Rivals

15

Declan was having a row about money with Maud in the kitchen when the telephone rang.

‘Yes,’ he snapped.

‘This is Valerie Jones,’ said an ultra-refined, vaguely familiar voice.

‘Yes,’ said Declan, who was no wiser.

‘We met at Lady Monica’s buffet luncheon. I was wearing a cricket jumper.’

‘Oh yes,’ Declan twigged — the extremely silly mid-on.

‘Fred-Fred and I were wondering if you could come and dayne on December 7th, that’s tomorrow week, just a few close friends. Tony and Monica Baddingham. . ’

Declan had heard enough. He was sorry, he said, but they had a previous engagement.

Maud was absolutely furious. ‘We never go out,’ she stormed. ‘How dare you refuse for me? I might have wanted to go.’

‘It was that horrendous dwarf we met at the Baddinghams; bound to have been hell.’

‘There might have been other amusing people there. How can we ever meet anyone, if you turn down everything?’

Maud’s sulk lasted all day. Declan was trying to get to grips with the volatile, volcanic personality of John McEnroe, who was coming on the programme on Wednesday. Maud’s black mood permeated the whole house and totally sabotaged his concentration. At dusk, unable to bear it any longer, he went downstairs and apologized.

‘I’m sorry; it was selfish of me. I must work, but you go on your own. I hate it, but I’ve got to get used to it. Are you lonely?’ he went on as Maud clung to him. ‘D’you want to go back to London?’

She shook her head violently. ‘I just miss my friends. I was wondering if we could give a tiny party for Patrick’s birthday on New Year’s Eve.’

Declan’s heart sank. ‘Not really, not this Christmas. We simply can’t afford it.’

‘It’s his twenty-first,’ pleaded Maud. ‘He’s always had such lousy birthdays, having them so near Christmas. Just the tiniest party, half a dozen couples. Taggie can do the food; it’ll be good training for her. She’s not getting any response from those cards.’

Declan was about to say they still hadn’t paid for the Fulham Farewell when the telephone rang again. Taggie picked it up in the kitchen. Five minutes later she rushed, pink-faced with excitement, into the drawing-room.

‘The most p-p-prodigious —’ her word for the day — ‘thing has happened. Valerie Jones got one of my cards and she’s asked me to do her dinner party next Friday. Isn’t it prodigious?’

‘It is, indeed,’ said Declan, disentangling himself from Maud and hugging her.

‘She asked us,’ said Maud fretfully. ‘What are you going to cook for her that we won’t get?’

‘I’ve got to go over tomorrow and discuss menus,’ said Taggie.

Maud seized her chance. ‘Daddy’s agreed we can have a little party for Patrick on New Year’s Eve,’ said Maud, ignoring Declan’s look of horror, ‘so you can start thinking up some nice food for that.’

Taggie’s already euphoric face lit up even further: ‘What a prodigious idea.’

Upstairs in her turret bedroom, she clutched herself, pressing her boiling face against one of the thin, cool ecclesiastical windows. If Patrick was having a party, how could Patrick’s best friend not be there? She was going to see Ralphie again.

Cooking for Valerie’s dinner party was Taggie’s first big job, but her nerves were nothing to Valerie’s. Valerie was livid with Freddie for asking Rupert, who was coming down to Gloucestershire for a constituency meeting and to present the cup at the Cotchester — Bristol football Derby. Originally he was supposed to be bringing some French actress, but she’d got stuck on location in Scotland. So Valerie’d had to find a spare woman at the last moment. She settled for Cameron Cook who had just won an American award for a documentary about arranged marriages which she’d produced last Spring. Having talked to her briefly at Declan’s first programme, Valerie had no idea she was Tony’s mistress.

And now Valerie wouldn’t stop flapping round the kitchen tasting and criticizing everything Taggie was making — ‘A soupçon more cayenne in the cucumber sauce, Agatha —’ or fretting whether they should have cheese before pudding, or who should sit next to whom.

‘It says,’ she announced, poring over the etiquette book, ‘that the most important man should sit on my right.’

‘That’s me,’ said Freddie, roaring with laughter.

‘Don’t be silly, Fred-Fred,’ snapped Valerie, ‘and don’t pick.’

