Mount! (61 page)

The noise level was rising; everyone was wolfing Jan’s canapés.

‘Gav not here?’ Luke asked Taggie.

‘He’s in Kentucky, he hates parties.’

‘Nice guy, attractive too – how’s his love-life going?’

‘Hi, Luke!’ shouted Fenella Maxwell, and Dino Ferranti, Rupert’s old showjumping cronies. ‘Eddie did great in the Breeders’ Cup.’

Flora Maguire, daughter of pop megastar George Maguire, who herself had starred in
Don Carlos
, and her husband George Hungerford, who’d bankrolled the Rutminster Orchestra, were
now swapping music gossip and baby photographs with star violinist Abby Rosen and her husband, horn-player Viking O’Neill. They were soon joined by Tristan and Lucy de Montigny, all speculating whether Baby Spinosissimo and Rupert’s brother Adrian would make the party or were still celebrating Dave winning the Melbourne Cup.

More shrieks of joy followed as Rupert and Helen’s son Marcus, the pianist, and his boyfriend Alexei, the great ballet dancer, arrived from Moscow.

‘Marcus, Marcus, you came.’ Helen rushed forward. ‘How wonderful you look.’

‘She always liked him better than me,’ said Tabitha sourly. ‘So does Daddy – went all the way to London to Marcus’ Prom. Only time he gets a few decent hours’ sleep.’

‘Amber,’ cried the GCSE gang, as Billy and Janey Lloyd-Foxe’s daughter, looking ridiculously beautiful and happy, wandered in with her husband, champion jump jockey Rogue Rogers.

Having four years ago ridden Master Quickly’s mother to victory in the National, Amber said she must go and congratulate Quickly on his second in the Breeders’ Cup.

‘You’ll need earplugs. He’s been confined to box and yelling his head off because he’s got to parade later,’ Dora told her.

‘Didn’t he do well?’ said Etta, who’d just rolled up with Valent.

On her way, Amber had popped into Penscombe churchyard to put flowers on Billy’s grave. Later she managed to murmur to Taggie how dreadfully sorry she was that her mother kept writing ghastly things about Rupert.

‘She’s got a man called Colin Chalford, met him online and refers to him as Mr Fat and Happy. He’s sweet, much too nice for her.’

Tabitha was determinedly chatting up her ex-boyfriend, Tristan de Montigny, and ignoring her producer husband Wolfie, Cosmo’s stepbrother, who’d turned up with Sarah Western, his nymphomaniac leading lady, who was playing opposite Paris in
Le Rouge et Le Noir
.

‘Good thing Jan’s over-catered, she’d devour the lot,’ sniped Tab. ‘Who did you eat for breakfast?’

‘Worse than Sauvignon,’ murmured Dora.

‘Sauvignon’s more interested in power than sex.’

Gossip was seething, everyone surreptitiously asking what was going on with Sauvignon and Eddie – had Rupert really kicked him out for good? – and hoping he’d turn up at the party.

People were spilling out on to the lawn, high heels pegged by the soft going.

Bas Baddingham, the bloodstock agent, was looking at the horses in the field, wondering which might be worth buying for someone else.

‘Where’s Rupert?’ he asked his harassed hostess on his return. ‘God, you look pretty. Do you remember I took you to that hunt ball in another red dress, and we danced to “Lady in Red”, and I think it dawned on Rupert that night that he was absolutely mad about you. You’re even more gorgeous now, I should have hung on to you.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ reproved Taggie. ‘Are you getting enough to drink?’

Less surreptitious was Helen, her lovely silk suit matching the gold of a nearby gingko, as she loudly asked: ‘Where’s Eddie? I must congratulate him on that brilliant win on I Will Repay, and I’m really looking forward to meeting Sauvignon – she looks quite lovely. Do introduce me, Taggie.’

‘She’s not actually coming,’ stammered Taggie.

‘Not exactly persona grata, Mum,’ hissed Tab.

Helen shivered. ‘It’s quite chilly. Lend me your jacket, Jan.’

‘I’ll get you a wrap,’ Jan told her firmly.

The roar increased, more helicopters landed, champagne flowed, canapés were devoured, as 1.45 p.m. approached.

‘Have you ever seen fitter men?’ Marketa sighed to Louise. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Lysander Hawkley. He’s lovely – used to be Rupert’s Head Lad, now set up on his own. He married Rannaldini’s second wife Kitty, a friend of Taggie’s. She’s marvellous, copes with all the admin, leaving Lysander to sort out the horses. They’re doing very well.’

‘Wish he’d come back instead of Walter Walter.’

Valent Edwards was nose-to-nose with George Hungerford, discussing trading with China and trying not to eat too many canapés. Etta was talking to George’s wife Flora, one of her favourite singers, when Flora cried: ‘Look, our Don Carlos has arrived, Baby, Baby – over here. How the hell did you get back from Melbourne quicker than Rupert?’

