by Jilly Cooper
‘Rather like E.T.’ Meredith took the photograph gingerly as if it were a newborn baby.
‘What a little angel,’ said Oscar, who was the proud father of five.
‘Hello, Tab,’ shouted Griselda, as Tabitha half sheepishly, half defiantly, sidled into the canteen and dropped her bag on an empty table. ‘Come and look at this sweet little babba.’
‘Oh, no,’ Lucy muttered. But it was too late.
As Tab gazed at the photograph, tears trickled down her cheeks.
‘It’s adorable,’ she whispered. Next moment she had fled.
‘What is the matter with that girl today?’ grumbled Ogborne.
‘Someone’s left a bag,’ said Simone, who noticed everything.
Inside were only a tattered Dick Francis, a bottle of Evian, a Coutts Switch card and photos of Isa, Sharon and The Engineer.
‘It’s Tab’s,’ said Wolfie.
‘Not the sort to bother with a compact, lipstick or even a comb,’ said Chloe dismissively.
‘She doesn’t need to,’ Wolfie was amazed to hear himself saying.
Behind his smooth, broad, fast-browning back, Meredith and Baby exchanged glances.
‘Do you think he and Tab are going to be the next item?’ Griselda whispered excitedly to Simone, who was suddenly looking very sad.
Tab refused to answer her telephone but, seeing her dirty green Golf outside Magpie Cottage, Wolfie decided to return her bag in the tea-break. Through the car windows, he breathed in great wafts of wild garlic pestled by rain and the soapy smell of the hawthorns. In the lane up to Magpie Cottage, light brown puddles reflected hedgerows and overhanging trees like an album of sepia photographs.
Tab’s lawn was blue with speedwell. A few white irises were fighting a losing battle with the nettles round the egg-yolk-yellow front door. The reek of more wild garlic from the woods behind didn’t altogether disguise the stench of unemptied dustbins. No-one answered the bell, so Wolfie let himself in.
Tabitha, cuddling Sharon on the sofa, was wearing a pale green vest, a bikini bottom, dirty gym shoes and was watching racing on television with the sound turned down. Her face was deathly white, except for her reddened eyes, but nothing could take away the beauty of her long pale legs.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
Sharon, who had better manners, jumped down and brought Wolfie a small rug, revealing a pile of dust. Wolfie handed Tab her bag.
‘I brought this back.’
‘Thanks.’ Staggering to her feet, kicking an empty half-bottle of vodka under the sofa, antagonism fighting with loneliness in her eyes, Tab asked him if he’d like a cup of tea.
Wolfie followed her into the kitchen and nearly fainted.
‘I’m sorry.’ Tab smashed a cup, as she tried to get the kettle under the tap in a hopelessly overcrowded sink. ‘I only tidy up before Isa comes back.’
She had cut herself on the cup. Tugging off a piece of kitchen roll, Wolfie wrapped it round her finger, then started to load the contents of the sink, mostly glasses, into the dishwasher, which was empty except for a shoal of silver on the bottom.
‘How’s your marriage?’ he asked.
‘A bed of roses.’
Wolfie looked sceptical.
‘With the thorns sticking upwards,’ said Tab.
‘You could stop drinking.’
‘I don’t drink at all, I’ve given up.’
‘What’s this, then?’ Wolfie produced the Evian bottle out of her bag.
Tab brightened. ‘I’d forgotten that. I think we’re out of tea-bags.’ Fretfully she opened a cupboard and a lot of pasta packets descended on her head. ‘Oh, Christ, we’d better have a slug of that instead.’
But before she could grab the Evian bottle, Wolfie had emptied it into the sink.
‘Whydya want to waste perfectly good alcohol?’ screamed Tab. ‘Now what am I going to do?’
‘Go to AA.’
‘One is supposed to meet rather nice men there. I might find a new husband.’
‘I’ll take you along. There must be a Rutminster branch. I’ll check out the time of the next meeting.’
‘Just stop it,’ Tab flared up again.
Hearing a patter on the trees outside, Wolfie glanced across the valley at tassels of rain hanging from the clouds. They wouldn’t be shooting for a bit.
Why had she been so upset at lunchtime? he asked, knowing the answer, but feeling she needed to talk.
