Rivals (55 page)

    'Da mi basia milk,' sighed Caitlin.

    'What's that?'

    'Catullus. Give me a thousand kisses.'

    'Are you frightfully clever?'

    'Of course, that's why I chose you.'

    They screamed with laughter; suddenly the stupidest things seemed funny. Archie thought he should try and be poetic

    'Your eyes are the same colour as beech leaves in spring,' he said, gazing into them. 'You're like a little wood nymph.'

    'A dry-ad,' said Caitlin, taking a swig of her champagne. 'Nothing very dry about me.'

    'What are we going to do after this?' said Archie, getting out a packet of Sobranie. 'Did you say your parents are both away?'

    'Daddy's in Edinburgh, probably killing your father, but Mummy might be back from her rehearsal, although she seems to be getting later and later.'

    There's no one at home,' said Archie. 'I'll get them to get us a taxi.'

    It was only when she got up to walk out of the restaurant that Caitlin realized how drunk she was. It's like InterCity all over again, she told Archie. Only by grabbing her arm did he prevent her cannoning off every table.

    He kissed her all the way back to The Falconry. Caitlin, who'd spent three days practising kissing the palm of her hand, found Archie's mouth a great deal more exciting.

    And when they were ensconced on Monica's huge flowered chintz sofa, having both carefully removed each other's earrings, Archie discovered that Caitlin's small, incredibly springy white breasts were far more thrilling than Tracey Makepiece's. It was just a question of preferring nectarines to melons. And her waist was so tiny, once he'd removed the black corset belt, that he was terrified he might snap her in two. But nothing could exceed her enthusiasm.

    'I do hope I'm not too pissed to remember every minute of this tomorrow,' she said.

    'Have you ever been to bed with anyone before?' Archie mumbled into the gel-stiffened straw of her hair.

    'Never. Have you?'

    'Yes.'

    'Lots?'

    'About two and three-quarters.'

    'A man of experience,' sighed Caitlin in ecstasy.

    Undoing a few more buttons, Archie, who was down to his Sisters of Mercy T-shirt now, kissed his way down her shoulder until he was sucking her right nipple. He was also wrestling with his conscience as to whether he ought to take her to bed. He wanted to like mad, but he was pissed enough to botch it, and she was certainly so pissed she might easily regret it in the morning. He had a condom in the breast pocket of his dinner jacket, which was hanging over the chair. But if he got up to get it, it might destroy the mood. But again it was unlikely they'd have an empty house to themselves for months.

    As her little hands slid inside his T-shirt, he found his hand, as if magnetized, creeping up her legs.

    'I'm climbing your ladders to paradise,' he whispered.

    The next minute he jumped out of his skin as a great white light shone in at the window.

    'Holy shit,' said Archie.

    'Ooh,' squeaked Caitlin in excitement, 'it's a close encounter.'

    'Bloody sight too close!' said Archie. 'It's my father flying in from Edinburgh.'

    It was too late to make a bolt for it. With lightning presence of mind, Archie turned on a side light, plugged a tape in the video, pressed twelve on the remote control and did up Caitlin's buttons.

    'I'll ring for a taxi as soon as I can and take you home. We'll just have to try and bluff it out.'

    The next minute James Vereker's new pilot on 'Keeping Fit for the Elderly' burst on to the screen. Tony, fortunately, had been hosting a very successful dinner for the IBA and, after several belts of brandy on the way home, was in a mellow mood. It soon became even mellower when he found his favourite son in the drawing-room with an enchantingly pretty little brunette. She looked vaguely familiar, but Tony was too vain to put on his spectacles, and by no stretch of the imagination could she be called Tracey Makepiece.

    This is Caitie,' said Archie heartily. 'I was just going to ring for a taxi to take her home.'

    'Where does she live?" said Tony.

    'Chalford,' lied Archie.

    'I'll take her,' said Tony expansively. 'No distance at all. Let's all have a drink.'

    'Caitie's tired,' said Archie desperately.

    'She doesn't look it,' said Tony, admiring Caitlin's flushed cheeks and glittering green eyes. 'There's a bottle of Moe't in

    the fridge.'

    Shoving Caitlin's corset belt under a pink-and-white-striped cushion, Archie reluctantly left the room.

