‘You’ve still got the menus to write out, one for each end of the table,’ said Valerie. ‘It would be naice to have them in French.’
Taggie went pale. She couldn’t even spell them properly in English; she’d always had trouble with pheasant. She started to shake.
‘I’m going to check the rest of the house,’ said Valerie.
The lounge looked beautiful. She’d got florists in to provide two beautiful pink arrangements. The dining-room was also a symphony in pink, with a centrepiece of roses. Valerie adored pink; it was so feminine and went so well with her mauve velvet evening gown with the flowing skirt and the trumpet sleeves. She was glad they weren’t having soup – Freddie drank it so noisily. She’d worked out where everyone was going to sit. Now, standing at the end of the table, Valerie practised her commands:
‘Bring in the appetizer, please, Agatha. Take away the entrée, Agatha. Bring in the dessert.’
Then there was the tricky bit, catching all the women’s eyes. She glanced at alternate chairs. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’
What happened if that awful Rupert read the message wrong and followed her upstairs too? He was quite capable. For safety, she’d better say: ‘Shall we
ladies
go upstairs?’
‘We’ve got a right one ’ere,’ said Reg, the hired butler, who was already well stuck into the Mouton Cadet. ‘Yakking away to herself in the dining-room.’
‘What am I to do about this menu?’ said Taggie helplessly.
‘I’ll help you. I’m doing French for O-levels,’ said Sharon, the daughter of the house, who’d inherited her father’s bulk and his sweet nature. ‘I’m sure the French for pheasant is
payson.
’
Mrs Makepiece, Valerie’s daily, who’d come to help with the washing up, was just raking the shagpile in the lounge, flicking away non-existent dust when Valerie rushed in and realigned the
Tatlers
and
Harpers
, leaving the
Gloucester and Avon Life
specially open at a picture of herself at the NSPCC fashion show in Cheltenham. It was seven o’clock. She’d better take a bath and change.
In the kitchen, Taggie finished the pudding and put the pheasants into the oven. She must remember to add chopped dill to the prawn sauce. She wished Valerie hadn’t wanted things quite so elaborate. Everything was going swimmingly until Valerie came down dressed, and insisted Taggie put on a maid’s black dress and a white apron which came miles above her black-stockinged knees, and then made her put her hair up. Even Taggie baulked at the white maid’s cap.
‘I expect you to answer the door,’ said Valerie, ‘supervise everything in the kitchen and wait at table.’
‘You’re in the army now,’ sung Reg, the hired butler, now on his third bottle.
‘Will you come and watch “Dynasty” with me?’ Sharon asked Taggie.
‘You’re not watching rubbish like that, Sharon. You’re to hand round nibbles and make yourself pleasant,’ snapped Valerie, nearly jumping out of her skin, as music blared out from the speakers all over the house.
‘It’s Daddy’s signature tune,’ said Taggie in delight.
‘Turn that horrible din down, Fred-Fred,’ screamed Valerie.
‘Monica loves classical music,’ said Freddie.
‘Oh well, leave it on, then.’
The doorbell rang. ‘Go and answer it, Agatha. Put the men’s coats in the downstairs toilet, and the ladies’ coats upstairs in the master bedroom, and then direct them towards the lounge, where Mr Jones and I will receive them.’
It was Paul and Sarah Stratton. For a second Taggie and Sarah stared at each other, remembering their previous encounter on Rupert’s tennis court. Then, with a wicked little smile, Sarah took off her red velvet cloak. Her tan had gone, but a black taffeta dress, off-the-shoulders and with a bustle, showed off her beautiful, opulent figure. Never having seen Paul before, Taggie thought he looked dreadfully old and careworn to be married to such a glowing over-excited young girl.
The next arrival was Cameron Cook, who Taggie recognized from Declan’s description and tried not to hate. Declan had omitted to say she was so beautiful, and wonderfully dressed this evening in a dark-red smoking jacket and black tie with a wing collar, her hair sleeked back to show off her smooth white forehead and thick black brows. She looked straight through Taggie, and, having no coat to take, stalked past her into the drawing-room.
