offer.’
At that moment Monica came up.
‘I was just saying, Monica, that Gloucestershire has so much to offer, particularly,’ Valerie raised her untouched glass, ‘on a gracious evening like tonight.’
‘Not if we don’t get any grub,’ said Monica briskly. ‘We’ve decided not to wait for Rupert. Do either of you need a loo?’
Outside it had turned bitterly cold. Valerie came out of the house smothered in an almost floor-length mink. I hope hounds get her, thought Lizzie savagely, as she watched Freddie open the door and settle Valerie in, before going round to the driving seat.
‘Isn’t she a poppet?’ said James. ‘Knew so much about my programme.’
‘Sarah Stratton?’ asked Lizzie.
‘No, Valerie Jones. I do hope Freddie joins the Board. We could do with a few caring wives like Valerie at Corinium.’
Lizzie was dumbfounded. Was James such a dreadful judge of character?
‘What did you think of Sarah Stratton?’ she asked.
‘Not a lot. Didn’t even know who I was. You’d have thought Paul would have briefed her.’
Off they set in convoy, cars with silver foxes on the bonnet skidding all over the road, rattling the cattle grids, lighting up the last grey curls of the traveller’s joy and the last red beech leaves. Flakes of snow were drifting down as they arrived at Cotchester Town Hall.
‘It’s already fetlock-deep in Stow,’ bellowed a woman who’d just driven up with a white windscreen. ‘But of course you’re a coat warmer down here.’
Cotchester Town Hall, a splendid baroque edifice, two hundred yards down on the other side of the High Street from Corinium Television, had been built in 1902 to replace the old Assembly Rooms. The huge dining-rooms on either side of the ballroom were filled with tables, packed with laughing, chattering people. But in a noisy, glamorous gathering easily the most glamorous, scrutinized table belonged to Corinium Television. The Krug was circulating (Tony was always generous when the evening was deductible) and dinner was now well underway, but Rupert and Beattie Johnson still hadn’t turned up and Sarah Stratton, who should have been on Rupert’s right, and Tony, who should have had Beattie on his left, were trying to hide their irritation and disappointment.
Lizzie Vereker, however, was having a lovely time sitting next to Freddie Jones. Totally unpompous, instinctively courteous, noisily sucking up his bortsch, rattling off remarks in a broad Cockney accent at a speed which must tax the most accomplished shorthand typist, he was also, despite a scarlet cummerbund strained double by his wide girth, curiously attractive.
‘I don’t know anything about electronics,’ confessed Lizzie, taking a belt of Krug, ‘but I know you’re very good at them. James says you’re one of the most powerful men in England.’
‘My wife doesn’t fink so,’ said Freddie. ‘It’s a fallacy women are attracted to power. No one’s fallen in love wiv me for years. I’d like to be tall like your ’usband. But I got my height from my muvver and my shoulders from my Dad, and the rest ’ad to go somewhere.’ He roared with laughter.
At the head of the table Monica listened politely to James Vereker talking about his programme and his ideas for other programmes, and surreptitiously gazed at Sarah Stratton. Her tobacco-brown shawl had slid right off her golden shoulders now. Her piled-up blonde hair emphasized her long slender neck. The seat beside her, which should have been Rupert’s, had now been taken by Bas, Tony’s wicked brother, who was chatting her up like mad.
She’s so beautiful, thought Monica. What chance could poor Winifred have stood?
She felt jolted and uneasy. She wished she were at home reading gardening books and listening to
Valerie Jones had one aim in life — to rise socially. She had therefore done her homework. Knowing James was coming this evening, she had watched his programme all week so she could comment on every item. She was now sitting next to Paul Stratton, whose recent speech in the House on the proposed Cotchester by-pass she had learnt almost by heart. But Paul was less flattered by her obvious homework than James. He, like Monica, was surreptitiously watching his wife flirting with Bas, and experiencing a tightness round his heart, a jealousy never felt when he was married to Winifred.
