‘You should have come home with me on Friday,’ said Rupert.
Because he was horrendously busy and not given to introspection and would much rather spend any spare second in Gloucestershire on constituency work, or with his children or his horses, or in bed with Sarah Stratton, Rupert then told Cameron he had no intention of going on Declan’s programme.
Cameron played her trump card. ‘I’ll tell Declan you’re too chicken.’
That nettled Rupert: ‘Don’t be silly. All right, I’ll think about it.’
And with that Cameron had to be content.
As Christmas approached Declan grew more depressed. He was totally disillusioned with Tony. He felt like a damsel in distress, who, having been rescued from the BBC by St George, had promptly been put on the game. Not a day passed without some loaded request to open Monica’s Christmas Bazaar for the Distressed Gentlefolk, or draw the raffle at the NSPCC Ball (tickets seventy-five pounds each), or take part in Corinium’s Pantomime to Help the Aged, or turn on the lights in Cotchester. Declan refused them all, which increased Tony’s animosity and enabled James Vereker to step caringly into his shoes. The implication was the same: if you bothered to make use of our excellent research team, you could pull your weight as a member of the Corinium team.
Sapped by endless rows. Declan was aware his programme was losing its edge. He was still very high in the ratings, but he knew people were beginning to turn on in the hope he’d be better this week.
Desperate for some kind of intellectual satisfaction, he was getting up at five every day to spend three or four hours on his Yeats biography, but was too drained to make any real progress. He was also grimly aware that he wasn’t paying enough attention to Maud. After a long bout of lethargy, excited about Caitlin and Patrick coming home for Christmas, she was having one of her spates of frantic energy, which invariably involved spending money. She came to the office Christmas party and charmed absolutely everyone.
Patrick arrived the next day, walking through the door slightly drunk, with four suitcases of washing.
‘Is this the Priory laundry?’
‘Why did you come by taxi?’ asked Maud, flinging her arms round his neck.
‘Because I wrote off the Golf yesterday.’
At that moment Caitlin rang from school.
‘Patrick’s home,’ said Maud in ecstasy.
‘Well he can come and collect me in the Golf, the Mini’s too shaming.’
Christmas Eve saw scenes of frantic revelry at Corinium. The whole building thrummed with lust. Seb Burrows from the newsroom scaled the front of the building when drunk, and placed Charles Fairburn’s Russian hat on one of the red horns of the Corinium ram. Another joker put rainbow condoms on the horns and tail of the bronze Corinium ram in the board room, just before Tony ushered in the local representative from the IBA for a Christmas drink. Secretaries with tinsel in their hair ran shrieking down the passage blowing squeakers. Just as James Vereker passed the board room door, carrying a pile of Christmas presents from caring fans out to his car, four shrieking secretaries converged on him and unzipped his flies. His trousers dropped, to reveal seasonal boxer shorts covered with Santas, just as Tony was ushering the IBA man out. Tony was absolutely livid, but not so livid as Cameron, who’d opted to work over Christmas for want of anything better to do, when she discovered Tony had dispatched Miss Madden to choose Christmas presents both for her and Monica.
‘I bought two diamond bracelets,’ whispered Miss Madden conspiratorially. ‘I thought you might like to choose first.’
‘I’ll take the bigger one,’ said Cameron grimly.
James was even more annoyed to find that Declan had ten times more Christmas cards than he had, and that the Christmas tree in Reception completely obscured James’s framed photograph. Declan’s photograph had been deliberately left unhidden for all to admire.
Despite being horribly broke, Declan sold a first edition of Trollope and gave everyone who worked on his programme, including Cameron, a Christmas pudding and a pep pill for Christmas. He also took them out to a splendid lunch at The Dog and Trumpet outside Cotchester, whose manager subsequently barred anyone from Corinium Television from ever crossing the threshold again.
As the Senior Cameraman pointed out, ‘You don’t need directions to go to one of Corinium’s Christmas parties – just follow the blue flashing lights.’
Afterwards they all conga-ed down Cotchester High Street back to the office, where Declan found Charles Fairburn, who was meant to be organizing the live transmission of Midnight Mass from Cotchester Cathedral that evening, drinking Cointreau and doing his expenses.
Russian hat £100, wrote Charles, dinner with Dean and Chapter £80. Dinner with Chapter £100. ‘The trouble with you, Declan,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘is that you’re not creative enough in your expenses.’