‘It reminded me of my own baby,’ muttered Tab. ‘Isa won’t discuss it — won’t really discuss anything. Then I got a letter from Mummy this morning, raving about my brother Marcus’s recital in Moscow. And how charming Alexei, Marcus’s lover, was being. I bet she drives him crackers, and the mean old cow’s locked her bedroom door so I can’t help myself to her stuff.’
Wolfie laughed but, noticing Tab shivering, unearthed a bottle of orange squash, poured an inch into a mug and switched on the kettle as she talked.
‘Even if everyone else thought I was a nightmare,’ Tab was saying, ‘I was always convinced I could whistle Daddy back. Marrying Isa was the easiest way to hurt him. Christ, I need a drink.’
Wolfie poured the boiling water on to the orange squash.
‘Have this instead.’
‘And another thing,’ Tab was pacing round the kitchen, ‘everyone cooing over the photograph of that baby reminded me how jealous and awful I was when my stepsister Perdita arrived, and even worse when Daddy and Taggie adopted Xav and Bianca. I tried to be good, but I wasn’t.’
As she hung her blonde head, she reminded Wolfie of the cowslips fading in the valley.
‘So did I,’ he said roughly. ‘I was Papa’s first child, and now I have seven stepbrothers and sisters, not to mention Little Cosmo, and a pack of illegits, and I wanted to kill each one when it arrived. I remember thinking, When will Papa ever have the tiniest bit of love or time left for me?’
‘You do make me feel better,’ sighed Tab. ‘If Mummy suddenly gets pregnant we can drown our sorrows.’
As she took a sip of orange squash listlessly, Wolfie noticed how thin her arms were. ‘When did you last eat?’
‘Dunno.’
The telephone rang.
‘You answer it.’ Tab led him back into the sitting room.
If it were Isa, it might make him sit up, but it was Bernard breathing fire.
‘Gotta go,’ said Wolfie, putting down the receiver, then blushing. ‘Would you like to have dinner tonight?’
‘Men don’t ask me out.’
For a second Wolfie thought Tab was going to cry.
‘You’re like a very rare and beautiful orchid,’ he stammered. ‘People feel they ought not to pick you.’
‘That’s nice.’ For a second Tab examined Wolfie’s dark blue eyes, matching his polo shirt, his square-jawed, slightly old-fashioned Action Man features, his reddish complexion turning brown. He would make a good, dependable friend.
‘I’d like to,’ she said.
‘I’ll take you to Shako’s.’
‘We’d never get in.’
‘Wanna bet? There are advantages in having a famous surname. We can take your dustbins to the tip on the way.’
‘Oh look! There’s Daddy.’
Tab lurched towards the television, turning up the sound and fingering her father’s face. Wolfie and he were both tall and blond but it was like comparing a cob with a thoroughbred.
Rupert had just paid seventy-five thousand to make a late entry in the Derby.
‘That’s a lot of money,’ John Oaksey was saying. ‘You must be sure Peppy Koala’ll do well.’
‘Very,’ said Rupert.
‘Oh, my God.’ Tabitha had turned as pale green as her vest. ‘If Peppy Koala wins, Isa will murder me.’
She rang at nine o’clock just as Wolfie was leaving Valhalla, her voice slurred.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t make it.’
‘Course you can, I’ve already left.’
The heatwave c
hugged on. Between filming, people played croquet and tennis, swam in Rannaldini’s beautiful pool, got lost in the maze and helped Granny knit squares of his patchwork quilt. The hawk-eyed Simone went round routing out sunbathers because a tan screwed up continuity. Rozzy watered dying plants, sewed thousands of seed pearls on an ivory satin dress for Hermione to wear at Philip II’s coronation and kept wonderfully cheerful.
Dr James Benson had been so kind to her, she told Lucy with passionate gratitude. He was such an attractive, sympathetic man. Whenever Rozzy had to disappear for treatment, Lucy covered up for her, explaining she’d had to rush home to deal with some domestic problems. Lucy spent much of her spare time surreptitiously making Rozzy a wig.
As befitting an international maestro, Rannaldini jetted in and out criticizing everything and everyone, slowing down filming, when it was already disastrously behind schedule, and sending costs spiralling. Rumours of the runaway budget were sweeping Europe and Hollywood. Tristan had already ploughed in five million and seen it vanish, mostly in Meredith’s decorating costs. It was as though Rannaldini had thrown petrol over the notes and set fire to them. But Tristan couldn’t stop to worry about money: finishing the film was all that mattered.
