Rivals

45

When Rupert didn’t take advantage of Cameron’s week away to ring her, Taggie wanted only to retreat into her turret room in utter despair. But, alas, Monica had asked her to do the food for the first night party for The Merry Widow next Saturday, and when she wasn’t cooking and freezing in both senses of the word (now the cold weather had set in, The Priory was absolutely arctic) Taggie was calming down or boosting the morale of an increasingly demanding and nervous Maud. Corinium were showing highlights of the first night and Maud was counting on Declan getting back from Ireland in time. She couldn’t face such an ordeal alone.

In addition the press were on the prowl for a story. Both Venturer and Corinium consortiums were turning out in force and dinner jackets for the first night. The newly sacked Charles Fairburn was playing Monica’s lover, Declan’s exquisite wife was making her stage comeback, and her leading man was the handsome Bas who was on opposing sides to his loathed brother Tony. With Declan due back from Ireland, with Rupert Campbell-Black’s live-in lover, who was also Tony’s ex, it was clear that there were endless possibilities for fireworks. ‘Cotchester’, wrote Nigel Dempster slyly, ‘are celebrating Guy Fawkes Day ten days late this year.’

The Merry Widow dress rehearsal on Friday afternoon was disastrous. The presence of the television crew on a dry run threw the entire cast. Tempers flared, lights dimmed too early, lines were fluffed or forgotten. The television director decided to put two cameras in the dress circle and in the two boxes on either side of the stage, so they wouldn’t have to take out any stall seats. The technicians stood around yawning, one sound man even fell asleep and snored loudly throughout the second act. James Vereker (Cotchester’s dusty answer to Humphrey Burton, according to Charles Fairburn) would be presenting the programme.

‘Just as well we bombed early,’ said Barton Sinclair, The Merry Widow’s director, but he seemed far from happy.

Over in County Galway Cameron and Declan were at the end of their last day’s filming. Declan, in a dark-blue fisherman’s jersey and jeans, his thick black hair lifting in the gentle west wind, was speaking to camera.

‘Hallow this spot,’ he began softly. ‘Here once stood the proud white Georgian house which belonged to Lady Gregory. Here for the last thirty years of his life, Yeats spent every summer and most of his winters. That’s a long time to put up with not the easiest of house guests —’ Declan smiled briefly — ‘even bearing in mind the number of servants large houses employed in those days. Here in this tranquil, ordered household, Yeats’s genius was able to blossom on and on like a rose right into the winter of his days. “I doubt,” said Yeats, “if I’d have done much with my life, but for Lady Gregory’s firmness and care.”’

‘Cut!’ shouted Cameron. ‘That was excellent. We’ll now do close-ups of the copper beech on which he carved his initials, and then straight down to the lake for the last shot. We’d better hurry. The sun’ll set in three-quarters of an hour.’

Twenty minutes later Declan was standing on the shore of the lake with a huge blood-red sun sinking gradually behind the coloured trees and casting a warm glow on his face.

‘While Yeats stayed at Coole Park,’ said Declan, bending down and picking up a pebble and sending it spinning across the still water, ‘he wrote his poetry in a room looking towards this lake, a time lovingly remembered in his poem “The Wild Swans at Coole”.’ He began to quote softly:

The trees are in their autumn beauty,

The woodland paths are dry,

Under the October twilight the water

Mirrors a still sky. .

Oh, that husky, heartbreakingly sexy voice, thought Cameron, feeling the hairs lifting yet again on the back of her neck. She could go to the stake for Declan at times like this. They’d been so lucky with the weather too. Enough leaves still hung from the trees to pretend it was October, but one hard frost would have stripped them in a day.

The crew, going out to get plastered at an end-of-shoot party, tried to persuade Declan and Cameron to join them, but because they were both tired and faced a late night at The Merry Widow tomorrow, they opted for a quiet dinner at the hotel. Afterwards they sat alone in the bar. Apple logs cracked merrily in the grate, giving off a sweet cider smell. Occasionally the flames flared, lighting up Declan’s face, as he sat immersed in the Galway Post, his whisky hardly touched.

