Rivals

26

On the second Monday in April, Ursula, who was still working for Declan, although he could ill afford her salary, was due to lunch with her old friend Joyce Madden.

‘See if you can find out Tony’s whereabouts next weekend,’ Rupert had asked her on the telephone beforehand.

Ursula, who loved conspiracy, came back from lunch and half a bottle of Sauternes bustling with excitement, and rang Rupert.

‘Joyce told me in the strictest confidence that Tony and Cameron are off on a naughty to Madrid this weekend. Cameron’s flying out on Friday afternoon. Evidently she wants some peace to polish Corinium’s application before it goes off to the IBA. Tony’s giving a party at The Falconry on Friday night because it’s Badminton weekend and a nice excuse to ask all his posh friends paid for by Corinium. Then he’s flying to Madrid on Saturday lunchtime. They’re staying in the same hotel and on Sunday night Cameron’s picking up some award for “Four Men went to Mow”. They’re both flying home on separate planes on Monday.’

‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant,’ said Rupert. ‘Could you bear at this stage not to mention this to Declan?’

Later in the day Rupert went to a reception to welcome some visiting Russian gymnasts, during which they gave a demonstration of their skills. Watching them go into incredibly graceful contortions on parallel bar and rug, Rupert wondered whether Cameron Cook was as supple and agile as that in bed. How the hell was he to get her on her own to launch his attack? Then inspiration struck. The moment the party was over he beetled out to his Government car and rang his friend the handsome Duke, who lived at Badminton.

‘Could you do me a great favour?’

‘Depends how great,’ said the Duke.

‘You’ve got the Princess staying next weekend, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you possibly ask Tony and Monica Baddingham to dinner on Saturday night?’

‘Do I have to? I don’t mind Monica, but he’s such a ghastly snob.’

‘I’ll knock half a grand off that Irish mare.’

‘Oh, all right then.’

‘I’m going away this weekend,’ Rupert told Gerald Middleton next morning as they went through the diary. ‘I bumped into the Secretary of State for Scotland last night, who reminded me that Hearts are playing Madrid on Saturday, and it seemed wrong that no one from our department was going.’

Gerald raised his eyebrow.

‘They’re the only British team in the semi-final,’ said Rupert blandly.

‘You’re meant to be chairing a meeting opposing the Swindon/Gloucester motorway in Gloucester on Friday night,’ said Gerald, who didn’t approve of dates being broken.

‘I know. Ring them and say I’m terribly sorry. They have my full support, but they’ll have to get someone else. And can you get me a couple of presents for the wives of the British Ambassador and the Spanish Minister for Sport?’

‘I hope you’re not overdoing things,’ said Gerald reprovingly. ‘You’ve lost an awful lot of weight recently. Don’t forget you’ve got a second appointment with Doctor Benson tomorrow.’

Gerald was very worried. Rupert had been edgy for the last month, which could at first be put down to his not drinking, but this weekend he’d been really bad-tempered and two trips to the doctor in three days seemed ominous, particularly when you had screwed around as much as Rupert.

Rupert, however, rolled up at The Priory in the highest spirits the following evening to find Declan still surrounded by tapes and Basil Baddingham sitting on the edge of his desk drinking a Bloody Mary and discussing tactics.

‘I was just telling Declan that I’ve found you a possible building in case Tony won’t let us buy the existing Corinium studios,’ said Bas. ‘Cotchester Hall’s coming on to the market in November. Why are you looking so bloody pleased with yourself?’

Rupert waved a piece of paper in front of them.

‘I had an AIDS test this week and I’m clear.’

‘Christ,’ said Bas, examining it. ‘Is there no justice in the world?’

‘How long did it take you to get the results?’ asked Declan.

‘Forty-eight hours,’ said Rupert, ‘but I had to bung them.’

‘I’d be far too frightened to go,’ said Bas.

‘I came to tell you,’ said Rupert, retrieving his piece of paper, ‘that I’m going away for the weekend.’

‘But we’ve got our first Venturer meeting on Sunday,’ protested Declan. ‘Everyone’s coming — even Harold White and Marti Gluckstein.’

‘Christ, he’s never been to the country in his life,’ said Rupert. Then, hurriedly remembering the cottage he was supposed to be buying for Marti, asked, ‘Where are you having it, at the Bar Sinister?’

