‘This is the Green Room,’ Rannaldini paused on the threshold, ‘where one mingles before proceeding to the Throne Room to meet one’s hosts.’
‘How lucky we are to have you to initiate us,’ said Meredith gravely.
‘Stop taking the pees, you little popinjay,’ said Rannaldini. ‘How about this décor for one of the drawing rooms?’
‘No good for your colouring,’ said Meredith firmly. ‘Green’s awful with grey hair and a sallow complexion. Someone would spear you with a cocktail stick. Although we could drag the dungeons this colour to cast a sickly glow on poor, doomed Posa.’
Tristan kept having to hide his laughter by examining paintings.
‘This is how I want room where Posa defies Philip,’ said Rannaldini, as he hustled them into the Throne Room, which was the length of a cricket pitch. The crimson silk walls were lined with gold sofas. Huge cut-glass chandeliers glittered from the ceiling like a fleet of Jack Frost’s air balloons.
‘The ceilings at Valhalla are too low for chandeliers,’ protested Meredith.
‘Then raise them,’ said Rannaldini imperiously.
Through an arch flanked by white-winged genii holding gold paper chains, burgundy red steps led up to two crimson thrones, embroidered with the initials EIIR and P.
‘We must reproduce those for Elisabetta and Philip II,’ said Tristan in excitement.
‘And keep them permanently at Valhalla after filming’s over,’ giggled Meredith, ‘we can unpick the E and P and change it to R for Rannaldini and H for Hermione, or Helen or Harriet Bussage,’ he added slyly, ‘depending on who’s in favour.’
Rannaldini allowed himself a chill smile, but he could only think of a throne initialled T, with naked Tabitha sprawled on its faded damask, waiting for him to mount the burgundy red steps and her.
In every room there were beautiful clocks depicting heroic scenes. How slowly the minutes must have ticked by for the young Princess Diana, thought Tristan, and for Carlos and Elisabetta. How d’you cure a broken heart in a gilded cage, particularly when every ravishing piece of Sèvres showed idyllic scenes of young shepherds and shepherdesses in love?
‘I want a scrolled codpiece for Christmas,’ said Meredith, bringing everyone back to earth.
‘Her Majesty enters the Throne Room through that emergency exit,’ murmured an official, who’d recognized Rannaldini, ‘so she doesn’t have to walk through a lot of rooms.’
‘That’s nice,’ piped up Meredith, ‘so she can always retreat down the backstairs for a squirt of Diorissimo.’
‘Half the big-looking glasses,’ confided the official, ‘despite being covered with gilt patterns of leaves and flowers, are actually hidden secret doors.’
Rannaldini’s eyes gleamed. How perfect for the to-ing and fro-ing of lovers and Inquisition spies, often the same thing in
Don Carlos
, and for himself, who liked to vanish like the Cheshire Cat.
They had reached the great spine of the state rooms — the Picture Gallery — mostly Dutch and Flemish masters. Tristan was enraptured and went into a flurry of oh-
mon-dieu
s, particularly over Rembrandt’s
Old Shipbuilder and His Wife
, whose faces were luminous with affection and inner light. If only Lucy could make the faces of his cast glow like that.
Too much enthusiasm for anything other than himself unnerved Rannaldini, who whisked them past each masterpiece, only pausing to admire Guido’s terrifying painting of Cleopatra being bitten by the asp. Étienne had been the same, thought Tristan, with a pang. As a child he had never been given time to linger over a painting.
‘
Christ Healing the Paralytic
.’ Consulting the guidebook, Meredith paused before a large oil. ‘He ought to have a go at Tabitha Lovell.’
‘Is she still drinking?’ Tristan tried not to sound interested.
‘Buckets,’ sighed Meredith. ‘She’ll give birth to a little pickled walnut at this rate.’
‘This is the best picture in the room.’ A good-looking official drew their attention to Charles I astride a fine grey horse. ‘His eyes really follow one round the room.’
‘So would mine given the chance,’ said Meredith admiringly.
‘This is the Blue Room,’ purred Rannaldini, ‘where one gathers for drinks before grand diplomatic occasions.’
‘This is it, glorious,’ squeaked Meredith, whipping out his notebook and scribbling frantically. ‘Corinthian pillars the colour of Harrogate toffee, sea-blue flocked wallpaper, masses of gold framing the mirrors and ceiling, pale turquoise sofas, perfect for the Summer Drawing Room and Philip’s pep talk to Carlos.’