Cameron was happy to watch him, memorizing every tiny black bristle of stubble, every deeply trenched line on the battered, craggy Western hero face. Without seeing the rushes, she knew they had made a great programme. Schemes were afoot for other programmes, but this first would always be the most exciting. Exploring and luxuriating in each other’s talent, she had learnt so much from him already. Despite the fact that all the crew were at times victims of his almost feudal caprice, he certainly inspired devotion. He allowed no insubordination. Only that morning he’d roared at the sound man for giving the hung-over PA a Bloody Mary for breakfast. He was irascible, with an extremely short fuse, and got so wrapped up in the work that he frequently upset people, but he was so mortified afterwards and so ready to apologize, that they always forgave him, not least because he had more charm than anyone Cameron had ever met.

Tomorrow, she thought, putting another log on the fire, she’d return to Rupert and reality, or was it unreality, with both of them following their separate careers in that huge house with nothing in common except the franchise, only coming together literally for sex in that huge pink and yellow silk-curtained four-poster.

She wanted to marry Rupert more than anything in the world, to tame and hold such a beautiful man, and have access to all that wealth and privilege. Rupert was her fix, but she was frightened how increasingly she was drawn to Declan. Together they could make an amazing team. He would understand her far better than Rupert, and she would look after him, and sort out his money problems far more efficiently than that parasitic, feckless, hopeless Maud. And what would happen to her and Rupert if they lost the franchise?

Declan looked up and smiled: ‘I’m neglecting you. How’s your drink?’

The barman had wandered off to talk to Mrs Rafferty about some cows, or it might be cars (Cameron had difficulty with the Irish pronunciation), and had left the whisky bottle and a jug of water on the table for them.

Cameron was even learning to like whisky without ice; she’d be saying dustbin and petrol soon.

As Declan filled her glass she said, ‘This time in a month, we’ll know if we’ve won. I was just wondering if there was life after franchise for me and Rupert.’

The dark brooding eyes bored into her. ‘I’d like to think there was. I’ve grown very fond of you both.’

‘Honest?’ stammered Cameron.

‘Honest. Under all that bitching and stridency, you’re as soft as thistledown. The only problem is that you may be too good at your job for Rupert. He needs a wife to come home to, not one to come home with.’

‘A little stately home maker,’ said Cameron bitterly.

‘Partly. He must be the dominant Tom. You’d compete with him, and I’m not sure he could handle you becoming a big star.’

Then, suddenly, out of the blue, never having mentioned it before, he asked: ‘Why were you so focking awful to Patrick?’

Cameron gasped. ‘I guess I liked him too much. I was scared. He was so attractive, so élitist, so certain, yet so magnificently unprepared for the knocks that life was bound one day to give him. And Tony was pathological about any competition. All I cared about then was getting to the top, so I could have the space and freedom I needed. There was no way a penniless student could be part of my future goals. I didn’t figure he had sufficient weight.’

‘Patrick has more weight than anyone,’ said Declan, ‘and he’s more together. I wish you’d read that play.’

‘And I knew how violently you disapproved of me and Patrick,’ said Cameron slyly.

‘Indeed I did,’ Declan grinned. ‘But I know you better now. He’d suit you better than Rupert. And he wouldn’t mess you about.’

But it’s you I want, thought Cameron, resisting a terrible urge to reach out and touch Declan’s hand, and then drag him up the black polished winding stairs to her hard narrow bed.

Wondering if she was crazy to jeopardize what had certainly been their most intimate conversation yet, she said: ‘Maud messes you about enough.’

‘Maud,’ said Declan, topping up his glass, ‘is a dramaholic. That’s why she devours novels, soap operas and newspapers like a junkie. Occasionally her heroine-addiction spreads to real life, and she has to live out one of these romantic plots. It never lasts very long.’

‘Has she got something going at the moment?’

Declan looked out of the window at the moon, peering through the bars of an elder tree like a prisoner. Then he drained half his whisky in one gulp.