‘We took a private plane,’ whispered Baby, hugging her. ‘God, you look great. Oh, there’s Tristan,’ he rushed off to kiss his ex-director, ‘and Lucy darling,’ hugging her, ‘just the person I need: can you whizz upstairs and give me a bit of base and put in a few Carmens? It’s such a hell of a long journey.’

‘Where’s Adrian?’ asked Fiona.

‘Coveting the Stubbs,’ grinned Baby.

‘Oh look, here’s Mum.’ Flora flew across the lawn to hug a beautiful older woman, whose red hair and fake-fur red collar were being ruffled by the wind.

‘That’s Georgie Maguire,’ squeaked Etta to Valent and George Hungerford.

‘My mother-in-law,’ said George proudly.

‘I love her records,’ babbled Etta, ‘and goodness, there’s Dancer Maitland. I love his records too. Isn’t he gorgeous?’

‘He sponsors Ricky France-Lynch’s polo team,’ explained George Hungerford, as yells of ‘Dancer, Dancer,’ greeted him from the polo contingent.

In the same way that their hands shoved forward their horses to encourage them on the gallops, Marketa, Louise, Roving Mike, Shaheed and Clover were brilliant at pushing bottles at guests and taking the odd swig themselves.

‘Taggie,’ Geraldine tugged her sleeve, demanding that Taggie rescue her boyfriend Denzil, ‘he’s been stuck with that rather dull woman for ages.’

‘That’s Kitty Rannaldini,’ exploded Dora. ‘She’s a darling, and unlike you, looks as though she’s enjoying herself.’

Gala had retreated to Lime Tree Cottage, psyching herself up to join the party. Putting on her leopardskin dress, she noticed how her nipples stuck out directly behind the leopard’s eyes. As she reached the lawn, Rupert’s randy friends Drew and Bas wolf-whistled. ‘That is an incredibly sexy dress,’ said Drew.

‘And the eyes are perfectly positioned,’ grinned Bas.

Next moment, Geraldine had grabbed Gala’s arm.

‘That dress is completely OTT – you’re supposed to be working. Go and put on a
Happy Birthday Rupert
sweatshirt at once, or people will think you’re a guest.’

‘She looks stunning,’ snapped Louise, handing Gala a huge glass of champagne.

‘I wonder how Rupert will react,’ muttered Bas to Drew. ‘Poor sod, after a twenty-four-hour flight, probably been celebrating all the way back, he’ll be hopelessly hungover and jet-lagged.’

‘He did bloody well,’ said Drew.

‘Sure, but he didn’t get a winner. Rupert thinks second sucks.’

‘Oh God, here comes the cabaret.’

It was Old Eddie, in a morning coat with his
Old Men Make Better Lovers
badge on the lapel, and striped trousers held up by an Old Harrovian tie. He was getting away with much goosing and bottom-pinching because many of the beautiful women he attacked assumed he was one of Rupert’s dogs.

‘Eddie’s on the loose,’ Taggie beseeched Jan.

‘I’ll sort it. That carer’s not fit for purpose.’

He found Local Janet on her fourth glass of champagne in the kitchen.

‘You’re supposed to be looking after Eddie,’ he said, removing it and handing her Cindy Bolton’s latest porn DVD,
Cardinal Cindy
. ‘Give him this to watch.’

‘My great-grandfather’s got Alka Seltzer,’ Timon was informing Etta and Helen, ten minutes later. ‘He’s watching porn in the sitting room. I’m going to join him. We’re having sex education at school – it’s gross, all those hairy fannies. Porn’s much nicer.’

Helen choked on her drink.

‘Rupert’s over Lambourn,’ said the loudspeaker, and a great roar went up.

Safety Car had also joined the party, thrilled to see Lysander, nudging old friends and socializing.

‘He’s a much better host than Taggie,’ observed Tabitha. ‘Who’s that divine man who’s just walked in?’

‘My brother Jonathan,’ said Dora, who was rushing round photographing everyone. ‘He’s a brilliant painter, he’s done a gorgeous portrait of Taggie for Rupert, and his wife Emerald (she’s a piece of work but they adore each other), has done Rupert a lovely bronze of Banquo.’

Cries of ‘Do you remember?’ ‘Wasn’t that hysterical?’ ‘Who won that year?’ ‘Who painted that?’ ‘Who sang that?’ hung on the air, all inextricably linked.

‘Here’s another gorgeous man,’ sighed Marketa.

‘That’s Taggie’s brother, Patrick O’Hara. He’s a scriptwriter,’ said Louise. ‘That cross-looking brunette is his partner, Cameron Cook. She makes very good films.’

All the O’Haras, who included Declan, and Taggie’s sister Caitlin, her husband Archie and their children, looked very cross on arrival, because they’d been held up by Taggie’s mother Maud, one-time actress, addicted to making an entrance.

