Jilly Cooper - Score!

Clips were being shown of Valhalla, of Rannaldini conducting, of Tristan arriving at the police station and of Étienne in a big straw hat painting in the château gardens. When Hermione appeared, opening her big eyes and saying she had every confidence because her very good friends Chief Constable Swallow, Rupert Campbell-Black and Sexton Kemp were now at the helm, Rupert and Wolfie collapsed with howls of drunken laughter.

‘I’m suffering from Dutch Helm Disease,’ said Rupert, pretending to fall over.

‘Poor old Tristan, but bloody good publicity,’ said Wolfie wiping his eyes.

‘Christ, she’s beautiful,’ sighed Rupert, as Claudine Lauzerte was shown talking to Tristan on the set of The Lily in the Valley .

‘ Très jolie, très chic ,’ agreed Madame.

‘Oscar’s lighting helped,’ said Wolfie quickly. ‘Tab’s much more beautiful.’

‘So’s Taggie,’ admitted Rupert. ‘Even so, I wouldn’t mind having Madame Lauzerte as my luxury on Desert Island Discs .’

‘Thank you,’ said Wolfie, as Madame filled up his glass. ‘I should like to pick up the tab on this,’ he told Rupert firmly. ‘I should like to pick up Tab any time,’ he added.

Perhaps he did have a sense of humour after all.

‘You have a very charming son,’ Madame told Rupert skittishly. ‘It is rare for fathers and sons to get on so well.’

‘Very,’ agreed Rupert, then turning to Wolfie, ‘If Tristan had really loved Tab, he wouldn’t have backed off after a one-night stand. I don’t believe in that kind of sacrifice.’

‘Yes, you do,’ said Wolfie resolutely. ‘Tab told me you backed off for nearly a year because you didn’t feel you were good enough for Taggie.’

‘Maybe I did.’ Rupert scratched his head in pleased surprise. ‘Maybe I did. And, talking of self-sacrifice, why’s Lucy here?’

‘Because she wants to slay the dragon of this frightful calumny,’ said Wolfie. ‘And unconsciously in the hope that Tristan will be so touched by her enterprise and nobility, he’ll realize she’s the one he loves not Tab.’

‘He won’t, unfortunately. Men don’t love buckets like that, just for their virtues.’

‘Lucy’s not a bucket,’ protested Wolfie. ‘She can look gorgeous.’

Rupert raised a sleek sceptical blond eyebrow.

‘I wouldn’t ask you to shoot on a cocks-only day,’ he drawled.

‘Telephone,’ called out Madame.

It was Lucy.

‘Any progress?’ Wolfie asked her.

‘None.’ Lucy lowered her voice. ‘She’s a stubborn old bat. She wouldn’t squeal when the Gestapo tugged out her toenails and she’s not likely to tell me anything. She was wandering so badly this evening that she insisted on having the blackout put up in her room.’

Hearing a burst of music, Wolfie looked round and saw Madame was teaching Rupert the can-can and started to laugh.

‘Do you want us to come and get you?’

‘Neither of you sounds capable,’ snapped Lucy, then after a pause, ‘I’m sorry, it’s been a long day, but Florence is letting me stay the night. She made me a gorgeous Gruyère omelette and opened a bottle of Sancerre. I just wish… Are you OK, Wolfie?’

‘Hunky-dory. Thingsh will be better in the morning. Goo’ night, Lucy.’

Lucy couldn’t remember ever being more tired. But just as she was about to fall into the arms of Morpheus she thought of Tristan in his small cell, and how much she would prefer the arms to be his. By this time, Morpheus had retreated in a sulk, and Lucy was left to agonize until four in the morning, when the roar of the combines and the waiting started again.

She went downstairs and raided the family albums, poring over photographs of picnics, balls and shooting-parties, of weddings and christenings, when the limes in the avenue were only shoulder high and the jasmine round the house wasn’t planted. Étienne was everywhere, always surrounded by adoring women, while Hortense and his three elder sons looked on, stolid and disapproving. But she found no sign of Laurent, unless he was that beautiful young man with the lively, restless, not-very-happy face to the rear of one group, gazing down at a girl whose slim back was to the camera and whose long dark hair was tied back with a scarlet ribbon.

Around ten on Sunday morning Lucy was toying with a croissant, black cherry jam and coffee so dark brown it reminded her of Tristan’s eyes, when a bell jangled in the kitchen.

‘I’m plunged in pitch darkness, I don’t know if I’m alive or dead,’ said a querulous voice over the intercom. ‘Will someone immediately bring me a cup of tea?’

‘Let me take it,’ Lucy begged Florence.

‘Haven’t you gone?’ snapped Hortense, as Lucy opened the shutters.

‘Not yet. I haven’t got what I came for.’

‘I suppose you’re in love with my nephew like the rest of them. You’re certainly no oil painting.’

‘Just as well, judging by some of the oils downstairs,’ said Lucy. ‘I’d hate to be as fat as the Rubens nude or as bloated as that Francis Bacon cardinal.’

Aunt Hortense gave a snort of laughter.

‘Does Tristan love you?’

‘No, a great friend of mine, a most beautiful girl.’

‘ Bien élevée? ’

‘Very, and she adores him.’

‘Married, I suppose.’

‘Not acutely. She’s got a horrid husband and Rannaldini told Tristan he couldn’t marry her because he wasn’t a Montigny, and because of his bad blood because Maxim had raped his mother.’

Carefully, laboriously, Lucy went though the whole story until Hortense said sharply, ‘You told me all that last night.’

Lucy raised her eyes to heaven.

‘But you haven’t told me whether it’s true.’

‘I swore to my brother Étienne never to discuss the matter.’

‘But it’s so unfair to Tristan.’

‘Life has always been unfair to Tristan. He was such a sweet little boy — I was far too strict with him. I didn’t want him to grow into a cissy. I knew women, and possibly men, would spoil him later.’

There was a patter of feet as the little Italian greyhound scampered in, leapt on to the bed and covered his mistress’s grey, wrinkled face with kisses.

‘Still they love you. I’ve spoilt my animals so dreadfully. What will become of them when I’m gone?’

‘Tristan would look after them if you got him out of prison. Who is Tristan’s father? If it wasn’t Rannaldini could it be Oscar, or even Bernard Guérin? He and Tristan are incredibly close.’

‘It’s a secret I’ll take to my grave.’

‘You’re not going to your grave. Let me wash your hair.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘I’m a hairdresser!’

‘And you have designs on my nephew!’

‘Don’t treat my head as though it was a glass bauble,’ snapped Hortense, a quarter of an hour later. ‘Give it a good hard rub.’

Despite pointing out that the fluffy fringe over her forehead was very common, Hortense was grudgingly delighted with the result, even making Lucy hold up the mirror at the back where a pink bald patch had been covered over. Afterwards she let Lucy make her up.

‘They’ll be doing that to me in my coffin very soon,’ she added.

‘Don’t be so macabre. Do you want me to come back and do it for you then?’

‘Not if you make me wear that lipstick. I look like a Jewess.’

Lucy giggled.

As soon as Florence had gone off to church, Hortense decided she’d like to give her make-over an outing and announced she wanted to pay a visit to her brother’s grave.

‘It’s horrendously hot.’

‘A good dress rehearsal for hell fires.’

‘And I don’t think you’re well enough.’

‘I’m the best judge of that.’