Rivals

48

After lunch next day, having scraped the frozen snow off the bird table and fed the birds for the fourth time, Declan had great difficulty getting out of his drive to visit Freddie. The gritters had been at work on the main roads, but the side lanes were murder. For once the beauty of the black and white landscape held no charms for him. He passed several cars, totally submerged, which must have been abandoned last night, and a farmer frantically trying to dig out some sheep before dusk. The sky was a dull mustard yellow, promising more snow. What would happen if none of the Venturer consortium could get up to London for the IBA meeting? Freddie’s drive had already been lavishly gritted.

‘I sent the Council a grittings telegram,’ he said with a huge laugh. ‘In fact I bunged them a few tenners so they made a detour past the ‘ouse.’

He poured Declan a large brandy and took him into his study. The house was blissfully warm after The Priory. Outside, Valerie’s garden had never looked more beautiful, totally hidden by snow, the gaudy colours wiped out, the vast rockery transformed into a mini-Andes, the garden gnomes and the plastic cherubs fluffed out into creatures of fable. Even the serried ranks of hybrid teas had become a white army hoisting up fistfuls of snow. If Valerie moved to the Arctic, reflected Declan, she might become an arbiter of garden taste, a Vita Sackville-North.

Freddie was in terrific spirits, brandishing the Telegraph with a piece on the forthcoming franchise struggle.

‘It says four incumbent companies are vulnerable and names Corinium as one of them. It also says: “Venturer, Corinium’s rival must be reckoned a considerable creative and management force.” Then it goes on to say: “Corinium are strongly challenged, and as a result their shares are selling at a substantial discount to assets.”’

‘I don’t understand what that means,’ said Declan.

‘Don’t matter. It’s good, believe me. We’re on our way, boy.’

‘What are we going to do about Cameron and Tony?’

Freddie chewed on his cigar. ‘I can’t believe she’s turned.’

‘I don’t want to, but we still haven’t discovered who leaked the names of the other moles to Tony.’

‘How was she in Ireland?’ asked Freddie.

‘Wonderful,’ said Declan wistfully.

‘Well then, my guess is that she’s dotty about Rupert, and when he started giving ‘er the runaround last night, Tony seized his chance and accosted her on the way back from the Ladies.’

Declan thought it was more complex. To bolster her chronic insecurity, Cameron had to have a man in her life, and after that last night in Galway, when she’d made such a definite play for him, he didn’t think she was Rupert’s exclusive property any more. He was also furious how much seeing her with Tony had upset him.

‘We’ve fought this fight absolutely straight up to now,’ said Freddie.

‘Except for Rupert seducing Cameron in the first place.’

‘But so much is at stake now,’ Freddie went on, ‘that we’d better put a private detective on Tony and get Rupert to slip a tiny bug into Cameron’s ’andbag.’

The snow was falling again, flakes tumbling down dark against the muddy yellow sky, then getting lost to view as they reached ground level.

‘Better not involve Rupert at this stage,’ said Declan. ‘If he realizes she’s been hobnobbing with Tony, he might get really rough and send her scuttling back to Tony for good. Anyway, she’s got a dozen bags. Rupert’s bound to bug the wrong one, and he’s off to Rome for three days tomorrow.’

‘OK,’ said Freddie, stubbing out his cigar and getting to his feet. ‘We’ll start wiv a private detective on Tony. I know an ace one. Leave it wiv me.’

Declan sensed that Freddie was anxious to get rid of him. ‘Where’s Valerie?’ he asked.

‘Visiting her sister in Cheam.’

‘Do you want to come over for supper?’

Freddie shook his head. ‘It’s not really a night to go out, thanks. I’ve got an ’ell of a lot of work to do. I keep forgetting I’m the Chief Executive of a public company.’

Committing adultery, Freddie reflected ruefully after Declan had gone, made one tell an ‘orrible lot of lies. James Vereker was spending the night in London at another Corinium dry run. Lizzie’s nanny was away for the weekend. He must remember to ring Valerie before he left, so she didn’t ring and find him not at home.

As he arrived at Lizzie’s, he felt glad that the steadily falling snow would cover any wheel tracks by morning. Lizzie was looking out for him, so no doorbells should wake the children.

