Jilly Cooper - Score!

‘Listen to the clapping,’ murmured an amazed Rupert to Taggie, as applause broke out again and again, at Valhalla in the snow and sunset, at Meredith’s red drawing room, at the wonderful horses, at Griselda’s inspired costumes, and at the end of every aria, but not for too long, in case something was missed.

And the music sounded glorious. ‘Who composed this stuff?’ demanded a bigwig from Disney at the end of ‘Morte de Posa’. ‘Can’t we sign him?’

Things were also pepped up by the sub-plot of the murders.

‘That was just after Tab’s leather was cut,’ whispered Griselda to Anne Robinson, as Tab and Baby collided in front of the goal. ‘And that was when Tristan was arrested,’ she added, as Baby, Chloe and Mikhail squabbled over pistols in the maze.

There was an added frisson as Rozzy made her solo appearance, which Tristan had refused to cut.

‘“Do not cry, my dearest friend, do not cry,”’ sang Hermione, as she stroked a sobbing Rozzy’s face.

‘Boo,’ hissed Baby from the back stalls. ‘I’d watch out, Hermsie, Rozzy’s probably got a flick-knife hidden in the folds of that skirt.’

There was a long, horrified silence, followed by howls of laughter. There was laughter, too, when Sharon chewed up Alpheus’s slippers.

Tristan had been apprehensive about the nude scenes. But they were so magically filmed and lit, so genuinely erotic, and so wonderfully woven into the fantasies of the characters, that everyone loved and clapped them.

Roars of applause and end-of-game whistling, however, greeted Hermione’s bonk with Alpheus, and at one moment eager fans started singing, ‘England, England,’ in time to her bobbing bottom.

‘One is more popular than the other singers,’ whispered a gratified Hermione to Sexton.

But the audience needed these brief moments of laughter to relieve the heartbreak of the story and the horrors of the auto da fe. All round the cinema people were hiding their faces as the executioners set fire to the piles of newspaper beneath the heretics.

Tab, who loathed classical music and had intended to neck in the back stalls with Wolfie, except when Sharon or the horses came on, had watched every second.

‘Daddy keeps crying,’ she murmured to Wolfie. ‘Normally he only cries in Lassie or The Incredible Journey .’

Wolfie was simply dying with pride, because despite the feuds, the tensions and even the murders, Tristan had produced the most beautiful and thrilling film he had ever seen.

The two hours seemed to flash by. Carlos and Elisabetta had bidden their poignant farewells. Then Carlos was led off by Charles V, leaving Elisabetta, looking very like Princess Diana, to face the paparazzi lining up with their long lenses like a firing squad, until she fell to the ground riddled with bullets. Then the paparazzi became the Inquisition in their black habits with Valhalla’s four massive triangular cypresses echoing them along the skyline, cutting briefly to Rannaldini on the rostrum, handsome head thrown back, eyes closed, bringing the music to a triumphant close.

There was total, total silence. But as the end titles rolled up, before the lights went on, the cinema exploded. Hugs were exchanged, hands clasped, cheeks kissed, everyone was embracing, jumping up and down, cheering their heads off, as though a war or lottery had been won.

It was no longer a question of whether Carlos was going to be a hit, but how much bigger it was going to be than anything in years.

‘I must go and congratulate Tristan,’ cried Tab, as everyone surged into the ballroom next door. ‘He looked like one of his own ghosts earlier. Oh, I wish Lucy was here.’

‘No-one is to ask questions about the murders. It’s all sub judice ,’ Hype-along was frantically telling the press as they fell on the bar and the food.

Oscar, Valentin and Sylvestre were already getting plastered.

‘Well done, well done, mes amis ,’ said Dupont, the Montignys’ lawyer, kissing each of them, most uncharacteristically, on both cheeks. ‘What a film! Étienne couldn’t not be proud of Tristan after that. I must get hold of a tape to show his brothers, but I’d like to tell Tristan personally how much I enjoyed it.’

Tristan’s brothers were livid, added Dupont, lowering his voice, because Aunt Hortense, in reverse ratio to Étienne, had left her entire spare quarter to stray dogs and Tristan.

‘In his present crazy mood,’ sighed Valentin, ‘some might say the two were indistinguishable. Where the hell ees he? Merde alors! Leetle Cosmo just march in with Pushy Galore. Perhaps he make her next Lady Rannaldini after all.’

The roar of the party and the Friendship Duet pouring out of the speakers made it difficult to make oneself heard.

‘Tristan’s portrayed the press as so irredeemably bloody,’ shouted the Independent . ‘We’ll have to be nice about his picture to redeem ourselves.’

Gordon Dillon, on the other hand, was tickled pink to be portrayed as himself. The Scorpion was going to do a big feature, he told Granny, immediately inviting him to lunch in the boardroom.

‘Only if Giuseppe can taste the food and drink first,’ said Granny drily.

‘No chance of your bringing that Lucy Latimer as well?’ asked Gordon Dillon foxily.

There was no doubt that Baby had stolen the show.

‘What are you doing next?’ asked the Guardian .

‘Fat Franco’s broken a rib falling out of someone else’s bed,’ drawled Baby, ‘so I’m taking Otello over from him at the Met.’

‘Wow, the tenor’s Everest,’ said Opera Now in admiration.

No, thought Baby wistfully, Isa Lovell was the tenor’s Everest.

‘Did you enjoy shagging Dame Hermione?’ asked A. A. Gill.

Alpheus was in ecstasy, with so many charming young women journalists to crinkle his eyes at. He had even hung his dinner jacket over the back of a chair to show off his manly figure. George and Wolfie propped up the bar, getting pissed together, keeping an eye on Flora and Tab in case any journalist asked awkward questions.

‘It was the proudest moment of my life’, sighed George, ‘seeing Tebaldo, sung by Flora Hungerford, coming up on the credits.’

‘Hello, Wolfgang. Hi, George,’ called Helen. ‘I don’t know if you’ve met Sir David Hawkley.’

‘Hello, Mummy.’ Tab, breaking away from her circle of press admirers, came rushing over. ‘It’s so cool. Lynda Lee-Potter’s coming down to Penscombe tomorrow to interview me and Sharon. Dog News are putting her on the cover, and Celia Haddon is going to make her Pet of the Week in the Telegraph .’ Then when Helen didn’t respond, Tab asked lamely, ‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘Enormously,’ enthused Helen, ‘Tristan is so clever, and the acting was wonderful. Even Hermione was better than usual. Meredith’s sets were surprisingly effective, so was Lucy’s make-up and Valhalla looked stunning. Wolfie’s also been a tower of strength,’ she continued warmly.

‘I thought your little yellow Lab stole the show,’ said David Hawkley, smiling at Tab.

‘When is your baby due, Dame Hermione?’ asked the Sunday Telegraph .

‘Early April,’ Hermione put on a soppy face, ‘an Aries bairn.’

‘Where are you having it?’

‘In the Hippopotamus House at London Zoo,’ Baby whispered to Flora, ‘David Attenborough’s on standby.’

‘Where are you staying in New York?’ Flora asked him.

‘With Rupert’s younger brother, Adrian, who owns an art gallery and sounds distinctly promising,’ confided Baby. ‘So tomorrow might be another good day.’

Looking down from the balcony, Hype-along was gratified to see all his stars still ringed, six deep, with frantically questioning press. But they were all waiting to talk to Tristan. Many of them had held their pages and were desperate to telephone their copy.