Jilly Cooper - Appassionata

‘And I think we ought to drink to absent fiends,’ said Flora, as Rupert filled her glass again. ‘To Rannaldini!’

The flickering bright blue halo had retreated like a genie into the Christmas pudding. Chateau d’Yquem gleamed topaz in the wine glasses. Gertrude, Taggie’s little mongrel, bristled in a green paper admiral’s hat on her mistress’s lap. Xav, who never seemed to go to bed, was sprawled on his father’s knee, tunelessly singing ‘Cars in the bright sky look down where He lay’ because it made Rupert laugh.

Why doesn’t my father love me a millionth as much as that? thought Marcus wistfully. He was so frantic to practise he was beginning to twitch like a junkie. All the pieces he’d been learning seemed to be sliding away. Across the table his mother looked shell-shocked.

‘I cannot believe you are forty-four,’ Hermione was telling her. ‘I hope I’ll be as lovely as you when I reach your age.’

‘Which is in about two minutes,’ said Flora crossly.

‘Why don’t you take an evening class?’ urged Hermione. ‘There are courses for antique restoration, archery, ball-room dancing — you might find a new chap there. They’ve even got a class for understanding teenagers.’

‘My father would profit from that,’ said Tabitha acidly, glancing up from Dick Francis. ‘Where’s Grandpa?’ she asked Marcus.

‘Ringing my grand-mugger,’ said Xav.

‘I didn’t ask you, smart ass,’ snapped Tabitha.

‘It’s true.’ Rupert came to Xavier’s defence. ‘He proposes to her every Christmas.’

Bored with counselling, Hermione looked sourly at Xav, still on Rupert’s knee, which was exactly where Hermione would like to have been. Rupert had always had a strong head, but he had drunk so much during the day, and Xav’s eyes were so much improved that it was debatable as to which of them was now squinting the most.

‘Very caring to take on a coloured lad,’ observed Hermione.

‘Piss orf,’ drawled Xav in exactly the same bored voice as Rupert.

Lysander got the giggles again.

‘Why don’t you run along to bed,’ suggested Hermione. ‘You could play my cradle song tape, or Mummy could read to you.’

‘Mummy can’t read,’ said Xav. ‘I’ll be reading to her soon.’

‘High time you went to boarding-school, young man,’ said Hermione irritably. ‘Are you going to Harrow?’

‘Eventually,’ said Rupert forking up Christmas pudding at great speed. ‘This is miraculous, Tag.’

‘I suppose King Faisal went there,’ mused Hermione. ‘But I do feel single-sex boarding schools encourage homosexuality.’

‘Not nearly so much as women like you,’ said Rupert coldly.

Hermione burst into merry laughter.

‘You are a tease.’ Then, turning to Marcus, she asked pointedly, ‘Did you go to Harrow?’

‘No, he went to Bagley Hall,’ said Taggie quickly, seeing Marcus go scarlet, ‘As a day-boy because of his asthma.’

‘Have you got a girl friend?’ persisted Hermione.

‘He’s got me,’ piped up Flora, noticing how Helen winced.

Hermione also shot Flora a not-much-cop glance and, mistakenly thinking she would endear herself to Rupert by being good with a miserably squirming Marcus, asked: ‘How long have you had asthma?’

‘All my life, I think.’

‘They say it’s inherited,’ Hermione was determined to keep Rupert’s attention.

‘Must have skipped a generation, then,’ said Rupert, as Eddie returned to the table and pretended to admire Hermione’s ruby pendant in order to gaze down her front. ‘Marcus gets his heavy breathing from my father.’

God, Rupert’s a bitch, thought Flora and, to distract everyone, held her cracker out to Xav. This and subsequent bangs sent all the dogs, including Gertrude, racing out of the room. Xav slid off Rupert’s knee in pursuit of his puppy.

Feeling terribly sorry for Marcus, Kitty, who was wearing a paper crown redder than her face, asked him if he’d had some nice presents.

‘Marvellous, Dad and Taggie gave me some light-weight tails, one gets so hot in concerts.’

‘Now you’ve got to get some work to try them out,’ said Rupert.