She welcomed him in a primrose-yellow silk dressing-gown, rosy, warm and Floris-scented from the bath. The lights were low in the bedroom, but a fire burned merrily in the grate. Reflected tongues of flame lasciviously licked the ceiling. Making a mental note to throw away the evidence first thing in the morning, Lizzie said there was a bottle of Moëtt to be opened. Instead, Freddie opened her silk dressing-gown and felt his heart stop. Lizzie was wearing just black high heels and a black corset which pushed up her breasts, moulded her waist and stopped just above her damp blonde bush, except for four black suspenders holding up black fishnet stockings.

‘You are the loveliest fing I’ve ever seen,’ murmured Freddie. ‘Come live wiv me, and be my love. Leave it on,’ he added as Lizzie started unhooking.

Kneeling down, he removed her high heels and, kissing her instep, slowly kissed his way up until he could bury his face in the soft marshmallow of her thighs. Lizzie bent down to take off his jersey and shirt, feeling his stomach muscles tauten as she unbuckled his trouser belt. There was a huge mirror on the ceiling. James adored to watch his own reflection when he made love. Beside his lithe and taut bronzed beauty, Lizzie had always felt like a Beryl Cook lady. With Freddie she felt slim and beautiful and wanted to watch the whole thing.

‘I never rated swucksont-nurf before,’ said Freddie happily.

The snow had grown two inches on the window ledge. Freddie had grown several inches and diminished again. The logs had died in the grate before Lizzie leaned up on her elbow smoothing the red-gold curls on his chest.

‘I love you,’ she said softly, so as not to wake him.

Freddie opened an eye. ‘I meant it when I said come live wiv me and be my love,’ he said.

The following Tuesday morning James Vereker had a rare and intimate breakfast with his five-year-old daughter Eleanor. Usually James fled the din of little children in the morning and either had his muesli, prunes and herbal tea in bed or breakfasted at the Corinium canteen after a work-out in the gym. This week he and Lizzie were recording their second programme in the series on the way children enrich and restrict a marriage. James had already written his script which began: ‘As a caring parent, I. .’ and was now, in between reading the Guardian, doing a little research into fatherhood.

Sebastian, Ellie’s brother, who’d already got soaked making a snowman and nearly drowned testing the ice on the lake, was upstairs having his clothes changed by Jilly, the dependable boot of a nanny. Lizzie was working. Ellie was eating a boiled egg, dreamily dipping buttered toast soldiers into the yolk.

‘I hope you’ll watch “Round-Up” tonight,’ James said to her. ‘We’re visiting the zoo and filming a new polar bear cub, which is called James after me.’

‘I saw Freddie bare the other night,’ said Ellie dreamily.

‘I don’t think I know Freddie Bear,’ said James. ‘Do the BBC make it, or is it one of ours?’

‘I saw Freddie bare,’ repeated Ellie.

‘I heard you,’ said James patiently. ‘Is it a new cartoon?’

‘No — Freddie bare. He was on the bed with Mummy. They were struggling.’

James put down his spoon. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I wanted a drink of water, so I went into Mummy’s room. Freddie and Mummy were in bed. Freddie was bare, but Mummy was wearing long socks with her bottom hanging out.’

James went very red in the face.

‘Are you trying to tell me that Mummy was in bed with someone — er — someone who wasn’t Daddy?’

‘Yes,’ beamed Ellie. ‘Freddie with the big tummy. He’s nice, he brings us Smarties.’

‘You’re not to make up wicked fibs,’ said James furiously. ‘Jilly!’ he yelled for the dependable boot. ‘It’s time the children went to school.’

Lizzie had the effrontery to giggle when James confronted her.

‘It’s not funny,’ thundered James.

‘No, it isn’t. Oh dear, I hope the poor darling isn’t totally put off sex for life.’

‘Is that all you can say? What about me?’

‘Nothing would put you off sex for life,’ said Lizzie.

‘Stop being frivolous. I cannot believe you’d cheat on me with that dreadful, overweight, common little man.’

‘Freddie is a very nice man,’ said Lizzie.

‘He’s totally dishonourable and so are you.’

‘What about all your affairs?’

