‘I’ll help you. I’m doing French for O-levels,’ said Sharon, the daughter of the house, who’d inherited her father’s bulk and his sweet nature. ‘I’m sure the French for pheasant is
Mrs Makepiece, Valerie’s daily, who’d come to help with the washing up, was just raking the shagpile in the lounge, flicking away non-existent dust when Valerie rushed in and realigned the
In the kitchen, Taggie finished the pudding and put the pheasants into the oven. She must remember to add chopped dill to the prawn sauce. She wished Valerie hadn’t wanted things quite so elaborate. Everything was going swimmingly until Valerie came down dressed, and insisted Taggie put on a maid’s black dress and a white apron which came miles above her black-stockinged knees, and then made her put her hair up. Even Taggie baulked at the white maid’s cap.
‘I expect you to answer the door,’ said Valerie, ‘supervise everything in the kitchen and wait at table.’
‘You’re in the army now,’ sung Reg, the hired butler, now on his third bottle.
‘Will you come and watch “Dynasty” with me?’ Sharon asked Taggie.
‘You’re not watching rubbish like that, Sharon. You’re to hand round nibbles and make yourself pleasant,’ snapped Valerie, nearly jumping out of her skin, as music blared out from the speakers all over the house.
‘It’s Daddy’s signature tune,’ said Taggie in delight.
‘Turn that horrible din down, Fred-Fred,’ screamed Valerie.
‘Monica loves classical music,’ said Freddie.
‘Oh well, leave it on, then.’
The doorbell rang. ‘Go and answer it, Agatha. Put the men’s coats in the downstairs toilet, and the ladies’ coats upstairs in the master bedroom, and then direct them towards the lounge, where Mr Jones and I will receive them.’
It was Paul and Sarah Stratton. For a second Taggie and Sarah stared at each other, remembering their previous encounter on Rupert’s tennis court. Then, with a wicked little smile, Sarah took off her red velvet cloak. Her tan had gone, but a black taffeta dress, off-the-shoulders and with a bustle, showed off her beautiful, opulent figure. Never having seen Paul before, Taggie thought he looked dreadfully old and careworn to be married to such a glowing over-excited young girl.
The next arrival was Cameron Cook, who Taggie recognized from Declan’s description and tried not to hate. Declan had omitted to say she was so beautiful, and wonderfully dressed this evening in a dark-red smoking jacket and black tie with a wing collar, her hair sleeked back to show off her smooth white forehead and thick black brows. She looked straight through Taggie, and, having no coat to take, stalked past her into the drawing-room.
She was shortly followed by Tony and Monica. Tony’d been away at a conference, and for once, because he was cleaning up Corinium’s act, hadn’t taken Cameron with him. Now he was unflatteringly unpleased to see her. The big smile he switched on like a light bulb switched off as though there’d been a mega powercut. He always felt twitchy when Cameron and Monica were in the same room, and, even worse, Cameron, it seemed, had been invited for Rupert, his old rival. And there was Declan’s bloody signature tune blaring out. He was still extremely off Declan, but his hopes of having a good bitch about him this evening had been foiled by the presence of Declan’s stupid daughter.
‘This music is wonderful,’ exclaimed Monica.
‘Come and see it in action,’ said Freddie, bearing her off to witness the electronic wizardry in his study.
‘Have you got any Wagner?’ said Monica.
Next moment, to Valerie’s horror. Siegfried’s funeral march pounded deafeningly through the house.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ hissed Tony to Cameron.
‘I was asked,’ said Cameron coldly.
‘We must be very careful.’
‘Of course,’ said Cameron, holding her glass out to Reg for an instant refill. ‘We mustn’t jeopardize the franchise.’
Valerie was telling Paul about the house: ‘We replaced those dreary old mullioned windows with picture windows.’
‘How on earth did you get planning permission?’ said Paul in horror. ‘I thought this was a listed building.’
‘Grade 1,’ said Valerie smugly. ‘Fred-Fred has friends in high places.’
‘Please God, don’t let the sauce curdle,’ prayed Taggie in the kitchen as she added egg yolks and vinegar.
‘Door, love,’ said Reg, giving her a pinch on the bottom. ‘You look much the sexiest of the lot.’
It was Lizzie and James, who’d plainly had a row because of Lizzie’s catastrophic navigation. James loved making an entrance, but not arriving half an hour after his boss, who was looking bootfaced and standing as far away from Cameron as possible talking to Paul Stratton. James immediately gravitated towards Sarah and thought how nice it was to see Cameron out of her depth socially, and for once rather insecure.
Lizzie, who looked awful (she’d worked too late on her novel again and had not had time to wash her hair), had brought some bantams’ eggs for Freddie and Valerie, and was thrilled to see Taggie: ‘I know it’ll all be delicious; don’t worry.’
Valerie looked at her watch yet again: quarter past nine and no Rupert.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Freddie, filling up everyone’s glasses. ‘Nice to relax on a Friday.’
‘Freddie’s equipment is quite staggering,’ said Monica returning from the study.
Sarah caught Lizzie’s eye and giggled.
Mashing the potatoes in the kitchen, Taggie was going frantic. Everything would be ruined unless they ate soon.
‘Off you go,’ said Reg, as the doorbell rang.
Crimson with rage and embarrassment, bending her legs to make her maid’s dress look longer, Taggie answered the door. Grinning, Rupert walked into the hall. ‘Called any good fire engines lately?’
‘Would you like to take off your coat?’ said Taggie stiffly.
‘I’d much rather take off your dress,’ said Rupert. ‘You look like the object of all red-blooded men’s fantasies. I’m late. I’d better go and make my peace.’
Valerie hid her rage less well than Taggie: ‘Rupert, where
Cameron choked on her champagne. Having never actually met Rupert and having been poisoned by Tony’s almost pathological jealousy, she’d expected him to just be another loud-mouthed, upper-class English shit. In the flesh he was glorious, and much more American-looking than English.
Having apologized to Valerie, Rupert turned to kiss Monica.
‘You haven’t met Cavendish Cook, have you, Rupert?’ said Monica.
‘How do you do, sir,’ said Rupert, admiring Cameron’s smoking jacket.
‘Cavendish works for Tony,’ went on Monica. ‘I gather you won another prize last week, Cavendish; jolly good show. I meant to watch the programme last summer, but unfortunately they were doing
James was in ecstasy — Cavendish Cook! There were some advantages in Monica’s addiction to BBC 2 after all.
Seeing Sharon sneaking through the hall towards the kitchen, Valerie gave an eldritch screech.
‘Sharon, Sharon, come in here and give Auntie Monica some nibbles. She keeps sloping off to watch “Dynasty”,’ she added to Monica. ‘I won’t have my kids watching soaps.’
‘Oh I love “Dynasty”,’ said Monica, smiling at Sharon. ‘Do tell me whether Blake and Crystal have made it up.’
Rupert walked over to James, who was still talking to Sarah.
‘That was a bloody good interview you did with the PM,’ he said. ‘And she thought you were marvellous. Asked me for your address so she could write to you.’
James, who’d always hated Rupert, melted faster than a snowball in the microwave. Then Rupert turned to Sarah, kissing her white shoulder.
‘Evening, my darling, that’s an incredibly sexy dress, I don’t know why you bother to wear any clothes at all.
