Jilly Cooper - Score!

At the edge of town, she gave them the slip.

‘That’s one for the divorce courts,’ said Baby. Then, to Tristan’s surprise, he admitted he had been married briefly when he was twenty-one. ‘My brother had such a beaut stag party I wanted one too. So I had to get spliced. My stag party was so great, I only just made the wedding, passed out as soon as I got to the reception and didn’t wake up till next day. My mother-in-law never forgave me, and nor did my wife. It only lasted a few weeks.’

Baby told the story so wickedly that Tristan couldn’t help laughing, but neither could he stop thinking about the girl at the traffic lights. Then he remembered. He’d seen her in a silver frame on Rannaldini’s piano.

Across the world in Bogotá, Rupert had returned from a marvellous day out. Xavier had totally captivated the nuns, who had not seen him since Rupert and Taggie had adopted him four and a half years ago. He was so tall, straight-backed and confident now, and proudly showed them photographs of Taggie, Bianca — who’d come from the same convent — Bogotá his black Labrador, Gringo his pony, already covered in rosettes, and finally of his big brother, Marcus, winning the Appleton.

‘We read about Marcus in the papers,’ said Mother Immaculata. ‘You must be so proud — and what about your sister Tabitha?’

‘We don’t see her any more, thank God,’ said Xav flatly.

‘She’s in America, eventing,’ explained Rupert hastily, vowing to telephone her the moment he got back to England.

Returning to the Hilton, he found a message to ring Taggie urgently. When he heard the news he went berserk.

‘What time is it in England?’

‘About three thirty.’

‘We’ve got to stop it. Rannaldini’s set the whole thing up in revenge for Marcus winning the Appleton and the rows over Don Carlos . Gimme his number.’ Then, for once forgetting his wife’s reading problems, ‘For Christ’s sake, move it.’

As Tabitha breezed in from the hairdresser, a purring Rannaldini told her that her father was on the line. For a second her face lit up. Then, picking up the telephone, she was scalded — even thousands of miles away — by the lava of Rupert’s rage. If she really went ahead and married Isa, he would never speak to her again, never allow her back to Penscombe, never give her a penny.

‘So what else is new?’ screamed Tabitha. ‘You said exactly the same thing when Mummy married Rannaldini. I love Isa. It’s not just because I’m having your grandchild.’

‘Won’t be any bloody grandchild of mine! It’s spawn of the devil!’

‘Bollocks! You’re the devil. I know what you got up to — terrorizing Jake at school, and Tory when she was a deb, making Jake’s life a misery on the show-jumping circuit, pinching Revenge from him. I’d no idea that Revenge started off as Jake’s horse, or the reason Macaulay wouldn’t go for you in the World Championship was because you’d beaten him to a pulp in the past, just as you beat up Mummy.’

‘I bloody fucking didn’t!’

‘Yes, you did! You’re the biggest bastard that ever walked.’

‘You ain’t seen nothing yet!’ howled Rupert. ‘I’ll destroy your marriage and bring down Rannaldini and the entire Lovell family.’

‘Oh, go screw yourself!’ A shattered Tab slammed down the receiver.

Rupert was straight on to Taggie. ‘I can’t get back in time to stop the marriage but I’ll get it annulled tomorrow, and I’ll strangle you if you go to the wedding.’

The moment Rupert hung up, Tabitha called Taggie and begged her to go.

‘Christ! Look at Hammerklavier House of Horror,’ shivered Baby as, after extended drinks at the Pearly Gates, he and Tristan drove towards Valhalla. Rooks rose out of a shroud of mist, thickened by bonfires of wet leaves. Sinister, conspiratorial as its owner, the great grey house lurked behind its mighty army of trees. Its tiny deep-set windows, thought Tristan, were like the eyes of medieval scholars grown small from poring over learned texts lit only by a flickering candle.

As Rannaldini had wanted maximum publicity without alerting Rupert, he had waited until midday to invite the leading gossip columnists, who had dropped everything to be there. The rest of the paparazzi, in black leather jackets and dark glasses, tried to storm the electric gates, as they opened to admit Baby and Tristan. Remembering Étienne’s funeral, Tristan ducked in horror. Baby, on the other hand, waved happily.

At the end of a long drive through dark woods and deer-haunted parkland, Tristan and Baby were directed through the omnia vincit amor gates. Rannaldini’s all-devouring smile welcomed them at the front door. Inside they found Tabitha. Except for the puppy-farming T-shirt and the flowers in her hair, she was unrecognizable, her swollen eyes redder than carbuncles, her face grey, except where it was covered in blotches. Despite having thrown up after her terrible row with Rupert, she was still attacking the vodka.

Delighted by the turn of events, Rannaldini was about to introduce her, when Tab gave a cry of relief, and shoving Baby and Tristan aside ran towards a dark girl, who had followed them into the house. ‘Oh, Lucy, thank God you’ve come!’

One glance at Tab’s blubbered woebegone little face told it all.

‘Has your dad been horrible to you again?’

‘Horrible, horrible,’ sobbed Tab, as she led Lucy upstairs.

Lucy Latimer was Tabitha’s greatest friend. They had met when they became involved in animal rights. A vegetarian and a make-up artist, Lucy was very careful not to use cosmetics that had been tested on animals. Extremely successful because she combined a painter’s eye with a sympathetic, soothing nature, she fortunately had a spare day between filming to make up Tab and provide moral support.

‘Come on, Latimer.’ Tab gazed at the wreckage in her bedroom mirror. ‘This is the greatest challenge you’ll ever face.’

‘Don’t you worry.’ Lucy unpacked a roll of brushes, sponges and assorted bottles. ‘I’ll have you stunning as ever in a trice.’

‘And talking of stunning, did you see that man in the hall?’

‘Couldn’t miss him, really,’ sighed Lucy, ‘but you’ll have to put all that behind you now.’

Only a streak of saffron on the horizon gave a clue the sun was setting, but apple logs burned merrily in the Summer Drawing Room.

Rannaldini, looking very good in a morning coat, because the grey waistcoat matched his pewter hair, handed Tristan and Baby glasses of champagne, and apologized that they had run into a wedding.

‘Who’s getting married?’ asked Baby.

‘My stepdaughter, Tabitha.’

‘She doesn’t seem very keen on the idea,’ said Tristan, wincing at his father’s painting over the piano, of a leering man undressing a very young girl.

‘Just last-minute nerves.’ Rannaldini seemed to be killing himself over some private joke.

‘Who’s the lucky guy?’ asked Baby.

‘My dear boy, I thought you’d have known. It’s your jockey, Isa Lovell.’

The colour drained from Baby’s suntanned face. He seemed to shrink, like a larky March hare suddenly looking down a gun barrel.

‘Christ, he can’t be,’ he stammered. ‘What about Martie? He was talking of marrying her after Crimbo.’

Rannaldini always got a charge out of inflicting pain.

‘He’ll be in in a minute to tell you himself. He was irritated not to be riding at Cheltenham today.’

Tristan felt desperately sorry for Baby and put a hand on his rigid shoulders.

‘This happen very quick. You told me she only came home the day of the Gramophone Awards.’

‘Ah,’ sighed Rannaldini. ‘When one is young, love work like lightning. Like Carlos and Elisabetta.’