‘They’re finished,’ said James sanctimoniously. ‘And being in the media one is inevitably the target of certain attentions. Anyway, it’s different for men.’

‘Don’t blame Freddie then.’

‘Freddie,’ said James, working himself up into a fury, ‘is a member of the rival consortium. I feel utterly betrayed. It’s like fraternizing in the war.’

‘Well, I’m not having my head shaved,’ screamed Lizzie.

‘And what’s this about wearing long socks and your bottom hanging out?’

Lizzie giggled again. ‘It must have been my fishnet stockings and my corset.’

‘You dress up like a prostitute! Whatever for?’

‘To excite him,’ said Lizzie simply.

‘You never bothered to do that for me,’ said James indignantly.

Lizzie watched James catch sight of himself in the mirror. Smoothing his hair, he composed his features into an expression suitable for a wronged husband. He’s just the wrong husband, she thought.

‘I suppose you realize,’ said James nastily, ‘Freddie’s only been running after you to worm Corinium secrets out of you. I shall have to tell Tony of course. We have to report anything suspicious. He’ll be delighted to have something on Mr Squeaky Clean at last. I shan’t blame you. I’ll say being somewhat unsophisticated and unused to male attention, you fell for it.’

‘I’ve heard enough,’ said Lizzie furiously. ‘Freddie is the most honourable man I’ve ever met. After you junked Sarah, because Tony ordered you to clean up your marital act, she went screaming round to Rupert and told him everything.’

James winced.

‘Rupert was all set to give the story straight to the News of the World. It would have been a goody: “Corinium stud ordered to give up mistress by boss in order to present image of idyllic marriage to viewers and IBA.” There were plenty of Corinium people, including Sarah, who’d have enjoyed shopping you to the press. And the whole thing would have been a lovely black blot on Corinium’s escutcheon. But Freddie wouldn’t let Rupert do it. Unlike Tony, he feels that sort of thing is below the belt. He didn’t want mine, or the children’s names, dragged in; said it wasn’t fair having them branded as the offspring of an adulterer — and a pratt,’ she added as an afterthought.

‘You uncaring bitch,’ spluttered James.

‘And what is more,’ continued Lizzie coldly, ‘if you breathe a word about me and Freddie to anyone, I’m leaving you, and then your silly marriage programme’s going to look even sillier.’

The moment James left the house, Lizzie burst into tears. She was still crying when J illy the dependable boot got back from the school run. In the end Lizzie told her the whole story.

‘I’d no idea poor darling Ellie came into our bedroom that night.’

‘She’d have screamed if she’d been frightened,’ said Jilly comfortingly. ‘She was perfectly happy on the way to school on Monday; only interested in whether the lake would be frozen enough to slide on.’

She picked up a table which James had knocked over as he rushed from the room.

‘If it comes to a split, I’d like to stay with you. You’re the best boss I’ve ever had, and I love the kids. I don’t mind taking a cut in salary if things get hard. There, there, there’s no need to start crying again.’

Freddie was just going into a board meeting when Lizzie rang him.

‘I’ll come and get you.’

‘No, no,’ said Lizzie. ‘We’ve got to lie low. I don’t want to give Tony any ammunition at this stage. Venturer doesn’t need it, and think of Valerie, Sharon and Wayne. We’ll just have to play safe and not see each other till after 15th December.’

‘That’s over a fortnight,’ said Freddie aghast.

‘Well, we must try, anyway.’

Freddie was utterly distracted at the meeting. When an outside director congratulated him on the new billion-pound deal with the Japs, he looked blank. When another informed him that the ex-Chairman, General Walters, had died of a heart attack, Freddie said, ‘Triffic news. Keep up the good work!’

Outside in the beautifully kept company gardens, the sun, like a huge red Christmas bauble, was setting down the side of a large yew tree. Freddie shivered at the thought that the sun might be setting on his relationship with Lizzie. Then one of his secretaries summoned him from the meeting. There was a call, she said, on his very, very, very private line whose number was only known to Lizzie — and now the private detective. It was the latter ringing: he’d seen Tony and Cameron go into the Royal Garden Hotel early that afternoon. They’d spent ninety minutes in the Residents’ Lounge. He’d walked through twice and there’d been no one else there.

