going?’
‘Tomorrow early.’
‘I’ll pop back mid-morning. Sukey’s not back till the afternoon. Christ, that fish pie smells good. I didn’t have any lunch.’ He kicked open the door slightly. ‘You OK, Violet?’
Violet came in hanging her head.
‘Oh, Mum, I was so busy reading about Rupert I’ve eaten all the mashed potato and all the scallops out of the fish pie.’
‘Oh, darling,’ wailed Daisy. ‘Never mind, there’s a packet of Smash in the cupboard.’
‘There was,’ admitted Violet, ‘but two moths and a bluebottle flew out so I threw it away.’
Drew fortunately thought it was funny. ‘I’ll take you both out to dinner.’
I love him, thought Daisy, in passionate gratitude, imagining the scene Hamish would have made. She knew Drew had said he couldn’t leave Sukey, but she could still hope.
Contrary to every expectation Venturer won the franchise.
‘And you’ll never guess what,’ said Drew when he rang to tell Daisy. ‘Rupert’s getting married to Taggie O’Hara. I’m going to be an usher and I’ve persuaded her to commission you to paint Rupert’s old Olympic horse Rocky as a wedding present. Can you do it in a week?’
‘I’ll try,’ said Daisy. ‘You are wonderful.’
‘I’ll smuggle you into the house while Rupert’s in London and there are masses of photographs. And I’ve got you an invite to the wedding. It’ll be the thrash of the century. Cotchester Cathedral first, then back to Rupert’s. He’ll pay for everything because Declan’s flat broke, but he’s so happy he’d buy Taggie the sun and the moon.’
‘D’you like her?’
‘Adorable and virtually untouched by human hand. She must be nearly twenty years younger than Rupert, lucky sod.’
Then, realizing what he’d said, ‘And you look about twelve, my darling. Anyway I’ve always been attracted to older women.’
‘I love you,’ sighed Daisy gratefully. ‘Can I really come to the wedding? What ought I to wear?’
‘I’ll take you into Bath and buy you something. The crumpet will be astonishing so you’ve got to look stunning.’
As Sukey had been nagging him about over-spending all week, he would take perverse pleasure in blueing her money on Daisy.
42
Not since the Civil War when it had been a Royalist stronghold, which only yielded to the Roundheads after a long and bloody battle, had the sleepy market town of Cotchester witnessed such scenes of mayhem. Police had been bused in from all over the West of England to control the crowds who, despite driving snow and bitter East winds, had turned up to catch a glimpse of Rupert and his bride. The media, who almost outnumbered the crowd, were going berserk because Rupert had banned them from the cathedral and refused, to the rage of his mother and his mother-in-law, even to allow the wedding service to be privately videoed. ‘We are not fucking film stars and the only record we need of this marriage is Tag’s wedding ring.’
Dusk had fallen and the snow turned to sleet as Daisy arrived. There were such traffic jams in the High Street that she was frightened she might be late. She was also slightly apprehensive about the clothes Drew had bought her which consisted of a black velvet blazer printed with big pale pink roses, black velvet knickerbockers, a white frilled shirt and black buckled shoes. She had added a bright pink cummerbund and tied her hair back with a black satin bow.
But all her nerves disappeared when the first person she saw was Drew holding a vast blue-and-green umbrella over the Tory Leader and her husband as they progressed to loud cheers and the popping of hundreds of flashbulbs through the great doors of the cathedral. Next minute Basil Baddingham, a wonderfully elongated figure with his red-and-yellow umbrella bucking in the wind like a spinnaker sail, dived forward to shield Daisy from the blizzard. ‘Darling, you look so sexy, just like Dick Turpin. Bags I be Black Bess.’
Daisy giggled. The flash bulbs popped.
‘There’s that Koo Stark,’ yelled a fat flushed woman, pointing at Daisy.
‘Well done getting the franchise,’ said Daisy, breathing in the heady scent of Givenchy for Men and Bas’s gardenia.
‘Marvellous, isn’t it. About time my awful brother got his come-uppance. When can I come and see your etchings?’ Gazing down, Bas massaged the inside of her rose-patterned arm with his thumb.