Diluting the gilded splendour, through floor-length windows green lawns could be seen sweeping down to a lake surrounded by willows. ‘I’m going to scrap my fences and flower-beds and sweep down to
my
lake,’ Rannaldini was thinking aloud.
‘Take a lot of mowing,’ chided Meredith. ‘Teddy Brimscombe would give notice and no-one else would put up with you. I like this vermilion,’ he mused, as they moved into the Music Room, ‘like a winter sunset and incredibly flattering to your colouring.’
Rannaldini smoothed his hair complacently, but the smile was wiped off his face when Tristan was suddenly mobbed by a party of French tourists, demanding his autograph, taking pictures and asking after Claudine Lauzerte.
Outraged to lose the limelight for a second, Rannaldini dived under the red rope and played ‘God Save the Queen’ on the Music Room piano. Guides blanched, security men with walkie-talkies rushed in, the French tourists, melting away from Tristan, cheered and clapped as they recognized Rannaldini.
‘I couldn’t reseest it.’
‘That’s OK, Sir Roberto.’
Their last port of call was the White Drawing Room, which took all their breath away.
‘This is answer for the Great Hall,’ exclaimed Rannaldini. ‘Then for Philip’s debate with Posa we can restore our Blue Living Room to its former glory with reds and crimsons.’
‘Isn’t that the room Helen just redecorated?’ said an aghast Tristan.
‘Yes, poor darling,’ agreed Meredith. ‘We tried a hundred coats before we got the right blue. But this gilt and white is to die for. And there’s darling Queen Alexandra over the chimneypiece. She was as good about fat Edward’s philandering as Helen is about yours, Rannaldini, so we might placate her with a new portrait over the fireplace.’
Meredith does get away with murder, thought Tristan, as they trooped down the staircase.
Out in the sunshine, Rannaldini stalked off to the Palace shop.
‘We must take Sexton a present,’ said Tristan, as he and Meredith panted after him. ‘He was so heartbroken he wasn’t allowed to join us.’
‘He’d have wanted chandeliers in the larder,’ said Meredith sensibly.
‘Get him a box of royal fudge,’ mocked Rannaldini, who had bought a mug for Tabitha and crested tea-bags for Helen and Bussage.
‘I’ll get him postcards of all the interiors so he can pretend he’s been,’ said Meredith.
Out in the street Rannaldini announced he must leave them.
‘It is Isa’s birthday, I got tickets for
Riverdance
. Sadly, Isa cry off.’ Rannaldini looked delighted. ‘I hope Tabitha won’t be too bored with just her old stepfather.
‘Dear boy.’ He turned to Tristan who, for one miraculous moment, thought Rannaldini was going to ask him to take Isa’s place. But with an evil smile, as if he could read Tristan’s mind, Rannaldini merely thanked him for sparing the time.
‘My God,’ giggled Meredith, as Clive, Rannaldini’s henchman, glided up in the most flamboyant orange sports car.
‘A Lamborghini Diablo,’ boasted Rannaldini. ‘A beautiful girl deserve evening out in a beautiful new car.’
As Clive slid across into the passenger seat, Rannaldini took the wheel and roared off towards Hyde Park Corner.
‘Silly old ponce,’ went on Meredith. ‘Talk about mutton dressed as Lamborghini.’ Then, seeing the desolation on Tristan’s face, ‘Don’t tangle with that nest of vipers, baby boy.’
17
At first Tab had tried so hard to make her marriage work, giving up booze and fags for the sake of the baby, keeping tidy the charming cottage Rannaldini had lent her, cooking — admittedly pretty disgusting — meals. But Isa was used to a clockwork mother and a clockwork mistress, Martie in Australia, who’d both provided uncritical admiration, clean shirts, tea on the table, and an impeccable answering service.
He was also as driven as Tristan, and didn’t want to be distracted by jealous tantrums or grumbles about burst pipes. He was away most days, race-riding or at his father’s yard, where it was made quite plain Jake didn’t want Tab anywhere near his horses.
So gradually she drifted into drinking. One Sunday, when Isa had gone over to see Jake, she had downed half a bottle of vodka before starting on the ironing. Trying to watch
Champions
on television at the same time, she singed the colours of a very important owner. Isa could curse in Romany for over five minutes and proceeded to do so.
On the way home, he’d stopped at the garage to buy Christmas cards for all his owners.
