Jilly Cooper - Score!

‘What’s she got to do with it?’ asked Tristan in amazement. ‘Tab’s marrying Wolfie. Oh, my God, did you think it was still Tab and me? Oh, my poor angel.’ Kneeling up, he pulled her against him, feeling the frantic pounding of her heart, as she in turn felt the exquisite pain of being crushed against the hardness of his big gold blazer buttons.

‘That’s wonderful for Wolfie,’ gasped Lucy, ‘but weren’t you heartbroken?’

‘Not in the least. They will have pretty blond babies.’

‘And Wolfie’ll look after her so well, he adores her so much.’

‘Not as much as I shall adore and look after you.’ For a second Tristan sounded almost beady. ‘And you and I will have lots of babies with dark curly hair, who will be even prettier. I know how you love kids.’ He picked up Lucy’s hand and kissed each finger. ‘As Maxim’s son, I couldn’t give them to you so I back off. By the time I open parcel and learnt the truth you had gone. Why did you run away? It broke my heart.’

‘I couldn’t bear the pain.’ Tentatively Lucy’s hand crept up to the dark stubble along his jaw. ‘I thought you were in love with Claudine or, at least, Tab — that’s stiff competition — and Rozzy…’ Her voice trailed off in embarrassment.

‘Rozzy what?’ demanded Tristan, forcing her face upwards.

‘She, well, she said I was too plain, ugly and common, and your family would be furious. Ouch!’ Lucy screamed, as Tristan’s hand clenched on her chin, then gasped in alarm because his eyes had become black whirlpools of hatred.

‘Eef that evil monster weren’t in security prison,’ he spat, ‘I break in and tear her to pieces. How dare the beetch! You have sweetest face in the world. And my family will love you. Whether you will love them is different matter. My brothers are very pompous. And it’s me they are furious with at the moment because Aunt Hortense leave me so much money, and’, Tristan smiled suddenly, ‘they don’t quite know how to handle Griselda. I adore your face.’ Very gently he covered it in kisses. ‘And now it will grow as familiar as the paintings on my bedroom wall.’

But Lucy wasn’t ready for certainty. ‘What about Claudine? I read the Mail .’

Tristan scrambled to his feet, pulling Lucy up against him. Despite his thinness, his chest was still broad, and his arms incredibly strong as they closed round her.

‘I should have level with you,’ he muttered, ‘my love for her die, the night Rannaldini die. I drive to Wales and find I am chasing dream.’

‘Did you see her in Edinburgh?’

‘No, I run away. I call her from airport. She was furious. “Are you sick?” she shout. “No,” I say, “I am seeking.”’

Running his hands deep into Lucy’s hair, he gazed down at her. ‘You have no need of Oscar’s lighting.’

Then, breathing in faint traces of Bluebell, he knew spring had at last returned. As he kissed her Lucy could feel his wonderful big bruised lower lip crushing hers, and his tongue caressing her tongue. Just for a second her eyes flickered open and saw that his were closed in ecstasy, the thick dark brown lashes fanning his beautiful cheekbones. As she swivelled her head sideways so he could kiss her even harder, she felt as though she was being drawn up to heaven like one of Chagall’s angels. And what her head still couldn’t quite take in, her heart accepted completely, that he truly loved her.

As they broke for breath, she flung her arms round his neck. ‘You are the most blissfully gorgeous man who ever walked this earth, and I’m going to love, cherish and adore you for ever.’

‘If you don’t, I shall be horribly jealous,’ said Tristan. ‘Even of Pierre Lapin.’ He fingered Peter Rabbit. ‘Look at lucky him, lying against those wonderful breasts.’

‘How d’you know they’re wonderful?’ mumbled a blushing Lucy.

‘I have Hype-along’s picture in my wallet. I show it you later. But first you must have this.’

Reaching down to his coat which had fallen on the floor, he took a little black velvet box from the inside pocket. ‘Aunt Hortense leave me ring, which once belong to Marie Antoinette. You give me back my name, Lucy, now I want you to share it with me.’

Lucy’s hands were trembling so violently, Tristan had to open the box. Inside, like mistletoe berries waiting for kissing lovers, gleamed three pearls.

As a tear splashed on one of them, Tristan said shakily, ‘I would be safest, happiest guy in world, if you would wear it always.’

They were brought back to earth by a great snore rending the air. With his future assured, James felt safe to fall asleep.

The police had finally allowed Rannaldini to be buried in huge pomp. Unwilling to attend the funeral, Tristan came alone to Valhalla to pay his last respects. It was a bitterly cold, dark afternoon: the east wind howled and lashed the naked trees. A ‘For Sale’ sign swung dismally outside the main gates.

Tristan went straight to the graveyard. Here, amid a sea of flowers and higgledy-piggledy ivy-clad graves, soared a splendid white marble headstone, on which had already been inscribed the words: ‘Roberto Rannaldini, Maestro and Composer, 1949–1996.’

As he stood in the fading light, Tristan relived the past year, remembering Baby serenading Hermione in the snow, Tabitha screaming at the hunt, Granny silencing the rabble with such terrifying authority, Alpheus singing with such kingly anguish, and Mikhail as he lay dying reducing everyone to tears.

Tristan thought of Simone, Wolfie and Bernard working themselves to the bone, of Valentin and Oscar creating radiance even when they seemed at their most languid and inattentive, of dearest Lucy, always comforting and smiling, of Sexton giving him full rein and heroically raising the money, and the rest of the crew backing him all the way despite their grumbling.

But without Rannaldini it would never have happened. Without Rannaldini’s kindness and continual encouragement in the early days he would never have emerged from the shadow of Étienne’s disdain and become a director. And what would Rannaldini, who had never settled for less than perfection, think of his film, which was now in a little black oblong box for present and future generations to judge?

More important than winning any Oscars, Tristan hoped that, whatever form or being he was now, Rannaldini would be proud.

Strange that one narrow grave could contain so much vitality, strange that so much tragedy and passion should be contained in one small, black videotape, which Tristan now laid on Rannaldini’s grave. On top he placed a white gardenia.

But as he stood in silence, he could have sworn a pale violet light, like a torch beam or a peacock butterfly left over from summer, landed on the grave, and danced for a second before disappearing into the earth. He shook his head. It must have been a trick of the light.

Leaving the graveyard, he wandered past Meredith’s cuckoo clock lying upside down in the park. The patch of yellow grass beneath Lucy’s caravan was green once more, the love-in-a-mist in her abandoned window-box turned to seed pods. Tristan put a couple in his pocket.

Looking over the valley with the ghosts of the past swirling around him, he was overwhelmed by sorrow that Don Carlos was over and Rannaldini gone for ever. But as he walked swiftly back to the car park he felt only joy as he switched on his telephone and dialled his future:

‘May I speak to Lucy de Montigny, please?’

In 1985 Robin Baird-Smith, then of Constable the publisher, sent me to Death Valley to write a short book about Patrick Lichfield photographing three ravishing nude models for the 1986 Unipart calendar. As well as Patrick’s crew, there was a second film crew videoing the shoot for television. Everyone was obsessed with their own agenda. With temperatures hitting 140°F, the rows were as pyrotechnic as the high jinks. Returning home a wreck, but eternally grateful to everyone involved for such riotous fun, I vowed one day to write a novel about a film crew on location.