‘That fish pâté’s champion,’ said Freddie, who’d only been allowed a small salad at lunch.

‘Are you going to be all day with that dessert, Agatha?’ said Valerie, beadily looking at the huge ice cream and meringue castle, around which Taggie was curling whipped cream to simulate pounding waves. ‘The place is a fraightful mess.’

‘I promise I’ll clear up in time. Everything’s done but this.’

People were due at eight to eight-thirty to dine at nine. The pheasants, simmered with cranberries and ginger, had to go in at six forty-five.

‘You’ve still got the menus to write out, one for each end of the table,’ said Valerie. ‘It would be naice to have them in French.’

Taggie went pale. She couldn’t even spell them properly in English; she’d always had trouble with pheasant. She started to shake.

‘I’m going to check the rest of the house,’ said Valerie.

The lounge looked beautiful. She’d got florists in to provide two beautiful pink arrangements. The dining-room was also a symphony in pink, with a centrepiece of roses. Valerie adored pink; it was so feminine and went so well with her mauve velvet evening gown with the flowing skirt and the trumpet sleeves. She was glad they weren’t having soup — Freddie drank it so noisily. She’d worked out where everyone was going to sit. Now, standing at the end of the table, Valerie practised her commands:

‘Bring in the appetizer, please, Agatha. Take away the entrée, Agatha. Bring in the dessert.’

Then there was the tricky bit, catching all the women’s eyes. She glanced at alternate chairs. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’

What happened if that awful Rupert read the message wrong and followed her upstairs too? He was quite capable. For safety, she’d better say: ‘Shall we ladies go upstairs?’

‘We’ve got a right one ’ere,’ said Reg, the hired butler, who was already well stuck into the Mouton Cadet. ‘Yakking away to herself in the dining-room.’

‘What am I to do about this menu?’ said Taggie helplessly.

‘I’ll help you. I’m doing French for O-levels,’ said Sharon, the daughter of the house, who’d inherited her father’s bulk and his sweet nature. ‘I’m sure the French for pheasant is payson.’

Mrs Makepiece, Valerie’s daily, who’d come to help with the washing up, was just raking the shagpile in the lounge, flicking away non-existent dust when Valerie rushed in and realigned the Tatlers and Harpers, leaving the Gloucester and Avon Life specially open at a picture of herself at the NSPCC fashion show in Cheltenham. It was seven o’clock. She’d better take a bath and change.

In the kitchen, Taggie finished the pudding and put the pheasants into the oven. She must remember to add chopped dill to the prawn sauce. She wished Valerie hadn’t wanted things quite so elaborate. Everything was going swimmingly until Valerie came down dressed, and insisted Taggie put on a maid’s black dress and a white apron which came miles above her black-stockinged knees, and then made her put her hair up. Even Taggie baulked at the white maid’s cap.

‘I expect you to answer the door,’ said Valerie, ‘supervise everything in the kitchen and wait at table.’

‘You’re in the army now,’ sung Reg, the hired butler, now on his third bottle.

‘Will you come and watch “Dynasty” with me?’ Sharon asked Taggie.

‘You’re not watching rubbish like that, Sharon. You’re to hand round nibbles and make yourself pleasant,’ snapped Valerie, nearly jumping out of her skin, as music blared out from the speakers all over the house.

‘It’s Daddy’s signature tune,’ said Taggie in delight.

‘Turn that horrible din down, Fred-Fred,’ screamed Valerie.

‘Monica loves classical music,’ said Freddie.

‘Oh well, leave it on, then.’

The doorbell rang. ‘Go and answer it, Agatha. Put the men’s coats in the downstairs toilet, and the ladies’ coats upstairs in the master bedroom, and then direct them towards the lounge, where Mr Jones and I will receive them.’

It was Paul and Sarah Stratton. For a second Taggie and Sarah stared at each other, remembering their previous encounter on Rupert’s tennis court. Then, with a wicked little smile, Sarah took off her red velvet cloak. Her tan had gone, but a black taffeta dress, off-the-shoulders and with a bustle, showed off her beautiful, opulent figure. Never having seen Paul before, Taggie thought he looked dreadfully old and careworn to be married to such a glowing over-excited young girl.