‘Yes,’ he said harshly, ‘Bas.’

‘Doesn’t it crucify you?’

Declan shrugged. ‘Adultery isn’t the only kind of infidelity. I’m unfaithful to her each time I get locked into work. I can’t help myself any more than she can. And if you marry someone like Maud you accept the conditions that beautiful people are the blood royal of humanity and not governed by the same rules as ordinary mortals.’

‘She’s not that beautiful,’ protested Cameron, glancing at her own extremely satisfactory reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.

‘She is to me,’ said Declan simply.

Cameron wanted to shake him. ‘How can you be sure one of these men won’t come along one day and walk off with her altogether?’

‘She doesn’t go after other men for sex,’ said Declan arrogantly. ‘She knows she’ll never better what she has with me. She does it for excitement, flattery and the relief from the loneliness anyone who lives with a writer has to endure.’

Cameron got up to examine a horse brass, pulling her big black leather belt forward with her thumbs so he could appreciate the slenderness of her waist.

‘Have you ever cheated on her?’ she muttered into the flames.

‘No.’

‘Have you ever wanted to?’ she whispered to his reflection in the mirror.

‘Yes,’ said Declan simply. ‘All this week.’

Cameron stayed motionless by the fire until the heat from the flames became too strong. ‘Then it wasn’t just me?’

‘It’s going on location,’ said Declan flatly. ‘When you create something you both know is special, it seems natural to have some kind of consummation.’

‘One devoutly to be wished,’ said Cameron fiercely.

‘And ludicrously prevalent in television,’ said Declan. ‘It happens on shoots all the time.’

‘Not like this,’ pleaded Cameron. Turning, she went up to him. Idly he reached out and fingered the huge low-slung silver buckle of her belt.

‘It’d complicate things,’ he said roughly. ‘At a time we don’t need complications. Maud would disintegrate; I can’t afford to fall out with Rupert. I can’t afford anything at the moment.’

‘Don’t joke. It’s too important,’ hissed Cameron, moving her legs between his, pressing her groin forward against the palm of his hand. She felt Declan tremble.

‘We’d be so good together, let’s go upstairs now,’ she urged. They both jumped as the barman returned.

‘Not much wind tonight,’ he said blithely, ‘but what there is is blowing terrible hard.’

‘You look frozen,’ said Declan. ‘Sit down and have a drink.’

Fuck fuck fuck, or rather no fuck, Cameron screamed inwardly, as the barman collected a glass and sat down between them.

‘You’ll be being a bit of a writer, Declan,’ he said. ‘Did ye know there’s another of your kind living not ten minutes from here? Anglo-Irish, name’s MacBride.’

Declan froze, like a dog hearing a rabbit in the undergrowth. ‘Dermot MacBride, he lives here?’

‘Came in the other night. Said he’d just finished a play, but he didn’t think anyone’d be interested. Thought they’d all forgotten him.’

‘Him!’ said Declan incredulously. ‘Do you forget Ibsen or Miller? Have you got his address?’

‘I’ve his number,’ said the barman. ‘He wanted some manure for his garden.’

‘Name’s familiar,’ said Cameron.

‘The angriest of all the angry young men,’ said Declan, ‘and easily the most unpleasant, and the most talented. He made a bomb from his first play, then the second was so venomous and obscene no one would touch it. He took umbrage and vowed never to write another word. Christ, it’s like a new novel from Salinger. Give me the number,’ he said to the barman, ‘I’m going to ring him.’

‘But it’s half past eleven,’ protested Cameron.

Declan was back, ecstatic, ten minutes later. ‘He’d gone to Dublin. I rang him there. I’m going to see him at eleven tomorrow morning.’

‘Cutting it a bit fine,’ said Cameron. ‘The flight’s at one. Maud,’ she added bitterly, ‘would totally disintegrate if you missed it.’

‘I’ll see him alone,’ said Declan. ‘He’s not keen on women. I’ll keep a taxi waiting and meet you at the airport.’