In the newsroom the Corinium weather man leant out of the window at sunset, just to check that the forecast he was about to give on air of a very fine evening was correct. Next moment he received a bucket of cold water over his newly washed hair.
‘It’s raining, you berk,’ shouted a voice from above.
Declan took a box of chocolates up to Miss Madden, who’d always been nice to him. After she’d thanked him profusely, she confided that her nephew, who was a chorister, had been chosen to sing a solo at Midnight Mass.
‘My heart felt like bursting with pride, and I wanted to cry at the same time,’ she said.
Cotchester by midnight, with the golden houses and the great cathedral floodlit, was at its most beautiful. The huge blue spruce just inside the cathedral gates, which was normally a glorious sight festooned with fairy lights at Christmas, was sadly bare this year, because the conservationists, headed by Simon Harris, had claimed the lights were harmful to it.
The church which was lit by candles, white fairy lights on the Christmas tree and television lights, was absolutely packed, with people hoping both to appear on television and to catch a glimpse of Declan O’Hara.
Tony read the first lesson and stumbled twice, to his entire staffs delight. Rupert read the second in his flat drawl, and hardly a girl in the congregation, except Taggie, didn’t long to have him in her stocking the following morning.
‘Please God, if you think it’s right, give me Ralphie,’ prayed Taggie.
Caitlin, taking communion, couldn’t stop thinking about AIDS. But she knew one had to swallow three pints of saliva before one caught it. As she clumped down the aisle in her new black suede brothel-creepers and her wildly fashionable da-glo cat-sick yellow socks, she could have sworn Rupert was looking at her. In the long wait while everyone else took communion, Patrick, also wearing wildly fashionable da-glo cat-sick yellow socks, held out a cracker and Caitlin pulled it with a loud bang.
‘I wonder if Aengus and Gertrude knelt down at midnight to honour the birth of Christ,’ said Patrick, as they drove home. Far from honouring anyone’s birth, sulking at being left behind, Aengus had knocked off and smashed several balls from the Christmas tree and Gertrude had opened three presents from underneath and also chewed the label off a small parcel for Taggie. Inside was the most beautiful silver pendant inlaid with amethysts on a silver chain. She gasped as she slowly read the note:
‘Darling Taggie, I’m sorry I’ve been such a sod. Have a lovely Christmas. See you on New Year’s Eve. All Love R.’
‘Oh it’s beautiful,’ she said with a sob, and fled upstairs, clutching herself in ecstasy.
Outside, the stars and the new moon seemed to be shining just for her. Ralphie had remembered after all, and in seven days she’d see him again.
RIVALS
17
By New Year’s Eve the Christmas decorations at The Priory were sagging, the evergreens had brewer’s droop, and Wandering Aengus, having smashed every coloured ball on the Christmas tree, had taken up crash-landing in the Christmas cards.
Outside, a force five gale, Hurricane Fiona, as Patrick had called her, was rampaging up the valley, rattling the windows, and howling down the chimneys. On the lawn a huge pink-and-white-striped marquee, heated by gas burners, wrestled with its moorings.
‘Perhaps we could enter it for the Americas Cup,’ said Caitlin.
‘We can line all the drunks round the bottom to hold it down,’ said Patrick, taking another slug of Moët.
‘You’ll be one of them if you don’t stop knocking back that stuff,’ said Caitlin reprovingly.
‘It’s my birthday. Everyone is entitled to behave appallingly on their birthday.
Oh, I’ve got the key-hee-hee of the door, never been twenty-one before.
’ He was extremely happy because, unknown to his father, his mother had given him a new Golf for his birthday.
As Maud had gone off to the hairdressers and to pick up a new dress that was being altered, Patrick and Caitlin carried on doing the seating plan she had started. Taggie had tried to write names on some of the cards, but was in such a state of excitement about Ralphie’s arrival that her spelling had gone totally to pot. Worried about the marquee coming down, she had gone off to ring the firm who’d put it up. Her arms ached from mashing the potato for a dozen enormous shepherds’ pies. She seemed to have put crosses in a million sprouts and peeled a billion grapes for the fruit salad. The garlic bread lay like a pile of silver slugs in its aluminium foil. The turkey soup only needed heating up. The kedgeree for breakfast was in four huge dishes on top of the deep freeze, with cucumber, prawns and hard-boiled eggs, ready chopped to add at the last moment. Patrick’s birthday cake, in the shape of a shamrock, rested in the fridge.
