Jilly Cooper - Score!

Nemesis had struck swiftly. The new make-up artist didn’t have Lucy’s blow-drying and colouring skills, and Alpheus ended up with corkscrew curls the colour of mango chutney and looked like Paddy Ashdown in a Shirley Temple wig.

Simone was in hysterics that any continuity had been shot to pieces. ‘How could Lucy do this to us?’ she stormed.

‘Manage without her,’ snapped Tristan.

Nor had Tristan dreamt, as the day progressed, how much he would miss Wolfie to field telephone calls, to keep track of his belongings, and control the extras. Rupert had high-handedly sent over a couple of his grooms with all his dogs, and all his polo-playing friends’ dogs because they all wanted their dogs in the film and because one always sees lots of dogs at polo. The dogs proceeded to fight and bark and mount each other. Rupert, meanwhile, had buggered off to a race meeting at Ayr.

‘I vish his bloody daughter had gone too,’ grumbled Mikhail.

One of the first sounds Tristan heard and ignored was Tab, yelling her head off in true Campbell-Black fashion. She was desperately nervous about making her polo film début playing against world-class players, even if she had known them since she was a child. She had wanted to look ravishing for Tristan’s return, and been turned into the Town Tart by this ghastly make-up. It was all Lucy’s fault. And where was utterly bloody Wolfie to hold her hand, find her whip and absorb abuse like a punch bag?

Even worse, as Mistress of the Horse, she felt it her duty to see the singers played properly. Baby was good, but Mikhail had an unnerving habit of dropping his reins and swinging his stick round with both hands like a Tartar warlord as he thundered down the field.

‘For Gawd’s sake, watch him,’ Sexton pleaded with Tab. Having insurance claims already on a murdered producer and a recently absentee director, he didn’t want Mikhail taking out Ricky France-Lynch the England captain, or his forwards Seb and Dommie Carlisle.

Mikhail was sulking because George’s open house had suddenly become closed when one of Georgie’s heavies had caught him sidling out with a little Watteau and a Sickert under his polo shirt.

‘I know the murderer’s still at large,’ giggled Flora, ‘but Mikhail seems to be taking bulletproof vests to extremes.’

She still looked haunted and desperately tired as she and George hardly left each other’s side. As soon as the wrap party was over, they were off to Cornwall with Trevor.

Everyone was relieved to have moved away from Valhalla’s dark mazes and haunted cloisters. Rannaldini’s doomladen overture, pouring out of the speakers, however, was a constant reminder that his killer had not been caught.

The violence of the polo was equally unnerving, ponies thundering over grass as slippery as buttered spinach, sticks clashing, balls hurtling like cannon shot, often into the crowd, players deliberately colliding. The ponies kept jumping out of their thin thoroughbred skins and taking off, because the cast, upstaging each other, continually broke into snatches of their next opera or song cycle to prove there was work after Carlos .

‘Telephone, Tristan,’ shouted Bernard.

It was Claudine in hysterics. It was all Tristan’s fault, for barging into the cottage in Wales, the police had already been round, her maid was threatening to dump to the Express , and Jean-Louis to divorce her.

And she would have let me swing, thought Tristan savagely. He remembered Gablecross telling him that in big murder cases several marriages always broke up.

Couldn’t he get his friend Rupert Campbell-Black to pull strings and stop the Mail ? wailed Claudine. Tristan said he’d try and hung up.

‘I don’t want to be bothered with any calls,’ he ordered Jessica, who was nervously standing in for Wolfie.

While they were waiting for the cameras to reload and reposition, he finally got through to the château. Hortense was obviously a little better, as she was in a meeting, unable to be disturbed. Tristan might not have been so sanguine if he’d known with whom. He left a message with Florence that he’d be down on Wednesday after the wrap party.

When they broke for a late lunch, Jessica said a French lady had rung five times on the unit mobile.

‘ Non, non, non ,’ howled Tristan, as it rang again. ‘I can’t talk to anyone.’

Next moment he had been buttonholed by Alpheus, complaining about both Tabitha and the make-up artist, and Chloe complaining that Baby was being gratuitously offensive, and had nearly ridden his pony over her.

They were soon joined by Pushy.

‘Could we have another make-up artist? I know I can look prettier than this, Tristan.’

God, he missed Wolfie to send them packing. Leaving them, in mid-bellyache, on his way to his caravan, he passed Jessica telling Bernard that Lucy expected to be back by mid-morning tomorrow.

Tristan swung round in fury. ‘Lucy rang? Why didn’t you put her on?’

‘You didn’t want any calls.’

‘I didn’t mean Lucy, you stupid bitch. Get her back at once.’

‘I didn’t take her number,’ stammered Jessica, appalled by such unaccustomed rudeness.

‘You bloody idiot.’

Jessica burst into tears.

Tristan couldn’t remember being so angry. All he had wanted during his lunch break was to pour out his heart to Lucy about the horrors of prison and the difficulties of filming polo. Also, because Lucy had been so wonderfully comforting when he had found out Maxim was his father and had been forced to give up Tab he felt he should perhaps have provided the last piece of the jigsaw, and levelled with her about Claudine. He wanted to explain, before Lucy read about it in tomorrow’s Mail , that the love that had obscured his vision for the past three years had suddenly been blown away like mist at sea. But if Lucy wasn’t getting back till mid-morning, it would probably be too late.

‘Oh, you’re wearing my sweater. It really suits you.’

It was several seconds before Tristan realized the happy voice belonged to Rozzy, who was looking really pretty. All the lines in her face seemed to have ironed out. He’d forgotten she’d given him this jersey.

She tried to cover up for Lucy, which was difficult when James shot out of Wardrobe and did four pirouettes, nearly strangling himself on his lead, because he too was pleased to see Tristan. Then he slunk back in despair because he wasn’t with Lucy.

‘I’ve had to tie him to the table leg because he keeps following me on to the set.’

‘Poor old boy.’ Tristan unclipped James’s lead. ‘Where the hell’s your mistress?’

‘She’ll turn up,’ said Rozzy. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ she added, leading him towards his caravan. ‘Which did you like best, my tarte aux oignons or the quiche Lorraine?’

‘They were both marvellous,’ mumbled Tristan, who’d been far too uptight to eat anything in prison. ‘My God!’

For a second he thought he’d let himself into the wrong caravan. There were vases of wild flowers everywhere.

‘Marjoram, honeysuckle, scabious, forget-me-not, bellflower, thyme, wild basil and those dark purple bugle-like flowers are called self-heal. I picked two vases of them, because I know you will heal after your horrible experience.’

‘You’re so kind,’ muttered Tristan, breathing in the honeysuckle, which reminded him of Lucy’s lone sprig in prison.

How dare Rozzy ponce up his caravan! All the books and magazines had been straightened. All the notes secured under a paperweight. The floor was hoovered, even the windows cleaned, so everyone could see when he was there. He wanted to scream.

‘It’s very kind, Rozzy.’

‘It’s been a pleasure.’ She added playfully, ‘I’ve made you a sort of brunch. I know how strong you like your coffee. Sit down and relax. I’ve made you an omelette and Mrs Brimscombe picked me these with the dew on them this morning.’