The next arrival was Cameron Cook, who Taggie recognized from Declan’s description and tried not to hate. Declan had omitted to say she was so beautiful, and wonderfully dressed this evening in a dark-red smoking jacket and black tie with a wing collar, her hair sleeked back to show off her smooth white forehead and thick black brows. She looked straight through Taggie, and, having no coat to take, stalked past her into the drawing-room.

She was shortly followed by Tony and Monica. Tony’d been away at a conference, and for once, because he was cleaning up Corinium’s act, hadn’t taken Cameron with him. Now he was unflatteringly unpleased to see her. The big smile he switched on like a light bulb switched off as though there’d been a mega powercut. He always felt twitchy when Cameron and Monica were in the same room, and, even worse, Cameron, it seemed, had been invited for Rupert, his old rival. And there was Declan’s bloody signature tune blaring out. He was still extremely off Declan, but his hopes of having a good bitch about him this evening had been foiled by the presence of Declan’s stupid daughter.

‘This music is wonderful,’ exclaimed Monica.

‘Come and see it in action,’ said Freddie, bearing her off to witness the electronic wizardry in his study.

‘Have you got any Wagner?’ said Monica.

Next moment, to Valerie’s horror. Siegfried’s funeral march pounded deafeningly through the house.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ hissed Tony to Cameron.

‘I was asked,’ said Cameron coldly.

‘We must be very careful.’

‘Of course,’ said Cameron, holding her glass out to Reg for an instant refill. ‘We mustn’t jeopardize the franchise.’

Valerie was telling Paul about the house: ‘We replaced those dreary old mullioned windows with picture windows.’

‘How on earth did you get planning permission?’ said Paul in horror. ‘I thought this was a listed building.’

‘Grade 1,’ said Valerie smugly. ‘Fred-Fred has friends in high places.’

‘Please God, don’t let the sauce curdle,’ prayed Taggie in the kitchen as she added egg yolks and vinegar.

‘Door, love,’ said Reg, giving her a pinch on the bottom. ‘You look much the sexiest of the lot.’

It was Lizzie and James, who’d plainly had a row because of Lizzie’s catastrophic navigation. James loved making an entrance, but not arriving half an hour after his boss, who was looking bootfaced and standing as far away from Cameron as possible talking to Paul Stratton. James immediately gravitated towards Sarah and thought how nice it was to see Cameron out of her depth socially, and for once rather insecure.

Lizzie, who looked awful (she’d worked too late on her novel again and had not had time to wash her hair), had brought some bantams’ eggs for Freddie and Valerie, and was thrilled to see Taggie: ‘I know it’ll all be delicious; don’t worry.’

Valerie looked at her watch yet again: quarter past nine and no Rupert.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Freddie, filling up everyone’s glasses. ‘Nice to relax on a Friday.’

‘Freddie’s equipment is quite staggering,’ said Monica returning from the study.

Sarah caught Lizzie’s eye and giggled.

Mashing the potatoes in the kitchen, Taggie was going frantic. Everything would be ruined unless they ate soon.

‘Off you go,’ said Reg, as the doorbell rang.

Crimson with rage and embarrassment, bending her legs to make her maid’s dress look longer, Taggie answered the door. Grinning, Rupert walked into the hall. ‘Called any good fire engines lately?’

‘Would you like to take off your coat?’ said Taggie stiffly.

‘I’d much rather take off your dress,’ said Rupert. ‘You look like the object of all red-blooded men’s fantasies. I’m late. I’d better go and make my peace.’

Valerie hid her rage less well than Taggie: ‘Rupert, where have you been?’

Cameron choked on her champagne. Having never actually met Rupert and having been poisoned by Tony’s almost pathological jealousy, she’d expected him to just be another loud-mouthed, upper-class English shit. In the flesh he was glorious, and much more American-looking than English.

Having apologized to Valerie, Rupert turned to kiss Monica.

‘You haven’t met Cavendish Cook, have you, Rupert?’ said Monica.

‘How do you do, sir,’ said Rupert, admiring Cameron’s smoking jacket.

‘Cavendish works for Tony,’ went on Monica. ‘I gather you won another prize last week, Cavendish; jolly good show. I meant to watch the programme last summer, but unfortunately they were doing Meistersinger on BBC 2 the same night, and I was videoing that as well as watching it.’

