Rivals

‘I always said you can never trust the Irish,’ said Valerie Jones.

‘D’you think Declan’s coming back tonight?’ whispered Bas in Maud’s ear at midnight, ‘because if he isn’t. .’

Everyone stopped talking as Tony tapped his glass with a spoon.

‘On behalf of Corinium Television,’ he said suavely, ‘I’d like to thank our Mayor and Mayoress and, of course, you, Prebendary, for being here this evening. I want to congratulate Barton and all the cast of The Merry Widow for a truly splendid performance, but most of all I think we should praise Maud O’Hara, who, under the most difficult circumstances —’ he smiled at Maud — ‘was without doubt the star of the evening.’

Exactly on cue, Declan walked in. He was deathly pale and still wearing yesterday’s jeans and dark-blue jersey. But such was his presence that, as usual, he made everyone else seem like pygmies.

Charles Fairburn, who was pissed, gave a very theatrical hiss. ‘Hullo, Declan dear, I’m surprised you haven’t popped up through a trap door in a great puff of sulphur and brimstone.’

‘Good morning, Declan,’ drawled Tony, ostentatiously looking at his watch, ‘you’re late. Four and a half hours late to be exact. What kept you? I do hope you’re not as late as this when you go to the IBA on Friday week, or there’s even less chance of Venturer winning the franchise.’

Declan ignored him and walked up to Maud.

‘I’m desperately sorry, darling,’ he said. ‘I hear you were sensational. I knew you would be.’

Indignation overcame Monica’s normal good manners: ‘You knew nothing of the sort, you beastly man, you ought to be hung, drawn and quartered. She was absolutely super, but no thanks to you. You wait till you see the video.’

‘There was a good reason,’ said Declan, not taking his eyes off Maud, ‘but as I don’t like some of the company you’re keeping this evening, I’ll tell you later. Let’s go.’

‘But she’s the guest of honour,’ said Monica furiously.

Just for a second everyone expected Maud to slap Declan’s face. Instead she reached up and hugged him.

‘Poor darling,’ she said, ‘you must be tired. Thank you all —’ marvellously theatrically, the big star now, she turned slowly round, smiling at everyone in the room — ‘for a lovely, lovely party.’

Then, taking Declan’s arm, she dutifully followed him off the stage.

Caitlin, who’d just emerged from Maud’s dressing-room with Archie, shook her head. ‘I’ll never understand that couple,’ she said.

On the way out Maud and Declan passed Rupert and Cameron. ‘Rupert saved me,’ said Maud, ignoring Cameron, whom she had not forgiven for her abuse earlier.

‘I know,’ said Declan, ‘Taggie told me on the way in.’

Briefly he took Rupert aside. ‘Look, I’m sorry I focked everything up, but Dermot MacBride insisted I sat down and read the whole play. I didn’t realize his mother was from Gloucestershire and the play’s all about his childhood just outside Stroud. He’s giving it to us, with an option on the next play. I’m going to fix a price with his agent tomorrow. It’s a focking good play.’

‘It better be,’ said Rupert icily. ‘You nearly paid for it with a far higher price than money.’

47

Six days later the Gatherum, which was the neigbouring hunt to the West Cotchester, held their hunt ball in Henry Hampshire’s beautiful mouldering Elizabethan house. This was the last time the two consortiums would meet before their encounters with the IBA next week, and once again the whole place seemed to divide like the Dreyfus case. At one table sat Freddie and Valerie, Henry Hampshire, very much on his best behaviour as host and in the presence of his wife Hermione, Declan and Maud and Rupert and Cameron. Bas was turning up later with some ex-mistress, whose husband was conveniently in America.

Two tables away sat the Baddinghams, Ginger Johnson and his wife, Georgie Baines, with his long eyelashes cast down, and his wife, Paul and Sarah Stratton, and James and Lizzie Vereker. Although some of the women in both parties exchanged occasional banter and smiles, the men of one side studiously ignored those of the other side.

Maud appeared to be the only member of the Venturer party in tearing spirits. The two subsequent performances of The Merry Widow on Tuesday and Wednesday had been just as successful. She had had hundreds of letters and telephone calls of congratulation, and yesterday she had lunched with Pascoe Rawlings, who was arranging for her to audition as soon as possible for A Doll’s House. Tonight she looked stunning with her red-gold hair piled up, and an old-gold taffeta dress which looked suspiciously new, turning her green eyes a tigerish yellow. No doubt when Bas arrived, after the success of The Merry Widow, the band could be prevailed upon to play a quick waltz, and Bas would sweep her on to the floor.

Cameron, who’d been editing the Yeats rushes all week, and working hard with Declan on additional programme plans to present to the IBA next Friday, looked thin and drawn. She was worried Declan seemed suddenly distant. There was none of the intimacy they’d achieved in Ireland. Tonight, obviously hating being so near Tony, he was pale and edgy. As the only member of the party in a dinner jacket rather than a red coat, his black lowering presence seemed to accentuate Venturer’s gloom and tension.

Cameron was even more worried about Rupert, who had gone increasingly into his shell since she’d come back from Ireland. He also looked desperately tired. The new Socialist majority was so tiny that the Tories were determined to contest it to the full on every vote, which meant endless late night sittings. The interminable IBA rehearsals, even though both Henry and Wesley were word perfect now, were also taking their toll. Even Freddie didn’t seem his usual bouncy self. Only Valerie was appallingly unchanged.

‘What are you doing, Fred-Fred?’ she screeched, as Freddie started crawling around under the priceless Jacobean table.

‘Lookin’ for bugs.’

‘You’re more laikely to find woodworm,’ said Valerie disapprovingly. ‘I can’t think why Henry and Hermione don’t junk all this nasty dark stuff and invest in some decent Repro. And have you seen the state of the place?’ Valerie had already had a prowl round some of the bedrooms, the long gallery and the grand staircase with its heraldic leopards. ‘All the plaster’s peeling. There’s so much damp, and you should have seen the moths flutter out when I touched the drapes in Hermione’s bedroom.’

‘Didn’t you realize this is a moth sanctuary?’ said Rupert gravely. ‘You know Henry is Venturer’s conservation expert.’

Valerie looked at Rupert sharply. She was never sure if he wasn’t mobbing her up.

‘Actually I wanted to pick your brains,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘about Fred-Fred’s birthday. There was an article in The Times yesterday saying the latest thing in the hunting field is to have a brass flask of sherry attached to your saddle.’

‘Sounds hell,’ said Rupert with a yawn. ‘The only thing I want attached to my saddle is my bum.’

At that moment Tony paused in front of the Venturer table — surveying them with amusement.

‘I see the devil has cast his net,’ he said loudly.

‘If the holes in his net were as big as your mouth, we’d all escape,’ drawled Rupert.

Everyone at the surrounding tables howled with laughter and Tony retreated discomforted.

‘And Ladbroke’s has us at 2–1 on today,’ Rupert yelled after him.

Valerie turned to Cameron. ‘You’re looking a bit washed out. I don’t think black’s really your colour — too deadening. Why don’t you pop into the boutique and buy something naice for all the Christmas functions coming up?’

‘What’s the difference between a shop and a boutique?’ asked Henry, who’d got bored of welcoming