Freddie’s heart sank. He told the detective to keep on tailing Tony and immediately rang Declan, who was utterly shattered. They both decided, however, that if Cameron had spilled any more beans, it was too late to muzzle Tony now. If, as was just possible, she hadn’t, she was still too important a trump card with the IBA to be frightened off.

They decided to wait until Rupert returned from Rome tomorrow before tackling her.

Next morning, after a restless night, Declan woke up to more snow, and, not wishing to risk either car, walked down to the village shop to get the papers. Yesterday at The Priory, they’d had a power cut and frozen pipes. Today the washing machine and the tumble dryer were kaput, and it was warmer out than in. Three-foot icicles hung from the faulty gutters. The evergreens lining the drive were bent double by the snow. Every blade of grass edging the road was rimed with frost and burned with a white heat of its own.

The traffic was crawling so slowly that Declan didn’t bother to put the dogs on leads. Gertrude, a bit lame from the hard ground, still rushed into every cottage front garden and barked at the snowmen. Claudius, encountering his first snow this year, was wild with excitement, plunging into drifts, leaping to catch the snowballs Declan hurled for him. As Declan passed the white church, he sent up a prayer that Venturer might win. On such a beautiful day, one couldn’t fail to be optimistic. But as he walked into the village shop Mr Banks, who was a great newspaper reader, waved The Times.

‘Lord Baddingham’s been blowing his own trumpet again.’

Declan felt his throat go dry, his stomach churned.

‘Page five,’ went on Mr Banks, handing the paper to Declan.

‘Baddingham Set for Victory,’ said the headline. There was a very nice picture, taken from above and at a slight angle to reduce the heavy jowl. Tony was smiling and showing excellent teeth. The interview had been written by a well-known financial journalist.

As he was so confident of retaining the franchise, Tony had told him, he was only too happy to reveal Corinium’s plans for next year. They were very happy to welcome three new directors on to the Board, all production people, including Ailie Bristoe, who’d just spent three years in Hollywood and who would be Director of Programmes. They were also very excited about their new networked thirteen-part series on marriage which, Tony predicted, would turn James and Lizzie Vereker into big stars.

It was safe enough stuff. Declan sat down on the snow-covered window-ledge outside the shop, obscuring the postcard advertisements for lost gerbils, daily women and secondhand carrycots in the window.

Corinium, he read on, had also made arrangements with the Royal Shakespeare to televise special productions of whatever Shakespeare plays children in the area would be taking for O-and A-levels each year. Then they would offer the videos for sale. They’d also be filming Johnny Friedlander’s Hamlet, which had been postponed until the summer.

Shit, thought Declan in horror, those were both Cameron’s ideas. But most exciting of all, he read on, was that Corinium had signed up a new play by Stroud-born playwright, Dermot MacBride, with an option on the second. There followed a lot of guff about MacBride’s towering genius, and how happy Tony was to welcome this lost son of Gloucestershire back into the fold.

‘We paid a lot for MacBride,’ Tony had admitted.

But, as the financial journalist pointed out, the publicity value alone would be worth thousands of pounds to Corinium.

‘Please don’t obscure my advertisement,’ said a shrill voice. ‘I’ll never get a cleaner that way.’

Looking up, Declan discovered an old lady with a red nose glaring at him. Looking down he saw Gertrude and Claudius sitting at his feet, shivering miserably. Slipping and sliding, falling over twice, moaning with rage, Declan ran home to The Priory.

‘Look at fucking that!’ He brandished The Times under Maud’s nose. ‘Tony’s bought Dermot MacBride’s play. Cameron must have leaked it to him.’

‘I always thought she was untrustworthy,’ said Maud, who was plucking her eyebrows.

Declan’s hands were so cold it took him a long time to dial the number of Dermot MacBride’s agent.

‘We had a deal. What the fuck are you playing at?’

‘The contract hadn’t been signed,’ said the agent defensively. ‘My duty is to get the best deal for my authors. Tony offered three times as much as you.’

‘You could have come back to me. I’d have matched his offer.’

‘He said if I talked to you the deal was off.’

‘That’s the last deal I’ll ever do with you,’ roared Declan.