James was in ecstasy — Cavendish Cook! There were some advantages in Monica’s addiction to BBC 2 after all.

Seeing Sharon sneaking through the hall towards the kitchen, Valerie gave an eldritch screech.

‘Sharon, Sharon, come in here and give Auntie Monica some nibbles. She keeps sloping off to watch “Dynasty”,’ she added to Monica. ‘I won’t have my kids watching soaps.’

‘Oh I love “Dynasty”,’ said Monica, smiling at Sharon. ‘Do tell me whether Blake and Crystal have made it up.’

Rupert walked over to James, who was still talking to Sarah.

‘That was a bloody good interview you did with the PM,’ he said. ‘And she thought you were marvellous. Asked me for your address so she could write to you.’

James, who’d always hated Rupert, melted faster than a snowball in the microwave. Then Rupert turned to Sarah, kissing her white shoulder.

‘Evening, my darling, that’s an incredibly sexy dress, I don’t know why you bother to wear any clothes at all. Bloody cold outside. I think it’s going to snow.’

‘I can never get home if it snows,’ grumbled James. ‘I’m thinking of installing a put-you-up in my office.’

Seeing Tony was still talking to Paul, Rupert said: ‘Tony Baddingham’s got a put-you-down in his office.’

Cameron laughed.

James, who was not going to be egged on to bitching about Tony in front of Cameron, said, ‘I always feel Tony is much maligned.’

‘I entirely agree,’ said Rupert, draining his whisky, ‘but not nearly enough.’

Sitting next to Rupert at dinner, Sarah found herself talking gibberish. The awful thing about adultery, she thought, was that one had to remember in public that one hadn’t heard things that one’s lover had told one in private.

‘I saw your “Behind Every Famous Man” interview with James,’ said Rupert, as he unfolded his napkin. ‘Very good. Were you nervous?’

‘Desperately,’ said Sarah, blushing.

As they had discussed the whole thing and how ghastly James had been at length in bed yesterday afternoon, and because, under the table, Rupert’s hand was already creeping up between the slit in her skirt, Sarah found it impossible not to giggle.

‘I think I’ve found you a horse,’ went on Rupert, giving her his blank, blue-eyed stare. Then he solemnly proceeded to describe it down to its last fetlock. As he’d also given her the same details yesterday, she found it even more difficult to keep a straight face, particularly as Paul, pretending to listen to Valerie, had ears on elastic trying to hear what they were saying.

Fortunately, distraction was provided by Taggie bringing round the fish mousse. Not remembering her left from her right, having served Monica, she moved backwards to serve James.

‘Clockwise,’ screeched Valerie.

There was another awful moment for Taggie when she saw Rupert and Lizzie having hysterics over the menu.

‘Gingered French peasant, cravat sauce and desert château,’ translated Rupert.

‘Our hostess’s French is slightly Stratford atte Bowe,’ whispered Lizzie.

‘What’s that?’ said Valerie sharply from the other end of the table.

For a second Lizzie caught Taggie’s anguished eye, and instantly identified the author of the menu: ‘Just saying how good your French is,’ she said to Valerie.

Valerie nodded smugly: ‘Crusty bread anyone?’ she cried waving the basket. ‘I will not have white bread in this house.’

‘I love it,’ said Freddie wistfully.

‘So do I,’ said Rupert. ‘I’ll send you a loaf for Christmas.’

Sitting opposite Tony, trying desperately not to catch his eye, Cameron longed to be able to sparkle and scintillate, but how could she with Paul Stratton on one side, watching his wife like a warder and James on the other talking about himself?

‘How’s your series on “Caring for the Elderly” getting on?’ she asked.

James brightened. ‘We think we’ve found a presenter at last — a Mrs Didbody. She’s a seventy-five-year-old coloured lady, a widow with a daughter of fifty. Which makes her a single parent,’ added James triumphantly.

‘A real franchise grabber,’ said Cameron, who was watching Rupert. He was easily the most attractive man she’d seen since she came to England, probably ever. It was a combination of elegance, deadpan arrogance, and a total inability to resist stirring things up. He was plainly having it off with Sarah Stratton.

‘What exactly are electronics?’ Monica was saying to Freddie in her piercing voice. ‘What exactly d’you do?’