Alpheus, too, was making no attempt to keep down the budget. Having finally screwed a Jaguar out of Sexton, he now wanted a runaround for Cheryl.
‘He’s already giving her the runaround,’ observed Baby, as every day, wearing face masks, Alpheus and Pushy jogged bouncily off into the yellowing park.
Poor Cheryl spent a lot of time spying up trees and was mistaken for a member of the press by Mr Brimscombe, who removed her ladder to much squawking.
Hermione insisted on her limo to and from River House being on permanent standby. She also demanded unlimited champagne, and fresh flowers each day, both in her caravan and on her sunhat. She still thought Sexton was a nasty, common little man for curbing her expenses — everyone knew caviare, like seminal fluid, was good for the vocal cords.
Nor was Sexton setting a very good example. His worries about the budget had not deterred him from employing a ravishing new production secretary called Jessica, on the flimsy grounds that her telephone manner kept the backers sweet. Clearly she had not been hired for her typing. Copies of her first memo from Sexton — ‘Please will all the cast assemble for a publicity shit in the Great Hall at twelve moon’ — were already circulating the unit.
28
After a nice break with George, Flora was back to accompany Chloe in the Veil Song. For this Tristan had introduced a chorus of ladies-in-waiting, picked from the prettiest extras who would be seen poring over Tatler, and playing bridge and tennis. Eboli — or, rather, Chloe — would dazzle in tennis whites. Flora, as the Queen’s detective, would flirt and strum Chloe’s racquet like a mandolin.
Flora, terrified of acting, was further demoralized to discover her old enemy Serena Westwood, the record producer, had rolled up to see how filming was going. Even with temperatures in the nineties Serena, in an apple-green suit, looked as though she’d just come out of the fridge. She had also brought four-year-old Jessie, who Little Cosmo promptly pushed into the lily pond. ‘Uncle Roberto’ had regrettably displayed a similar lack of chivalry towards Jessie’s mother: he had dropped her after the recording and refused to answer any of her telephone calls.
Lunching in the canteen, Serena and Helen, who had no idea that Serena had had an affaire with Rannaldini, which she was frantic to re-ignite, were joined by Hermione in her big straw hat decorated with yellow roses. The three women were all old flames of Flora’s George and, not realizing Flora had wandered in, were loudly agreeing how attractively macho George was, and how anyone so rich and powerful could free himself in five minutes to marry Flora, if he really wanted to.
‘How old is George?’ mused Serena.
‘About a year younger than me,’ said Helen. ‘We used to laugh about his being my toy-boy.’
Hermione, as Rannaldini’s long-term mistress, detested any suggestion that Helen might be attractive to other men.
‘When were you fifty, dear?’ she enquired beadily. ‘Was it in ’94 or ’95?’
Helen choked on her spinach and bacon salad. ‘I am not forty-four yet, Hermione,’ she said furiously.
‘Aren’t you, dear?’ said Hermione blithely, then peering into Helen’s face. ‘Those chandeliers Meredith installed are quite lovely but not very flattering if you’re heavily lined. After the movie, I’d encourage Rannaldini to return to more subdued lighting.’
A hush had fallen on the canteen. Glancing round, Serena saw Chloe killing herself and Flora looking extremely unhappy, and hastily asked after George.
‘He’s working in Germany,’ mumbled Flora.
Serena raised eyebrows plucked thin as the new moon.
‘Is that wise?’
‘My Bobby’s in Australia,’ chipped in Hermione, ‘but we have a relationship of trust.’
Grabbing a Mars bar and a packet of crisps for Trevor, Flora retreated, chuntering, to Make Up to find Lucy also going spare. On the premise that she adored children, little Jessie had been dumped on her to stop her prattling during takes. Jessie, having up-ended Lucy’s make-up box, was now trying to rouse James from his siesta by tickling his long nose with a powder brush.
‘He’s going to take her hand off in a minute.’
‘Let Trevor do the honours,’ said Flora sourly. ‘He loathes children. Oh, hell, Rannaldini’s just rolled up in that flash orange car. He’ll be wearing white polo-necks soon and combing his hair in little tendrils over his forehead.’
