Rivals

have bottles of Malibu under the floorboards. But I had a nice half-term report from her house mistress, saying Caitlin was a dear girl who’d settled in well, but was too easily satisfied.’

‘Not something her future husband is going to grumble about,’ said Rupert, who was watching Taggie. He liked making her blush.

‘Caitlin’s like Taggie,’ said Maud. ‘Watches too much television.’

‘Sharon’s only allowed to watch occasionally at weekends,’ said Valerie smugly. ‘When I was young, my sister and I made our own amusements.’

‘So did I,’ agreed Rupert, ‘until Nanny told me it would make me go blind.’

Ignoring him, Valerie thought how much more attractive was James, with his charming boyish smile, than Rupert, who was always leading Freddie astray and making risque remarks.

James, winding up Sarah’s interview, asked her if she had any plans for a career.

‘You must know — as a very famous man yourself,’ Sarah answered admiringly, ‘that wives of famous men have to take second place.’

‘It is possible to be famous and caring, Sarah,’ said James huskily.

‘Of course,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m just saying if you marry someone who’s been married before, you’re just that little bit more anxious to make the marriage work, to not put your own career first — to prove everyone wrong who said it wouldn’t last. So you just try harder.’

Taggie was shocked. How could Sarah say that, when she was busy having an affair with Rupert? It was only after a few minutes Taggie realized that Valerie was telling her all about the boutique.

‘You must pop in some time,’ said Valerie. ‘I know it’s difficult, dressing when you’re so tall, but I’m sure I could find something lovely for you.’

‘That’s really kind,’ said Taggie gratefully.

Rupert, watching Taggie, decided she really was very beautiful. It was as though someone had taken a fine black pen and drawn lines along her lashes and round the irises of those amazing silver-grey eyes. Her nose was too large, but the curve of the soft pink mouth emphasized by the very short upper lip was adorable, and he’d like to see all that lustrous black hair spilling over a pillow. She must be nearly five foot ten, he reckoned, and most of it legs, and she had the gentle, apologetic clumsiness of an Irish wolfhound, who can’t help knocking off teacups with its tail.

Noticing Rupert observing Taggie with such lazy, almost lustful affection, Maud felt a stab of jealousy.

‘Go and get another bottle of whisky from the larder, Tag,’ she said sharply, ‘and clear away all these plates.’

‘But it’s Daddy’s last bottle,’ protested Taggie.

Furious, Maud turned on her. ‘As if your father would deny a guest a drink in his own house.’

Trembling, Taggie switched off the iron, fetched the bottle from the larder and dumped it on the table with a crash. Gertrude was whining by the back door.

‘I’ll take you out, darling,’ said Taggie, pulling on a pair of black gumboots.

‘Do wrap up warm,’ said Valerie. ‘And if you want to get on in the country, you should wear green wellies,’ she added kindly.

‘If you really want to get on in the country,’ drawled Rupert, ‘you should get that dog’s tail straightened.’

It was the final straw. Giving him a filthy look, Taggie went out, slamming the back door behind her.

‘What’s up with her?’ asked Bas.

‘In love,’ said Maud, unscrewing the bottle of whisky. ‘Some friend of Patrick’s who hardly knows she exists. You know how moody teenagers are.’

Outside it was deliciously mild. The wind was shepherding parties of orange leaves across the lawn and sighing in the wood. The stream after the recent rain was hurtling down the garden. Above, russet clouds like stretched cotton wool didn’t quite cover the sky. Every so often through a chink glittered a brilliant star. Still shaking, Taggie tramped down the rose walk that so often in the past must have been paced by nuns, like her, praying for deliverance.

‘Oh, please God, get that horrible horrible man out of the house.’

She couldn’t stop thinking of Rupert’s lean oiled body, under the dark-blue jersey and mud-spattered white breeches. It was obvious her mother was wildly attracted to him; she’d seen the rapt expression, the flushed cheeks, the wild drinking so often before. And Rupert was leading her mother on, making those beastly salacious (there, at last she’d used her word for the day) remarks, and drinking all her father’s drink, and eating all his supper.

Despite the mildness of the night, she shivered as she contemplated the rows ahead if Maud started one of her things. She, Taggie, would get dragged in to provide alibis. Well, she wouldn’t cover up for her mother this time, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t.

Her father didn’t want hassle at the moment; he needed keeping calm. Turning towards the house, its great battlements and turrets confronting the shadowy garden with a timeless strength, she felt slightly comforted. Surely the house would look after them.

After ‘Cotswold Round-Up’, James and Sarah, both feeling rather elated, were soon cut down to size.

‘What did you think of the interview, Cameron?’ asked James.

‘I’d rather watch slugs copulate,’ snapped Cameron.

Sarah in turn rang Paul. ‘Was I OK?’ she asked eagerly.

‘You were very clear,’ said Paul. ‘Have you seen Tony?’

‘Yes,’ said Sarah sulkily.

‘Did he say anything about putting me on the Board?’

‘No,’ said Sarah.

‘Come and have a drink,’ said James, as she slammed down the receiver.

‘Yes please,’ said Sarah.

Soon after Taggie took Gertrude out, Valerie went home. Maud, Basil and Rupert carried on carousing. Going into the kitchen much later, Taggie was relieved to find only Bas and Maud.

‘Daddy’s interviewing Lord Wooton in a few minutes,’ she said.

‘My husband,’ Maud told Basil, ‘always becomes the person he’s interviewing. When he did Margaret Thatcher he spent the week wearing power suits, talking about “circum-starnces”, and calling me Denis in bed.’

Noticing Taggie’s look of disapproval, Basil patted the chair beside him and said the interview should be interesting as Tony was pulling out every stop to get Maurice Wooton to join the Corinium Board.

Rupert returned from the downstairs loo, waving the New Statesman. ‘Don’t tell me Declan reads this,’ he said in outrage.

Maud nodded. ‘And actually believes it.’

‘But he can’t be a socialist when he earns such a vast salary.’

‘I know,’ sighed Maud. ‘He’s utterly inconsistent.’

‘I expect he’d like to give some of it away,’ protested Taggie angrily, ‘if everyone didn’t spend it all.’

‘If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head,’ snapped Maud, ‘you’d better go to bed.’ She’d never known Taggie answer back like this.

Over in Studio 3 Declan always went into himself before a programme, but he nodded when Tony came on to the floor, reeking of brandy and waving a huge cigar. Tony was in an excellent mood; two of Corinium’s news stories had been used with a by-line by ITN; he’d just had an excellent dinner with Maurice Wooton, and now he’d got his way about Declan doing this interview, it was the thin end of the wedge. Declan couldn’t refuse to do other specials now — Freddie Jones next week, perhaps.

‘Maurice is just having a pee. He’s been made-up,’ he said to Declan. ‘Give him a nice easy ride. He may have a reputation as a hatchet man, but he runs a huge empire, he’s devoted to his grandchildren and does an enormous amount for charity. He’s also delightful if you get him on to opera or his cats.’

‘Just show his caring face, Declan,’ said Cameron from the control room. ‘And Camera 2, can you try to avoid Lord Wooton’s bald patch?’

Tonight’s vision mixer, sitting in front of her row of lit-up buttons, massaged her neck and opened a Kit Kat. It had been a long day. Daysee Butler fingered her stopwatch. In his earpiece Declan could hear her talking about her