charred patches all over the valley, his cornfields were still yellowed by stubble, or reddy-brown after being ploughed up. She couldn’t possibly be the reason, but it was so nice of him to say so.
There were so many things she ought to do, picking apples, planting the indoor bulbs, getting in the geraniums. There were large bowls of picked mulberries and blackberries reproachfully gathering fluff in the fridge, waiting to be turned into jam. And she must make some tomato chutney, not to mention painting the bench and mowing the lawn.
Suddenly she heard an enraged mewing from the larder. She’d forgotten Aengus. She couldn’t even get cross that he’d eaten half the turbot mousse she’d made for the first course this evening. At least when she went out to search for the fieldmouse it had run away.
By the time she’d reached the Strattons’ house she’d sobered up. Paul was still out playing golf. Sarah was in a panic because she wanted everything to be perfect for Tony, her boss, and even more so for James.
‘Giving a dinner party is far worse than going on television,’ she moaned. ‘Look, I know it sounds horrendously Valerie Jones, but do you mind pretending I’ve done the cooking tonight? Especially the main course, which is a particular favourite of a friend of mine,’ added Sarah, going pink. ‘If anyone rings, pretend you’re our daily, Mrs Maggs.’
Then, leaving Taggie with a mile-long list of instructions, she swanned off to Bath to buy a new dress.
At least everything was tidy, the table laid and the house clean. Taggie got out the French recipe that Rupert had translated for her. An hour and a half later, she was getting on well. The beef daube was sizzling in the oven, the pudding was in the fridge and just needed whipped cream and sugared violets, and she’d done the vegetables earlier. All she had to do was to make another fish mousse. Perhaps she’d just better double-check the beef.
‘Oh, my God,’ she said aghast as she licked the spoon. She tried again from the other side of the dish, and then the centre, where it was even worse. She must have been so distracted by her encounter with Rupert that she’d added a tablespoonful of salt instead of sugar. She tested the sugar in the glass bowl and went green. It was definitely salt.
The beef was quite inedible, absolutely impregnated with salt, and she’d used up all the other ingredients. It was after five and she’d never get to Cotchester in time. She gave a whimper of horror. She’d wrecked Sarah’s party and she knew Sarah could be extremely difficult if things didn’t go right.
The telephone rang. Oh God, she sobbed, I’ve got to remember to be the daily. Trembling, she picked up the receiver.
‘Hullo,’ crackled a voice from a car telephone.
‘Mrs Stratton be shopping, thank you very much. Who be you?’ mumbled Taggie.
Rupert laughed. ‘That is the worst Gloucestershire accent I’ve ever heard. How’s it going?’
Taggie burst into tears. ‘It was James’s favourite recipe and she’s supposed to have made it for him,’ she sobbed.
‘Cheer up or you’ll cry more salt into the beef,’ said Rupert calmly. ‘Get on with the fish mousse. I’ll be over in half an hour.’
He arrived twenty-five minutes later. He screeched the Aston-Martin to a halt in a cloud of dust and nearly tipped Beaver and Blue, who were sitting on the back seat, through the windscreen, then he sauntered into the kitchen with a huge casserole dish containing boeuf Bourguignon for twelve from Luigi’s, the local five-star restaurant in Cheltenham.
‘Oh, you’re lovely,’ said Taggie, flinging her arms round his neck.
‘Hands off! We’ve no time for dalliance!’ said Rupert briskly, as he emptied the Bourguignon into one of Sarah’s big bowls and chucked Taggie’s salty remnants into Luigi’s casserole dish. ‘Don’t tell Paul and Sarah what happened,’ he added. ‘Just pretend this is how the recipe turned out. They’ll all be too pissed to notice, anyway. I’d better beat it, or she’ll be back from shopping and start accusing me of bugging the room.’
Still stammering her thanks, Taggie followed him out to the car. An owl was hooting. A semi-circle of orange moon was rising out of the sycamores.
‘The moon was a mandarin segment, as Valerie Jones would say,’ said Rupert.
‘I can’t ever begin to thank you,’ bleated Taggie.
Rupert pulled her towards him, dropping a kiss on her cheekbone.
‘Oh yes, you can, angel. Just wait till I get back from Blackpool.’
The patron saint of cooking guided Taggie that evening. The food was positively ambrosial, and Sarah took all the credit, particularly for Luigi’s boeuf Bourguignon, which was so tender you could cut it with a spoon.
‘D’you remember that daube we had at the White Elephant at Painswick?’ whispered Sarah to James as they went in to dinner. ‘Well, I wrote to them for the recipe and I’ve made it for you tonight.’
Putting on his horn-rimmed spectacles to have a closer look across the table, Tony Baddingham decided he hadn’t been wrong about Lizzie Vereker. Whether it was the Marbella sun or a stone off, or just some new inner contentment, she looked sensational.
The talk during dinner was mostly of the rocketing AIDS figures. They also drank to ‘Master Dog’ which was edging up on ‘EastEnders’ in the ratings; but they waited until Taggie was safely out of the room to discuss the franchise.
‘There are some quite fascinating developments,’ Tony said tantalizingly, ‘but I’m not prepared to leak them until November, when it’ll be nearer the IBA meetings and people are properly back from their holidays and reading newspapers again. And then, my God, Venturer will wish they’d never tried to take us on.’ He paused as Taggie came in with the salad.
Not that she would have taken anything in that night. In the kitchen she was frantically trying to watch the Horse of the Year Show, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rupert. At least she saw Tabitha in the mounted games — utterly adorable and so like Rupert as she jumped up and down waiting for the baton, then grabbing it and scorching up the arena. The finals were just coming up when Sarah summoned Taggie to clear away the pudding.
By this time Tony was banging on about AIDS again.
‘By the year 2000, unless we get our act together in this country, we’ll have sixteen million cases. The message from America is loud and clear, affairs are
James felt that Sarah had been so very very caring to go to all that trouble with the daube that, in the hall after dinner, he was foolish enough to behave in a thoroughly unmonog-amous fashion and be caught by Tony not only kissing her, but putting his hand inside her new silk dress.
On Monday morning Tony summoned James to his office. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation about AIDS on Saturday night,’ he began briskly. ‘I’ve decided it’s time for you to have your own series, which we’ll almost certainly sell to the network.’
‘That’s very good of you, Tony,’ said James.
‘I want to make a series examining all aspects of marriage,’ went on Tony.
‘Financial, dual careers, how much housework should the caring husband do,’ rattled off James excitedly. ‘Sex, rows, decorating the house.’
‘That’s right,’ said Tony. ‘We could perhaps even introduce children and the pressures they put on a marriage. But basically the whole series will be aimed at couples who are getting behind marriage again, who want to avoid AIDS by staying with the same person for the rest of their lives. We’ll call it “How to Stay Married”.’
‘With the AIDS panic, it’ll be a real franchise-grabber,’ said James excitedly.
‘Exactly,’ said Tony urbanely. ‘And I want you and a very charming lady not far from your heart to front it.’
‘I don’t even have to guess, Tony,’ said James warmly, ‘but d’you realty feel she’s experienced enough?’
‘More important,’ said Tony, who was enjoying himself, ‘she’s a natural. She’s not too obviously glamorous, but she’s got just the right kind of lovely warm bubbly personality that’ll make couples talk and trigger off a really good audience reaction.’
James bowed his head. ‘I know Sarah will appreciate the very great honour you’re bestowing on her, Tony, both to combat AIDS and to help Corinium retain the franchise.’
‘I’m not talking about Sarah, you berk,’ said Tony icily. ‘I mean your wife, Lizzie, and if you value your job, the less you see of Mrs Stratton over the next three months the better.’