    'Why are you watching this tape?' asked Tony as a lot of geriatrics with purple faces started doing press-ups.

    "I love Corinium's programmes,' said Caitlin dreamily. 'I adore "Master Dog". We've got two dogs, one's very thick, one's brilliant. I'm sure she'd win.'

    'You'd better give me a ring in the office next week,' said Tony. 'We're always looking for bright dogs.'

    'I'm going back to school.'

    'Where d'you go?'

    'Upland House.'

    Better and better, thought Tony in delight; the girl was a

    lady.

    'D'you know my niece, Tonia Martin?'

    'Frightful slag,' said Caitlin. 'She nearly got sacked last term for having boys in her room. She's got a terrible reputation at

    Stowe, too.' Tony was enchanted. His sister's daughter was always being

    held up as a paragon of virtue. 'And d'you by any chance know Caro McKay? Teaches

    Biology, I think.'

    'Of course. She teaches me.' Caitlin beamed. 'Ghastly old dyke. She and Miss Reading live in a two-bedroom house with a spare room.' She screamed with laughter. Tony joined

    in.

    .

    Once Caitlin got an audience, there was no stopping her. Archie was torn between hysterical laughter and total panic

    as she regaled Tony with one scurrilous story after another about the daughters of his friends and colleagues.

    After the bottle was finished, Tony insisted on driving her home. The only way Tracey would have got out of the house, reflected Archie, would have been in a hearse. Bitterly ashamed of himself, he funked going with them; he couldn't face the return journey.

    It was a lovely night. A butter-coloured moon was gliding in and out of threatening blue-black clouds, gilding their edges. Mist was rising. There was a smell of dying bonfires and wet leaves.

    'What a heavenly car," said Caitlin, playing with the electric windows.

    'How long have you known Archie?' asked Tony.

    'About nine months. I don't mean to suck up, but I do think you've brought him up well. He's so considerate.' Tony purred. 'He is a nice boy. Wish he'd work a bit harder. Have you taken your O-levels yet?'

    'Last term.'

    'Get a few?'

    'Eleven,' said Caitlin simply. 'You seem more pleased than my mother,' she added bitterly a minute later.

    Archie's father, she decided, was really, really nice. Extraordinary how her father and Tag got everything wrong. He was soon saying she might like to come to the Hunt Ball if she could get off school, and even suggested skiing in the Christmas holidays.

    'Oh, I'd love to,' said Caitlin.

    As they neared Penscombe, she noticed the car telephone. 'Oh, how lovely, you are lucky. Can I use it?'

    'Of course,' said Tony.

    The length of Caitlin's slender white thighs on the black leather seat reminded him almost unbearably of Cameron. He'd been hoping he'd bump into her at Edinburgh, but she hadn't shown up. Without thinking, Caitlin rang The Priory. It was two o'clock in the morning and no one answered for ages.

    'Hullo,' murmured a sleepy voice.

    Taggie, darling,' said Caitlin, 'did I wake you?'

    Tony nearly ran into a wild rose bush. Suddenly the temperature in the car dropped below zero.

    'What did you say your surname was?' said Tony as Caitlin put back the receiver.

    'O'Hara,' said Caitlin in a small voice.

    'Declan's daughter?'

    'Yes.'

    'What the fuck are you playing at? Did your father put you

    up to this?' 'Oh, please don't tell him,' gasped Caitlin. 'He'd be

    furious.'

    'Not any more furious than I bloody am,' roared Tony. The little snake! I'll murder Archie when I get home.'

    'Oh, please don't!' Caitlin, who'd had a great deal too much to drink, burst into tears.

    'For Christ's sake,' exploded Tony.

    'I like you so much,' sobbed Caitlin, 'and I thought you

    liked me.'

    'I do,' said Tony in exasperation, handing her his blue spotted handkerchief, reeking of the inevitable Paco Rabanne. 'I just can't stand your father.'

    'The fathers have eaten sour grapes,' sniffed Caitlin dolefully, 'and the children's teeth are set cm edge.'

    'And you're not going to tell Declan that you're going out with Archie?'

    'Christ, no,' said Caitlin. 'I don't want to get butchered

    in my prime.'

