‘We must do a series on local studs called “Dongs of Praise”,’ Janey Lloyd-Foxe was saying. ‘We can start off with Rupert; then we won’t have to pay him a fee.’
‘Rupert’d screw a fee out of us anyway,’ said Charles.
‘Well, the programme’s about screwing,’ said Janey.
Janey was absolutely gorgeous, thought Taggie. Rupert had said she was nearly forty, but, except for the fine pencilling of lines round her wicked dark brown eyes, you’d never have known it. Poor Billy, her husband, was abroad covering the Paris Tennis Tournament for the BBC, and Janey had turned up with the most adorable baby, who was so fat, smiling and gurgling that even the men wanted to hold her. And Janey was so blonde and beautiful, and had such wonderful brown breasts after a week in Portugal, that no one minded her breastfeeding at all.
‘I’ve got a terrific idea for a game show,’ Janey was now saying. ‘You have a panel and they have to guess who the celebrity is by interviewing the cleaners who work for them. We call it “Daily Daily”. Mrs Makepiece can give us some wonderful stories about James Vereker, and Mrs Bodkin would be riveting about Rupert’s goings on. Mrs Bodkin used to work for us,’ continued Janey, shifting the baby to her right breast. ‘The first time we got a cordless telephone she found it in our bed and, assuming it was some auto-erotic device, discreetly hid it in my pants’ drawer. Then, when it started ringing, Billy, who was expecting some summons to jump for Britain, went frantic trying to find it.’
Everyone screamed with laughter.
‘Don’t you think it’s a brilliant idea, Declan?’
‘No,’ said Declan, who already adored Janey. ‘The IBA would think it otterly undemocratic.’
‘Well, what about an English “Dallas”, wife-swapping in the Royal triangle?’ said Janey.
‘Later,’ said Declan, ‘when we’ve got the franchise.’
They were all so bright and clever, thought Taggie wistfully. She had contributed nothing. ‘An army marches on its stomach,’ Declan was fond of telling her, but she was sure that everyone would have been just as happy with an Indian takeaway this evening and that her father had only suggested she did the food in order to involve her.
In the house opposite, a lot of young people were sprawled on the drawing-room carpet drinking red wine and reading the Sunday papers. It all came back to reading, thought Taggie despairingly. If she didn’t keep at it, she’d lose the ability more and more, like not talking French. She
She pored over the Estragon recipe in the book, but half the words were in French. Embarrassed at having to resort to a tape recorder she shut the door, so no one could hear.
She was worried about Rupert too. He’d been edgy and refused to eat anything when he’d popped in earlier, then furious because he’d forgotten to bring up the T-shirts. He’d also taken an instant dislike to Professor Graystock, whom he hadn’t met before, and who had black straggly hair, like a jumble-sale crone, a wet, sensual mouth and a pale, waxy, formless face.
‘Who’s he in mourning for?’ Rupert asked Taggie in horror.
‘No one, I don’t think.’
‘Must be. Look at his fingernails and the inside of his collar.’
Then Rupert had pushed off, promising he and the T-shirts would be back later. Taggie was sure he didn’t look after himself properly. If she made the chicken particularly nice, he might eat something this evening.
At eight o’clock the first bottle of Bollinger was cracked as they waited for the final draft to be ready. Declan had just re-written the last page to give the whole thing a uniformity of style. Ursula and Freddie’s secretary were busy collating everything and Freddie and Declan were now folding up the confidential memos listing Harold White, Georgie Baines, Charles, Seb and Billy as Heads of various departments and putting these memos into envelopes.
‘Pity we can’t add Cameron Cook,’ sighed Freddie.
‘Rupert would have rung by now if he had anything to report,’ said Declan, who preferred it that way.
Dame Enid and Maud, both well away, were now playing duets. The Lord-Lieutenant had lost so much money to Bas he’d probably have to sell another Pre-Raphaelite, but he couldn’t have enjoyed himself more. There were so many pretty women to gaze at, and they were all such splendid chaps, and Rupert had promised he should meet Joanna Lumley very soon.