Sleek, suntanned, satanic, Rannaldini promptly decided the Veil Song needed gingering up with a spot of sapphic necking between Flora and one of the ladies-in-waiting.
‘Who shall we choose?’ murmured Rannaldini. ‘Chloe, perhaps? Although maybe even randy little Tebaldo wouldn’t risk jumping on the King’s mistress.’
Running his eye lasciviously over the chorus, he noticed Pushy bobbing around in rose-red gingham, like an apple under a waterfall, and beckoned her over.
Even Lucy couldn’t calm an hysterical Flora as she applied designer stubble to her ashen cheeks. Flora took Foxie, her puppet fox and adored mascot, everywhere with her. But this time, she wailed, Foxie must stay in the caravan with James and Trevor, in case he became corrupted.
‘Foxie’s face must be turned to the wall.’
The light was ravishing. A rare downpour had brightened the late spring greenery. Unearthly white lilacs wafted forth heavenly scent. A froth of cow-parsley merged into the rose-tipped barley.
Then, as Chloe and Flora sang about the randy King trying to seduce a veiled beauty, Flora had to act out the scene with Pushy.
‘Just a quick snog.’ Tristan patted her padded grey linen shoulder.
I cannot go on, thought Flora after they had notched up twenty nightmarish takes, because she was groping Pushy with all the enthusiasm of one de-fleaing a rabid dog. Even the cuckoo mocked her from a nearby ash grove.
‘“Ah, weave your veils, fair maidens,”’ sang the chorus, as they swayed about desperate to get into shot.
Taking a sadistic pleasure in how much this must be hurting Serena, Helen and Hermione, Rannaldini kept strolling over to show Flora exactly how the pass should be made, which Pushy clearly adored, judging from the way she giggled and wriggled beneath his wandering hands. He would then seize Flora’s hands and slap them like a weatherman’s suns on various embarrassing parts of Pushy’s anatomy.
‘Maestro Rannaldini gives off enough electricity to make the generators superfluous,’ said a disapproving voice. ‘More cheerfully, Australia are two hundred and fifty for no wicket.’
It was Baby eating a large strawberry ice.
‘Remember the times I’ve had to snog Dame Hermione,’ he whispered to Flora. ‘Just shut your eyes and think of income.’
Then, when she didn’t laugh, he grabbed Foxie from Lucy’s caravan, and clasping his furry puppet paws together, kept
raising them above his head like a cheerleader.
‘It’s no good crying,’ hissed Rannaldini, as a tear trickled down Flora’s cheek.
The reek of decaying wild garlic, indistinguishable from the breath and armpits of the crew, was making her feel sick. How dare those three witches, Serena, Helen and Hermione, sit there despising her? How dare Wolfie fill in his lottery tickets?
Oh, darling George, prayed Flora, come to my rescue.
And suddenly Flora’s prayer was answered as George, unable to resist checking how shooting was going, ruined the first perfect take by noisily landing his helicopter in the next field.
‘We’ll go again,’ shouted Tristan.
Storming through the buttercups, terrible as an army with banners, George saw that devil incarnate Rannaldini and that smooth bastard Montigny, his peacock-blue shirt flapping against his lean, taut, dark gold body, and Wolfgang, blond as a Nordic god, and Baby, a laughing Cupid, and hundreds of smarmy Frogs leering over his darling Flora as she groped some ringleted tart.
But he misread the excitement on their faces as desire, when it was, in fact, delighted anticipation that someone might at last be going to take out Rannaldini. Either way George flipped. Bellowing at Tristan, sending cameras and crew flying, ordering Flora off the set, George grabbed Rannaldini by his white sharkskin lapels, threatening to bury him, until Clive and his pack of heavies dragged him off.
Analysing it afterwards, Flora wondered guiltily if it had been because George was looking so uncharacteristically red-faced and sweaty, and because his wool suit — it had been cold in Düsseldorf first thing — suddenly looked too tight for him, but irrationally she also flipped.
‘I can’t walk off in the middle of a take, it’s totally unprofessional,’ she screamed. ‘It’s only a grope, you bloody Victorian prude.’
‘Pack your stooff, we’re going,’ yelled back George.
‘We are not.’
Flanked by bodyguards, Rannaldini went on the offensive.
‘Didn’t you ’ear the lady?’
As George swung around the hatred so distorted his face that Flora thought he was going to kill Rannaldini.