Lizzie’s and Freddie’s conversation had noisily progressed to hunting.
‘It was Rupert who got me going,’ said Freddie. ‘Put me up on a really quiet ’orse last March. I was cubbing by August, and huntin’ by November.’
‘Weren’t you terrified?’ asked Lizzie in awe.
‘I needed three ports and lemons to get me on to the ’orse for the opening meet, I can tell you. But I reckoned if I fell orf I’d bounce anyway.’ He roared with laughter again. ‘I’m going to take up shootin’ next.’
Huge oval silver plates of roast beef were now coming round.
‘How’s Rupert getting on with Beattie Johnson?’ asked Lizzie, helping herself.
Freddie shrugged. ‘Not very well. She keeps ’earing wedding bells, and we all know Rupe’s tone-deaf. He said the other day he fort the relationship would last till Cheltenham.’
Lizzie giggled. ‘What a typically Rupert remark. Has she finished ghosting his memoirs yet?’
‘Probably providing material for the last chapter at the moment,’ said Freddie. Digging a serving spoon into a creamy mass of potato dauphinoise, he gave a big helping to Lizzie, and was just helping himself when Valerie called sharply down the table, ‘No tatties, Fred-Fred.’
‘It’s Friday,’ said Freddie, the Cockney accent wheedling, as the spoon edged towards his plate.
‘No tatties, I said.’ Valerie’s voice was pure steel.
Freddie put back the potatoes.
Looking across at Lizzie, Sarah Stratton gave her a ghost of a wink.
‘You can have my roll, Fred-Fred,’ she said, lobbing it across the table to him.
Valerie opened her rosebud mouth and shut it again. She knew one must behave like a lady at all times, and not brawl with one’s hubby in public. Then she suddenly noticed that James, who’d ground to a halt with Monica, was looking very put out.
‘What’s your programme about on Monday?’ Valerie asked him across the table.
Paul Stratton, on Monica’s left, seized his opportunity. Turning to her, he said in a low voice, ‘It’s awfully good of you to take Sarah under your wing this evening. I know how close you were to Winifred.’
Monica almost choked on her roast beef. She didn’t want to talk about Winifred.
‘It meant so much to Sarah,’ went on Paul. ‘She was so worried about coming tonight.’
She doesn’t look worried now, thought Monica, watching Sarah laughing up at Bas.
‘I felt guilty at the time,’ said Paul rather heartily. ‘But we are all sinners, are we not? What happened to Sarah and me was part of a loving relationship. All sides behaved with dignity. I feel I can now walk down Cotchester High Street with my head held high.’
Do you indeed, thought Monica furiously.
‘But one can’t destroy something that’s lasted twenty-five years over-night,’ said Paul, spearing a piece of Yorkshire pudding. ‘I still miss Win and the girls, particularly when I see old friends like you and Tony.’
He wants my sympathy, thought Monica incredulously. He’s utterly destroyed my best friend, and he wants me to feel sorry for
‘Do you correspond with Win?’ asked Paul.
Fortunately deliverance appeared in the form of one of the hall porters, who whispered a message in Monica’s ear.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said, and banging the table with her spoon, yelled down to Tony at the other end, ‘That was a message from Rupert. He can’t make it after all. Something urgent has come up.’
‘Probably Rupert’s cock,’ said Lizzie idly, earning herself a thunderous look of disapproval from James.
‘Pity,’ said Sarah lightly. ‘I was 50 looking forward to meeting him.’
‘There’ll be other occasions,’ said Bas, leaning back as a waitress removed his plate.
Tony, for a minute, was unable to disguise his rage.
‘Of all the fucking bad manners,’ he exploded.
Rupert’s defection put a considerable dampener on the evening. It was not until the syllabub had been handed round in tall glasses that Bas Baddingham, who was among other things a partner in a local estate agents,
