by Jilly Cooper
Led by the frightful Anthea Belvedon, one mother after another charged up saying: ‘No Rupert?’ in aggrieved tones, as though Taggie’d pushed him over a cliff. Fleeing to avoid No-Joke Joan, who was obviously going to lecture her on Bianca’s lack of application, Taggie went slap into Poppet Bruce, beaming like a lighthouse and clutching a hideous baby sucking on a pink dummy.
‘Just off to give the babe his supper. Do let’s exchange views,’ cried Poppet and next moment Taggie found herself perched on a sofa in a side room as Poppet plunged a dishcloth-grey boob into goldfish-mouthing Gandhi.
Oh God, she hoped someone had arrived at Xav’s party.
As if reading her thoughts, Poppet said, ‘We must encourage Xavier in social skills, he’s very troubled.’
‘He’s very shy,’ protested Taggie.
‘Last term his behaviour was distinctly challenging. I know parents of adopted children often blame themselves for disasters that happen in any normal families, but you and Rupert lead such full lives, I sometimes wonder if anyone is listening to Xavier.’
‘I haven’t left the house all summer,’ squeaked Taggie, ‘and it’s difficult listening to someone who won’t talk.’
Poppet’s bright, cheery eyes were boring into her like diamond cutters. ‘Are you able to help him with his maths?’
‘I can’t do them at all,’ gasped Taggie. If only she could ram a dummy into Poppet’s mouth.
‘Then I advise you to have some coaching. We have a good friend, Mike Pitts, who could come to the house three or four times a week.’
‘I don’t have the time,’ stammered Taggie, which was quite the wrong answer, as Poppet frowned and suggested Taggie made time.
‘Nor do I feel Rupert is a supportive father.’
‘He absolutely adores Xav.’
‘Maybe, but the lad must miss his birth parents. The wound never heals.’ Smugly Poppet unplugged baby Gandhi and hooked him on to another dishcloth-grey tit. ‘I cannot advise you too strongly’ – her tone grew more bullying – ‘to take Xav to birth-mother groups. He could then witness grieving mothers coming to terms with giving up their babes and might achieve closure. Have you told Xav everything about his background?’
‘I couldn’t,’ yelped Taggie.
‘Have you wondered if your longing for your own children makes you reject Xav in some way?’
‘No, no.’
Out of the window, Taggie could see General Bagley gleaming in the moonlight and longed to climb on to the back of his charger so he could gallop her home to Penscombe.
Rescue instead appeared as Hengist, resplendent in a dark blue velvet smoking jacket, appeared in the doorway.
‘Taggie, darling, I’ve been looking for you. Your drink’s empty, unlike little Gandhi’s.’ He and Poppet exchanged smiles of radiant insincerity. ‘Come and talk to me.’ He pulled Taggie to her feet, sliding his arm round her narrow waist and stubbing his thumb on her protruding ribs. ‘You’re losing too much weight. Has that bloody Milk Marketing Board been hassling you? I fear the geeks when they come baring breasts.’
Taggie didn’t laugh. She was adorable but not very bright. Not that Rupert was the Brain of Britain.
As the gong went, Taggie pulled herself together. ‘It was so sweet of Sally and you to send Xav a birthday card.’
‘Sweet of Sally – she remembers everyone. She’s the light of my life, as you are of Rupert’s. I’m terribly sorry Alex has dragged you along to this grisly jaunt in the holidays. It was also Alex’s grisly idea for parents to sit at their children’s housemasters’ tables. Afraid you’re lumbered with Poppet and Alex again.’
Next moment Janey Lloyd-Foxe had buttonholed Taggie. ‘How are you, darling? I can’t wait for Amber and Junior to go back. We’ll starve if I don’t get some work done soon.’
Janey unnerved Taggie. She was married to Rupert’s best friend, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, and was a well-known journalist who always seemed to know more and worse about you than you did yourself.
‘Billy always complains he never gets any sex in the summer holidays because I’m so exhausted,’ Janey went on. ‘Amber and Junior’s friends have been pouring through the house all summer.’
Which was more than Xav’s had. Retreating to the Ladies, Taggie rang home. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine,’ said Bianca. Dropping her voice: ‘No one’s arrived yet. Hang on, there’s the doorbell. We’re OK, bye.’