    Tony did a lot of thinking as he drove home. When he turned on the light in Archie's room, he found him huddled under the duvet, with his pyjamas buttoned up to the neck, desperately pretending to be asleep. Not for the first time, however Tony astounded his son.

    'You can go on seeing that girl as long as you try and fine out as much as you can about Venturer.'

    'That's immoral,' said Archie, shocked.

    'Don't be bloody wet,' said Tony brutally. 'D'you want Corinium to lose the franchise?'

    'No.'

    'Or for me to forfeit four hundred thousand minimum a year?'

    'No,' said Archie.

    If he was rich, he reflected, he wouldn't have to scrub mussels for three days every time he wanted to take Caitlin out to dinner. One day she would live in The Falconry with him. His father was right, he decided, blood was thicker than water. If Declan didn't get the franchise, he, Archie, would look after Caitlin.

40

    Taggie had a very wearing September. Getting a besotted and reelingly untogether Caitlin packed up and back to Upland House was bad enough, but dispatching Declan to Ireland was even worse.

    As the departure date drew nearer, he grew increasingly reluctant to leave Maud or his precious franchise, which was just coming up to the boil.

    Maud was plainly revelling in The Merry Widow. Declan was glad, but was her euphoria slightly over the top? And was it really necessary for her to have a bath, wash her hair and pinch yet more of Taggie's clothes before every rehearsal? And when she carolled the words 'All the world's in love with love, and I love you,' over and over again from the Southern Turret, who were they really aimed at? As the yellow woods turned gold and the swallows seemed to postpone their departure, and even the huge red suns sunk more slowly into Rupert's woods in order to hear Maud's exquisite notes floating down the valley, Declan prayed she wasn't leading her leading man on too much.

    Maud herself was much happier after Caitlin had gone back to school. No one was quicker on the draw than a teenager in love, which ruled out any illicit incoming telephone calls for Maud. But now it seemed Cameron Cook was always in the house, monopolizing the telephone and Declan, and not being deferential enough to Maud, the arrogant

    bitch. Anyone would think they were going off on a six months' polar expedition rather than three silly weeks on location.

    Maud also bitterly resented Cameron treating Taggie like a slave. Only this morning, on the eve of departure, Perry O'Donovan, who'd been cast as Yeats, wanted Cameron to call him back, and Taggie had taken the number down wrong.

    'Don't keep apologizing," screamed Cameron, running out of breath after five minutes of invective. 'Just get it right in future.'

    The only person allowed to exploit and scream at Taggie, reflected Maud, should be Maud herself.

    The eve of departure, in fact, was full of spats, and now at dusk Declan was in the library firing off last-minute instructions to Freddie, who was just back from Portugal again, and Rupert, who was just off to Virginia for a few days. Between them they would probably run things far more smoothly than Declan. The appalling Professor Graystock had also dropped in, returned from his working holiday in Greece to get ready for the new university year, and was, as usual, swilling Declan's whisky. Dame Enid had just come down from upstairs, after going through Maud's Merry Widow score with her and making some extremely helpful suggestions.

    'She'll be totally irresistible,' Dame Enid told Declan as she accepted a large pink gin. 'Wish I were playing her leading man.'

    Cameron sat in the corner going through her lists for tomorrow with half an ear on the meeting. She'd checked that everyone - actors, wardrobe, make-up, and crew - knew where to meet her and Declan at Birmingham Airport; she'd double-checked that the air-conditioned coach would be waiting to take them to Sligo by early evening, and that the hotel overlooking the bay would be expecting them for dinner.

    Glancing across the room at Rupert, who was gazing moodily out of the window at Claudius chewing a library book, she knew that he was bored. There was nothing he loathed more than other people's waffle. He'd been affectionate enough recently, but slightly detached; perhaps he always distanced himself before a separation. She hated the thought of him going to Virginia on his own. She couldn't imagine American women leaving anything as beautiful or as explosively macho alone. She'd lived with him for sixty-eight days and she

    glanced at her watch eighteen

    hours, and she still wanted him continually.