‘Never mind. I’m retiring at Christmas.’

Through the window, Declan watched the Priory robin furiously driving a rival robin away from the bird table.

‘How did Tony know about our deal?’

‘Dunno. He phoned about five yesterday. I spoke to MacBride. We exchanged contracts this morning. It’ll buy a few gold watches for me.’

The moment Declan put down the telephone, Freddie rang.

‘Have you seen the Cotchester News? There’s a bloody great picture of you an’ me, an’ Rupert, an’ Basil, an’ ’Enry — all in our red coats out huntin’ wiv big grins on our faces, wiv a caption: “Do you want these butchers to run your television station?”’

‘That’s libellous,’ howled Declan. ‘Have you seen The Times?’

‘Yes,’ said Freddie grimly. ‘Unfortunately that’s not.’

‘I’m not waiting for Rupert to get back,’ said Declan. ‘I’m going round to have it out with Cameron right now.’

But when he got to Penscombe, Mrs Bodkin told him Cameron had gone out and wasn’t expected back until evening. Guilt, thought Declan in a fury.

Cameron got home around eight that evening. She knew she shouldn’t have played truant, but, having brooded agonizingly about Rupert since the hunt ball, she felt she had to get out of the house. The heavy frost had made the white valley look so beautiful that morning. Why should I give up all this without a fight? she had thought. Rupert was an alpha male, he was exceptionally handsome, funny, very rich, clever in a totally different way to herself, and, now that she’d given him six months’ intensive training on pleasing a woman rather than automatically pleasing himself, spectacular in bed.

A great believer in positive action, she drove into Cheltenham to the branch headquarters of ‘Mind the Step’, a support group for step-parents and step-children, which had just opened. Cameron figured the subject would not only make a good programme, but might help her love Rupert’s children and understand her own tortured relationship with her mother and Mike. She had a long talk with the organizer, who then gave her several names and addresses. Driving round Gloucestershire, Cameron was amazed how many people welcomed her in. At their wits’ end, hemmed in by snow and coping with step-children at home for several days, they were only too happy to talk to someone.

Listening to the shrill invective, to half-hearted attempts at love, to occasional genuine affection, to grown women blaming their own step-mothers for lack of love, which prevented them in turn loving their own husbands and children, Cameron forgot her own miseries. She decided it would make a marvellous programme and was already pre-selecting the people to interview.

Like Declan on his way to the village shop that morning, she returned to Penscombe with a feeling of optimism. She found messages from Mrs Bodkin that Rupert had rung twice, Freddie three times and Declan four.

Going into the kitchen, she poured herself a large vodka and tonic and decided to scribble down some ideas for the ‘Step’ programme while it was still in her head. Searching for a biro on the kitchen shelf, she found the yellow sachet that had been included with the flowers that Tony had sent her after he beat her up, which you were supposed to add to the water to make the flowers last longer. Stabbed with sudden misery, she wished she could sprinkle the sachet on Rupert to prolong their relationship.

With a lurch of apprehension, she heard the dogs barking in the hall. Not Rupert, the welcome wasn’t clamorous enough, but it was obviously someone they knew. She went into the hall.

‘Declan!’ Her face lit up. ‘Sorry I didn’t call back. I’ve had a great idea for a programme.’

‘On treachery?’ asked Declan bleakly. ‘You’re an expert on that subject.’

‘What are you talking about? Do you want a drink?’

‘No thanks.’ He followed her into the drawing-room. ‘You seen The Times?’

‘Haven’t seen any papers. I’ve been playing hookey.’

Declan picked up The Times from the table. It took him ages to find the right page.

‘Here.’ He thrust it at her.

‘What a crazy photo of Tony,’ she said, settling down on the sofa for a good read. ‘They’ve made him look almost benign. Oh my God,’ she whispered a minute later, the laughter vanishing from her face. ‘I don’t believe it. How the fuck did he find out?’

‘You tell me.’

Something chilling in his tone made her look up in alarm. He had moved close and seemed to tower above her, his legs in the grey trousers rising like two trunks of beech trees, the massive shoulders blocking out the light, and, in his deathly pale face, the implacable ever-watchful eyes of the Inquisitor.

