Tilly Bagshawe - Friends and Rivals

‘What’d you think?’ she panted, her green eyes gazing up into his, searching for approval. ‘It was good, right? They liked me?’

‘They loved you,’ said Ivan truthfully. Pulling her into a bear hug, he started to laugh. ‘Poor old Adele. Talk about upstaging the star! I’ll bet her people are spitting blood right now.’

Despite herself, Kendall grinned. ‘D’you really think so?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Jack would have hated all the sexual stuff,’ said Kendall. ‘But I think it worked, don’t you?’

‘Everything worked,’ said Ivan. ‘And if Jack can’t see that, he’s an idiot.’

He’s an idiot anyway, for leaving you here with me.

Tonight confirmed what Ivan Charles already suspected. Kendall Bryce was more than just a pretty face. The girl had something very, very special. Something Ivan wanted, very, very badly.

Boy was he looking forward to this weekend.

‘I don’t understand it.’ Ned Williams ran a hand through his floppy brown hair and sighed. ‘How can she prefer that tosser to me? The new bloody Pavarotti indeed! Just because he’s fat. Badger can do a better Don Giovanni, can’t you boy?’

The scruffy springer spaniel thumped his tail loyally on The Rookery kitchen floor.

‘Armando bloody Lucci, I ask you, Cat. He’s a lard-arse, he’s boring and he’s as old as the hills.’

‘He’s forty, Ned.’

‘Exactly. What on earth does Diana see in him?’

‘Erm, well …’ Catriona was too kind to say that perhaps Diana Grainger, Ned’s ex, saw a private jet, an exquisite palazzo in Tuscany and a Tiffany diamond the size of a cobnut on her finger. Whereas Ned’s idea of a romantic gesture was a day spent in the woods gathering actual cobnuts. Catriona had never much liked Diana. She was very beautiful, of course, but she’d always seemed to be on the lookout for what Jack Messenger referred to as a BBD – Bigger Better Deal. Apparently, in Armando Lucci, the biggest-selling tenor in the world, she’d found it. ‘I expect she just wasn’t ready to settle down, darling. She’s only twenty-two, after all.’

Ned nodded glumly, helping himself to another industrial-sized slab of Catriona’s home-made fruit cake. A broken heart did not appear to have put him off his food.

Only twenty-four himself, Ned Williams was another of Ivan’s clients, one of the few who lived locally. An immensely talented tenor, Ned was still in the early stages of a promising career. He was already well known in England as a pretender to Alfie Boe’s crown, and his debut CD had peaked at a respectable number six in the UK classical charts. But he was not yet in Armando Lucci’s league. So far his modest success had afforded him a charming but distinctly tumbledown cottage in Swinbrook, a battered old MG sports car that was older than he was, and Badger, his wildly unkempt and poorly trained springer spaniel, which accompanied him absolutely everywhere. Handsome in a dishevelled sort of way, Ned’s most striking feature was his height. At almost six foot five, he towered above other opera singers, and never seemed to quite know what to do with his ridiculously long limbs on stage – or anywhere else for that matter. Catriona adored him, but even she could have done without playing agony aunt this afternoon.

It had been a long day. Starting at eight o’clock this morning, when Rosie had announced she didn’t feel very well then, seconds later, projectile-vomited Frosties right across the breakfast table, Catriona had been fighting one fire after another. In between frantic trips to the doctor’s surgery in Burford and Waitrose in Witney, she’d been called in to Hector’s school for the second time in a month after he’d super-glued a sleeping classmate’s hair to his desk and the boy had ended up having to have a crew cut.

‘Why do you do these things?’ an exasperated Catriona asked her son on the short drive home. ‘Do you want to get kicked out of St Austin’s?’

‘Wouldn’t mind,’ Hector shrugged. ‘Have you told Dad?’

‘Not yet.’

Catriona couldn’t tell if Hector wanted Ivan to know, or dreaded it. Certainly his attention-seeking antics seemed to be aimed more at his father than at her. Now that Ivan spent so much time away in London, and increasingly took work calls and meetings even when he was home, he had less time than ever for the children. Rosie, at nearly thirteen, had bigger fish to fry than hanging out with her old man. But eleven-year-old Hector clearly missed his dad. Ivan knew it, and felt guilty, but as a result both he and Catriona were loath to punish the boy, and the bad behaviour got worse. This weekend, Ivan had absolutely promised to take Hector fishing, and assured Cat that he wouldn’t pick up his BlackBerry or see a single work-related person for two whole days. But at two o’clock this afternoon, he’d blithely rung home to announce that he was bringing Kendall Bryce, Jack’s problem client, back with him, and could Catriona please make up the blue bedroom?

‘You arse!’ she shouted at him, losing her rarely seen temper. ‘You promised Hector it would be just the two of you.’

‘Oh, Hector won’t mind,’ breezed Ivan. To his astonishment, Catriona hung up on him. Then Ned had arrived, slump-shouldered and morose, and before Cat knew it was six o’clock, she hadn’t even begun making supper, and the blue bedroom remained as sheet-less and towel-less as it had been four hours ago.

‘Can I stay for supper?’ asked Ned, through a shower of cake crumbs. ‘I can’t face going back to the cottage on my own. All Diana’s horrible vegan food’s still in the fridge.’

‘Well throw it out,’ said Catriona, ‘and of course you can stay for supper, as long as you help me make it. Ivan’s bringing someone up from London with him so we’ll be six with the children. Do you know how to stuff a chicken?’

In the end, inevitably, Friday-night traffic on the M40 was grizzly and Ivan and Kendall were more than an hour late. By the time they staggered through the door at nine, Catriona and Ned had already polished off a bottle of Montepulciano and ‘tested’a good half of the roast potatoes. Rosie – who’d made a miraculous recovery once she heard Ned’s voice in the kitchen – and Hector had both decided they were too hungry to wait, and had polished off a family pack of Hula Hoops in front of The Simpsons . Despite the beautifully laid table and enticing smell of rosemary chicken wafting down the hall, the overall atmosphere that met Ivan and his young VIP guest was one of semi-drunken chaos.

‘Oh, there you are,’ Catriona giggled, tripping over a snoring Badger as she came out to greet them. ‘We’d almost given up hope. You must be Kendall. Welcome.’

‘Thanks for having me.’ Kendall smiled sweetly. ‘I’m sorry to gate-crash your weekend like this.’

‘Not at all, we’re thrilled you could come. I hear your concert was a huge success.’

Kendall smiled, gratified. ‘Thanks. I’m relieved it’s over, but I actually really enjoyed it. Ivan’s been so supportive.’

Jack had described Catriona Charles to Kendall as some sort of goddess, as kind and funny as she was beautiful, and ‘far too good’ for Ivan. He’d waxed so lyrical about her, in fact, that Kendall couldn’t help but feel a little bit jealous. So it was a relief to find that, while Catriona certainly did seem kind, she was actually a rather blowsy, red-faced, middle-aged woman.

Ivan kissed her on the cheek. After the hanging up incident earlier, he wasn’t sure what reception he’d get, but Cat seemed to have forgiven him over the Hector thing, or was at least prepared to let bygones be bygones until they were alone. ‘Shall we eat?’