‘Hasn’t he told you,’ cried Flora, ‘he’s too flaming modest, he’s got a recital in Cotchester Town Hall on 21 February. You’ve all got to come.’

Marcus smiled deprecatingly at the excited faces, but his moment of glory was short-lived.

‘Talking of special occasions, I’m going on Desert Island Discs on Saturday at seven-thirty,’ announced Hermione. ‘My agent Howie Denston said that at least Sue Lawley and I have lovely legs in common. I hope you’ll all tune in.’

‘Better alert the monkeys to evacuate the island,’ muttered Rupert.

Looking up from the tangerine she was peeling, Taggie hastily asked what records Hermione had chosen.

‘All my own — so fascinating to compare the different accompanists — and conductors. Rather exciting — the programme coincides with a special New Year announcement.’ She beamed at Rupert.

‘Do tell us,’ asked Taggie.

‘My lips are sealed. But I’m dying to see the inside of Buckingham Palace,’ she added roguishly. ‘Have you ever wanted a knighthood, Rupert?’

‘No.’

‘Lady Thatcher offered him one twice,’ said Taggie quickly.

‘Because I have it on good authority that Rannaldini is going to get his K in the New Year’s Honours list.’

‘Sir Roberto,’ said Flora flatly. ‘That should increase his pulling power.’

‘He can have one-Knight stands,’ said Lysander.

Unable to take the roars of drunken laughter, Helen fled the room. Outside she ignored Nimrod and Bogotá, who were engaged in a furiously, growling tug-of-war over Hermione’s Hermes scarf.

Going in search of Helen five minutes later, Taggie found her washing up in the kitchen, rubber-gloved hands whisking round the hot suds, glasses upside down on a tea-towel.

‘Poor Mrs Bodkin looks so tired, I thought I’d give her a hand.’ The reproach was implicit. ‘It’s lovely and cool in here, I always find goose a bit rich.’

‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Taggie, ‘I’ll take people upstairs, and then we can have coffee.’

I’m being a bitch, thought Helen miserably, but I can’t help it. Taggie’s got everything — youth, looks, children, Rupert’s love and the beautiful house and garden which was once mine.

Although Lysander beamed drunkenly across the table at him, Marcus had never felt more de trop than when left pretending to drink port with the men, who talked non-stop about horses.

Tomorrow, Lysander and Rupert would hunt until two, then the helicopter would take them and Eddie to Kempton in time for Penscombe Pride’s big race at three-thirty.

‘He’ll walk it,’ said Lysander.

Marcus took another surreptitious squirt from his inhaler. The steroids he’d been taking to combat his allergy to dogs and new paint had given him a wretched sore throat.

‘Should be a good crowd out tomorrow,’ said Eddie. ‘Always liked the Boxing Day Meet, mind you hunting’s gone to the dogs since so many people who do their own horses come out.’

Fortunately for Marcus, Flora put on ‘Let’s Ride to Music’, and ‘The Galloping Major’, thundering through the house, soon flushed out the men.

‘Boom, boom, boom,’ went the regimental drums as screaming with drunken laughter Eddie and Flora, cheek to cheek, clasped hands outstretched, trotted up the hall to ‘D’you ken John Peel’, followed by Lysander and Kitty, and Rupert and Taggie, then broke into a canter to ‘Bonny Dundee’ with a pack of dogs barking excitedly behind them.

‘Right wheel, halt, dismount,’ shouted Rupert as the band swung into Aida which had been his and Eddie’s old regimental march.

Unfortunately Hermione, returning from a respray upstairs, couldn’t resist singing very loudly along, so everyone gave up marching and allowed her to put on ‘Santa of the Universe’ jumping out of their skins as ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ filled the house.

‘What with my first wife continually hitting the roof and Hermione taking it off, I’m not going to have a slate over my head soon,’ grumbled Rupert.

Flora, Rupert, Marcus, Kitty and Tabitha, who’d actually put down Dick Francis, were playing consequences. Taggie, who was too slow at writing to play, was handing out liqueurs. Lysander, an even slower writer, was playing chess with Eddie, who was telling him about Rupert’s mother.