She was shortly followed by Tony and Monica. Tony’d been away at a conference, and for once, because he was cleaning up Corinium’s act, hadn’t taken Cameron with him. Now he was unflatteringly unpleased to see her. The big smile he switched on like a light bulb switched off as though there’d been a mega powercut. He always felt twitchy when Cameron and Monica were in the same room, and, even worse, Cameron, it seemed, had been invited for Rupert, his old rival. And there was Declan’s bloody signature tune blaring out. He was still extremely off Declan, but his hopes of having a good bitch about him this evening had been foiled by the presence of Declan’s stupid daughter.
‘This music is wonderful,’ exclaimed Monica.
‘Come and see it in action,’ said Freddie, bearing her off to witness the electronic wizardry in his study.
‘Have you got any Wagner?’ said Monica.
Next moment, to Valerie’s horror. Siegfried’s funeral march pounded deafeningly through the house.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ hissed Tony to Cameron.
‘I was asked,’ said Cameron coldly.
‘We must be very careful.’
‘Of course,’ said Cameron, holding her glass out to Reg for an instant refill. ‘We mustn’t jeopardize the franchise.’
Valerie was telling Paul about the house: ‘We replaced those dreary old mullioned windows with picture windows.’
‘How on earth did you get planning permission?’ said Paul in horror. ‘I thought this was a listed building.’
‘Grade 1,’ said Valerie smugly. ‘Fred-Fred has friends in high places.’
‘Please God, don’t let the sauce curdle,’ prayed Taggie in the kitchen as she added egg yolks and vinegar.
‘Door, love,’ said Reg, giving her a pinch on the bottom. ‘You look much the sexiest of the lot.’
It was Lizzie and James, who’d plainly had a row because of Lizzie’s catastrophic navigation. James loved making an entrance, but not arriving half an hour after his boss, who was looking bootfaced and standing as far away from Cameron as possible talking to Paul Stratton. James immediately gravitated towards Sarah and thought how nice it was to see Cameron out of her depth socially, and for once rather insecure.
Lizzie, who looked awful (she’d worked too late on her novel again and had not had time to wash her hair), had brought some bantams’ eggs for Freddie and Valerie, and was thrilled to see Taggie: ‘I know it’ll all be delicious; don’t worry.’
Valerie looked at her watch yet again: quarter past nine and no Rupert.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Freddie, filling up everyone’s glasses. ‘Nice to relax on a Friday.’
‘Freddie’s equipment is quite staggering,’ said Monica returning from the study.
Sarah caught Lizzie’s eye and giggled.
Mashing the potatoes in the kitchen, Taggie was going frantic. Everything would be ruined unless they ate soon.
‘Off you go,’ said Reg, as the doorbell rang.
Crimson with rage and embarrassment, bending her legs to make her maid’s dress look longer, Taggie answered the door. Grinning, Rupert walked into the hall. ‘Called any good fire engines lately?’
‘Would you like to take off your coat?’ said Taggie stiffly.
‘I’d much rather take off your dress,’ said Rupert. ‘You look like the object of all red-blooded men’s fantasies. I’m late. I’d better go and make my peace.’
Valerie hid her rage less well than Taggie: ‘Rupert, where
have
you been?’
Cameron choked on her champagne. Having never actually met Rupert and having been poisoned by Tony’s almost pathological jealousy, she’d expected him to just be another loud-mouthed, upper-class English shit. In the flesh he was glorious, and much more American-looking than English.
Having apologized to Valerie, Rupert turned to kiss Monica.
‘You haven’t met Cavendish Cook, have you, Rupert?’ said Monica.
‘How do you do, sir,’ said Rupert, admiring Cameron’s smoking jacket.
‘Cavendish works for Tony,’ went on Monica. ‘I gather you won another prize last week, Cavendish; jolly good show. I meant to watch the programme last summer, but unfortunately they were doing
Meistersinger
on BBC 2 the same night, and I was videoing that as well as watching it.’
James was in ecstasy – Cavendish Cook! There were some advantages in Monica’s addiction to BBC 2 after all.
Seeing Sharon sneaking through the hall towards the kitchen, Valerie gave an eldritch screech.
‘Sharon, Sharon, come in here and give Auntie Monica some nibbles. She keeps sloping off to watch “Dynasty”,’ she added to Monica. ‘I won’t have my kids watching soaps.’
‘Oh I love “Dynasty”,’ said Monica, smiling at Sharon. ‘Do tell me whether Blake and Crystal have made it up.’
Rupert walked over to James, who was still talking to Sarah.
