Wicked! (83 page)

‘You can be guest of honour,’ said Xav, giving him a piece of KitKat.

He’d better text people with invitations. He was too shy to telephone. If only Paris were still his friend, then everyone would have come.

Over the next week no one accepted.

‘No one answers invitations these days,’ Bianca consoled him. Not wanting her brother to be humiliated, she wrote to Feral: ‘Xav is having a party on Thursday. Please come, he has asked Paris who would love to see you, so would I. Love, Bianca’.

As the party approached, the spats grew worse.

‘How many yobs from Larks are coming?’ demanded a departing Rupert.

‘I’m not sure,’ stammered Taggie.

‘They’ll chuck all your quiches at each other. For Christ’s sake, lock up the silver and bolt all the yard doors.’

Taggie had racked her brains what to give Xav. Before his fall, it had been anything horsey, even on occasion a horse, or a drawing by Lionel Edwards or Munnings. Soon, but not yet, it might be a puppy. Xav didn’t want clothes until he’d lost weight. Desperate to placate him, she spent far too much on DVD portables and computer games and mobiles which became cameras. As Rupert was abroad on the day of his birthday, Xav felt free to play up and hardly opened anything, which resulted in a blazing row when Bianca accused him of being an ungrateful pig.

‘Mummy’s spent days making yummy food and mixing this gorgeous drink.’ Bianca pointed to the Pimm’s cup floating with exotic fruit in the big blue bowl on the terrace table.

‘I wanted people to have Snakebite or Black Russians, not piddling fruit salad,’ snapped Xav, who’d been smoking and drinking all day to cushion himself against the nightmare ahead.

At least it was a beautiful evening, with air balloons drifting up the valley out of a soft rose glow in the west and flocks of birds returning home from scavenging in the fields. Beyond the stables, turning poplars soared like paintbrushes dipped in gold.

Taggie had tied scarlet and blue balloons saying ‘Happy Birthday, Xav’ on the gate and the balustrade running along the terrace, on which panted Rupert’s pack of dogs, grateful that the cruel heat of the day was subsiding.

Rupert’s horses were still inside to protect them from the flies and because he didn’t want them galloping about, laming themselves on the rock-hard ground. From the rim of brown rush on the water’s edge, the lake could be seen to have dropped a couple of feet. Eminem on the CD player battled with the roar of combines.

People had been invited for eight. At five minutes to, Taggie hurtled downstairs. Insufficiently dried, her dark hair fluffed out like Struwwelpeter. Her big, silver-grey eyes were red and tired. Never had her and Rupert’s huge four-poster seemed more inviting.

‘You look lovely,’ lied Bianca, her hands shaking as she fastened a double row of pearls round her mother’s slender neck.

‘And you look heavenly,’ said Taggie, very aware that her daughter was showing too much flesh in a pale pink crop-top and ice-blue shorts and wearing far too much make-up. Bianca had ironed her black curls straight, so a long lock fell over one eye. Jewelled flip-flops showed off ruby toenails and Taggie recognized her own Arpège on Bianca’s hot, excited body and her own rubies in Bianca’s ears. Rupert would have gone ballistic.

Xav was smouldering in the doorway to the terrace.

‘Have a lovely evening.’ Taggie tried to kiss him, but Xav, humiliated that, in her high heels, his mother was about seven inches taller than he, shoved her away. Although longing to bury his face in her lovely, scented bosom and beg her to make the party disappear, he couldn’t thaw out.

‘Don’t expect we’ll be late, Daddy’ll have had a long day.’ Then when Xav mumbled about olds not spoiling the fun: ‘Don’t worry, we’ll creep in.’

The moment his mother had left, Xav chucked a bottle of gin into the Pimm’s cup.

82

Over at Bagley, the Mansion, square-walled and square-windowed like a great doll’s house, was softened by floodlights. Someone had tied pink balloons to the bay trees on either side of the front door and left an empty champagne bottle in one of the dark blue tubs. From the open ground-floor windows came the yelping roar of suntanned parents being force-fed drink to elicit more generous promises later in the evening.

On the way in Taggie bumped into dear Patience Cartwright, who, when he’d kept a pony at Bagley, had been one of the few people Xav had liked and talked to.

‘Summer has been rather wearying,’ Patience now confessed in her raucous voice.

