She’d never been wild about Charles. He knew too much about her, and with such fantastic men around she didn’t want to waste her first party on one who was both drunk and gay.
‘Is that very good-looking man over there Rupert Campbell-Black?’ she asked.
‘Unfair to Rupert,’ said Charles. ‘That’s James Vereker, Corinium’s most popular presenter, drinking Perrier and working the room. He’s fearfully put out by your husband joining Corinium.’
James was, in fact, absolutely furious. He’d arrived as late as he dared in order to make an entrance, then Declan had swanned in even later. Now he was trapped by three of Monica’s friends who ‘did an enormous amount for charity’, silly old bags who all wanted him to open their Autumn bazaars and Christmas fayres for nothing. To look at Monica’s toe nails, thought James in disgust, you’d have reckoned she weeded the garden with her feet; and Paul Stratton, who’d put on a hell of a lot of weight, looked ludicrous in those tight new jeans, and a denim shirt undone to the waist to reveal scanty grey chest hair. James, who’d nearly worn jeans and an unbuttoned blue shirt, was so glad he’d put on instead a new grey jersey with a pink elephant on the front, knitted by one of his adoring fans.
‘Come and meet Maud O’Hara, James,’ yelled Charles Fairburn.
James extracted himself from the old bags and wandered over. Maud O’Hara was certainly extraordinarily beautiful.
‘Is that pink elephant on your bosom meant to reproach the rest of us for not drinking Perrier?’ said Charles.
‘If the cap fits, Charles,’ smirked James. ‘Don’t you think it’s a nice sweater, Maud? Sent me by a fan.’ He smiled engagingly.
Charles peered at the sweater: ‘Not sure about the collar.’
‘It might look better if you wore a brooch,’ said Maud.
James suddenly decided he didn’t think Maud was beautiful at all.
‘Hullo,’ said Lizzie Vereker, coming over and hugging Maud, ‘lovely to see you, I’m so pleased you’ve met James. Thank you for all that lovely whisky the other day. Are you straight yet?’
‘Don’t ever ask
Lizzie giggled: ‘Rupert’s convinced some animal rights freak called the fire brigade because she thought he was cruel to burn his stubble.’
‘Who was the blonde?’ asked Charles. ‘Beattie Johnson?’
‘No, that finished months ago. Rupert won’t say. The
‘Have you heard that Titania’s so petrified of getting AIDS, she’s refusing to kiss Bottom until he’s had a blood test?’ said Charles.
‘Is Rupert here?’ asked Maud, who was not interested in Corinium gossip.
‘Somewhere. Probably wandered off down one of those garden glades in which everyone except Monica behaves badly,’ said Lizzie.
‘Speak for yourself,’ said James disapprovingly.
It was certainly a beautiful garden. Rising out of a sea of lavender, roses coming up for a second pale-pink innings rampaged up the walls of the house. Pastel drifts of delphiniums, Japanese anemones, and Michaelmas daisies were sheltered from the bitter winds by yew hedges nine feet high. Two plump labradors panted on lawns as smooth as an Oxford quad. Beyond was a fish pond and a water garden, fed by the same winding River Fleet that flowed through Cotchester.
‘What are you going to do about the Priory garden?’ asked Lizzie.
‘Get a donkey to keep down the lawn,’ said Maud.
‘I hope to God we eat soon,’ said a harassed-looking man with a moth-eaten yellow beard, and a sleeping baby hanging from a baby sling. He was also hanging on to two frantically struggling children by the scruffs of their necks.
‘There is a limited amount of time one can entertain one’s kids feeding Tony’s fish,’ he added helplessly.
Lizzie introduced Simon Harris. All his skin seemed to be flaking in the open air, thought Maud.
‘How’s Fiona?’ asked Lizzie.
‘Still in hospital for another three weeks. It’s the nanny’s day off, or I’d never have brought this lot,’ said Simon, as the two hyperactive horrors strained at their collars like bull terriers after a cat. ‘If they get at Monica’s Meissen I’m finished. I just couldn’t resist a square meal,’ he added pathetically.
Lizzie opened her mouth to ask him to supper, then closed it again. Simon was so boring at the moment, and she knew James, who was convinced Simon was about to get the bullet, would think it a waste of time.
The panting labradors struggled to their feet, waving their tails as Monica appeared at the conservatory door.
‘Lunch,’ she said. ‘You stay outside with the children,’ she added firmly to Simon. ‘I’ll get someone to bring you something out. I like children normally, but Simon’s two will keep pulling the dogs’ ears, and they keep knocking over my new plants,’ she added in an undertone to Maud.
As Maud walked into the dining-room, Declan came towards her looking really happy for the first time that week: ‘Darling, you must meet Rupert. He knows Johnny very well. He’s given me some great stuff about him. It’s added a totally new dimension to his character.’
Maud caught her breath. How could I ever have mistaken James Vereker for
Rupert and Declan were both tall and broad in the shoulder, but there the resemblance ended. Declan, with his heavily lined, broken-nosed, shaggy-haired splendour, was like a battle-scarred charger returning from the wars. Rupert was like a sleek capricious thoroughbred, rippling with muscle and breeding, about to win the Derby at a canter. Yet in their great fame and their intrinsic belief (despite Declan’s current self-doubts) that they were still the greatest in the world at what they did, they were the same, and therefore separate from the rest of the party. At that moment both James and Maud felt a bitter stab of envy, that Declan had been admitted so effortlessly to the same club to which Johnny Friedlander and Rupert belonged.
‘Welcome to Penscombe.’ Rupert kissed Maud on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t at home when you moved in, but I’ve been frantically busy.’
‘So we hear, Rupert,’ said Charles archly. ‘What’s this about fire engines and a burning bush?’
‘Fuck off, Fairburn,’ said Rupert, grinning.
‘Come on, don’t hold up the queue,’ said Monica, beckoning from behind a long white table. ‘You’re getting Coronation chicken again, I’m afraid.’
Maud stood in front of Declan and Rupert, gulping down her third glass of wine and feeling totally unnerved.
‘I know your house very well,’ Rupert told her. ‘I remember pursuing something that wasn’t a fox across your haha at one party. Ended up ripping the front of my trousers off on the barbed wire. How’s the garden?’
‘A groundsel estate, and the nettles are on the warpath,’ said Declan.
‘Better get those tackled professionally,’ said Rupert, ‘or you’ll never get rid of them. I’ve got a man who’ll do it for you.’
‘What about the wood?’ asked Declan.
‘Forestry commission’ll give you a grant for that. They’ll whip out all the dead stuff and plant you new young trees as a quid pro quo for the firewood.’
‘How wonderfully positive you are,’ murmured Maud. ‘Perhaps you can give me advice on re-decorating our bedroom?’
‘Re-decorating’s never been a priority of mine. Not in bedrooms,’ said Rupert.
‘Tuck in, Maud,’ said Monica impatiently. ‘And you haven’t met my brother-in-law, Bas. He’s dying to meet you.’
Bas was about five inches taller than Tony and decidedly attractive in a sleek, wicked, Latin way. He kissed Maud’s hand, then turned it over and buried his lips in her wrist.
‘Caleche,’ he murmured. ‘I adore it. Do you wear it all over?’
Maud laughed. ‘Are you local?’
