Score!

They had reached the great spine of the state rooms — the Picture Gallery — mostly Dutch and Flemish masters. Tristan was enraptured and went into a flurry of oh-mon-dieus, particularly over Rembrandt’s Old Shipbuilder and His Wife, whose faces were luminous with affection and inner light. If only Lucy could make the faces of his cast glow like that.

Too much enthusiasm for anything other than himself unnerved Rannaldini, who whisked them past each masterpiece, only pausing to admire Guido’s terrifying painting of Cleopatra being bitten by the asp. Etienne had been the same, thought Tristan, with a pang. As a child he had never been given time to linger over a painting.

‘Christ Healing the Paralytic.’ Consulting the guidebook, Meredith paused before a large oil. ‘He ought to have a go at Tabitha Lovell.’

‘Is she still drinking?’ Tristan tried not to sound interested.

‘Buckets,’ sighed Meredith. ‘She’ll give birth to a little pickled walnut at this rate.’

‘This is the best picture in the room.’ A good-looking official drew their attention to Charles I astride a fine grey horse. ‘His eyes really follow one round the room.’

‘So would mine given the chance,’ said Meredith admiringly.

‘This is the Blue Room,’ purred Rannaldini, ‘where one gathers for drinks before grand diplomatic occasions.’

‘This is it, glorious,’ squeaked Meredith, whipping out his notebook and scribbling frantically. ‘Corinthian pillars the colour of Harrogate toffee, sea-blue flocked wallpaper, masses of gold framing the mirrors and ceiling, pale turquoise sofas, perfect for the Summer Drawing Room and Philip’s pep talk to Carlos.’

Diluting the gilded splendour, through floor-length windows green lawns could be seen sweeping down to a lake surrounded by willows. ‘I’m going to scrap my fences and flower-beds and sweep down to my lake,’ Rannaldini was thinking aloud.

‘Take a lot of mowing,’ chided Meredith. ‘Teddy Brimscombe would give notice and no-one else would put up with you. I like this vermilion,’ he mused, as they moved into the Music Room, ‘like a winter sunset and incredibly flattering to your colouring.’

Rannaldini smoothed his hair complacently, but the smile was wiped off his face when Tristan was suddenly mobbed by a party of French tourists, demanding his autograph, taking pictures and asking after Claudine Lauzerte.

Outraged to lose the limelight for a second, Rannaldini dived under the red rope and played ‘God Save the Queen’ on the Music Room piano. Guides blanched, security men with walkie-talkies rushed in, the French tourists, melting away from Tristan, cheered and clapped as they recognized Rannaldini.

‘I couldn’t reseest it.’

‘That’s OK, Sir Roberto.’

Their last port of call was the White Drawing Room, which took all their breath away.

‘This is answer for the Great Hall,’ exclaimed Rannaldini. ‘Then for Philip’s debate with Posa we can restore our Blue Living Room to its former glory with reds and crimsons.’

‘Isn’t that the room Helen just redecorated?’ said an aghast Tristan.

‘Yes, poor darling,’ agreed Meredith. ‘We tried a hundred coats before we got the right blue. But this gilt and white is to die for. And there’s darling Queen Alexandra over the chimneypiece. She was as good about fat Edward’s philandering as Helen is about yours, Rannaldini, so we might placate her with a new portrait over the fireplace.’

Meredith does get away with murder, thought Tristan, as they trooped down the staircase.

Out in the sunshine, Rannaldini stalked off to the Palace shop.

‘We must take Sexton a present,’ said Tristan, as he and Meredith panted after him. ‘He was so heartbroken he wasn’t allowed to join us.’

‘He’d have wanted chandeliers in the larder,’ said Meredith sensibly.

‘Get him a box of royal fudge,’ mocked Rannaldini, who had bought a mug for Tabitha and crested tea-bags for Helen and Bussage.

‘I’ll get him postcards of all the interiors so he can pretend he’s been,’ said Meredith.

Out in the street Rannaldini announced he must leave them.

‘It is Isa’s birthday, I got tickets for Riverdance. Sadly, Isa cry off.’ Rannaldini looked delighted. ‘I hope Tabitha won’t be too bored with just her old stepfather.

‘Dear boy.’ He turned to Tristan who, for one miraculous moment, thought Rannaldini was going to ask him to take Isa’s place. But with an evil smile, as if he could read Tristan’s mind, Rannaldini merely thanked him for sparing the time.

‘My God,’ giggled Meredith, as Clive, Rannaldini’s henchman, glided up in the most flamboyant orange sports car.

‘A Lamborghini Diablo,’ boasted Rannaldini. ‘A beautiful girl deserve evening out in a beautiful new car.’

As Clive slid across into the passenger seat, Rannaldini took the wheel and roared off towards Hyde Park Corner.

‘Silly old ponce,’ went on Meredith. ‘Talk about mutton dressed as Lamborghini.’ Then, seeing the desolation on Tristan’s face, ‘Don’t tangle with that nest of vipers, baby boy.’

17

At first Tab had tried so hard to make her marriage work, giving up booze and fags for the sake of the baby, keeping tidy the charming cottage Rannaldini had lent her, cooking — admittedly pretty disgusting — meals. But Isa was used to a clockwork mother and a clockwork mistress, Martie in Australia, who’d both provided uncritical admiration, clean shirts, tea on the table, and an impeccable answering service.

He was also as driven as Tristan, and didn’t want to be distracted by jealous tantrums or grumbles about burst pipes. He was away most days, race-riding or at his father’s yard, where it was made quite plain Jake didn’t want Tab anywhere near his horses.

So gradually she drifted into drinking. One Sunday, when Isa had gone over to see Jake, she had downed half a bottle of vodka before starting on the ironing. Trying to watch Champions on television at the same time, she singed the colours of a very important owner. Isa could curse in Romany for over five minutes and proceeded to do so.

On the way home, he’d stopped at the garage to buy Christmas cards for all his owners.

‘You can’t send those,’ said Tab, in horror. ‘They’re all spangly and it’s horrendously naff to say “Season’s Greetings”.’

‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ snapped Isa, and handed her a fiver. ‘Here’s the stamp money. Make sure you post them tomorrow. What’s for supper?’

‘Hell, I forgot. I’ll ring for a pizza, or we could go to the Heavenly Host.’

‘We can’t afford it.’

And the row escalated. The following night Isa arrived home late to find Tab had gone out clubbing in Rutminster, and things went from bad to worse.

Isa was so cool, silent and withdrawn, Tab so up-front and tempestuous, she felt like a tidal wave hurling itself against the sea wall. Physical passion had drawn them together, but the doctor had insisted on no intercourse for the first three months.

‘It’s all right,’ bleated Tab, who was terrified Isa might find a replacement from all those groupies mobbing him on the racecourse, ‘I’ll go down on you.’

But when she tried, she retched all over him and the bedclothes. She was suffering from morning, noon and night sickness. Her hormones were all to pieces and she was paranoid about everything, snapping Isa’s head off one moment, in floods of tears the next.

Isa was sympathetic until he saw the overflowing ashtrays and plummeting vodka bottles.