He put his hand on her head, briefly stroking her hair: ‘We’d better go to bed, we’ve got an early start in the morning.’

As Saturday wore on, Maud was increasingly in need of Declan. To fill in time, she went to the hairdressers, and even had a manicure, but her hand shook so much the manicurist had trouble getting the polish on. She also bought good luck cards for the rest of the cast, and some champagne in case by some miracle anyone came backstage to see her afterwards.

Arriving at the theatre, she gave a gasp of terror at the huge lights on metal stands trained on the main entrance, ready to film the arriving celebrities, and huge cables running from these and from the cameras inside the theatre to a variety of OB vans. She felt even sicker at the sight of a make-up caravan, a mobile dressing-room for James, and a double-decker catering bus for the technicians.

Even though the town hall was less than 300 yards from the Corinium Television building, union rules required all these facilities.

Going into her dressing-room, Maud gasped again, but this time with delight, because she’d never seen so many flowers — from the family, and Rupert and Cameron, and the Verekers, and the Joneses and the Baddinghams, and so many of her friends in London. There were also scores of good luck cards, and a telex from darling Patrick in Brisbane. But so much good will made her feel even more nervous. What happened if she let them all down?

She looked at her watch: five o’clock. She needed twenty minutes alone with the script to absorb the notes Barton had given her yesterday. Then her make-up would take an hour, by which time Declan would be here, and he could do up her dress and her jewellery and they could have a quiet hour together. But, as she tried to concentrate on the script, she was interrupted by the arrival of more and more flowers, and by Monica popping in to see if she were all right, and by Bas who’d brought her a fluffy stuffed black cat which miaowed good luck when you pressed it. Maud was enchanted.

‘And we’ve got time to rehearse “Love Unspoken” just once more,’ she said.

‘Let’s rehearse it lying down,’ said Bas, who’d just come back from hunting and was feeling randy.

‘Not before a performance,’ said Maud, shocked. ‘I couldn’t possibly concentrate.’

‘Well I’m not risking you going down on me with chattering teeth,’ said Bas. ‘So I’d better buzz off back to the Bar Sinister and pay the wages. We’re doing a roaring pre-theatre trade.’

As Taggie carried great saucepans of chicken Marengo in through the stage door, she could see people gathering in the foyer hoping for returns. The advance publicity and the possibility of the audience appearing on television had made it a total sell-out.

As she fell over cables and bits of scenery, she could hear, behind every dressing-room door, the cast warming up like the record department at Harrods. She felt simply terrified for her mother. Once she’d unloaded the stuff, there wasn’t much to do. The puddings were cold. The salads only needed dressing and she had just to put the chicken, the mashed potato and the garlic bread in the oven to heat up.

If the ovens were turned on low during the interval, everything would be ready, in case anyone was frightfully hungry, by the final curtain. Thank goodness Monica had provided plenty of people to help serve and wash up. As she came in with the last chocolate meringue cake, the telephone was ringing by the stage door.

‘Maud O’Hara,’ shouted the doorman.

‘My mother,’ said Taggie. ‘Shall I take it and see if it’s urgent?’

It was.

‘Maud,’ said the all-too-familiar, seductive rasp.

‘No, it’s Taggie.’

‘Your fucking father’s missed the plane.’

‘Oh, my God, are you sure?’

‘’Course I bloody am, I was on it,’ snapped Cameron. ‘The next one doesn’t land until nine forty-five. I’ve arranged for a car to pick him up and bring him straight to the theatre.’

‘But M-Mummy’ll die. She’s been going through our leaking roof with nerves all week.’

‘Tranq’ her till we get there,’ said Cameron. ‘I’ve got to change, and then Rupert and I’ll be over.’

With a sinking heart, Taggie knocked on Maud’s door.

‘Declan,’ said a low excited voice.

Maud, wearing only a sliding emerald-green towel now, sat at the brilliantly lit mirror, different eyeshadows littering the shelf in front of her, as though a paintbox had been upended. She had just spent forty minutes on her eyes. Huge, gold-green, hypnotic, impossibly seductive, like two separate works of art, they seemed almost too dominant for the heart-shaped, delicately flushed face.

