parents had gone up somewhat precipitately to bed. The debris of their dinner was still on the kitchen table, one of the lids of the Aga was up and Aengus had knocked over a half-full bottle of whisky which was still dripping on to the flagstones.
‘Oh God,’ sighed Taggie. ‘Can’t they ever do anything for themselves?’
The cow parsley she’d picked that morning was already shedding petals like scurf all over the Welsh dresser.
Nothing lasts, she thought in despair.
Across the valley, Rupert’s house was almost blotted out by the trees. There were no lights on. He was probably tucked up in bed with Cameron. It was always when she was really tired that the longing became unbearable.
Rupert, in fact, had spent the day at the Cup Final, making the main speech at the official dinner afterwards. Despite horrific setbacks, he was the first Minister for Sport who’d tackled hooliganism head on, and when he sat down they cheered him to the rooftops.
After the dinner was over, however, he beat a discreet retreat, taking a bottle of brandy over to that other Wembley stadium, home of the Horse of the Year Show, where he persuaded an obliging groundsman with a couple of tenners to put on the lights.
Sitting in the competitors’ stand, drinking out of his bottle, he proceeded hazily to relive his past glories as a show jumper. And suddenly the huge arena seemed to be filled with coloured jumps and with the ghosts of all his great horses: Revenge, Rocky, Belgravia, Mayfair, Arcturus, Snakepit and even the cussed Macaulay. He could hear the sound of the bell, the screams of the Pony Club, the roar of applause, even the voice of the commentator, Dudley Diplock, who always got the names wrong. Oh Christ, what was he to do?
Putting his head in his hands, he was overwhelmed with despair as he realized, despite his political triumphs and the buzz of pitching for the franchise and stealing Cameron from Tony, how hopelessly empty his life was now. He hadn’t got fat when he’d given up show jumping, or taken to drink, except tonight, or to boring other people with endless anecdotes about his sporting glories as so many other great athletes had. But something had died inside him.
It was nearly midnight. The government car was still waiting outside. The groundsman wanted to lock up.
‘Probably fallen asleep,’ said Sydney, Rupert’s driver. ‘He’s a devil for dropping off anywhere. I’ll go and wake him.’
But when Sydney tapped him on the shoulder, the face Rupert raised was so stricken and haggard, that Sydney was prompted to ask if there’d been a death in the family.
‘Only myself,’ muttered Rupert, chucking away the empty bottle and stumbling to his feet. ‘Only myself.’
Taggie had just finished clearing up and feeding Gertrude the corned beef hash which Declan normally loved but had left half-eaten this evening, when the doorbell rang. Gertrude ran out barking as loudly as she could with her mouth full. Taggie followed, hastily kicking her mother’s rather grubby bra and French knickers under the radiator. For a second she thought she must be dreaming, for there, swaying in a dinner jacket, clutching a red box, was Rupert.
‘Hullo, angel. Thought I’d catch up on the gossip. Is your father in?’
‘Yes, but he and Mummy have gone to bed.’
‘I’m sorry. I saw a light on. Thought he might be working late.’
‘Do you want a drink?’
Oh God! Suddenly she remembered. Aengus had knocked over the whisky.
‘I’ve had enough,’ said Rupert. ‘I’d love a cup of coffee.’
His normally sleeked-back blond hair had flopped over his forehead, his black tie was crooked, his blue eyes crossing. Taggie realized he was absolutely plastered.
‘You didn’t drive down?’ she said in horror.
‘No, no, Syd dropped me off, Now, whatever I do I mushn’t lose this.’ Carefully he put his red box down on the kitchen table. ‘My red box, my unread box. I sometimes wonder if anyone would notice if I threw the whole lot in the Thames.’
‘Where have you been?’ said Taggie, putting the kettle on, wondering if by some miracle he might have had a bust-up with Cameron.
‘To the Cup Final.’
‘Of course. You were making a speech. How did it go?’
‘All right, I suppose. The speech that the department had written was so ghastly I tore it up and told a lot of blue stories instead. I hope no one was there from Corinium with a tape recorder.’
‘And they liked it?’
‘They seemed to. They could afford to be kind. It’s probably the last one I’ll make.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Taggie put three spoonfuls of sugar into the blackest cup of coffee and put it down on the table in front of him.
‘Thanks, darling. The PM’s announcing the election date as Thursday 24th June. At least I won a bet on it.’
‘But you’ll win,’ said Taggie, sitting down at the table beside him.
Rupert shrugged. ‘I’m not sure we will. The awful thing is, I don’t give a bugger. I’m fed up with politics.’
‘You’ll feel differently tomorrow,’ said Taggie.
At that moment Gertrude strolled in, looked beadily at Rupert, then, to Taggie’s amazement, jumped on to his knee and gave his face a quick lick, before settling down, leaving white hairs all over his dinner jacket. Rupert stroked her and laughed.
‘There are some small victories left to me,’ he said.
‘Was C–C-Cameron with you?’
Taggie felt it would be better if they could talk about her openly.
‘No, it was much too public. Every photographer would have picked us up. Anyway, Tony’s
‘It must be awfully difficult for you both.’
‘Worse for her. At least I don’t have to sleep with Tony. I wish she wasn’t so fucking insecure. She’s like a Jack Russell. One spends one’s time removing her from the target of her aggression — usually oneself.’
‘Patrick said she had a terrible childhood,’ said Taggie. ‘He didn’t give any details,’ she added quickly. ‘Just said she’d really been through it.’
What on earth am I doing defending her, she wondered.
‘I don’t believe all that junk about terrible childhoods,’ said Rupert. ‘I’ve had four stepmothers and five stepfathers. You had Declan and Maud, which is even worse.’
Taggie giggled.
‘We’re not screwed up,’ said Rupert.
That was debatable, thought Taggie.
Rupert picked up the petition. ‘Look at all these names!’ His eyes ran down page after page. ‘Christ, you’ve been working hard.’
‘It wasn’t so good today,’ said Taggie. Then she told him about the rugger club.
Rupert was absolutely furious. ‘The bastards,’ he howled. ‘Give me their names and I’ll get their ground ploughed up. But what can you expect from a lot of rugger yobbos? Poor darling, I’m so sorry. It must have been awful.’
He yawned without even putting his hand over his mouth, showing a long pink tongue, and teeth without a single stopping. Then he said, ‘Why have you written L and R on the back of your hands?’
Blushing, Taggie shoved her hands under the table.
‘I’ll drive you home,’ she said quickly.
As she started up the car, the tape came on. Frantic with embarrassment, she tried to tug it out of the machine, but Rupert’s hand closed over hers like a vice.
‘Leave it.’
‘Turn left at the A412,’ said Taggie’s deep breathy voice, ‘then keep going for two miles, then turn left just