Janey, who was well stuck into the Bollinger, was breastfeeding again.
‘Mother and child — a lovely sight,’ said the Bishop who’d just arrived.
‘So much prettier than Deirdre Kill-Programme and her disgusting brat,’ said Georgie Baines to Seb Burrows.
‘Please,’ said Charles Fairburn faintly.
‘That baby’s drinking neat Bollinger,’ said Bas. ‘That’s why it’s so cheerful.’
‘I hope all our burn money isn’t being squandered on bubbly,’ said Professor Graystock, who was on his fourth glass.
‘It isn’t,’ said Taggie quickly. ‘Rupert’s paid for all of it.’
Helped by Seb, she was now putting out big plates of chicken Estragon and rice salad. She’d worried herself sick that the sauce had gone wrong, but mercifully it had thickened as it cooled.
‘That looks marvellous, Taggie. I wish you’d marry me when I grow up,’ said Bas, who was now comfortably ensconced on the sofa with Janey and a full bottle.
‘This tomato salad is out of this world,’ said Seb, carrying the bowl in.
Taggie liked Seb. He had a good body, hunky without being fat, thick light-brown hair, short at the back and long at the front, very direct slate grey eyes and he was very nearly as tall as she was.
Then, as Big Ben struck nine, the applications were ready: forty copies of beautifully typed, ring-bound pages. On the front, beneath the clear plastic cover, was a drawing of a beautiful boy with his hand to his forehead, standing on the capitals T and U of the word Venturer against a clear cerulean background. On the back, also protected by a plastic cover, was an exquisite water-colour map of the area, painted by Caitlin, including the towns and villages, with little drawings of the relevant houses, where all the prospective Venturer directors lived, and with pale blue arrows from each of them converging on Cotchester. It had cost a lot to print, but they’d all thought it was worth it.
Everyone went mad with excitement as they sat round reading, and at last holding in their hands tangible proof that it was all really happening.
‘Don’t spill drink over them, for Christ’s sake,’ said Declan.
‘It’s very good, Declan,’ said Harold White. ‘I’d forgotten how well you write. I love the bit about “carpets being so thick and offices so sound-proofed on the Corinium directors’ floor, that all one can hear is the faint rustle of nests being feathered”.’
‘I liked that bit too,’ said Declan, blushing.
‘And I love this bit about Corinium’s local news programmes being presented by “pretentious pastel-clad narcissists”,’ boomed Dame Enid. ‘That boring little fart Vereker won’t like that one bit.’
‘I hope that’s not actionable,’ said Professor Graystock primly. ‘And are you quite sure there was a Roman camp at Whychey?’
‘Quite,’ said Declan.
‘I like my cottage,’ said Marti Gluckstein, examining the map at the back. ‘I must come and look at it some time. Ouch!’ he yelled, as Freddie kicked him sharply on the ankle.
‘Sorry, but Declan thinks you spend every weekend there,’ whispered Freddie.
‘I do like your ideas for religious programmes,’ said Janey, smiling up at the Bishop, who went very pink.
Declan saw that everyone’s glasses were full, then got to his feet. ‘I’d just like to thank you all for having the courage to join Venturer, and for all the hard work you’ve put in already. But I must warn you, this has been the easy bit. Once it’s out in the open that we’re pitching for Corinium, Tony Baddingham is going to do everything to discredit us and rake up dirt about all of us. Our only hope is to stick together and trosst each other.’ He smiled round at everyone. ‘This is a very very proud day for me. Let’s all raise our glasses.’
‘Victory to Venturer,’ said Henry Hampshire, and amazingly, unselfconsciously, everyone followed suit.
‘I shall compose a battle song for Venturer and we’ll make a record,’ said Dame Enid.
‘I hope it’s better than the song cycle she’s just written,’ muttered Seb to Taggie. ‘It sounded more like a lot of tom cats being garrotted by knicker elastic. This chicken is just as much a work of art as your father’s application,’ he went on. ‘Can I have some more?’