Ian had let the school to a football academy, who’d trashed the kitchens on their last night, and a youth orchestra rehearsing for a prom, which had entailed non-stop Stockhausen and Hindemith. ‘If only it’d been a nice Haydn symphony.’

‘How’s Paris getting on?’ asked Taggie, wincing at her gaunt reflection in the hall mirror.

‘All right.’ Patience touched wood, then, lowering her voice: ‘Could we have lunch and compare notes sometime?’

‘Oh, do let’s.’

‘Paris has been a bit up and down. We love him,’ Patience went on firmly, ‘but we’re not quite sure how much he loves us.’

‘I know the feeling,’ sighed Taggie. Crossing her fingers, she asked: ‘Is he coming to Xav’s party?’

‘Oh dear, didn’t he answer? I’m so sorry. He’s going to Jack Waterlane’s. A whole crowd: Amber, Milly, Junior, Lando, Kylie, Pearl and Graffi have hired a minibus and taken sleeping bags. That’s why David Waterlane isn’t coming tonight. He won’t pay fees, let alone for promises, and he wants to keep an eye on the Canalettos.’

Oh God, thought Taggie in horror. That lot were the core of Xav’s party.

The next moment Daisy France-Lynch had hugged her. ‘I’ve got a message from Lando. Will you apologize profusely to Xav, but he’d already accepted Jack’s party which is only a couple of miles down the road. Cosmo and Jade are going there too.’

Next moment Dora was offering Taggie a trayful of brimming champagne glasses. ‘Can you tell Bianca and Xav I’m terribly sorry I had to work. Mummy gives me no pocket money. Anyway, if Feral turns up, Bianca won’t have eyes for anyone else. Paris has gone to Jack Waterlane’s,’ Dora added wistfully.

Taggie grabbed a drink, gulping down half of it. Poor, deserted Xav. She wanted to rush home to Penscombe but she had to wait for Rupert.

Creeping into the General Bagley Room, which had just been repainted in a glowing scarlet called Firestone, appropriately since so many of the mothers had acquired spare tyres cooking three meals a day for their offspring and visiting friends all summer. Most of them hid these bulges beneath floating flower prints or white caftans to show off suntanned breasts and shoulders.

Led by the frightful Anthea Belvedon, one mother after another charged up saying: ‘No Rupert?’ in aggrieved tones, as though Taggie’d pushed him over a cliff. Fleeing to avoid No-Joke Joan, who was obviously going to lecture her on Bianca’s lack of application, Taggie went slap into Poppet Bruce, beaming like a lighthouse and clutching a hideous baby sucking on a pink dummy.

‘Just off to give the babe his supper. Do let’s exchange views,’ cried Poppet and next moment Taggie found herself perched on a sofa in a side room as Poppet plunged a dishcloth-grey boob into goldfish-mouthing Gandhi.

Oh God, she hoped someone had arrived at Xav’s party.

As if reading her thoughts, Poppet said, ‘We must encourage Xavier in social skills, he’s very troubled.’

‘He’s very shy,’ protested Taggie.

‘Last term his behaviour was distinctly challenging. I know parents of adopted children often blame themselves for disasters that happen in any normal families, but you and Rupert lead such full lives, I sometimes wonder if anyone is listening to Xavier.’

‘I haven’t left the house all summer,’ squeaked Taggie, ‘and it’s difficult listening to someone who won’t talk.’

Poppet’s bright, cheery eyes were boring into her like diamond cutters. ‘Are you able to help him with his maths?’

‘I can’t do them at all,’ gasped Taggie. If only she could ram a dummy into Poppet’s mouth.

‘Then I advise you to have some coaching. We have a good friend, Mike Pitts, who could come to the house three or four times a week.’

‘I don’t have the time,’ stammered Taggie, which was quite the wrong answer, as Poppet frowned and suggested Taggie made time.

‘Nor do I feel Rupert is a supportive father.’

‘He absolutely adores Xav.’

‘Maybe, but the lad must miss his birth parents. The wound never heals.’ Smugly Poppet unplugged baby Gandhi and hooked him on to another dishcloth-grey tit. ‘I cannot advise you too strongly’ – her tone grew more bullying – ‘to take Xav to birth-mother groups. He could then witness grieving mothers coming to terms with giving up their babes and might achieve closure. Have you told Xav everything about his background?’