Cameron shivered. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘I saw you plotting with Tony on Friday night.’

‘He was waiting for me when I came out of the John, for Chrissake.’

‘So Freddie and I had him followed.’

Cameron’s eyes flickered.

‘You’re not going to tell me you and Tony were talking just about cucumber sandwiches for an hour and a half in the Royal Garden yesterday afternoon,’ said Declan.

Cameron suddenly looked the picture of guilt.

‘Sure I saw him. We had tea. I needed advice on, on —’ she flushed scarlet — ‘a personal matter.’

‘You gave him all our programme plans, just as last month you told him the names of all the moles. No doubt he’s got lots of other info about Venturer up his pinstriped sleeve for the meeting tomorrow.’

Cameron looked furious and terrified now — the hawk cornered by her captor about to strike.

‘I didn’t tell him anything.’

‘You bloody liar,’ thundered Declan. ‘How long have you been spying for him? Ever since the beginning, since Rupert got his legover in Madrid?’

‘How could I possibly spy for Tony?’ she screamed. ‘He beat me up, for Chrissake. This —’ she waved The Times piece at Declan — ‘sabotages everything we’ve worked for. Someone else leaked it.’

‘Why did you bother to go to London on the worst day of the winter?’ snarled Declan.

Blue, the lurcher, who’d been hovering nervously, jumped up on the sofa beside Cameron and, glaring at Declan, started to whine querulously at him. The other dogs licked their lips. Beaver slunk out of the room.

‘Blue believes me,’ pleaded Cameron. ‘Why the fuck should I come to Ireland, and work so hard on the programme plans, if I was spying for Tony? He’s given my old job to Ailie Bristoe.’

‘That’s a front.’

‘Bullshit,’ said Cameron furiously. ‘Is this some kind of a nightmare? Are you back at Corinium? Am I your guest tonight? Where’s the fucking thumbscrews and the rack, or do you use electrodes and knee-capping like the fucking IRA?’

Grabbing her arm, Declan yanked her to her feet.

‘No one else knew about Dermot MacBride. How much else have you told him?’

Ignoring the low growl from Blue, he started to shake her like a rat.

‘You arrogant, pig-headed Irish asshole,’ yelled Cameron. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’

Maddened because she’d let him down, violent because he felt guilty about wanting her so much, Declan slapped her very hard across the face. The next minute Blue leapt at him, burying his teeth in Declan’s arm.

‘Leave!’ screamed Cameron. ‘Leave, Blue.’ Grabbing the dog’s collar she tugged him off, then, almost carrying him back onto the sofa beside her, collapsed sobbing into his shaggy coat.

Pulling himself together, Declan lit two cigarettes, but, as he handed one to Cameron, Blue gave another ominous growl.

‘It’s OK, boy,’ gasped Cameron.

She wiped her eyes frantically on her sleeve, then took the lighted cigarette. Inhaling deeply, she felt she was drawing the fires of hell into her lungs. Blue struggled up on his front paws and licked her face.

‘My only friend,’ she said tonelessly. ‘You’d better have a tetanus jab,’ she added to Declan.

Massaging his arm, Declan retreated to a respectable distance in front of the empty fireplace.

‘OK, what was the personal problem? And why Tony?’

‘I know he’s a shit, but sometimes I figure he’s the only person in the world who truly cares for me.’

‘After beating you up?’

Cameron fingered her reddened cheek and shrugged. ‘Seems to be catching.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Cameron took a deep breath. ‘I saw Tony because Rupert doesn’t love me any more, and I can’t handle it.’

‘Just because he was bloody-minded at the ball,’ said Declan scornfully. ‘We’re all uptight at the moment.’

Cameron’s lip was trembling again. ‘Rupert doesn’t give a shit about the franchise. All he cares about is Taggie.’

‘Taggie?’ said Declan, flabbergasted. ‘My Taggie? Are you out of your mind?’

‘He saw her when we were in Ireland. In his bottom desk drawer, under the lining paper, he’s hidden pictures of her with his kids.’ Cameron gave a sob. ‘And he’s also kept some totally illiterate thank-you letter she sent him.’

Declan was utterly appalled.