‘You look beautiful,’ said Taggie nervously. ‘And what wonderful flowers.’

‘Where’s Daddy?’ demanded Maud. ‘He should have been here five minutes ago. Is he parking the car?’

Taggie took a deep breath, and was almost asphyxiated by the heady smell of fuchsias and jasmine. ‘I’m sorry, he missed the plane,’ she said. Then, as Maud opened her mouth to scream, ‘But he’ll be here for the end of the last act and the party. He didn’t mean to.’

Going into hysterical sobs, Maud put her hands up to her eyes and deliberately smeared the make-up all over her face, neck and shoulders. Taggie winced. It was like seeing the Mona Lisa slashed with a razor.

‘I don’t believe it,’ sobbed Maud. ‘He can’t do this to me. The one night I need him. He did it on purpose because he was jealous. He doesn’t like me having the limelight.’ Her voice rose to a screech. ‘I can’t go on, I can’t.’

Hearing the din, Monica rushed in wearing only her petticoat with one eye made up, demanding what was the matter.

‘You must go on,’ she said in a shocked voice. ‘Don’t be so jolly wet and selfish. They’re all coming to see you.’

‘He did it on purpose,’ screamed Maud, rocking backwards and forwards. ‘If it had been an act of God like an engine fault or fog I could have forgiven him, or even a crash.’

‘Oh don’t say that,’ said Taggie, turning pale.

‘And you can shut up,’ yelled Maud. ‘You and your father are just the same, never think of anything but your bloody work.’

‘That’s jolly unfair,’ said Monica.

There was something almost obscene about Maud’s daubed screaming face and neck, and her bare shoulders and breasts as the towel slipped downwards.

Monica yanked it up round her, tucking it in, as Barton burst in. But neither Monica’s rallying exhortations, nor Barton’s hair-tearing, nor Charles’s jokes could shift Maud. Finally they all lost their tempers and shouted at her like some operatic trio admonishing a wrong-doer, and Cameron, who’d heard a great deal too much in praise of Maud recently, was only too happy to make it a quartet when she arrived.

‘For Chrissake, Maud,’ she screeched, ‘you can’t let the cast and the audience down. Don’t be so fucking unprofessional.’

‘I’m not going on,’ Maud screamed back. ‘And why did Declan miss that plane?’

‘He went to see. .’ began Cameron, then realizing she couldn’t mention Dermot MacBride in front of Monica who might tell Tony, ‘to see someone very important about the franchise.’

It was like a spark from the fire landing in a box of matches. Maud went berserk.

‘All he thinks about is his fucking franchise,’ she screamed, her face a shuddering grotesque coloured pulp of rage and misery, and, turning on her flowers, she started to tear them apart, pulling off the heads and then the petals and throwing them on the floor.

‘Shouldn’t we slap her face?’ said Cameron longingly.

‘Stop it, Maud,’ said Monica angrily. ‘That’s wanton and destructive.’

‘I don’t care,’ screamed Maud, ripping apart poor Taggie’s yellow roses.

In despair, Taggie went out into the passage and ran slap into Rupert, who was no doubt about to add his own particularly vicious brand of invective. Behind him members of the cast and the Corinium television crew were peering curiously out of doors and round corners.

‘Where is she?’ said Rupert grimly.

‘Oh, please. They’re all shouting at her. They don’t realize how frightened she is.’

Rupert paused, weighing up the options, then, like a wand fleetingly restoring her happiness, he touched Taggie’s cheek with his finger: ‘Go and get a large brandy, angel. I’ll sort her out. Shut up the lot of you,’ he yelled, as he went into the dressing-room.

‘We’ll have to play the understudy,’ said Barton despairingly, ‘even though she’s fifteen stone and about to draw her pension.’

The floor was entirely carpeted with petals now.

‘She won’t go on,’ said Cameron contemptuously.

