Rivals

Her tongue loosened by a third glass, Maud told Monica about Declan’s trying to persuade her to play Maud Gonne, and how her nerve had failed. ‘I couldn’t face Cameron screaming at me when I didn’t come up to scratch,’ she confessed. ‘Her sarcasm could strip furniture, and I’ve always found it difficult to act in front of Declan.’

Monica, at this point, became very thoughtful. ‘But you would like to go back?’

‘Oh yes, but at the moment I’ve got about as much self-confidence as a leveret at a coursing meeting.’

Monica fished in her shopping bag and brought out one of the scores of The Merry Widow. On the cover was a painting of a beautiful woman, with hair swept up under a big pink hat and a waist, in its swirling cyclamen-pink dress, as slender as her neck. She was raising a glass of champagne in one long purple-gloved hand. Four handsome men with black twirling moustaches were raising their glasses to her in admiring salute.

It was Maud’s perfect fantasy. What did gel and Sun-In matter to that woman?

‘Why don’t you start with something less ambitious than Maud Gonne?’ said Monica. ‘We’re desperate for someone to play the Merry Widow.’

‘I couldn’t,’ faltered Maud. ‘It’s a very demanding part.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Monica briskly. ‘You’d waltz it.’

‘What are my two favourite women doing lunching at my restaurant without telling me?’ said a voice.

It was Bas, absolutely black from a fortnight’s polo in America.

‘Bas,’ said Monica delightedly. ‘I know I’m not supposed to talk to you either, after the dreadful way you’ve betrayed Tony, but sit down and help me persuade Maud to audition for Hanna.’

Bas needed little persuading. Up to now he’d by-passed Maud in his amorous travels, partly because he had long-range aims for Taggie and partly because he’d realized how dotty Maud had been about Rupert at Christmas. Certainly, in the soft lighting of the Bar Sinister, she looked stunning today, and that violet dress was very becoming. It emphasized her white skin and just missed clashing with the gorgeous red hair, and all those undone buttons showed off a Cheddar Gorge of cleavage. Another bottle of Muscadet was ordered.

‘Bas is toying with the idea of playing your leading man,’ said Monica.

‘Hopefully it’ll lead to other things,’ said Basil, rubbing one of his long muscular, polo-playing thighs against Maud’s as he re-filled her glass.

Later, not even allowing her a cup of black coffee to sober her up, Basil and Monica frogmarched Maud down the High Street to the Town Hall where the director, Barton Sinclair, had reached screaming point, having heard ten amateur hopefuls murdering the score.

Up on stage now, the eleventh, a very made-up blonde, who’d never see fifty again, was crucifying the Vilja song. The pianist was desperately trying to keep in time with her. A huge bluebottle buzzing against a window pane was having more success.

‘She’d be too fat even if you looked through the wrong end of your binoculars,’ whispered Bas to Maud. ‘At least you can do better than that.’

‘I can’t,’ muttered Maud in terror. ‘That’s Top G she’s missing.’

As she tried to bolt, Bas’s arm closed round her waist. ‘Yes, you can,’ he murmured. ‘Just think of the fun we can have rehearsing together night after night, and it won’t be all singing I can tell you.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Barton Sinclair in his chorus-boy drawl.

‘I sang the part in 1979,’ said the blonde, teetering down the steps in her four-inch heels. ‘It brought the house down.’

‘Pity you weren’t buried under the rubble,’ muttered Barton. ‘We’ll be in touch. I’ll be making a decision at the end of the week,’ he told her. Then, waiting until she was safely out of the door, he turned to Monica. ‘That’s the lot, thank God. Talk about scraping the barrel organ.’

‘I’m going home,’ said Maud.

‘Could you hear just one more?’ said Monica.

Barton Sinclair looked at his watch and sighed: ‘Do I have to? I was hoping to get the three forty-five back to Paddington.’

‘It’ll be worth getting the next train, I promise you,’ said Monica. ‘This is Maud O’Hara. She used to act and sing professionally.’

Barton Sinclair straightened his flowered tie, and smoothed his straggly mouse-brown hair.

‘You certainly look the part,’ he said.

‘I haven’t practised,’ bleated Maud, the crespolini and the Sancerre churning like a tumble-dryer inside her.

‘Try the same song,’ said Barton, handing her the score. ‘Take it slowly, Mike,’ he added to the pianist.

‘You come in on the last quaver of the fourth bar,’ the pianist told Maud kindly.

Below her, Maud could see their faces: Monica’s eager, flushed and unpainted, Basil’s sleek and mahogany, and Barton Sinclair’s London night owl and deathly pale. They seemed infinitely more terrifying than a first night audience at Covent Garden.

‘I can’t,’ she whispered, wringing her sweating hands.

‘Go on, darling,’ said Bas. ‘We’re all on your side.’

Off went the pianist. Maud fluffed the opening.

‘I’m sorry. Could we start again?’

‘Of course,’ said Barton.

Off went the pianist again, and Maud opened her mouth.

There once lived a Vilja, a fair mountain sprite,

She danced on a hill in the still of the night.

Her voice was sweet, true and hesitant, but suddenly, as she launched into the main theme, it seemed to soar out glorious and joyful, stilling the bluebottle and taking the dust off the rafters, and the four other people in the room felt the hair rising on the backs of their necks.

‘A star is re-born,’ whispered Monica, wiping her eyes.

‘I am going to have a nice Autumn,’ reflected Basil. ‘Over forty, they’re always so grateful!’

‘Vilja, Oh, Vilja, be tender and true,’ sang Maud, triple pianissimo, ‘Love me and I’ll die for you.’

For a second there was silence, then her audience burst out clapping and cheering.

‘Come into Covent Garden, Maud,’ sang Basil.

‘You’ve got the part,’ said Barton Sinclair. ‘The only problem is how much you’re going to show up the others.’

‘Thank you, Barton,’ said Monica and Basil in unison.

After that they all went back to the Bar Sinister for several more bottles of Muscadet and Barton Sinclair only just made the six forty-five.

Tony and Declan were very apprehensive when they heard the news of such close fraternization between the rival franchise sides. On reflection, however, Tony decided he’d definitely got the better bargain. While Maud was a rattle who drank far too much, Monica drank very little and was incredibly discreet.

‘Keep your trap shut and your ears open,’ Tony told her. ‘You may learn some interesting things.’

‘I’m not pumping anyone,’ said Monica firmly. ‘It’s simply not on. Only if anyone lets anything drop.’

‘It’ll be knickers if Bas has anything to do with it,’ said Tony.

Declan, however, who was going to have to spend the second half of September and much of October in Ireland with Cameron, was principally relieved that Maud was so much happier. The sound of her carolling away upstairs practising her songs reminded him of the carefree days in Dublin when they were first married. Perhaps, if The Merry Widow were a success, she’d have enough confidence to take up acting professionally again.

Caitlin, who had now dyed her custard-yellow hair so black it almost looked blue, found her mother’s euphoria even more irritating than her previous picky depression, and decided to push off to London for a few days to stay with some schoolfriends. She was going back the week after next and might as well have some fun before the prison doors clanged round her again.

She found Taggie in the kitchen fainting over a final reminder from the Electricity Board. ‘I can’t think why it’s