‘I couldn’t,’ yelped Taggie.

‘Have you wondered if your longing for your own children makes you reject Xav in some way?’

‘No, no.’

Out of the window, Taggie could see General Bagley gleaming in the moonlight and longed to climb on to the back of his charger so he could gallop her home to Penscombe.

Rescue instead appeared as Hengist, resplendent in a dark blue velvet smoking jacket, appeared in the doorway.

‘Taggie, darling, I’ve been looking for you. Your drink’s empty, unlike little Gandhi’s.’ He and Poppet exchanged smiles of radiant insincerity. ‘Come and talk to me.’ He pulled Taggie to her feet, sliding his arm round her narrow waist and stubbing his thumb on her protruding ribs. ‘You’re losing too much weight. Has that bloody Milk Marketing Board been hassling you? I fear the geeks when they come baring breasts.’

Taggie didn’t laugh. She was adorable but not very bright. Not that Rupert was the Brain of Britain.

As the gong went, Taggie pulled herself together. ‘It was so sweet of Sally and you to send Xav a birthday card.’

‘Sweet of Sally – she remembers everyone. She’s the light of my life, as you are of Rupert’s. I’m terribly sorry Alex has dragged you along to this grisly jaunt in the holidays. It was also Alex’s grisly idea for parents to sit at their children’s housemasters’ tables. Afraid you’re lumbered with Poppet and Alex again.’

Next moment Janey Lloyd-Foxe had buttonholed Taggie. ‘How are you, darling? I can’t wait for Amber and Junior to go back. We’ll starve if I don’t get some work done soon.’

Janey unnerved Taggie. She was married to Rupert’s best friend, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, and was a well-known journalist who always seemed to know more and worse about you than you did yourself.

‘Billy always complains he never gets any sex in the summer holidays because I’m so exhausted,’ Janey went on. ‘Amber and Junior’s friends have been pouring through the house all summer.’

Which was more than Xav’s had. Retreating to the Ladies, Taggie rang home. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine,’ said Bianca. Dropping her voice: ‘No one’s arrived yet. Hang on, there’s the doorbell. We’re OK, bye.’

As she belted in from the terrace, Bianca passed Xav downing another mug of fruit cup and Mrs Bodkin in the study, sleeping peacefully through
The Two Ronnies
.

Followed by two striped lurchers, three Labradors and a couple of Jack Russells, Bianca opened the front door. There was no one outside, but the dogs carried on barking.

‘Who’s there? They’re noisy but harmless,’ shouted Bianca.

Very slowly, blacker than the shadows from which he emerged, long, lean and relaxed in a soft leather jacket, with the peak of his Arsenal baseball cap over one ear, a diamond cross gleaming at the neck of his black shirt, black jeans glued to his long legs, was Feral.

‘Oh Feral!’ Joy spread over Bianca’s face like the glow in the west returning. ‘You found us.’

‘I did.’ Feral couldn’t believe how pretty she looked – and older, with her sleek, black hair and pale pink lipstick and dark liner emphasizing her ravishing mouth and eyes. He no longer felt avuncular, just lustful. ‘Not sure about those dogs.’

‘They’re as dopey as anything.’ Terrified he might run away, Bianca grabbed Feral’s hand and led him into the hall, which was hung with pictures of horses and more dogs, and past rooms filled with beautiful battered furniture and splendid portraits.

‘Who’s that old git?’

‘Our grandfather. He’s been married five times.’

‘Must like wedding cake. Looks familiar.’

‘He’s in
Buffers
.’

‘So he is, friend of the Brig.’ Then, peering into the library: ‘Who reads those books?’

‘No one. Mummy can’t read; Daddy only reads Dick Francis and the racing pages.’

Out on the terrace, they found Xav, eyes crossed and slumped against the balustrade, just sober enough to say ‘Hi’ to Feral.

‘This cup is cool,’ said Bianca, ‘I’ve eaten most of the fruit out of it. I’ll get you a glass.’

As she went off to find one, Xav, who admired and envied Feral, offered him a line of coke.

Feral shook his head. ‘Don’t do drugs. Don’t drink much.’

‘This’ll kick-start you.’ Xav plunged the ladle into the Pimm’s, picked up Bianca’s glass and missed it.