‘Too close to Tone,’ said Bas. ‘Freddie’s earmarked a fantastic little pub in the middle of Salisbury Plain which no one knows and which has amazing food. The landlord just runs it for fun.’

Declan was still looking disapproving. ‘You ought to be there. Meetings are essential at this stage to establish some kind of esprit de corps. And we’ll all be tossing ideas around.’

‘You know I never have any,’ said Rupert.

‘I thought you were chairing the motorway meeting,’ said Bas.

‘Had to cancel it,’ said Rupert. ‘If I don’t spend more time in my constituency other than on Venturer business, they’re going to drop me.’

‘Burke only visited his constituency once in six years,’ said Declan.

Rupert laughed. ‘He wasn’t such a berk then.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Bas.

‘To Madrid to watch some soccer.’

‘Balls,’ said Bas. ‘You’re up to something.’

‘I need a break,’ said Rupert. ‘Man cannot live by bread alone; he needs crumpet.’

There is a moment every Spring when even the most dedicated workaholic is overwhelmed by restlessness and longs to cast clouts and wander hand in hand with a new love through the burgeoning countryside. Cameron Cook was no exception. The weather had suddenly turned so warm as she packed for Madrid on Friday morning that she was able to wander naked round her bedroom with the smell of newly mown grass drifting in through the wide-open windows. The apple trees at the bottom of her backyard were still bare, but the long grass round their gnarled grey trunks was filled with bright blue cillas, polyanthus and narcissi. Beyond the fence two mallard had nested in the rushes on the edge of the water meadows, and in the distance the willows, bowed over the river, were fringed with palest green.

Although Cameron had read that there was a heatwave in Madrid, it wouldn’t catch her on the hop. She had spent several hours a week over the last month on the sun bed, baking her body to that dark smooth gold that Tony loved. She was in great shape too; her coach at the gym last night had told her that, apart from a few professional athletes, her body was the most perfect and finely tuned he had ever handled. She admired it every time she passed the long mirror. Yet only yesterday Tony had shattered her confidence once again.

In order to discuss some change in the running order, she had barged into Sarah Stratton’s dressing-room yesterday afternoon and found her sharing a bottle of champagne with Tony. Sarah’s gold hair was prosaically in rollers and she was sitting in a dove-grey silk petticoat which showed off her cleavage and had got rucked up to show a strip of flesh between the top of her dove-grey silk French knickers and her pale grey stockings. She was actually perfectly decently dressed and Tony was leaning against the wall six feet away from her, but there was something about the way they stopped talking when Cameron came in. Normally Cameron would have bawled Sarah out for drinking before a programme, but she couldn’t with Tony countenancing it. Instead she had a row with Tony after work.

Tony was quite unrepentant.

‘Poor darling Sarah, she was a bit nervous about interviewing the head of the Chamber of Commerce, in case it influenced the franchise. After all they are an important pressure group. She was asking my advice on her best line of questioning. Her great strength,’ he went on, with a nasty smile, ‘is that she’s not afraid to show a man she’s vulnerable, and she is so deliciously feminine.’

‘And I’m not, I suppose?’

Tony shrugged and ruffled her spiky hair.

‘No one could call you feminine, darling.’

So this morning, in a rage, Cameron, who had never worn baby-doll nighties or anything underneath her clothes other than the briefest bikini pants, rushed out and spent a fortune on matching underwear and nightgowns and negligées.

In other more subtle ways her self-confidence had been eroded recently. Ironically, since Tony had made her Programme Controller, a role she’d coveted for so long, she’d become less secure, because she spent so much time in meetings and was doing less and less of the thing she was really good at — making programmes. All the prizes she was now winning were for work done last year. The new series of ‘Four Men went to Mow’, starting next week, would largely be produced, directed and re-written by other people. Having clawed her way to the top, she realized, as many men had realized before her, that the view from there wasn’t that great; in fact it was bloody scary. Finally, she was aware that by flexing her muscles in the office, in bed and in the gym, she was frightening guys off. In the last three years Patrick and Tony were the only ones who’d fallen in love with her, and Tony was showing every sign of getting bored.

Out on the water meadows and the cathedral close she could see office workers in shirt sleeves and cotton dresses, many of them probably from Corinium, sneaking out to early lunches, wandering arm in arm, carrying bottles to drink under the willows.