‘I’m not surprised with you lot yelling at her,’ said Rupert. ‘Get out, everyone.’ And he slammed the door on them.

Rupert sat down on the bed and pulling Maud into his arms, gently stroking the silken shoulders, letting her cry, until gradually the sobbing and shuddering ceased.

‘There,’ said Rupert encouragingly. ‘There’s a brave girl.’

‘He wanted me to go to Ireland with them and play Maud Gonne,’ said Maud in a choked voice.

‘I know.’ Rupert went on stroking her.

‘I wanted to do it so badly, but I funked it. I didn’t want to fail again, particularly in front of Cameron. I’m sure she’s having an affair with Declan. I kept imagining them meeting secretly after a day’s shooting, and discussing how terrible I’d been.’

‘You’re a dick,’ said Rupert gently.

‘Declan fell in love with me the first time he saw me acting. I wanted him to fall in love with me all over again tonight.’

‘Declan adores you. He’s never looked at anyone else.’

‘Then why isn’t he here?’ Maud’s voice grew shrill again. For a second Rupert thought he’d lost her.

‘He went to see Dermot MacBride.’

‘The Dermot MacBride?’

Rupert nodded. ‘He’s written a new play. Declan felt if Venturer could tell the IBA we’d bought an option, it would really give us the edge.’

Maud quivered with rage. ‘I loathe the franchise,’ she said tonelessly.

‘Declan’s only obsessed with it because he sees it as the one way he’ll get you out of your financial mess. You don’t want to sell The Priory, do you?’

Maud shook her head violently: ‘Could it come to that?’

‘It almost has,’ said Rupert.

There was a knock on the door.

‘I don’t want to see anyone,’ said Maud hysterically.

Rupert wrapped the towel round her again. But it was only Taggie with an enormous brandy for Maud and an equally huge whisky for Rupert.

‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ He took them from her. ‘Now beat it.’

Maud took such a huge gulp that she choked. Rupert didn’t tell her he suspected Declan had deliberately missed the plane because his nerve had failed and he couldn’t bear seeing Maud humiliated. Nor did he say that the press were howling like jackals outside and that, if she didn’t go on, the publicity, with both her and Declan letting everyone down, would be devastating for Venturer.

‘I’m disappointed,’ he said idly. ‘I heard you practising at The Priory so often. I wanted to hear it for real, and see the others make absolute tits of themselves by comparison. Look, you’ve had a shock, why not get back into your jersey and jeans and finish that brandy.’

There was a long, long pause.

‘Better not,’ said Maud shakily, putting down her glass, ‘or I’ll start forgetting my words. I’d do better with a drop of oil to get me through all those skylarking bits.’

Rupert said nothing, but, reaching for the huge blue tin of cleansing cream, he took off the lid, gouged out a white blob and very slowly began to smear it over Maud’s face, blurring away the ravages.

‘How did you know to use that?’

‘I’ve watched enough actresses take their make-up off in my time.’

‘Most of mine’s come off on you,’ said Maud, suddenly contrite, as she noticed his hopelessly streaked evening shirt.

‘Treat it as war paint,’ said Rupert. ‘Later I’ll be doing battle with Tony.’

Docile as a child, Maud let him remove all the smeared make-up: ‘You won’t leave me?’

‘I’ll stay with you the entire evening, but I have to admit making up your face is beyond even my skills.’

Outside, Barton looked at his watch for the hundredth time. It was ten past seven. The press were howling for a decision. The understudy was already changed. If only he could make an announcement that the performance was starting late at least it would keep the audience happy.

‘If she weren’t going on,’ said Cameron, ‘Rupert would have come and told us.’

‘He was always good at boxing difficult horses,’ said Bas, who had changed into his stage clothes and was now raring to go in and comfort Maud.

As her door opened, everyone surged forward. Coming out, Rupert put a finger to his lips, then made a thumbs up sign: ‘Has anyone got any eyedrops?’

‘Mine are by appointment to the Queen Mother,’ said Monica, diving into her dressing-room to get them. ‘They jolly well make your eyes sparkle.’