made an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
‘Has anyone else heard a rumour that Declan O’Hara’s bought Penscombe Priory?’ he asked.
For a second there was a stunned silence. Then all the women acted with the frantic excitement of dogs when their leads are rattled.
‘I’m going on a crash diet tomorrow,’ squeaked Lizzie, dropping her spoon with a clatter.
‘Oh why didn’t we buy a house in Penscombe rather than Chalford?’ wailed Sarah Stratton.
‘How much did he pay for it?’ asked Valerie Jones.
‘Half a million’ said Bas.
There was a long pause as everyone did frantic sums to work out how much that now made their houses worth.
‘That’s an awful lot,’ grumbled Valerie.
‘But it’s such a romantic house,’ sighed Lizzie, ‘and that lovely wild garden.’
‘Hellishly cold,’ shuddered James.
‘And faces North,’ said Valerie.
‘So does Declan O’Hara,’ said Sarah dreamily, earning herself a sharp look from Paul.
‘Rather a lot to pay for a weekend retreat,’ said James, looking put out.
To hell with impressing Rupert with the secret he’d been hugging to himself all day, thought Tony. He had a good enough audience as it was, and it was too late for any of them to leak the story to the press tonight.
‘Declan’s going to live here,’ said Tony, looking slowly down the table. ‘He’s joining Corinium in September.’
There was a gasp of excitement, followed by another stunned silence.
Troublesome, tetchy, but monumentally talented, Declan O’Hara was simply the BBC’s hottest property. His weekly interviews with the great and very famous went out at prime time and were avidly watched and discussed by the entire nation. Nothing like the normal chat show host, he indulged in no back slapping, nor drinking in the green room, nor bandying round of Christian names before a programme. Nor did he bounce around on long pastel sofas, cosily exchanging confidences.
His victims sat facing him, and, once on air, like a Jesuit priest, he really listened to them, relentlessly probing with the most devastating questions and waiting so unbearably long for an answer that they invariably stumbled into a confession. To the intense disappointment of his armies of female fans, the camera was constantly trained on the person he was interviewing rather than on Declan himself.
Poor James, thought Lizzie, oh poor, poor James. That must be the series of networked interviews scheduled for the Autumn.
‘How the hell did you persuade Declan?’ asked Bas.
‘He’s fed up with the Beeb,’ said Tony. ‘The last straw was axing his interview with Paisley. People who saw the video said it was absolute carnage. They didn’t think Paisley would go the fifteen rounds. Then they hacked great contentious chunks out of his interview with Reagan. He wants to go out live, so this kind of thing can’t happen. He will when he joins us.’
‘You’ll never get people like Reagan coming down to Cotchester,’ said Paul Stratton.
‘You will for Declan,’ said Freddie. ‘The BBC must be as sick as a parrot.’
‘They’re not pleased,’ Tony was purring like a great leopard now, ‘but it’s not exactly our job to please the Beeb.’
Clicking their tongues, the waitresses removed the untouched syllabubs.
‘Declan’s a bit of a pinko,’ said Paul, disapprovingly.
‘That’s putting it mildly,’ said Tony, ‘but as it looks as though the socialists will be in power next year unless you lot get your act together, we can’t afford to be too right wing any more.’
Trying, for James’s sake, to curb her excitement, Lizzie turned to Monica. ‘Have you met him?’
‘They came to lunch,’ said Monica. ‘Declan seems a super chap.’
Sarah and Lizzie caught each other’s eyes again and giggled at such a totally inadequate description.
‘A bit remote,’ Monica went on, ‘probably shy. His wife is charming.’
‘Beautiful?’ asked Lizzie.
‘Oh yes, exceptional.’
‘Pity,’ sighed Sarah, earning another scowl from Paul.
‘And three utterly ravishing children,’ said Monica. ‘A boy of twenty at Trinity, Dublin, and two teenage girls about seventeen and fourteen.’
‘With Rupert living just across the valley,’ said Lizzie, shaking her shaggy head, ‘Declan must be barking. He’ll have to lock his wife and both daughters up in chastity belts.’
‘The youngest kiddy will make a friend for Sharon, although Sharon made a lot of friends at Pony Club camp. I must get them together when the O’Haras move in,’ said Valerie.
Catching Sarah’s eye yet again, Lizzie decided Sarah was definitely going to be a mate.
A group of young waitresses from other tables were now hovering, wondering if it were the right moment to ask James Vereker for his autograph. Tony was also looking at James and experiencing a glow of pure pleasure. Corinium’s most popular presenter was feeling all the pique and disquiet of a big fish who’s been basking for years in a rock pool, then suddenly sees the fin of a shark coming over the horizon. James’s exquisitely straight nose would be frightfully put out of joint by Declan’s arrival. James, Tony decided, had been getting a shade above himself recently. There was nothing Tony loved more than cutting people down to size.
As liqueurs and cigars came round, Tony moved down the table beside Freddie Jones. Now Rupert had stood him up so summarily, he was even keener to get Freddie on to the Board. With satellite television in the offing, Freddie’s millions and electronic expertise would be invaluable.
‘When Declan arrives, we’ll get him to interview you,’ said Tony.
Valerie also changed places and sat next to Monica.
‘What a lovely meal, Lady Anthony,’ she said.
‘Oh, please call me Monica.’
‘Well, thank you, Monica,’ said Valerie gratified. ‘You may, if you like, call me Mousie. That’s Fred-Fred’s pet name for me. I only allow very special friends to become members of the Mousie club.’
Oblivious of Monica’s look of amazement and Sarah’s and Lizzie’s complete hysterics, Valerie ploughed on. ‘I wanted to pick your brains, Monica, about public schools. Wayne is eleven but he’s extra bright, so we’re thinking of Winchester or even Eton, but I just wondered if you and Tony had been satisfied with Rugborough.’
‘Well, Archie’s very happy there,’ said Monica, her raucous voice softening. ‘The only problem, if one’s got a flat in London, is that Rugborough’s on the Central Line and, whenever he gets bored, Archie keeps nipping home on the tube. It drives Tony demented. Archie’s supposed to be doing his O-levels.’
‘Our problem,’ said Valerie smugly, ‘is to
The band was playing ‘Red Red Wine’. The brilliantly lit ballroom beckoned. The vast springy floor was now filling up with couples. Like a shaken kaleidoscope, the red coats of the men with their flying tails clashed gloriously with the stinging fuchsia pinks and electric blues of the women’s dresses.
‘I wouldn’t mind if Tony’d given me an inkling beforehand,’ said James Vereker furiously, as, oblivious for once of the admiring glances of most of the young girls in the room, he lugged Lizzie round the floor, ‘but I looked such a pratt, knowing nothing about it, and Monica actually admitted never watching my programme. Says she prefers BBC 2. What kind of a Chairman’s wife is that?’
Lizzie let him rabbit on. She felt terribly sorry for him, but it was such exciting news that Declan was moving to Corinium, and she was fascinated by what was happening on the floor.
Monica was dancing with the Lord-Lieutenant now. For someone so mad about opera, she had no sense of rhythm. Gyrating three feet apart, they looked like two ostriches on hot bricks.
‘Red
As the tempo speeded up, Valerie took the floor with Freddie, showing off her ‘Come Dancing’ skills, fishtailing, telemarquing, reversing, correcting Freddie sharply whenever he made a mistake. Freddie, his little black shoes twinkling, laughed and took it in good part.
‘What on earth did you find to say to James Vereker’s wife?’ asked Valerie, as the band paused for a moment.
