Bloody old cow, thought Trixie as she handed round the pheasant casserole, but she was distracted to feel Seth’s warm hand caressing her thigh as she served him.
‘Why are you ignoring me?’
‘Because you wanted to sell Mrs Wilkinson,’ hissed Trixie.
‘I’m starving,’ Jude told Valent, as she opened up another roll. ‘We didn’t get tea at the races.’
‘Can you pass the booter?’ Valent asked Harvey-Holden.
‘Butter, Valent,’ corrected Bonny. ‘I’m making Valent persevere with my voice coach,’ she told the table.
‘So you said last time,’ snapped Corinna. ‘Is that why he sounds so much more patrician than you?’
‘Thunks.’ Leaning forward, Valent raised his glass to her.
‘He is rather Neanderthal,’ murmured Blanche, turning to Seth. ‘What does Bonny see in him?’
‘Success,’ said Seth.
Bonny was spitting, but decided not to react to Corinna’s patrician crack. She turned back to Harvey-Holden, who’d had two wins at Chepstow that afternoon and was boasting about his all-weather gallop which had cost over a million.
‘What a pity Mrs Wilkinson can’t come back to you,’ murmured Bonny. ‘Why did you let her go in the first place?’
Harvey-Holden’s hand was wrapped round a solid cut-glass tumbler. Next moment it had shattered, spilling water all over the table.
Everyone stopped talking. Harvey-Holden, whose face had gone absolutely dead, had cut himself. Jude jumped to her feet. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine,’ he snarled, wrapping a napkin round his hand. ‘For Christ’s sake, sit down.’
Romy flapped around, crying that it didn’t matter one bit that the glass was one of a family set, and mopping up the water and broken glass. Jude insisted on waddling off to the kitchen to find some plasters. Corinna turned to Valent.
‘At least I can see you now.’ She drained her glass.
‘How’s your tour gone?’ asked Valent.
‘Standing O’s in every city, but I hate living out of suitcases. Only good thing about staying in hotels, you end up with a lot of free bathcaps.’
‘If you cut your hair short, you wouldn’t need to wear a shower cap,’ cried Blanche reprovingly. ‘It would suit you, long hair’s so ageing. Why don’t you try Shumi in Britten Street?’
When Corinna didn’t answer, Blanche smiled across at Valent. ‘Have you remembered when we met?’
‘With Sampson Bancroft at Downing Street.’
‘Oh, you knew Sampy. Wasn’t he charismatic?’
‘I knew Sampy,’ said Corinna, Cleopatra-majestic, helping herself to more red. ‘He came backstage and asked me out to dinner. I would have gone but I’d only known Seth a few months, we were
playing the Marquise de Merteuil and Valmont and were still in the white heat stage, so I’m afraid poor Sampy got the brush-off. He was furious, I don’t think it had ever happened to him before. After that he was never off the telephone, pestering. He came to all my first nights.’
Trixie was laughing openly.
‘You deserve another roast potato,’ she whispered to Corinna, ‘well done.’
Blanche was incandescent with rage.
‘I don’t believe any of that, Sampy had no need to pester.’
‘Perhaps he wasn’t getting it at home or away,’ said Corinna rudely.
Jude had returned to the table. Although blood was seeping through the napkin round his hand, Harvey-Holden curtly refused any plasters. Valent, unable to get H-H’s murderous expression out of his mind, pushed Jude’s chair in for her and found her surprisingly congenial to talk to. She had followed his career and congratulated him on his Iron Man invention.
‘It changed my life, does all my ironing when H-H’s owners come to stay and my clothes, as you can imagine, are quite large.’ She laughed, so Valent did, adding, ‘I got to know your father well when we were on the Aid to Exports Board.’
Her mother, Jude then told him, had ended her days so happily in one of Valent’s care homes.
‘Your Bonny’s so lovely and doing so well. Must be wonderful for her having you as a partner, so she can be choosy about the roles she takes and doesn’t have to worry about money.’
‘You’ve done the same for H-H,’ said Valent.
‘I hope so.’ Jude looked very sad for a moment. ‘I hope he’ll be less likely to wander, if he feels secure and his horses are doing well and he can be choosy like Bonny about owners.’