    'Now, you all know that I'm on the end of the telephone,' Declan was saying. 'By the time I get back we should have the date for our IBA interview. Then we can start having dry-runs. I've booked Hardy Bisset to coach us. He's ex-IBA so he's witnessed the interviewing process from the other side. There's also a permanent exhibition on the history of television at the IBA,' he went on. 'Parties of school-children and tourists visit it every day. I think you should all try and have a look at it before the interview so you at least know something about the business you're intending to run. Go in, in ones or twos, or it'll look too obvious. We must get Wesley, Marti, Bas and particularly Henry along there, or they'll make complete pratts of themselves at the interview. I think that's all.'

    He ran his hands through his hair and leaned back in his chair surveying the chaos on his desk in despair.

    Rupert turned away from the window. 'When d'you reckon Yeats'll be finally in the can?' he said.

    'For Chrissake, dumbass,' screamed Cameron, 'I've told you a hundred times, it's pronounced "Yates".'

    Declan raised a disapproving eyebrow. Dame Enid was much more up front. 'You haven't learned to pronounce the word "hostile" yet, young lady,' she snapped, 'but you certainly manage to be it most of the time.'

    'Thank you, Enid. The age of chivalry is not entirely dead,' said Rupert lightly, but his face had lost all expression.

    Oh, God, thought Cameron, I shouldn't have said that.

    The answer to your question,' said Declan to Rupert, 'is sometime in December. We'll have to edit and do all the VOs when we get back.'

    'I hope you've got in the story about Yeats cutting his precious fur coat in half because he didn't want to disturb a cat who was sitting on it,' said Dame Enid. 'Must have been a good bloke to do that.'

    'Or the time that he signed a lot of cheques "Yours sincerely, W. B. Yeats",' said Professor Graystock, determined not to be upstaged. 'Or even the story…' he began.

    Rupert had had enough - fucking intellectuals. He walked out of the library, out of the front door, and down the garden. Migrating arrows of birds were flapping down the valley. There had been a storm at lunchtime; roses were pulping and disintegrating; tobacco plants prostrated themselves like palms before his feet. Beyond the garden, in one of his fields, the grass had been flattened by the deluge, as though a herd of elephants had been having a gang bang.

    Half a dozen young steers grazing there had recently been joined by a Guernsey cow and a little chocolate-brown calf, which a grateful neighbouring farmer had sent Rupert as an early birthday present. Now he could see the steers pushing the baby calf away and drinking her mother's milk. With her long-legged gawkiness, her big eyes and long fringed eyelashes, the calf reminded him of Taggie. He looked at the mother's pink udder with its four teats. Perhaps Cameron would pronounce them 'tates'. Fucking intellectual. He'd get the mother and calf moved to a field of their own tomorrow.

    Instead of returning to the library, he went round to the kitchen and found Taggie listening to pop music and trying to iron a great pile of Declan's shirts and read a recipe at the same time.

    'Dashing away with a smoothing iron, she stole my heart away,' said Rupert.

    Taggie gave a start. 'I don't see how anyone could steal anybody's heart away when they're ironing," she mumbled. 'One gets so red in the face.'

    'And you're about to singe that shirt,' said Rupert.

    Hastily Taggie upended the iron. 'You're just the person I wanted to see. Sarah Stratton wants me to do a dinner party for her the week after next, and she's given me this recipe all in French, and I can't make head nor tail of it.'

    Rupert, who'd had plenty of experience of Sarah's writing, took the piece of paper and reeled off the recipe.

    'Oh marvellous! Could you read it out to me?' said Taggie,

    grabbing a pencil.

    Rupert was about to take the pencil, saying it'd be much quicker if he scribbled it down himself. Then he remembered something he'd read recently about encouraging dyslexics. Very slowly, making sure he didn't get too far ahead, resisting the urge to touch Taggie's white neck, revealed in all its vulnerability as her black pony tail fell sideways, he read it

    out.

    'You are brilliant,' sighed Taggie as she finished. 'No one else could translate it. Daddy doesn't read French, nor Mummy, nor even Cameron.'

    Suddenly Rupert felt ten feet tall again. What a bugger he had to fly to Virginia tomorrow, but he desperately needed a new stallion and he hoped to get in a few days' hunting. He was about to make a firm date for dinner the moment he got back when the repulsive Professor Graystock wandered

    in.