She glanced at the status symbols littered in ludicrously expensive confusion over her bed — the Charles Jourdan shoes, the Hermés scarves, the Filofax, the Rayban shades, the huge Rolex watch, the backless kingfisher-blue Jasper Conran for Sunday night’s presentation — what was the point of all these spiralist trappings if there was no one to share them with? Her mood of despair lasted all the way to Madrid.

There, however, the black limo that met her at the airport and the splendour of her magnificent suite in a hotel paid for by the Spanish television authorities, gradually cheered her up.

There were two bedrooms in the suite, each with two beds, a huge living-room stuffed with antiques and lit by huge chandeliers, and an enormous bathroom with soft and hard loo paper, a hair dryer and two beautiful white towelling dressing-gowns. There was a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice and a huge basket of fruit with pomegranates, persimmons and apples as big as grapefruit. Pink carnations floated in the finger bowls; there were flowers in every room to match the pale pink walls, and silver trays of chocolates. And this was just her suite. Tony’s suite next door was identical.

‘Hey diddly dee, a plutocrat’s life for me,’ sang Cameron, demolishing a tray of chocolates. Then she started worrying about spots. She’d better stop.

There were also telephones everywhere, even in the shower. Tony would be circulating at his drinks party now. It brought her up with a nasty jolt that no one else in the world would like to be called by her, except Patrick and she didn’t know where he was.

She strolled out on to the balcony and saw that there was a little garden restaurant below, with a summer house and floodlit lemon trees and a lawn with a fountain. The tables were filled with handsome, hawklike men with sleek black hair, and beautiful women in suits with very padded shoulders, who were all talking their heads off and having a wonderful time.

Going back into the living-room to attack a pomegranate, she noticed an etching of the Judgement of Paris on the wall. Juno and Athene, both fully dressed, were looking furious, as Venus, who was flashing an ankle and a bare boob, was awarded the apple. Venus looked just like Sarah Stratton. Cameron turned the picture to the wall. It must be tiredness that suddenly made her feel so unbelievably down again. She couldn’t be bothered with supper; taking two Mogadon, she crashed out.

She got up early, spent two hours working out camera angles for the first part of ‘Four Men went to Mow’, then spent the rest of the morning working on Corinium’s application. God it was turgid, longer than Gone with the Wind and infinitely less readable: all those Brownie points being notched up with promises to employ independent production companies and set up audio-visual workshops, or subsidize roving repertory companies and youth orchestras. There was also a lot of guff about grass-roots involvement and worker participation schemes. A few figures had been provided, but there was very little talk of profits.

Unable to face tinkering with it any more, Cameron lunched at the hotel, wandered round Madrid, which seemed to be packed with Scottish football supporters, then spent two hours restoring her sanity looking at the Goyas and El Grecos in the Prado. The telephone was ringing as she let herself into her suite. It was Joyce Madden.

‘Lord B’s terribly sorry.’ Cameron could tell Madden wasn’t. ‘He’s been trying to get you all afternoon. He’s sorry but he won’t be able to fly out for the awards. Something’s cropped up. The Duke’s asked him to dine at Badminton tonight. He says he can’t refuse, particularly in franchise year. Hullo, hullo. .’ but Cameron had hung up.

She was so angry she ate all the chocolates on the silver tray. How dare he, the bastard! Standing her up for a bloody dinner party. Bloody star-fucker.

Absolutely on cue there was a knock on the door and in came a valet bringing a huge bunch of roses.

‘Sorry I can’t make it, Darling,’ said the card. ‘Good luck tomorrow, All love, Tony.’

Cameron was so furious she went out and hurled the roses over the balcony, watching them whizz round and round until they landed on a mob of cheering fans.

‘Bastard, fucker, asshole,’ screamed Cameron at the top of her voice, then let out an enormous fart, which seemed the only way she could demonstrate her utter contempt for Tony.

‘Hush,’ drawled a voice, ‘you’ll frighten the pigeons.’

Cameron swung round and gave a gasp of appalled embarrassment.

For there, laughing his handsome head off on the next-door balcony, his face as brown as the glass of whisky in his hand, lounged Rupert.

‘What are you doing here?’ muttered Cameron.

‘Watching Hearts win a football match. Never thought I’d get in here, but they had a last-minute cancellation, a Mr Smith.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘What an extraordinary coincidence to find you here. Why are you looking so bad-tempered?’