‘That was a very extreme reaction to Bonny asking him about Mrs Wilkinson. Does he ever talk about her?’
For a second, there was real fear in Jude’s eyes.
‘No, please don’t mention it.’
‘Like Corinna’s hair,’ murmured Valent. ‘Who runs your family business now?’
Corinna, divided from Valent by Jude’s vast bulk, ignored by H-H, who clearly preferred listening to Bonny and Martin, irritated by Blanche, who, in revenge for Corinna’s Sampson-baiting, was deliberately chatting up Seth, helped herself to more red as she boiled up for a row.
Martin was telling Bonny about the War on Obesity.
‘You are just the right person to head up our campaign, I know we’d get huge support from the local and national press, and people would turn out in their thousands to run five miles with their favourite celebrity: Bonny Richards.’
Bonny looked delighted.
‘Why don’t you use Jude?’ she whispered. ‘Think of the publicity if we could reduce her by six stone.’
‘Brilliant, brilliant,’ Martin clapped his hands, ‘let’s do lunch. If we could get Jude slim, she’d be so much happier. Valent’s a bit podgy too. I need to talk to him. One of the ways we fundraise is to get employees to give to a charity straight from their gross salary. I know Valent’s got forty-five thousand employees.’
Martin had notes in his pocket for the presentation he would make later. Bonny was very lovely, her dress fallen open to reveal her shaven haven. Martin found it increasingly hard to concentrate.
‘Romy rings up celebs,’ he struggled on. ‘She has such a lovely speaking voice, they always give generously.’
Trixie was coming round with the wonderful white chocolate and toffee roulade.
‘That’s how you keep your lovely figure,’ he murmured, as Bonny took the tiniest helping.
‘Valent’s very oedipal,’ she grumbled. ‘Pauline was more of a
mother than a wife, he loves old ladies like your mother fussing over him.’
Across the table, as Jude told Corinna how much she’d loved
The Deep Blue Sea
, Valent got out his BlackBerry to check the football scores and helped himself to a huge dollop of pudding.
‘Valent, put some back,’ called out Bonny. ‘I despair, and put that thing away – it’s so disrespectful.’
There was a pause. Romy, getting jealous of the glazed look in Martin’s eyes, turned to Seth.
‘How’s Etta’s crush on you getting on?’ she asked playfully.
Her ‘lovely speaking voice’ then carried round the table as with peals of laughter, to Seth’s utter horror, she relayed that ‘Mother-in-Law thought Seth was after her. He hadn’t the heart to tell her when she rolled up, all tarted up, to meet him at Calcot Manor that Stefan the Pole had taken his adoring letter asking me out to lunch to the bungalow by mistake. He’d got the wrong Mrs Bancroft. Isn’t it hilarious?’
‘Mother was ever a fantasist,’ sighed Martin, ‘always reading poetry and romantic novels.’
‘Seth meant to ask
you
out?’ said Corinna softly, who with Bonny and Trixie was glaring at Seth.
‘We know where that puts us,’ snapped Bonny.
‘How priceless Etta thought you were after her,’ said Blanche, waving a pink-nailed finger at Seth. ‘I do hope you didn’t encourage her.’
‘Granny’s absolutely gorgeous,’ shouted Trixie, making everyone jump as she banged down the white chocolate pudding on the sideboard and stormed out.
Seth felt an absolute shit, particularly when Valent also exploded in fury: ‘Etta’s a luvly lady and still bluddy attractive.’
‘Course she is.’ Martin, who didn’t want to antagonize Valent before the presentation, laughed heartily. ‘She’s my mother after all.’
‘All men were deceivers ever,’ said Corinna. Angry, savage and drunk, she held out her glass for a refill. ‘You’re all the same, having to prove you can still pull and satisfy a young chick.’ Then, overwhelmed with venom because Valent hadn’t chatted her up, she turned on him. ‘If Pauline hadn’t died, you’d have dumped her for a younger model by now.’
There was a ghastly silence.
‘How dare you, how rude is that!’ Trixie came howling back into the dining room, gathering up the pudding as though she was going to ram it in Corinna’s face. ‘Valent loved Pauline, and
haven’t you enough sensitivity to realize it’s the anniversary of the Cotchester rail crash next week?’