    'Ah, Taggie,' the Professor's formless mouth widened, showing crooked yellow teeth. 'I'm frightfully hungry; only had time for a bowl of soup at lunchtime. Could I have something to eat? Nothing fancy, simple repast, bread and cheese will be quite sufficient.'

    Disgusting old goat, thought Rupert with a shudder, typical leftie with his second house, and no school fees to pay, bumming off anyone he regarded as capitalist. Taggie tried to smile. The Professor gave her the creeps, too. He still never missed an opportunity to squeeze her, or gaze at her breasts, or make risque remarks.

    'Cameron's looking for you, Rupert,' said the Professor pointedly. 'She wants to go home.'

    Rupert took no notice and went on stroking Aengus, who was stretched out by the Aga.

    Mouth watering, the Professor watched Taggie put out a

    loaf of wholemeal bread, some Brie and Cheddar, and half a pound of butter.

    'Any celery?' he asked. 'I'm partial to celery. With Father in Ireland and Mother rehearsing all the time, you're going to be rather lonely, Taggie. Perhaps you'll come over one evening to the campus and cook supper for a lonely old man?'

    'She's working every night,' snapped Rupert. 'Someone's got to keep this class house in whisky.'

    'No need to over-react, dear boy,' said the Professor, cutting a doorstep of bread and spreading it thickly with butter. 'I've got an intellectual poser for you both. What would you have done -' he leered at Taggie - 'if you'd discovered, as I did last term, your most brilliant first-year student guaranteed

    to get a first in

    bed in college with a naked girl? Would you have sent him down?'

    'If she'd been pretty,' said Rupert coldly, 'I'd have confiscated her.'

    Cameron felt twitchy as she packed. She was still kicking herself for showing Rupert up in front of the others, but she got so uptight before she went on location. It was a million times worse than before a period. At the bottom of her bags she'd packed a book on coping with stepmotherhood. When she came back from Ireland, she was determined to get it together with Marcus and Tab. Wandering into Rupert's dressing-room, she found him also packing. He was catching Concorde in the morning.

    'I love you,' she said, putting her arms round him. 'You will fly out to Ireland when you get back from the States, won't you?'

    'Of course,' said Rupert, as he hastily flipped a book called Overcoming Dyslexia under a pile of shirts.

    For a man so confident in business matters, Freddie Jones was surprisingly timid in matters of the heart. For months he had longed to ring up Lizzie Vereker, but only screwed up the courage the day Declan and Cameron left for Ireland. 'How about lunch today?' he said, wading straight in.

    'Where's Valerie?' asked Lizzie.

    'In Portugal.'

    Because she had the curse, two large spots, dirty hair, hairy legs, unpainted toe nails, needed a hundred years to go on a crash diet and had been caught on the hop, Lizzie said no, she was frantically busy. Then felt absolutely miserable. 'What about next week?' she asked hopefully.

    'Valerie'll be home,' said Freddie despondently.

    'Well, ring me anyway,' said Lizzie.

    All week Lizzie was very absent-minded. She spilt red wine over a review copy which she hadn't reviewed, and which James intended to give to his mother for a birthday present. On Thursday morning she kept filling up cups of coffee with cold water and even swallowed a conditioning pill herself which she'd intended to give to the dog. Perhaps she'd go barking mad. She knew she ought to be working on her new book, but all she could think about was Freddie. Distracted and miserable, she walked in the pouring rain down to the lake. A moorhen was summoning her chicks into the rushes with a strange fluted call. The beeches trailed their red leaves in the raindrop-pitted water. Suddenly Lizzie heard shouting from the french windows. It was Jilly, her treasure of a nanny, who seemed even more of a treasure when she said Mr Jones was on the telephone.

    ' 'Ullo,' said Freddie. 'Fort you might like to go for a picnic?'

    'But it's pouring,' said Lizzie joyfully.

    'We could 'ave it indoors at Green Lawns.'

    'Where's Valerie?'

    'At the Nearly New Sale for the Distressed Gentlefolk.'

    Anticipating adultery was rather like going to the doctor, mused Lizzie as she painted her nails, washed her hair, bathed and shaved and cleaned her ears. Then she rubbed body lotion into every centimetre of her body one

    really had to get oneself up.

    The only problem was that she had forgotten that the Corinium Television gardener (one of James's perks) came that morning. He must have been amazed to see so many