‘You can’t send those,’ said Tab, in horror. ‘They’re all spangly and it’s horrendously naff to say “Season’s Greetings”.’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ snapped Isa, and handed her a fiver. ‘Here’s the stamp money. Make sure you post them tomorrow. What’s for supper?’
‘Hell, I forgot. I’ll ring for a pizza, or we could go to the Heavenly Host.’
‘We can’t afford it.’
And the row escalated. The following night Isa arrived home late to find Tab had gone out clubbing in Rutminster, and things went from bad to worse.
Isa was so cool, silent and withdrawn, Tab so up-front and tempestuous, she felt like a tidal wave hurling itself against the sea wall. Physical passion had drawn them together, but the doctor had insisted on no intercourse for the first three months.
‘It’s all right,’ bleated Tab, who was terrified Isa might find a replacement from all those groupies mobbing him on the racecourse, ‘I’ll go down on you.’
But when she tried, she retched all over him and the bedclothes. She was suffering from morning, noon and night sickness. Her hormones were all to pieces and she was paranoid about everything, snapping Isa’s head off one moment, in floods of tears the next.
Isa was sympathetic until he saw the overflowing ashtrays and plummeting vodka bottles.
‘Hasn’t the doctor told you to give up?’
‘He said cut down because it would cause me and Baby Rupert too much stress if I stopped completely.’
‘Don’t call it fucking Rupert.’
Tidy by nature, Isa was driven crackers by Tab pinching his jerseys, socks, razors, and CK One, his precious aftershave. As she drank more, she forgot more: to put out milk bottles and dustbins — but, worse still, for a jockey’s wife, she forgot telephone messages. Isa started putting all calls through his mobile and his bleeper, which made Tab even more paranoid about other women.
At Christmas everyone made an effort. As their daughter, Darklis, was in South Africa, Tory persuaded Jake to let her invite Isa and Tab to stay.
The Old Mill, which Tory had been given by her rich grandmother, was big, rambling and totally horse-orientated. The only paintings on the walls were of Jake or Isa’s horses, or of their various sporting achievements. There were scant carpets on the wooden floors, all the sofas and armchairs needed upholstering. Nor were the Lovells into central heating.
Outside were days of extraordinary beauty and bitter cold. The chill factor, because of the east wind from Siberia, was minus 16 and produced wonderful sunsets and sunrises, rose pink on the horizon above snowy fields.
Traditionally in racing yards, the grooms have Christmas Day off. It was a matter of pride for Jake to do the horses with Isa, just to show everyone that polio hadn’t got the better of him. Outside he noticed the wind had scattered ivy-mantled branches all over the fields, clearing out the dead wood. Like me, he thought, with a shiver.
The only way he could relieve his pain-racked leg and back was to soak in a boiling bath, but he returned home to find Tab had used all the hot water. He found her in the kitchen, hugging the Aga, clean, pale hair flopping over her ashen face, her long turquoise eyes angry and bloodshot. Exactly like her father, thought Jake savagely, and as capable of causing havoc.
Poor Tory, attempting to cook Christmas dinner for the family and the grooms, was also trying to get to know her daughter-in-law.
‘I have no idea how to change a nappy,’ Tab was saying disdainfully.
‘They use Velcro now. It’s as easy as putting a bandage on a horse,’ said Tory encouragingly.
Picking up Jake’s hatred, Tab escaped to pack her presents, stopping on the way upstairs to pinch Tory’s sellotape and a pile of newspapers because she’d forgotten to buy wrapping paper. The whole thing took ages because she kept stopping to read. There was a huge piece, in the
Telegraph
colour mag, about eventing stars destined for the next Olympics. Tab was not even mentioned, which made her feel more of a failure than ever.
Turning to the
Sunday Times
she found a lovely picture of Rupert and a piece saying how well he was doing. Tearing it out, she fought back the tears. The blue sky outside reminded her not of Mary’s robes, but of Rupert’s eyes. The bells pealed far more sweetly at Penscombe.
Remembering the mountains of presents, the banks of holly, the huge fires, Taggie’s goose, her parsnip purée, and the brandy round the Christmas pudding, which flamed longer than the Great Fire of London, Tab forgot the earth-shattering rows with which she and Rupert had disrupted the entire household. The last one had been because Rupert had only bought her a Golf GTi convertible for Christmas, instead of paying forty thousand for The Engineer, for which Rannaldini had forked out later in the year when he’d married her mother. God, she had taken her wonderful family for granted.