‘Rupert and Taggie,’ he growled so furiously that Blue started rumbling back at him, like rival storms across a valley. ‘I’m not having that profligate bastard laying a finger on Taggie.’

‘But it’s OK for him to finger me,’ hissed Cameron, ‘I’m only a mole.’

Earlier that afternoon Rupert had flown in from Rome and gone straight to his office in Whitehall. Ignoring a long list of telephone messages, he signed his letters, gathered up the rest of the post, made sure he was paired for the Finance debate that evening and set out for Gloucestershire. Slumped in the corner of a first-class carriage with his hand round a large Bell’s, he looked at the snowy landscape turned electric blue in the twilight. Even in London it wasn’t thawing. It had been a wasted visit to Rome. He’d made no contribution to the International Olympics Conference. He hadn’t been able to sleep, or eat, or think straight, he was so haunted by the image of Taggie and Basil on the Bar Sinister balcony, or of Taggie’s gasping with pleasure in Basil’s expert embrace.

He tried to concentrate on the Standard, but beyond the fact that Corinium shares had unaccountably rocketed, and Patric Walker forecast a stormy day for him tomorrow, and warned Cancers, which was Taggie’s sign, to ignore all outside influences, he couldn’t take anything in. Sitting opposite, an enchanting blonde was eyeing him with discreet but definite interest. Glancing at her slim knees above very shiny black boots, Rupert reflected that by now, in the old days, he would have bought her a large vodka and tonic and been investigating the prospect of a quick bang at the Station Hotel, Cotchester — if not at Penscombe. What the hell was happening to him? His secretary in London had given him a carrier bag of Christmas cards to sign for constituents and party workers. Wearily he scribbled Rupert Campbell-Black in a few, but not love, not for anyone in the world except that feckless Taggie.

Unknown to him, Taggie was slumped, shivering and equally miserable, in a second-class carriage down the train. She’d been doing an early Christmas lunch for some overseas sales reps in Swindon which had seemed to go on for ever. She always found train journeys unnerving, having to read all the strange station names and the platform directions and the train times. Today by mistake she’d got on a train going back to London and had to get off and wait in quite inadequate clothing on Didcot station for half an hour.

As Declan had taken the new Mini, Maud had borrowed Taggie’s car to buy a new dress for her audition for A Doll’s House tomorrow. She’d promised to meet Taggie at Cotchester if Taggie rang and told her what train she was coming on. But when Taggie had tried to ring her at Didcot there was no answer.

Rupert thought he was dreaming when he saw Taggie ahead of him on the platform at Cotchester. The snakey curls had dropped; she was back to her old ponytail. As she walked up the steps of the bridge, he noticed a man behind admiring her long black-stockinged legs. Fucking letch; Rupert wanted to kill him. As she turned to hand in her ticket, under the overhead light bulb he noticed the black shadows under her eyes. Too much sex, he thought savagely.

No one was there to meet her; there were no taxis; the telephone box didn’t work. Peering out through the square glass panes, Taggie’s legs nearly gave way beneath her as she saw Rupert getting into his car. Rushing out into the street, she waved at him. There was a moment of blind hope as she thought he waved back as he stormed past spraying snow all over her, but he was only adjusting his driving mirror.

The only answer was to walk into Cotchester and find another telephone box, or perhaps ask Bas to run her home. Why the hell hadn’t she worn boots? She wasn’t thinking straight at the moment. The icicles glittered from the station roof as she went past. Ahead she could see the white spire of Cotchester cathedral glinting in the moonlight with all the coloured windows lit up by a service inside. The next minute a car skidded to a halt beside her.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Trying to find a telephone box to ring Mummy,’ she muttered through furiously chattering teeth. Her lips were a livid green, her nose bluey-brown in the orange street light.

‘Get in,’ said Rupert. Viciously he punched out the number he knew so well. He let the telephone ring for two minutes. There was no answer.

‘Mummy’s on the toot as usual,’ he said. ‘I’ll run you home.’

‘Oh please don’t bother.’

‘It’s not exactly out of my way,’ he said sarcastically.