Cameron saw a look of fury on Tony’s face, but Freddie seemed delighted by her interest.

‘I make everythink really: videos, televisions, synthesizers, compact disks, floppy disks, silicon chips.’

‘I always muddle up silicon with cellulite,’ said Monica.

‘With my computers,’ went on Freddie proudly, ‘scientists on the ground can place satellites in orbit. All satellites now carry my computers on board.’

‘Good heavens,’ said Monica. She could see now how useful Freddie’d be to Tony.

Tony was not enjoying himself. It was one of life’s ironies, he thought, that at dinners like this Monica always sat next to all the brilliant achieving men, who usually didn’t interest her at all (although she did seem to be having fun with Freddie), and he got stuck with their unachieving wives. Lizzie Vereker on his left looked a complete mess.

‘That was delicious,’ she said taking another piece of bread to wipe up the last vestiges of prawn sauce. ‘Did you make it?’ she asked Valerie slyly.

‘Yes,’ said Valerie, as Taggie was out of the room.

‘How’s Archie?’ Lizzie asked Tony.

‘Doing Business Studies for A-levels,’ said Tony with a grin, ‘which he thinks allows him to tell me exactly where I’m going wrong in running Corinium.’

The only time he’s nice, thought Lizzie, is when he talks about his children.

‘Sharon is doing The Dream for her O-levels,’ said Valerie, ringing a bell.

Taggie, who was chopping parsley for the courgettes, threw down the knife and ran into the dining-room, tugging down her horribly short dress.

‘Can you clear away the appetizer, Agatha,’ said Valerie.

Returning to the kitchen with the plates, Taggie found Reg the butler, very drunk now, carving the pheasants. She wished he wouldn’t cut quite such huge slices, there might not be enough to go round.

‘Tender as a woman’s kiss,’ said Reg, helping himself to a slice. ‘You’re another Mrs Beeton, Agatha.’

‘Oh, it does look yummy. Can I have a bit?’ said fat Sharon.

‘Have some later,’ said Taggie, as she poured the sauce over, and scattered parsley over the courgettes. ‘I must take it in.’

‘I’ll take round the courgettes,’ said Sharon, who wanted to gaze at Rupert.

Taggie took the pheasant round the right way this time. She noticed Rupert still had his hand inside Sarah’s slit skirt, the revolting man, but had to remove it to help himself to pheasant. Was she imagining it or was he deliberately rubbing his black elbow against her breast as he did so? When she took round the potatoes, she stood as far away as possible, arching over him like a street light. As she moved down the other side of the table, his wicked dissipated blue eyes seemed to follow her, making her even more hot and bothered. Reg was taking round the Mouton Cadet now, and had reached Valerie.

‘We had Sharon in 1972,’ she was telling Paul, ‘and we were married in, er. .’

‘Watch it,’ said Reg, giving her a great nudge.

Rupert grinned broadly. Sarah and Lizzie giggled.

Valerie, knowing one must behave with dignity at all times, ignored the innuendo. ‘That will be all, Reginald and Agatha. I’ll ring if anyone wants second helpings.’

‘We’re televising Midnight Mass at Cotchester Cathedral this year,’ said Tony as he put his knife and fork together. ‘I’m reading the first lesson. Are you reading the second?’ he asked Paul, knowing he wasn’t.

‘No,’ said Paul, looking very put out. ‘We’ll be away.’

‘I wonder who is reading it then,’ said Tony.

‘I am,’ said Rupert.

‘You said you were going skiing,’ said an unguarded Sarah. ‘I mean,’ she added, looking thoroughly flustered, ‘you said you’d be away at Christmas.’

There was an awkward pause.

‘This pheasant is wonderful,’ said Lizzie.

‘I’ll give you the recipe if you like,’ said Valerie. ‘Don’t pick your bones, Fred-Fred,’ she snapped, then stopped hastily as she saw that Rupert was picking his.

All the same, it was going wonderfully well, reflected Valerie later, as Taggie cleared away the cheese board. Everyone was talking like mad and seemed to enjoy the novelty of the men moving two places on. It was a good thing Rupert was sitting next to Cameron now, who’d seemed rather out of it earlier. In five minutes, Taggie would bring on the moated castle.