An extension lead still had to be found for the disco, a bulb was needed for the outside light, and Caitlin still hadn’t written out large cards to show people where the loos were and where to hang their coats.
But things were gradually getting under control. Taggie had never felt so tired in her life. She had cooked herself into the ground, but she kept telling herself that if she got through everything and didn’t grumble, God would reward her with Ralphie.
Back in the marquee, Caitlin was hastily rewriting new name cards for people Taggie had seriously misspelt.
‘Monknicker Baddingham,’ she giggled. ‘Do let’s leave that one. Put Monknicker on Daddy’s right.’
‘I’ll put Joanna Lumley on his left. He needs some fun,’ said Patrick, ‘although, as it’s my birthday, I ought to have her next to me.’
‘Look,’ screeched Caitlin. ‘Utterly bloody Mummy’s put Rupert Campbell-Black next to her. I’m bloody sitting next to him.’
Removing the card from Maud’s right, she bore it off and placed it reverently beside hers, three tables away and behind a huge flower arrangement, so her mother couldn’t spy.
‘In fact —’ she scribbled Rupert’s name on to a second card – ‘I’m going to put him on both sides of me so there’s no slip up.’
Looking at his place, Patrick noted that he was sitting next to Lavinia, his current girlfriend, and someone called Sarah Stratton.
‘Oh, I’ll swap her,’ said Caitlin, seizing Sarah’s card. ‘She’s ancient – at least twenty-six.’
‘I was rather excited by the sound of her,’ said Patrick. ‘Mum said she was very beautiful and voluptuous, with a rich crumbling husband. My only answer is to marry a rich wife. I wish Pa would cut me out of his will. If I inherit all his debts, I’m finished.’
‘Oh well, I’ll swap Sarah back again,’ said Caitlin. ‘I’ve put Tag next to Ralphie.’
Patrick shook his head: ‘I wouldn’t. He and Georgina Harrison have been inseparable all term. He’s bringing her tonight.’
‘Well, why did he send Tag that amethyst pendant then, and apologize for being such a sod?’
‘Sounds
most
unlikely. Last week he couldn’t afford to buy his mother a box of handkerchiefs for Christmas, and he still owes me fifty pounds. Are you sure it was Ralphie?’
‘Quite sure, the two-timing shit.’
‘Shut up, she’s coming.’
‘I got through to the tent man; he’s coming over. He says they’re going all round Gloucester double-checking their erections,’ said Taggie with a giggle, then turned pale as the doorbell rang.
But it was only two young pink and white Old Etonians who were doing the disco, and Maud back from the hairdressers, with her hair set in a mass of snaky curls.
‘It looks lovely, Mummy,’ said Taggie.
‘It looks gross,’ muttered Caitlin.
The telephone rang. It was Bas Baddingham.
‘Darling Maud, may I bring my new new lady?’
‘Of course,’ said Maud. ‘More the merrier. Damn,’ she added as she put down the telephone, ‘another really attractive spare man paired up. Who the hell’s going to dance with Cameron Cook?’
‘You haven’t asked
her
?’ said Taggie in horror, thinking of the wrecked smoking jacket. ‘Daddy can’t stand her.’
‘How many d’you reckon are coming?’ said Patrick, giving a glass of Moët to each of the pink and white Etonians, who were both staring at Taggie.
‘About two to three hundred,’ said Maud airily.
‘But we haven’t hired nearly enough plates or knives or forks or anything,’ said Taggie aghast, ‘or got anywhere to seat them.’
Maud turned to Patrick. ‘Pop across the valley to Rupert’s and borrow some,’ she said.
‘I didn’t know he was coming too,’ whispered Taggie, even more horrified. ‘I thought he was away skiing.’
‘He’s come back specially for the party,’ said Maud dreamily. ‘It was too windy for him to land the helicopter but I’ve just seen him driving through Penscombe. Well, if there’s nothing else for me to do, I’m going upstairs to paint my nails.’ As she went out, running her eyes over the table seating, she caught sight of Rupert’s cards on both sides of Caitlin.
Tearing one up in a rage, she put the other back on her right. ‘You will not sit next to Rupert, Caitlin, you’re going to sit next to Archie Baddingham and like it.’ She turned back to Taggie.