As she belted in from the terrace, Bianca passed Xav downing another mug of fruit cup and Mrs Bodkin in the study, sleeping peacefully through The Two Ronnies.
Followed by two striped lurchers, three Labradors and a couple of Jack Russells, Bianca opened the front door. There was no one outside, but the dogs carried on barking.
‘Who’s there? They’re noisy but harmless,’ shouted Bianca.
Very slowly, blacker than the shadows from which he emerged, long, lean and relaxed in a soft leather jacket, with the peak of his Arsenal baseball cap over one ear, a diamond cross gleaming at the neck of his black shirt, black jeans glued to his long legs, was Feral.
‘Oh Feral!’ Joy spread over Bianca’s face like the glow in the west returning. ‘You found us.’
‘I did.’ Feral couldn’t believe how pretty she looked – and older, with her sleek, black hair and pale pink lipstick and dark liner emphasizing her ravishing mouth and eyes. He no longer felt avuncular, just lustful. ‘Not sure about those dogs.’
‘They’re as dopey as anything.’ Terrified he might run away, Bianca grabbed Feral’s hand and led him into the hall, which was hung with pictures of horses and more dogs, and past rooms filled with beautiful battered furniture and splendid portraits.
‘Who’s that old git?’
‘Our grandfather. He’s been married five times.’
‘Must like wedding cake. Looks familiar.’
‘He’s in Buffers.’
‘So he is, friend of the Brig.’ Then, peering into the library: ‘Who reads those books?’
‘No one. Mummy can’t read; Daddy only reads Dick Francis and the racing pages.’
Out on the terrace, they found Xav, eyes crossed and slumped against the balustrade, just sober enough to say ‘Hi’ to Feral.
‘This cup is cool,’ said Bianca, ‘I’ve eaten most of the fruit out of it. I’ll get you a glass.’
As she went off to find one, Xav, who admired and envied Feral, offered him a line of coke.
Feral shook his head. ‘Don’t do drugs. Don’t drink much.’
‘This’ll kick-start you.’ Xav plunged the ladle into the Pimm’s, picked up Bianca’s glass and missed it.
Behind them the house reared up watchfully, ordering them to behave. A lawn to the right was almost as big as a football pitch.
‘Paris coming?’ asked Feral.
‘Not yet,’ mumbled Xav, ‘evening’s young.’
Bianca came back with a glass and filled it. Feral took a cautious sip, then a gulp.
‘It is cool, man.’ He took another gulp, then, putting down the glass, edged a box out of his tight jeans and handed it to Xav. ‘Happy birthday.’
‘Thanks.’ Xav put it on the table.
‘Open it,’ nagged Bianca, ‘Feral brought it all this way.’
It was a bracelet, consisting of two black straps attached, instead of to a watch, to two silver skull and crossbones flanking the word FUCK in diamanté letters.
Xav’s face lifted, showing for a second how good-looking he could be. ‘That is wicked, man, really wicked.’ He was worried he’d got too fat, but it did up easily.
‘Thank Feral,’ chided Bianca.
‘I was about to, you stupid bitch.’
Feral, who’d been admiring the lake in the moonlight, swung round to defend Bianca, but she shook her head and his fists unclenched.
‘It’s great,’ mumbled Xav. ‘Can’t wait to wave it at Poppet and Alex,’ and he wheeled off into the house.
Justin Timberlake, fortissimo and blaring out over the valle
y, obliterated the need to talk.
‘Don’t people complain about the noise?’ asked Feral, thinking of the fuss Miss Miserden made at Larks.
‘Not really, Daddy owns the land,’ said Bianca simply. ‘What have you been doing all summer?’
‘Working here and there, mostly for Lily and the Brig. He’s been doing a series of Buffers; I’ve helped him dress – cufflinks and fings.’
‘Daddy says it’s going to be a huge hit, the network’s taking it. Grandpa’s booked for the next series. So naughty, he forgets I’m his granddaughter sometimes and pinches my bottom.’
‘Not surprised in those shorts.’ Feral drained his glass.
‘They ought to do a programme about me called Duffers,’ said Bianca, filling it up.
‘And me.’ Feral collapsed on a bench. He wanted to kiss Bianca’s ruby toenails in those jewelled flip-flops. ‘Can your mum really not read?’
‘Hardly at all, she’s dyslexic. Suits me, she can’t read my diary. Dora’s mother’s always reading hers.’