Now she swept in, her piled-up paprika-red hair set off by a sea-green satin dress.

‘She’s even more jealous of Taggie than Helen is,’ Bas murmured to Gala.

‘You look sensational, Mum,’ said Taggie dutifully.

‘I’d look even more sensational,’ Maud took Taggie aside, ‘in that emerald pendant of yours. Can you run upstairs and get it?’

And Taggie went as green as the necklace, because she’d sold it to pay for the party. Then even greener because the hunt had arrived, galloping out of the wood, across the fields, jumping fences; forty riders and twenty couple of hounds, stopping to drink out of the lake, sending Rupert’s turned-out horses into a frenzy of excitement. Next moment, Quickly had leapt out of his box and joined in.

Hounds, all without collars, as though they were not wearing ties, catching divine wafts of roast venison, charged round relieving guests of filo-pastry baskets, chicken and mayo, goats’-cheese tartlets, eyes watering as they encountered hot sausages, wolfing up whole platefuls, until at Jan’s roar of rage, the kennel huntsman called them more or less to order.

‘He knows all their names,’ said an awed Etta.

The field, mostly in black or in tweed coats, known as ratcatchers, were getting stuck into both food and drink.

‘Why are hardly any of them wearing red coats?’ asked Gala.

‘Don’t want to attract the antis,’ said Dora, ‘although the antis will be like a day in the country,’ she burst out laughing, ‘compared with Rupert when he sees who’s rolled up.’

It was Dame Hermione, on a buckling dapple grey, her vast bottom, which Gala had last seen whipped crimson by Young Eddie, forced into white breeches.

‘Where’s Rupert?’ she called out, grabbing a glass of champagne. ‘My invitation still hasn’t arrived. Must come and wish my favourite poster boy a happy sixtieth. Those look delicious.’ She scooped up a fistful of goats’-cheese tartlets.

‘Oh hell,’ cried an utterly appalled Taggie as Hermione was followed by Damsire in ratcatchers on a bay mare: ‘Come to wish my ex many happies,’ and she also grabbed a large glass.

Taggie gazed imploringly at Jan who went off and had a word
with the Master about pushing off the moment they’d said a quick hello to Rupert.

‘Course, old boy, thanks – just a top-up. Just saying, we were hunting near Rutminster woods at dusk the other day. Such a creepy place – hounds wouldn’t go in there. Probably heard the ghost of Seeker howling.’

As Caitlin’s children and Timon and Sapphire crowded round the hounds, hugging them, Dame Hermione had discovered the opera clique.

‘Oh look, there’s Tristan de Montigny, who directed me in the Oscar-winning film of
Don Carlos
, and Lucy Latimer who did my make-up and – coo-ee, coo-ee – there’s my leading man, Baby Spinosissimo.’ And she launched into their first duet: ‘Di qual amor, di quant’ardor’ which was so deafening that her horse bolted, and at first people couldn’t distinguish the chug, chug rattle of a dark-blue helicopter. Over the loudspeaker, the showjumping music boomed out.

Let him be pleased, prayed Taggie, as Banquo, Forester, Cuthbert and Gilchrist, recognizing the helicopter, barking in hysterical delight, hurtled off to welcome Master, followed by Bianca, screaming: ‘Daddy, Daddy!’

Looking down, Rupert saw Penscombe church spire and his beechwoods, a red fire flickering to welcome him. He noticed an inordinate amount of turned-out horses racing about to keep warm. After Melbourne, Heathrow had seemed bitterly cold. Suddenly he stiffened to see the large field to the right of the lake hidden by cars and at least ten helicopters, and the lawn, covered by a huge marquee and ‘Happy Sixtieth Birthday Rupert’ in green and blue, otherwise crowded with cheering people, the hunt milling around and hundreds of balloons bobbing up to meet him like a bright-blue bubble bath.

‘What the fuck?’ he howled to a terrified, trembling Bao. ‘How bloody dare you not warn me?’

‘It’s a surprise party.’

‘Well, I’m not going to any fucking party. Turn the chopper round now.’

‘We haven’t got a flight-path. Lots of guests arriving by
helicopter, we might crash with them. I promise Mrs Campbell-Black, I deliver you safe.’

‘Don’t be fatuous – don’t you dare land.’

‘Please, Mr Campbell-Black, please.’ Bao was in tears. ‘Mrs Campbell-Black, she work so hard for party, night and day for weeks and weeks. No one loves anything as much as she loves you. She make wonderful food and wonderful cake. You friends come from whole world, they bring wonderful presents.’

The chopper was hovering above the house and the yelling cheering multitude.

‘I don’t bloody care. Why are my horses out in the fields? What the fuck’s the hunt doing? I expressly forbade Mrs Campbell-Black to have a party. She knew it was the last thing I wanted.’