Turning to Cameron, Rupert thought how different she was to Sarah, as lean and hungry as Sarah was replete and voluptuous.

‘I’m dying to have a pee,’ he murmured, ‘just for an excuse to prowl round and see what a ghastly cock-up our hostess has made of a once-ravishing house. I used to come to children’s parties here.’

‘I can’t imagine you as a kid.’

‘I always cheated at doctors and nurses.’

Across the table, he noticed Sarah deliberately flirting with James, to make him jealous perhaps or to put Paul off the scent.

To Valerie’s disapproval Cameron got out a cigarette. Picking up a pink candle, Rupert lit it for her.

‘You hunt with the same pack as Tony?’ she asked.

‘Sometimes,’ said Rupert softly. ‘Sometimes after the same quarry.’

Looking round at his suddenly predatory, unsmiling face, she felt a quivering between her legs. Christ, she wanted him.

‘D’you want a lift home?’ he said.

‘No.’ She could have wept. ‘I brought my own car.’

‘The Lotus?’ said Rupert.

She nodded.

‘Nice Corinium perk,’ said Rupert, instantly returning to his former flippant mood. ‘I see James has finally got himself a Porsche. I’ll have to get rid of mine.’

‘I don’t know much about horses,’ murmured Cameron, frantic to hold his attention, ‘except my boss’s wife looks like one.’

‘You won’t oust her by bitching,’ said Rupert. Then, aware that Tony had suddenly stopped talking to Sarah and they were both listening, he said, ‘There are three things you need in a horse: balance, quality and courage. Same as a woman, really.’

‘I’d add intelligence,’ said Cameron.

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘Don’t you like achieving women?’

‘I don’t like ballbreakers.’

There was a chorus of oohs and aahs as Taggie came in with the moated ice cream castle. It was the last lap. Once she’d served this, and cleared away, she could relax.

‘What d’you do at Corinium?’ Rupert asked Cameron, as he idly watched Taggie moving round the table. She was bright pink in the face, her tongue clenched between her teeth in her efforts to hold the pudding steady. Any make-up had sweated off. Her dark hair was fighting the pins that held it up. But nothing could disguise the length of leg, or the long dark eyelashes, or the voluptuous swell of her breasts. She was going anti-clockwise again, but most people were too plastered to notice.

‘I produce Declan,’ said Cameron. ‘Why don’t you come on the programme?’

‘What?’ said Rupert, dragging his thoughts back from Taggie.

‘Come on the programme. I’m sure you and Declan would strike sparks off each other.’

‘I don’t want to,’ said Rupert flatly. ‘I don’t need that kind of wank, and you’d never hear any chat above the rattle of skeletons tumbling out of cupboards.’

Having just served Valerie, Taggie was moving slowly round towards him.

‘How d’you get on with Declan?’ he asked Cameron wickedly.

‘Utterly obnoxious,’ said Cameron. ‘He really pisses me off.’

Rupert watched Taggie to see if she’d rise.

‘Very pretty,’ he said, examining the pudding. ‘Feel I ought to get planning permission before I dig into this. Thanks, angel,’ he added, helping himself to a piece of battlement and a dollop of cream.

Ignoring him, Taggie moved round to his other side to serve Cameron.

‘How on earth does Declan’s wife put up with him?’ asked Cameron.

‘You’d better ask Taggie,’ said Rupert. ‘Maud’s her mother.’

Cameron paled visibly. Noticing Taggie for the first time, she tried to remember what ghastly things she’d said about Declan.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.’

In embarrassment she helped herself to too much pudding. The whole thing swayed. Rupert could smell Taggie’s body, could feel how hot, and nervous and trembling she was. Her skirt was so short. Almost without thinking, he put a leisurely hand between her thighs.

The next moment Taggie gave a shriek and dropped the very considerable remains of the pudding all over Cameron’s seven-hundred-pound smoking jacket and black satin trousers.

‘You stupid bitch,’ screamed Cameron, forgetting herself. ‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’

In tears Taggie fled to the kitchen.

Remembering one must behave with dignity at all times, Valerie swept an almost hysterical Cameron upstairs.

