Score!

unlimited champagne, and fresh flowers each day, both in her caravan and on her sunhat. She still thought Sexton was a nasty, common little man for curbing her expenses — everyone knew caviare, like seminal fluid, was good for the vocal cords.

Nor was Sexton setting a very good example. His worries about the budget had not deterred him from employing a ravishing new production secretary called Jessica, on the flimsy grounds that her telephone manner kept the backers sweet. Clearly she had not been hired for her typing. Copies of her first memo from Sexton — ‘Please will all the cast assemble for a publicity shit in the Great Hall at twelve moon’ — were already circulating the unit.

28

After a nice break with George, Flora was back to accompany Chloe in the Veil Song. For this Tristan had introduced a chorus of ladies-in-waiting, picked from the prettiest extras who would be seen poring over Tatler, and playing bridge and tennis. Eboli — or, rather, Chloe — would dazzle in tennis whites. Flora, as the Queen’s detective, would flirt and strum Chloe’s racquet like a mandolin.

Flora, terrified of acting, was further demoralized to discover her old enemy Serena Westwood, the record producer, had rolled up to see how filming was going. Even with temperatures in the nineties Serena, in an apple- green suit, looked as though she’d just come out of the fridge. She had also brought four-year-old Jessie, who Little Cosmo promptly pushed into the lily pond. ‘Uncle Roberto’ had regrettably displayed a similar lack of chivalry towards Jessie’s mother: he had dropped her after the recording and refused to answer any of her telephone calls.

Lunching in the canteen, Serena and Helen, who had no idea that Serena had had an affaire with Rannaldini, which she was frantic to re-ignite, were joined by Hermione in her big straw hat decorated with yellow roses. The three women were all old flames of Flora’s George and, not realizing Flora had wandered in, were loudly agreeing how attractively macho George was, and how anyone so rich and powerful could free himself in five minutes to marry Flora, if he really wanted to.

‘How old is George?’ mused Serena.

‘About a year younger than me,’ said Helen. ‘We used to laugh about his being my toy-boy.’

Hermione, as Rannaldini’s long-term mistress, detested any suggestion that Helen might be attractive to other men.

‘When were you fifty, dear?’ she enquired beadily. ‘Was it in ’94 or ’95?’

Helen choked on her spinach and bacon salad. ‘I am not forty-four yet, Hermione,’ she said furiously.

‘Aren’t you, dear?’ said Hermione blithely, then peering into Helen’s face. ‘Those chandeliers Meredith installed are quite lovely but not very flattering if you’re heavily lined. After the movie, I’d encourage Rannaldini to return to more subdued lighting.’

A hush had fallen on the canteen. Glancing round, Serena saw Chloe killing herself and Flora looking extremely unhappy, and hastily asked after George.

‘He’s working in Germany,’ mumbled Flora.

Serena raised eyebrows plucked thin as the new moon.

‘Is that wise?’

‘My Bobby’s in Australia,’ chipped in Hermione, ‘but we have a relationship of trust.’

Grabbing a Mars bar and a packet of crisps for Trevor, Flora retreated, chuntering, to Make Up to find Lucy also going spare. On the premise that she adored children, little Jessie had been dumped on her to stop her prattling during takes. Jessie, having up-ended Lucy’s make-up box, was now trying to rouse James from his siesta by tickling his long nose with a powder brush.

‘He’s going to take her hand off in a minute.’

‘Let Trevor do the honours,’ said Flora sourly. ‘He loathes children. Oh, hell, Rannaldini’s just rolled up in that flash orange car. He’ll be wearing white polo-necks soon and combing his hair in little tendrils over his forehead.’

Sleek, suntanned, satanic, Rannaldini promptly decided the Veil Song needed gingering up with a spot of sapphic necking between Flora and one of the ladies-in-waiting.

‘Who shall we choose?’ murmured Rannaldini. ‘Chloe, perhaps? Although maybe even randy little Tebaldo wouldn’t risk jumping on the King’s mistress.’

Running his eye lasciviously over the chorus, he noticed Pushy bobbing around in rose-red gingham, like an apple under a waterfall, and beckoned her over.

Even Lucy couldn’t calm an hysterical Flora as she applied designer stubble to her ashen cheeks. Flora took Foxie, her puppet fox and adored mascot, everywhere with her. But this time, she wailed, Foxie must stay in the caravan with James and Trevor, in case he became corrupted.

‘Foxie’s face must be turned to the wall.’

The light was ravishing. A rare downpour had brightened the late spring greenery. Unearthly white lilacs wafted forth heavenly scent. A froth of cow-parsley merged into the rose-tipped barley.

Then, as Chloe and Flora sang about the randy King trying to seduce a veiled beauty, Flora had to act out the scene with Pushy.

‘Just a quick snog.’ Tristan patted her padded grey linen shoulder.

I cannot go on, thought Flora after they had notched up twenty nightmarish takes, because she was groping Pushy with all the enthusiasm of one de-fleaing a rabid dog. Even the cuckoo mocked her from a nearby ash grove.

‘“Ah, weave your veils, fair maidens,”’ sang the chorus, as they swayed about desperate to get into shot.

Taking a sadistic pleasure in how much this must be hurting Serena, Helen and Hermione, Rannaldini kept strolling over to show Flora exactly how the pass should be made, which Pushy clearly adored, judging from the way she giggled and wriggled beneath his wandering hands. He would then seize Flora’s hands and slap them like a weatherman’s suns on various embarrassing parts of Pushy’s anatomy.

‘Maestro Rannaldini gives off enough electricity to make the generators superfluous,’ said a disapproving voice. ‘More cheerfully, Australia are two hundred and fifty for no wicket.’

It was Baby eating a large strawberry ice.

‘Remember the times I’ve had to snog Dame Hermione,’ he whispered to Flora. ‘Just shut your eyes and think of income.’

Then, when she didn’t laugh, he grabbed Foxie from Lucy’s caravan, and clasping his furry puppet paws together, kept raising them above his head like a cheerleader.

‘It’s no good crying,’ hissed Rannaldini, as a tear trickled down Flora’s cheek.

The reek of decaying wild garlic, indistinguishable from the breath and armpits of the crew, was making her feel sick. How dare those three witches, Serena, Helen and Hermione, sit there despising her? How dare Wolfie fill in his lottery tickets?

Oh, darling George, prayed Flora, come to my rescue.

And suddenly Flora’s prayer was answered as George, unable to resist checking how shooting was going, ruined the first perfect take by noisily landing his helicopter in the next field.

‘We’ll go again,’ shouted Tristan.

Storming through the buttercups, terrible as an army with banners, George saw that devil incarnate Rannaldini and that smooth bastard Montigny, his peacock-blue shirt flapping against his lean, taut, dark gold body, and Wolfgang, blond as a Nordic god, and Baby, a laughing Cupid, and hundreds of smarmy Frogs leering over his darling Flora as she groped some ringleted tart.

But he misread the excitement on their faces as desire, when it was, in fact, delighted anticipation that someone might at last be going to take out Rannaldini. Either way George flipped. Bellowing at Tristan, sending cameras and crew flying, ordering Flora off the set, George grabbed Rannaldini by his white sharkskin lapels,