‘What does yours say?’
‘Feral didn’t come and see me today. Boo hoo.’ Bianca was on the bench beside him, edging up like a kitten. She had no wiles, no defence mechanism; he knew she was dying to be in his arms just as he was to be in hers.
‘Are you hungry?’ asked Bianca.
‘Kind of.’ It wasn’t cool to say he’d been too nervous to eat all day. ‘This drink’s strong. Perhaps I should.’
‘It’d be nice if you could. Mummy’s worked so hard. Poor Xav, I don’t think anyone else is coming.’
‘Bad for him, suits us.’
There is a limit to the inroads three people, two of them dottily in love, can make on supper for twenty. Feral ate some chicken pie and some chocolate roulade and Bianca toyed with a piece of quiche. Xav had another line of cocaine and another glass of Pimm’s and passed out on the sofa.
‘Shall we go upstairs?’ murmured Bianca, taking Feral’s hand, ‘Daddy and Mummy have gone to some dinner.’
Drunk with love and fruit cup, Feral had to cling on to the crimson cord to pull himself up the splendid oak staircase.
He would never have followed Bianca upstairs, or even turned up, if he hadn’t been boosted by the prospect of a trial with the Rovers on Monday. A contributory factor had also been that this week (earlier than expected) his court case had come up. The Brigadier had accompanied him to court and vouched for his good character. Luckily the magistrates were all fans of Buffers and had let him off, and because he was still just fifteen, none of this had been reported in the papers.
Inside Bianca’s bedroom, someone appeared to have shredded a rainbow, as clothes she’d rejected littered bed, chair and carpet. As she gathered them up, chucking them on a blue and white striped sofa, Feral admired the daffodil-yellow curtains and the pink and violet quilt on the little four-poster. On the powder-blue walls, framed photographs of Colombian beauty spots – sweeps of orchids, giant water lilies, the lake where the legendary El Dorado was hidden – rubbed shoulders with posters of Michael Owen and Justin Timberlake, which he wanted to tear down. When he was striker for Larkminster Rovers, he’d have his own posters.
‘This used to be the nicest spare room, but Daddy hates having people to stay so much, he let me have it.’
Feral leapt for the wardrobe in terror as he heard what he imagined as frantic hammering on the door, but it was only the hooves of Rupert’s horses being let out into the fields in the cool of the evening.
‘It’s like a zoo here,’ he grumbled, peering out of the window. ‘Graffi’d be in heaven with all these horses and pictures.’
‘Bring him tomorrow,’ begged Bianca.
Feral had had so many girls, taking what he wanted without compunction, but none had touched him like Bianca, nor been as beautiful. Her clear, pale, coffee-coloured complexion was flushed with rose, her slim, supple body quivering to be entwined with his. He longed to bury his lips in her belly button and progress downward, to caress the delectable curve of buttock emerging from her blue shorts, to feel against his thighs the fluttering caress of her sooty eyelashes. Grown-up things.
But this was a child’s room. On the shelves Harry Potter and Jacqueline Wilson fought for space with Barbie dolls, rows and rows of lipsticks and coloured nail polish. She was only thirteen – where the hell could it lead?
Above the bookcase hung a glass plate engraved with the words: ‘Welcome to Penscombe, Bianca Maud Campbell-Black. May 1990’.
‘I don’t remember arriving here, I was only three months old, but Xav does and there were flags and balloons all the way up the drive. Mummy and Daddy crossed the world to find us,’ Bianca added proudly. ‘They were sad they couldn’t have children but so pleased to have us. Our mother is the sweetest woman in the world.’
Feral edged towards her. ‘Makes two of you.’
Bianca shrugged. ‘Daddy’s tricky, I used to be jealous of how much he adored Xav, but now they fight all the time.’ She crossed the room, peering out at the empty terrace and the stars nearing their full brightness. ‘I’m really sorry, it doesn’t look as though Paris is coming.’
‘Don’t matter.’ On her return from the window, Feral reached out for her, realizing she was trembling as much as he was.
‘Why didn’t you ring me? I gave you my number on three pieces of paper.’
‘They ran in the washing machine. I tried once and got your Dad and bottled out. I watched your house across the valley for hours like a stalker.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise, promise.’