‘I am bad-tempered. The TV doesn’t speak English.’

‘You expecting guests?’

‘Not any more.’

‘So that bouquet you were bombing the masses with was a peace offering from the Oily Baron?’

‘You’re so fucking perceptive,’ said Cameron sulkily. Then rage overcame pride. ‘Madden just called to say he can’t make it. He’s been summoned to dine at Badminton.’

‘Probably has,’ said Rupert. ‘I know there’s a dinner party there tonight and the Princess is going. Let’s have a drink. Your place or mine?’

‘Mine,’ said Cameron. ‘Give me half an hour while I take a bath and dress.’

‘I wouldn’t bother.’ said Rupert. ‘You’re overdressed as it is.’

It was all going too fast for her. What the hell was Rupert doing here? It could hardly be coincidence. He was the biggest rake in the world. No one emerged unscathed. So why was she feeling so wildly elated, washing her ears when she’d washed them that morning, and trimming her bush, and rubbing Fracas into her belly and inner thighs? As she slid into her new peach satin underwear it seemed to be caressing her in anticipation. For once she didn’t need blusher, the glow came from within. Finally, she put on a pale apricot tunic, very demure and clinging with all the buttons done up, but with the hemline six inches above the knee, making her legs seem endless.

All powerful men are attractive. Men who are powerful and kind are irresistible. For once Rupert seemed to have abandoned his flip cracks and his sexual innuendoes. He appeared to be really, really interested in her career, in Corinium’s programme plans and how they were approaching their application for the franchise. He was also incredibly well informed. She’d always thought he was only interested in sport and screwing.

Cameron was enjoying herself so much she didn’t notice she’d drunk almost an entire bottle of champagne and Rupert had hardly touched his glass of whisky. As the boat race is usually won in the first two minutes by one crew surging ahead and taking advantage of smoother water, so the conquest of Cameron was really achieved in that first hour when she was off-guard and feeling bruised and vulnerable because Tony had stood her up. As Rupert got up to fill her glass yet again, he pointed to the mound of paper on her desk.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Working on the final application.’

‘Anyone bidding against you?’ asked Rupert, idly.

‘Tony’s discovered a group of Bristol businessmen calling themselves Mid-West are having a go. They claim we’re too Cotchester-orientated. But I don’t figure they’re much cop.’

That’s three of us pitching, thought Rupert, reflecting that, as Cameron Cook had such wonderful legs, spying on her was no hardship at all.

‘Is Tony worried?’ he asked.

‘No way, but we can’t afford to be complacent. Southern lost their franchises in 1980, and they didn’t appear to have done anything wrong. The IBA have to make some changes to be seen to be doing their job properly.’

‘What about Declan? Tony lost a network slot there. How’s he going to replace him?’

‘I’m not sure. Declan cost Tony so much dough, and he really zapped him out. Tony can’t stand not being able to bully people. He’s much less uptight since Declan walked out, but he needs a replacement. I guess he’ll poach some top front-of-camera person in the next few weeks, just to distract people from Declan’s departure. The media are still sniffing round.’

‘Any idea who it might be?’ said Rupert.

‘No. Tony loves to surround himself in mystery.’

‘How are you enjoying being Programme Controller?’

Cameron shrugged. ‘Not as much as I expected. There’s so much hassle. Admin bores me rigid. Thinking up brilliant ideas, which other people promptly screw up. I had to sack four people last week. You ever done that?’

‘Frequently,’ said Rupert. Christ, he thought, as Cameron rabbited on, her mouth’s like a dumper. I could use her to unblock my drains.

‘You should get out,’ he said when she finally paused for breath. ‘Any of the network companies would snap you up.’

Cameron looked at the bulky application on the desk. ‘I’d like to see Corinium retain the franchise. I’ll probably look around in the Autumn. Although why I hang in with that bastard, I can’t think. Is it usual to be asked to dine with royalty at the last moment?’

‘No,’ said Rupert.

‘So Tony must have known about the dinner party for ages, and didn’t have the guts to tell me he wouldn’t be coming out.’

‘Probably didn’t want you to make other arrangements,’ said Rupert, emptying the bottle into her glass.

He was shrewd enough to realize that, having existed on a diet of Tony for three years, and having been flaunted at work and on the occasional jolly abroad but ruthlessly excluded from anything else, what Cameron was missing was a legitimate social life. He got to his feet.