‘Any time.’ Daisy was anxious to spin out the conversation as long as possible so she might grab a word with Drew on his return journey.
‘How was Rupert’s stag party?’
‘Hell.’ Bas put down his umbrella as they entered the cathedral. ‘Rupert wouldn’t drink, wouldn’t chat up any of the stunning crumpet we’d provided, just banged on and on that he wasn’t good enough for Taggie, with which I entirely agree, and how he wasn’t going to see her until this evening and how he was suffering from the most godawful withdrawal symptoms, which is not something that’ll happen in their nuptial bed this evening.’
Inside the cathedral to the smell of musk, incense and antiquity were added wafts of a hundred scents and aftershaves and of huge banks of white roses, lilies and freesias. The women’s jewellery, much of it paid for in the past by Rupert, and their excited painted faces were lit up by thousands of white flickering candles. And the clothes they wore were also in jewel colours, sapphire, ruby, garnet-pink, emerald and amethyst; satins, silks and taffetas all rustling and gleaming. Daisy thanked God she’d taken so much trouble with her appearance.
‘We could fill the bridegroom’s side alone with Rupert’s step-parents and his exes,’ murmured Bas. ‘Now, where can we find a space to squeeze you in?’
‘For Christ’s sake stop gassing, Bas,’ snapped Drew. ‘Hello, Daisy, you look pretty.’
‘Just finding a glamorous, unattached man for her to sit next to,’ said Bas maliciously, ‘No, let’s make it two,’ and he swept Daisy off to a pew ten rows in front, which was already noisily inhabited by the Carlisle twins, mahogany-tanned from playing in the Mexican and Argentine Opens, and Janey Lloyd-Foxe, an incredibly glamorous journalist, married to Billy Lloyd-Foxe, Rupert’s best man and old show-jumping crony.
‘They’ll tell you who everyone is,’ said Bas, massaging Janey’s collarbone, and sliding his hand down the front of her bright blue suit.
‘Mrs Macleod, you look stunning,’ said Seb, patting the space between him and Dommie. ‘How’s that sexy, toffee-nosed daughter of yours? Janey’s just telling us how furious the Bishop is.’
‘The Bishop’s got a thumping crush on Taggie,’ Janey smiled wickedly at Daisy, ‘so he agreed to marry her in Christmas week,
which is quite unprecedented, before he realized she was marrying his bête noire, or rather bête-Campbell-Black. And Declan told the Bishop it was going to be the tiniest wedding, and now look at this circus.’ She waved a gold-braceleted hand at the packed pews who were yelling away like a vast drinks party. ‘And someone’s lit all the candles which were meant for Midnight Mass. God, look at that.’ Janey paused in her lecture as a Brazilian polo player with blackcurrant ripple hair and an amazing brunette on his arm, shimmered past. ‘And the Bishop’s even more miffed because Rupert’s mother – that’s her up the front with her fifth husband and roulette chips rattling round in the bottom of her bag – insisted on inviting an outside priest to help. That’s him in the red cassock. I’m sure he’s got breeches and boots underneath like Richard Chamberlain in The Thorn Birds.’
‘Here comes the bride’s mother,’ said Dommie, as Declan O’Hara’s wife Maud swept by in a fuschia-pink suit, clashing dazzlingly with her piled-up red hair.
‘That suit cost more than the wedding put together,’ said Janey scribbling frantically. ‘Balmain, I think. She’s determined to upstage the bride.’
‘And that’s Rupert’s immediate ex-mistress, Cameron Cook, even more determined to upstage the bride,’ said Seb, as a furious-looking girl in a clinging, leopard-skin dress and no hat on her short, sleeked-back hair stalked by.
‘Cameron’s taken up with Declan’s son, Patrick,’ explained Janey to Daisy. ‘He’s the beauty following her. Isn’t he amazing looking? But it must be hell for Cameron handing the torch over to Taggie so publicly. My God, there’s Victor and Sharon Kaputnik. How the hell did they get invited?’
‘Victor paid me £5,000,’ said Seb simply, ‘half of which I split with Rupert.’
‘You never told me. I should get a cut,’ protested Dommie as Victor, carrying his telephone, and Sharon all in white like a great swan, filled up almost an entire pew.