Grabbing her tiny waist, encountering goose flesh, he caressed the edges of her springy, surprisingly full breasts, then he bent his head to kiss her arched-back throat, then her closed eyelids, the tip of her tiny nose, behind each ear, breathing in the deliciously heady Arpège. Finally he kissed her soft, sweet, pink lips, which parted shyly, her darting tongue touching his, flickering then retreating like a dancer, drawing him into heaven.
As her little hands closed on his head, his hair felt so thick, vigorous and right, compared with the floppy silken tresses of other boys she had snogged, that she clung on. Their first, magic kiss seemed to last for ever.
‘Oh Bee-unca,’ murmured Feral, collapsing back on to the bed, ‘I have dreamt of you.’
‘Why, uncle, it isn’t a shame at all,’ giggled Bianca, collapsing beside him. ‘Xav’s passed out, Mrs Bodkin’s asleep and Mummy won’t be back for centuries.’
83
Mrs Axford and her fleet of waitresses were clearing away the main course of chicken supreme with tagliatelle and wild mushrooms when Rupert stalked in. He could have murdered a quadruple whisky, but couldn’t drink as he had to fly home. A ripple of excitement ran through the hall as mothers readjusted their cleavages and checked their reflections in little gold compacts. The only man in the room not in a dinner jacket (except Alex Bruce, who’d refused to wear one on principle), Rupert in a crumpled off-white suit and cornflower-blue shirt suddenly made everyone else look overdressed.
Hengist leapt to his feet. ‘You’ve made it, well done, you’re over here.’
Rupert had already clocked his wife looking utterly dejected between the appalling Alex Bruce and the just as appalling old queen Biffo Rudge. Serve her right for dragging him along to such a ghastly evening.
‘OK?’ he asked as he kissed her rigid cheek.
‘No one’s come to Xav’s party,’ whispered Taggie in anguish, ‘they’ve all gone to Jack Waterlane’s.’
‘Might teach him to be nicer to people,’ snapped Rupert.
Nemesis descended swiftly with a jangle of ethnic bracelets as a voice cried, ‘Rupert, Rupert, you’re here,’ and Poppet Bruce patted the chair beside her. ‘You’ve got Joan Johnson on your left, so we can enjoy an exchange of views about Xavier and Bianca. You know Alex and Biffo, of course, and Boffin’s parents Gordon and Susan Brooks, and Anthea Belvedon.’
‘Oh, Rupert and I are old friends,’ said Anthea
, delighted with an opportunity to captivate. She’d always thought Rupert was gorgeous and wasted on Taggie. How infuriating Dora, watching her every move, was waiting at table and had now rushed over and dumped a large piece of venison pâté in front of Rupert.
‘Poor thing, you must be starving. Toast’s on the way. How’s Penscombe Peterkin?’ That was Rupert’s star horse, much fancied in the St Leger.
‘Awesome, but we need rain, he loathes hard going.’
‘Then he wouldn’t like sitting between Joan and Poppet,’ whispered Dora.
Seeing amusement in Rupert’s eyes, Anthea said icily, ‘You’re supposed to be working, Dora. Had a good day’s horse racing, lots of winners?’ she called across the table.
‘None,’ said Rupert.
‘Are Meridian going to take over Venturer?’ asked Gordon Brooks.
‘Not if I can help it.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Rupert caught sight of Hengist, Ruth Walton and his friend Billy Lloyd-Foxe at the next table, laughing their heads off at his plight.
‘Trapped between Silly and Charybdis,’ sighed Hengist, ‘poor Rupert.’
As compensation, Rupert had a direct view of Mrs Walton, golden brown and replete in a beautiful Lindka Cierach dress in old rose silk, with a tiny pink cardigan knotted under her glorious boobs. She smiled lazily at Rupert, who smiled back, an exchange instantly registered by Randal Stancombe. At least he was at the head’s table and not Rupert, who made no effort and called him Randolph (if he deigned to recognize him).
Gordon Brooks was now discussing some chemical formula with Joan, so Rupert turned to Poppet. ‘How’s the new baby?’
‘Flourishing, flourishing. His siblings are so supportive. They relish developing their parenting skills. Parenting could be a good GCSE for Bianca.’
‘Bit premature, she’s only thirteen. Might qualify her for a free house, I suppose.’
‘Now you’re deliberately misunderstanding me.’ Poppet laughed merrily. ‘And we need to discuss Xav.’