‘That was a bloody good interview you did with the PM,’ he said. ‘And she thought you were marvellous. Asked me for your address so she could write to you.’
James, who’d always hated Rupert, melted faster than a snowball in the microwave. Then Rupert turned to Sarah, kissing her white shoulder.
‘Evening, my darling, that’s an incredibly sexy dress, I don’t know why you bother to wear any clothes at all. Bloody cold outside. I think it’s going to snow.’
‘I can never get home if it snows,’ grumbled James. ‘I’m thinking of installing a put-you-up in my office.’
Seeing Tony was still talking to Paul, Rupert said: ‘Tony Baddingham’s got a put-you-down in
his
office.’
Cameron laughed.
James, who was not going to be egged on to bitching about Tony in front of Cameron, said, ‘I always feel Tony is much maligned.’
‘I entirely agree,’ said Rupert, draining his whisky, ‘but not nearly enough.’
Sitting next to Rupert at dinner, Sarah found herself talking gibberish. The awful thing about adultery, she thought, was that one had to remember in public that one hadn’t heard things that one’s lover had told one in private.
‘I saw your “Behind Every Famous Man” interview with James,’ said Rupert, as he unfolded his napkin. ‘Very good. Were you nervous?’
‘Desperately,’ said Sarah, blushing.
As they had discussed the whole thing and how ghastly James had been at length in bed yesterday afternoon, and because, under the table, Rupert’s hand was already creeping up between the slit in her skirt, Sarah found it impossible not to giggle.
‘I think I’ve found you a horse,’ went on Rupert, giving her his blank, blue-eyed stare. Then he solemnly proceeded to describe it down to its last fetlock. As he’d also given her the same details yesterday, she found it even more difficult to keep a straight face, particularly as Paul, pretending to listen to Valerie, had ears on elastic trying to hear what they were saying.
Fortunately, distraction was provided by Taggie bringing round the fish mousse. Not remembering her left from her right, having served Monica, she moved backwards to serve James.
‘Clockwise,’ screeched Valerie.
There was another awful moment for Taggie when she saw Rupert and Lizzie having hysterics over the menu.
‘Gingered French peasant, cravat sauce and desert château,’ translated Rupert.
‘Our hostess’s French is slightly Stratford atte Bowe,’ whispered Lizzie.
‘What’s that?’ said Valerie sharply from the other end of the table.
For a second Lizzie caught Taggie’s anguished eye, and instantly identified the author of the menu: ‘Just saying how good your French is,’ she said to Valerie.
Valerie nodded smugly: ‘Crusty bread anyone?’ she cried waving the basket. ‘I will not have white bread in this house.’
‘I love it,’ said Freddie wistfully.
‘So do I,’ said Rupert. ‘I’ll send you a loaf for Christmas.’
Sitting opposite Tony, trying desperately not to catch his eye, Cameron longed to be able to sparkle and scintillate, but how could she with Paul Stratton on one side, watching his wife like a warder and James on the other talking about himself?
‘How’s your series on “Caring for the Elderly” getting on?’ she asked.
James brightened. ‘We think we’ve found a presenter at last – a Mrs Didbody. She’s a seventy-five-year-old coloured lady, a widow with a daughter of fifty. Which makes her a single parent,’ added James triumphantly.
‘A real franchise grabber,’ said Cameron, who was watching Rupert. He was easily the most attractive man she’d seen since she came to England, probably ever. It was a combination of elegance, deadpan arrogance, and a total inability to resist stirring things up. He was plainly having it off with Sarah Stratton.
‘What exactly are electronics?’ Monica was saying to Freddie in her piercing voice. ‘What exactly d’you do?’
Cameron saw a look of fury on Tony’s face, but Freddie seemed delighted by her interest.
‘I make everythink really: videos, televisions, synthesizers, compact disks, floppy disks, silicon chips.’
‘I always muddle up silicon with cellulite,’ said Monica.
‘With my computers,’ went on Freddie proudly, ‘scientists on the ground can place satellites in orbit. All satellites now carry my computers on board.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Monica. She could see now how useful Freddie’d be to Tony.
Tony was not enjoying himself. It was one of life’s ironies, he thought, that at dinners like this Monica always sat next to all the brilliant achieving men, who usually didn’t interest her at all (although she did seem to be having fun with Freddie), and he got stuck with their unachieving wives. Lizzie Vereker on his left looked a complete mess.