Lizzie turned on Rupert: ‘You bastard,’ she yelled. ‘Don’t you realize this was her first job? She’s been trying to break into catering for months. She cooked like an angel and you had to fuck it up.’

‘With looks like that,’ said Rupert, retrieving pieces of broken plate from the floor, ‘I wouldn’t have thought a career was that important.’

‘Don’t be so fucking insensitive. Didn’t you know poor darling Taggie’s dyslexic? Can’t you imagine how ghastly it is being the only unbright one in such a brilliant family?’

‘Oh Christ,’ said Rupert, truly appalled. ‘I simply didn’t know. It was entirely my fault, Freddie. I couldn’t resist goosing your cook, but really you shouldn’t have dressed her in such sexy clothes. I’d better go and apologize.’

‘Leave her bloody alone,’ said Lizzie, rushing out to the kitchen to comfort a sobbing Taggie, who was being ineffectually patted by a swaying Reg.

‘Go and get a cloth and a dustpan and brush, and clear up the mess,’ Lizzie told him, ‘and give everyone another drink.’

‘There there, duck.’ She hugged Taggie.

‘I’m so sorry. I wanted everything to be perfect for Mrs Jones,’ sobbed Taggie.

‘You mustn’t worry. It was the most marvellous food anyone’s had in years.’ Lizzie pulled off a piece of kitchen roll to dry Taggie’s eyes. ‘Rupert’s a bastard. He just can’t resist a beautiful girl.’

‘Cameron is changing into one of my ge-owns,’ said Valerie, sweeping in.

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Jones,’ said Taggie in a choked voice.

‘I was just telling her how brilliantly she cooked,’ said Lizzie.

Valerie was livid. She’d been shown up as not doing the cooking at all.

‘Pull yourself together, Agatha,’ she said sharply. ‘Go and collect the rest of the plates, and see if Lord Baddingham and Miss Cook would like some fresh fruit, as they didn’t get any dessert.’

‘Cameron got her just dessert,’ giggled Lizzie.

‘I can’t go back in there,’ said Taggie aghast.

‘You will,’ said Valerie, ‘if you want to work for me again.’

In the dining-room James was furious with Lizzie for making such a fuss over Declan’s idiot daughter, and Sarah was furious with Rupert for so openly groping Taggie. She’d tried to be laid back about her affair with him, but now all she could feel was a red-hot lava of jealousy pouring over her.

Tony, on the other hand, was delighted by the turn of events. ‘Child’s clearly over-emotional and unbalanced like her father,’ he kept saying.

‘Bloody good cook,’ said Freddie.

And when Taggie, very tear-stained and head hanging, brought in a bowl of peaches and grapes, Monica leaned out and squeezed her hand.

‘Delicious dinner, my dear. I’ve got a girl’s lunch next week. Perhaps you’d like to help me out with that? Nothing elaborate, very cosy. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

Gulping gratefully, Taggie said she’d love to.

Attention was then taken off her by the return of Cameron, wearing one of Valerie’s black ge-owns. It was perfectly frightful with a bow on the bum, and much too tight.

‘I prefer you as a bloke,’ said Rupert, wiping a blob of cream off her chair.

‘I’m desperately sorry,’ mumbled Taggie, as she passed Cameron, ‘I’ll pay for it.’

‘You couldn’t begin to,’ hissed Cameron.

‘Don’t be a bitch,’ said Rupert sharply. Putting a hand on Taggie’s arm, he said, ‘I’m really sorry, angel, it was all my fault.’

Taggie didn’t say anything, but seemed to shrink away.

James sidled up to Valerie.

‘One of my programmes is on in a minute. Would anyone mind if I slipped upstairs and watched it?’

‘Of course,’ said Valerie. ‘In fact I think, ladies, we’ll all go upstairs.’

Cameron got her own back by flatly refusing to go and staying to drink port with the men. Little good it did her. Tony got Freddie in a corner and persuaded him to have lunch immediately after Christmas to discuss his joining the Corinium Board, and, leaving Cameron with the frightful Paul, Rupert went off to the kitchen. Here he found Taggie loading the washing-up machine and making coffee.

‘Go away!’ she sobbed. ‘You’re the most m-m-m-malefic man I’ve ever met.’

‘’ere, ’ere,’ groaned Reg from underneath the kitchen table.