‘Don’t be so impertinent,’ thundered Martin. ‘How dare you speak to Miss Waters like that.’
‘Because she’s a fucking bitch.’ Trixie gave a sob and ran out of the room.
‘Let’s have the cheese board,’ said Romy, taking it off the sideboard and plonking it on the table.
Having starved themselves and feeling Etta couldn’t have cooked the cheese, Blanche and Bonny cut themselves large slices.
‘Dolcelatte was Sampy’s favourite cheese.’ Blanche turned to Martin. ‘I feel your father is watching over me,’ she sighed, ‘but I think he would want me to be happy and move on.’
‘I know he would.’ Martin grasped her hand.
Romy smiled at a spitting Seth, who she’d dropped right in it.
‘I haven’t had a moment to chat to Valent,’ she cooed. Turning, she put a hand on Valent’s clenched fist. ‘I’m sorry Corinna was so hurtful. I know how sad you are, Valent, I’m hoping I can involve you in one of our charities. My goal is to find wealthy folk who are sad or unfulfilled and involve them in a project, perhaps a little African orphan, where they can see the results of their donations. I know we can make your life more meaningful.’
And line your own fucking pockets, thought Valent, looking bleakly across at Blanche, who was saying:
‘You’re so like your father, Martin.’
Valent wanted to throw up. Martin then pinged a glass and announced that with Ralph Harvey-Holden’s help he was approaching the delightful Clerk of the Course at Cheltenham, Simon Claisse, to stage a Sampson Bancroft Memorial race. ‘It would mean so much to Mother,’ he added to Valent. ‘Despite her unseemly crush on a certain person,’ he raised his glass roguishly to Seth, ‘there will never be anyone else for Mother but Father.’
‘Sampson was such a gentleman. Wellington, Cambridge,’ sighed Blanche, then, turning to Valent: ‘Tell me about yourself.’
Behind Blanche’s head, Trixie pulled a face at Valent and stuck her fingers down her throat.
Valent chucked aside his napkin and got to his feet.
‘Smashing nosh. You wouldn’t get better at the Ivy. I’ve got to go.’
‘But Martin’s about to make a presentation,’ wailed Romy.
‘I’m not going,’ said Bonny furiously, ‘I’m having far too good a time.’
Valent shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
‘I’ll see her home,’ chorused Seth and Martin.
Valent turned to Jude, who told him, ‘You’re lovely to sit next to. Normally men just talk about themselves at dinner parties.’
‘Give my best to your dad.’ Valent smiled briefly. ‘He’s a nice man.’
Seeing Trixie hovering in the doorway, a look of trepidation on her face, he crossed the room and kissed her.
‘Night, little one, thanks for sticking up for me. See you next time Wilkie races.’ Then, turning to an enraged Martin and Romy: ‘Thanks for supper.’
Then he turned to Corinna.
‘If you’d ever had the privilege of meeting my wife Pauline,’ he said softly, ‘you’d never have made such a filthy assumption,’ and he was gone.
In the hall he picked up one of the bottles of red Bonny had taken from his cellar for Romy and Martin and set out to see Etta, imagining how low she must feel to have been excluded. It was even colder, the bowed willows glittering with frost in the light of a yellow full moon. Odd that trees, when they needed warmth, shed their cover of leaves.
Leaving Romy and Martin’s barn, he appreciated for the first time how steep, slippery and treacherous was the path down to Etta’s bungalow, particularly when there was no moon and her torch might run out. Swearing as he put his foot down a rabbit hole, he vowed to do something about it.
It was a minute or two before Etta answered the door.
‘Who’s that?’ she cried in terror.
She was wearing an old green dressing gown. Gwenny, hanging on to the sash, tugged it open. Valent caught a glimpse of slightly sagging beasts, a little tummy and a small copse of pubic hair, before she tugged the dressing gown round her in embarrassment. ‘I’m so sorry, I thought you were a burglar.’
Aware how red and swollen her eyes were, Etta longed to slap on some foundation and comb her hair.
‘I’ve only popped in to ask after Mrs Wilkinson,’ Valent said as he handed her the bottle.
Priceless, who was stretched out on the sofa, flicked his tail but didn’t budge.
‘Lousy guard dog,’ said Valent.