The frozen snow twinkled like rhinestones in the moonlight. Once they’d got out of Cotchester on to the country lanes there was only room for single-line traffic between the huge polar drifts. They didn’t speak for a few miles, then, glancing sideways, Rupert saw the tears pouring down her face.

‘What the fuck’s the matter now?’

‘I thought we were friends.’

‘Then why did you go to bed with Bas?’

‘I didn’t. I meant to, because I was so miserable about you. I thought if I got some really good experience, you might fancy me a bit, but when it came to the crunch, I couldn’t do it. I love you too much.’

Rupert stopped the car, pulling it into a gateway.

‘I’m desperately sorry,’ sobbed Taggie, groping in her bag for a paper handkerchief. ‘I know it must be boring having every woman you meet in love with you. I didn’t want to be one of them. I’ve tried so hard to get over you. Work doesn’t help at all. It’s just that you’ve been so kind looking after us, sorting Mummy out the other night and getting all that food when I made an up-cock at Sarah Stratton’s dinner party, and giving me all those lovely things, and buying the wood for far more than it’s worth.’

‘Who told you that?’ said Rupert, appalled.

‘Ursula did. She saw Daddy’s bank statement. It was the only good thing in it. I’m sorry for being such a drip.’

Rupert raised clenched fists to his temples in a superhuman effort not to reach out for her. Taggie mistook the gesture for sheer horror at being propositioned by yet another girl.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For Christ’s sake stop apologizing.’ Rupert started speaking very slowly and deliberately as if he was addressing some loopy foreigner. ‘Look, it wouldn’t work. I’m terribly fond of you, Tag, but I’m far too old. Remember that hamburger bar manager who thought you were my daughter? I’ve never been faithful to anyone for more than a few weeks, and I’m not going to ruin your life by having a brief fling with you.’

‘My life’s ruined already,’ sobbed Taggie, who’d soaked one paper handkerchief and was desperately searching in her pockets for another.

‘You’ll get over me,’ said Rupert, handing her his.

‘Like that five-bar gate in front of us,’ said Taggie helplessly.

What made it worse was that the car got stuck and they had to push it out and Taggie slipped over and Rupert picked her up, then almost shoved her away, as though she was white hot, so desperate was his longing to take her in his arms.

The Priory was in darkness when they got back.

‘Tell your father I’ll ring him later,’ said Rupert, cannoning off a low wall in his haste to get away.

Across the valley he could see lights on in his house. He couldn’t face Cameron at the moment. If only he could dump on Billy, but it was Wednesday and Billy would be at the television centre presenting the sports programme. Mindlessly he drove back to Cotchester and parked outside Basil’s flat.

One look at Rupert’s set white face was enough. Bas poured him a large whisky.

‘Taggie said there wasn’t a legover situation.’

‘There wasn’t,’ said Bas. ‘Not through lack of trying on my part. She is utterly adorable, but she utterly adores someone else, you lucky sod.’

Rupert drained his whisky.

‘I’m not going to do anything about her.’

‘Why ever not?’ said Bas incredulously. ‘It’s on a plate.’

‘I’m too old, shopsoiled, evil. .’

‘Oh, don’t be so fucking self-indulgent. All these histrionics and tantrums are just the last frantic struggles of the lassooed bronco. You’ve never been in love before. It’s really very nice, if you stop fighting it. Everyone’s got to hang up their condom sometime. Taggie’d be worth it.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘OK,’ said Bas, filling up their glasses.

‘Am I interrupting you?’

‘Not excessively. I was just looking at the books. The Bar’s had a staggering year, thanks to all those malcontents from Corinium drowning their sorrows and plotting my big brother’s downfall. Won’t be so good next year, with you and Freddie and Declan running things. They’ll all be working so hard, they won’t have time for a lunch hour. D’you really think we’ll get it?’

‘’Course we will,’ said Rupert, thinking he really didn’t give a fuck any more.

Bas shook his head. ‘Tony gave a bloody good interview to The Times this morning. Came across as Mr Caring.’ He threw the paper in Rupert’s direction.

Rupert ignored it. ‘Did she really say she loved me?’

‘Yes, she did, which I find extraordinary, knowing you as I do.’

Rupert shook his head in bewilderment.

‘It’s never, never hit me like this before either. I’m still not going to do anything about it.’