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 leg-over 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.’
RIVALS
49
Up in London that night the fourteen directors and senior staff of Corinium Television had an extremely successful final dry run before their meeting at the IBA the next afternoon. Tony, in a new dark-blue pin-stripe suit paid for by Corinium, was in coruscating form.
‘They can have one drink,’ he told Ginger Johnson beforehand, ‘and then not one drop until we’ve been round the course – and I’m going to grill them.’
No one at the meeting tomorrow, he said, was to speak until he’d introduced them. There was now, as a result of recent hiring and firing, a most satisfactory preponderance of ex-production people on the Board who would do most of the talking. The money-men, like Ginger and Georgie Baines, who brought in the vast advertising revenue, would keep a low profile. In fact it would be better if the word ‘profit’ were not mentioned at all. All the men had had hair cuts.
‘No doubt,’ muttered Sarah Stratton to James Vereker, ‘there will be a nail inspection in the morning.’
Afterwards they all dined wisely but not too well at the Carlton Tower, where they were staying overnight. No shellfish was allowed, nor liqueurs after dinner. Everyone was very impressed with Ailie Bristoe, the new Programme Controller, who’d flown over from Hollywood for the occasion, and seemed as beautiful as she was bright. James Vereker, in particular, thought she looked very caring.
‘I’m surprised Tony hasn’t put the women in separate hotels,’ grumbled Sarah, as they were all sent up to bed early.
‘Be sure to order a
Scorpion
for tomorrow,’ was Tony’s parting shot. ‘You’ll all find it very interesting reading.’
Back in Gloucestershire, Declan finally stormed out of The Priory around ten o’clock, having failed to get a confession out of Cameron. Utterly devastated that he and Freddie could possibly think she was the mole, Cameron was slumped on the sofa, still cuddling Blue when the telephone rang. It was some girl, saying Rupert wouldn’t be back until the morning, but he sent his love. There was a terrific din in the background and the girl sounded as though she was ringing from a bar. Bastard, thought Cameron, but she was too proud to ask where he was. As she put the telephone down it rang again.
‘Can I speak to Rupert Campbell-Black?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Is that Cameron Cook?’
‘This is she.’
The voice thickened and became oily as though it was asking for extended credit.
‘This is the
Messenger
here. Wondered what you feel about Rupert’s memoirs in the
Scorpion.
’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Rupert’s really done it this time. Bloody bad timing on the day before your IBA meeting.’
Cameron had had a long day and was not connecting well but gradually it sank in that Beattie Johnson had finally got her revenge on Rupert by telling all to the
Scorpion.
Not only, according to the
Messenger
reporter, had she produced every kind of salacious detail about her two years with Rupert and the unbelievably kinky things they’d got up to, but, even worse, revealed intimate details of his sex life with other women, including Helen.
‘Oh my God!’ whispered Cameron. ‘Does he mention me?’
‘Not yet, sweetheart,’ said the reporter, who’d already seen and admired Cameron’s photograph, ‘but you may be in Saturday’s instalment. They’re trailing the spread that’s going out on Friday, the morning you go to the IBA. It’s all about Rupert’s affair with Amanda Hamilton, wife of the shadow Foreign Secretary. Very pretty lady, evidently she liked being spanked.’
Cameron groaned.
‘And there’s a particularly damaging bit tomorrow,’ said the reporter, who was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘I’ll read it. Beattie writes: “
I always felt Rupert was unnaturally close to fellow show jumper Billy Lloyd-Foxe. Rupert admitted that when they were in Kenya, he, Helen and Billy and his journalist wife Janey
(
who left Billy for nine months soon after they were married
)
had a naughty foursome. Did Helen
(
who started an affair with Jake Lovell shortly after this incident
)
discover the true nature of Rupert’s sexual preference that night?”
’
‘I don’t want to hear any more,’ screamed Cameron, slamming down the receiver. It rang again. It was the
Sun.
‘Go away,’ she screamed.
Immediately she’d put down the receiver, she dialled out.
‘Fuck off, all of you,’ snarled a voice.
‘Declan, it’s Cameron. Have you heard about Rupert’s memoirs?’
‘Yes,’ said Declan, ‘and I don’t know where the fuck to get hold of him.’
‘Nor do I,’ sobbed Cameron.
The juggernauts rumbling along Cotchester High Street woke Rupert next morning to the worst hangover in recorded history. Moaning, he pulled the blankets over his head. There was a knock on the door.