‘Well, thanks for the drink. I’m going out to dinner.’

Cameron’s happiness drained away. ‘Goodbye,’ she said coldly, gazing at the plane trees in the square which were turning pink in the setting sun. ‘Well, go on then,’ she snapped a few seconds later.

‘Stop sulking,’ said Rupert. ‘You’re invited as well.’

‘To a restaurant?’

‘No, a private house.’

‘They won’t want me.’

‘Yes they will. Nicky and Mary. You’ll adore them. I’m just going to put on a tie.’

Next door he extracted a tape recorder the width and size of half a pencil from his top pocket, removed the tape, and put it in a secret drawer at the back of his brief case. There’d be too much noise at dinner to isolate anything interesting.

Nicky and Mary turned out to be the British Ambassador and his beautiful wife, who’d been a mad success in Madrid. They lived in a ravishing house a few miles from the centre of the town and the dinner party was just as grand as the one Tony and Monica were enjoying in England, but everyone was so friendly and easy-going and knew all about Cameron coming to Madrid to accept an award, that she instantly felt at home.

Mary, who had known Rupert at the height of his show-jumping career, was a good enough friend not to mind his totally upsetting the rigid protocol usually observed in diplomatic circles by bringing an extra guest, though it did mean a last-minute arrangement of the placement. At dinner Cameron sat between the Italian Ambassador and a Spanish duke, who both spoke perfect English. The gossip about royalty, politics and the jet set was sensational, but it was generally accepted that nothing would be passed on.

As Cameron ate the most delicious ravioli filled with scallop and lobster she had ever tasted, the Spanish Duke, who had slicked-back ebony hair, and hooded eyes, talked to her about the national character. ‘As a people we are obsessed with death, but indifferent to it as long as the right attitude is struck. Note the matador’s lack of concern for his own life. Life should be enjoyed now, not devoted to working for some distant fulfilment.’

Cameron looked at Rupert, who was seated on the other side of the table, laughing with his beautiful hostess.

Reading her thoughts, the Duke went on, ‘Rupert in some ways is very Spanish, very brave, very macho, very sad underneath.’

‘Sad?’ said Cameron, amazed. ‘Rupert?’

The Duke nodded. ‘You never saw him in the show ring? It was magnificent. All the grace and courage, and apparent effortlessness of the matador. It must have been terrible for him to give it up. I thought he would drink or womanize himself to death.’

‘He’s made a great success of Minister for Sport,’ said Cameron.

‘It would hurt his pride not to make a success of anything, but he is still not fulfilled, and if the Tories lose the election, as everyone thinks they will, he’ll be out of a job. He needs a great love in his life. I ‘ope you are she.’ He raised his glass to her.

‘What was his wife like?’

The Duke kissed his bunched-up fingers. ‘So beautiful, but quite wrong, nervy and not really interested in him, only what she thought he could become. You can’t change Rupert, only make him more secure.’

With the Cochinillo everyone turned to talk to the person on their left.

‘Rupert is very lucky,’ said the Italian Ambassador. ‘He has always had beautiful women, but seldom so clever. I believe you come to Rome next month for another prize?’

I’m having fun, thought Cameron in amazement. Tony’s virtually kept me in prison for three years. For the first time since New Year’s Eve with Patrick, I’m really having fun.

Rupert took her home just after midnight. They sat on opposite sides of the back of the embassy car and he made no attempt to touch her. In the darkness, she could see his profile, Spanish too with its thick slicked-back hair and forehead which ran down in a dead straight line to his nose. The only luxuriance in such a finely planed face were the wicked long blue eyes which she couldn’t see in the dark, and the fullness of the lower lip. I want him she thought, helplessly; I want to be the woman who brings him fulfilment.

To their left a lot of drunken Scottish football fans were splashing about in a fountain. Above them soared the statue of Christopher Columbus.

‘Can we get out and look at him?’ said Cameron. ‘After all, he did discover America.’

As they got out, Rupert’s hair gleamed in the moonlight.

‘Rupert,’ screamed one of the Scottish fans. ‘Look, it’s Rupert.’

‘No, thank you very much,’ said Rupert, pulling Cameron back into the car.

