Jilly Cooper - Score!

Now she could only think, In a few minutes I’ll see Tristan and I’ll die of excitement, but after tomorrow I won’t see him any more, and I’ll die.

At Valhalla she was disappointed to find no James in her caravan. Rozzy must have taken him on the set. Unzipping one of the bench seat cushions, she hid all Tristan’s parcelled-up papers and paintings inside. It was so hot, she changed into her new pink dress, took another slug of brandy and, because of her shaking hands, rather over-drenched herself in Fracas.

Someone had taken Wolfie’s Land Rover over to George’s house, so instead he grabbed Rannaldini’s pearlescent orange Lamborghini, which looked much in need of a jaunt. He whistled as Lucy jumped in beside him.

‘That dress is sensational.’

George’s gates were so swarming with police and press, Wolfie had to produce his passport.

‘Why did you and I go through all that,’ he asked wryly, as he stormed up the drive, ‘just to enable two people we’re absolutely crazy about to end up together?’

‘At least we’ll be giving Tristan the best wrap-party present ever,’ said Lucy, raising the bottle to her lips. ‘Thank you, Wolfie, for everything. It’s a pity’, she added wistfully, ‘you and I don’t fancy each other.’

‘I’ve known more unlikely things,’ said Wolfie, pulling up on the edge of the field. Thinking how pretty she looked with her pale cheeks flushed and her pink dress showing off her long legs, he amazed himself by taking her in his arms and burying his lips in hers.

‘Wow,’ gasped Lucy, when he finally let her go. ‘You are the most terrific kisser.’ Pulling his blond head down, she kissed him again.

Unfortunately pearlescent orange Lamborghini Diablos are very noticeable, particularly with Meredith turning pale and crying out to everyone as they reassembled after the break:

‘My God! Rannaldini’s car’s just rolled up on the opposite side of the field.’

Most people were therefore vastly relieved when, instead of a black-cloaked ghost, Lucy and Wolfie, hastily wiping off lipstick, emerged giggling from the Lamborghini.

‘Must go and find James.’ Lucy set off unsteadily towards Wardrobe.

‘Must go and make my peace with Bernard,’ said Wolfie, setting off nervously towards the set.

Heavens, there were a lot of police around. The extras in the stands, Granny in his press box, the marquees, the band were all massed on the south side of the field to allow the camera team in their car to race unimpeded up and down the north side.

‘Wolfie!’ bellowed Mikhail, cantering up on a smart bay pony. ‘How vas your dirty veekend?’

Everyone screamed with laughter and surged forward, tripping over cables to hug him. It was just the tension-breaker they needed.

‘Have a drink,’ said Ogborne, thrusting a beer can into Wolfie’s hand. ‘Thank God you’re back to defuse Tristan and Tabitha.’

On cue, up thundered Tab, leaping off her pony and pummelling her way into the crowd.

‘Hi there,’ mumbled Wolfie, turning very red.

Next moment he’d turned even redder, as Tab whacked him viciously across the face with the palm, then the back of her hand.

‘Bastard!’ she screamed. ‘How could you leave everyone in the lurch and let Tristan down like that? How am I expected to organize the ponies on my own and star in the film? You’ve let me down as well. I hate you.’ She was about to slap him again when, seeing how handsome he was, even with his navy blue eyes watering with pain, she burst into tears and pummelled her way out of the crowd again.

‘Don’t worry, Wolfie.’ Griselda clouted him on the shoulder. ‘There isn’t a soul she hasn’t bawled out — girl’s suffering from post-Tristan tension.’

Lucy, meanwhile, was waiting for a rail of dresses or one of the trestle tables covered in pastel-covered shoes suddenly to take off towards her as a tethered James bounded forward in rapturous excitement. To her horror no dog materialized.

‘Where’s James?’ she asked Rozzy, after she’d hugged her and handed over the bottle of Femme.

‘In your caravan. He’s not? Then he must have jumped out of the window. Mrs Brimscombe’s Cindy’s on heat. He’ll turn up.’

‘Why didn’t you bring him?’ asked Lucy, trying not to sound panicky or accusing.

‘He ran on to the field after a squirrel yesterday, and nearly brought down one of the ponies. Tristan banished him,’ said Rozzy, slightly defensively. ‘He wouldn’t eat or settle while you were away. Then he got all excited on Sunday night when I said, “Mummy’s coming home,” but when you didn’t, he gradually lost heart.’ Then, seeing Lucy’s anguished face, Rozzy added hastily, ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s some bitch.’

‘Lucy,’ yelled Griselda, rushing up with an armful of polo boots, ‘thank God you’re back. Dear old René’s taken over and made everyone including Mikhail look like Claudine Lauzerte. Can you do Granny first, Alpheus second?’

‘I daren’t tread on René’s toes,’ said Lucy in horror.

‘Well, for a start you’ve got to do something about Alpheus’s hair.’

‘He’s now called Surly Temple,’ said Baby, leaning down from his pony and hugging Lucy. ‘We have missed you.’

‘I must find James, and Tristan and Tab to explain,’ muttered a distracted Lucy. Then, catching sight of a pile of tack on a nearby table, ‘That’s Tab’s saddle, the one with the blue and black check saddlecloth.’

‘Well, I’m not giving it to her in her present mood,’ said Rozzy. ‘You take it, Lucy.’

As she carried the saddle past handsome players on their shining ponies and breathed in the intoxicating smell of old leather, dung, sweating horse and expensive aftershave, and heard the thundering of hoofs, the bagpipe skirl of excited neighing and the chatter of the crowd accompanying Rannaldini’s overture, she realized how right Tristan had been to want polo to kick-start the film.

Next moment, Granny had erupted from the press box, tearing off his hot black inquisitor’s robes to roars of applause and revealing an elegant body adorned only by lavender silk boxer shorts.

‘Lucy, Lucy, I’m roasted alive in these clothes. Please turn me into Gordon Dillon again.’

‘Serve him right for burning all those heretics,’ giggled Meredith. ‘I must say the old dear’s kept his figure.’

‘Hello, Lucy, how was my beautiful France?’ shouted Oscar.

‘Lovely,’ shouted back Lucy, embarrassed but touched as everyone gathered round.

Everyone, that is, except Tristan, who by sheer willpower had driven his army on through the morning. Victory had been in sight. Now anarchy had broken out as all the troops deserted their posts to welcome Lucy. Nor had his temper been improved, on looking through Valentin’s long lens, to see Wolfie and Lucy in an orange Lamborghini and a passionate embrace.

‘Monsieur de Montigny, could I have a word about Claudine Lauzerte?’ asked Lynda Lee-Potter, who was snazzily disguised as a policewoman.

‘Not a single syllable. I talk enough to the flics ,’ snarled Tristan. ‘Get back to fucking work,’ he roared at the crowd around Lucy.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sexily smudged, her long legs smooth and brown below the clinging pink dress. Moving closer Tristan caught a whiff of brandy, which annoyed him almost as much as the Fracas wafting muskily from her hot, excited body, instead of the usual sweet, delicate Bluebell.

The diatribe pouring forth was mostly in French, but Lucy got the gist: that Tristan felt she had been totally irresponsible; that she had wrecked yesterday’s shoot by buggering up any hope of continuity, and had now come back to rot up this one. Totally appalled that a mouth that was made for kissing, drinking red wine and quoting poetry should be shouting such terrible things, Lucy remained speechless.