Furious with herself for wanting him so badly, Cameron spoke only in monosyllables all the way back to the hotel. Totally ignoring the two smiling footmen who leapt forward to turn the revolving door for her, she shot into the elevator. In such a small space, you wouldn’t have thought it possible to be so far apart, but Cameron felt her belly button touching her spine. Falling out of the elevator, she set out at a run across the patterned carpet, then, realizing she’d turned the wrong way, had to retrace her steps. What the hell was the matter with her, Controller of Programmes, mega-prizewinner, woman of substance, flapping around like a blackbird trapped in a fruit cage?

‘I must be pooped,’ she said in an over-bright voice. ‘Thank you so much,’ she mumbled outside her door, and, the moment Rupert had opened it for her, she shot inside.

Rupert made no attempt to retain her. ‘Good night,’ he said yawning. ‘Sleep well.’

Alone in her mammoth suite, Cameron nearly went into orbit with frustration. In the mirror she could see her eyes glittering feverishly, her breath coming in great gasps, her nipples sticking through the apricot dress like thimbles. She half expected to see a pulse jumping between her legs.

She was nearly thirty. Perhaps she was losing her touch and Rupert really didn’t want to sleep with her. She couldn’t stand it. Ripping off the dress and the temptress’s satin underwear he hadn’t even seen, she went into the bathroom and turned on the cold shower, letting the icy jet blast away all the Fracas and the body lotion and the gel, and, hopefully, the desire. She turned it on so hard that it was a few seconds before she realized the telephone was ringing. No doubt it was Tony, establishing his ascendancy, so she let it ring just to worry him. After two minutes she picked it up.

‘I don’t see why Christopher Columbus should have a monopoly,’ said a light clipped drawl. ‘I want to discover America too.’

Cameron leant against the wall, feeling giddy with relief.

‘Cameron.’

‘Yes?’

‘Who are we fooling?’

‘I don’t want to get hurt. Or get AIDS.’

‘You won’t,’ said Rupert triumphantly. ‘I had a test last week. I’m as clear as one of Valerie Jones’s picture windows. I’ve got a certificate to prove it.’

‘I’m amazed you haven’t run off millions of copies on Ministry for Sports’ stationery,’ said Cameron, ‘and circulated them to all interested parties.’

‘Don’t be bitchy. What about you?’

‘I had a medical for insurance last month.’

‘Tony must have bonked you since then. One could catch something far nastier than AIDS from him. Now am I going to have to swing across the balcony like Tarzan or are you going to let me in?’

Rupert had cleaned his teeth and was still wearing his blue striped shirt and suit trousers. Without the camouflage of his jacket, Cameron could see how divinely proportioned he was, hunky on the shoulders, and lean and streamlined everywhere else. The golden meanie, she thought. As he came towards her, she clutched the towel round her, looking very young and vulnerable with her hair flat and wet from the shower, like a guard dog who’s been uncharacteristically caught with its hackles down.

‘Everyone’s into prolonged courtship these days,’ she gabbled. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m easy.’

‘I don’t.’ Very gently Rupert took off the huge Rolex watch she’d forgotten to remove in the shower. ‘I just want to see if you’ve got a designer cunt.’

He stopped her reply by kissing her; the towel slid to the floor.

It was a very good thing, he reflected later, that he’d lost all that weight and been jogging for an hour every morning, or he’d never have coped with the pace. Cameron was like an electric eel, knew every sexual permutation in the book, could twist herself into any position, and ordered him around like a sergeant-major.

‘You are incredible,’ he murmured into the back of her head, ‘you’d make a matchstick feel like a cigar.’

‘I need a bit more stimulation on my clitoris,’ demanded Cameron.

Rupert obliged. ‘In England, we pronounce it clitter-is.’

‘It’s cly-toris, and please be gentle.’

After two hours’ fairly sustained screwing in both bedrooms, on the sofa in the drawing-room, under the shower, and admiring themselves in every mirror, they collapsed onto the carpet and Rupert came for the fourth and, from his point of view, final time.

‘I haven’t come yet,’ said Cameron in his ear.

Rupert was astounded. ‘What was wrong, for Christ’s sake?’

‘Nothing. It was the best first fuck I’ve ever had, I’m too uptight and too pissed, I guess.’

‘Well, I’m not jumping ship till you do, so you may as well relax and stop fighting.’

Wriggling downwards, he parted her sodden bush. ‘I am, after all, a member of the Cly-Tory Party,’ he said in muffled tones.