Tilly Bagshawe - Friends and Rivals

And finally there was Jack. Though she did her best to hide it from Ivan, Catriona couldn’t help but feel guilty about her old friend, especially as all of Ivan’s current success seemed to have been bought at poor Jack’s expense.

‘It’s not my fault if his clients don’t have confidence in him,’ Ivan protested. ‘I’m not putting a gun to anyone’s head.’

‘But you are undercutting him,’ Catriona pointed out meekly.

‘I’m offering a competitive rate, darling. There’s nothing to stop Jack doing the same.’

All of which might be true. But it still made Catriona feel uncomfortable, watching Kendall Bryce on television telling interviewers how much she owed to Ivan and how happy she was in England. It was only back in the summer that Jack had cornered Catriona at Ivan’s party and asked her to keep an eye on Kendall. How could he see Kendall’s defection as anything other than a betrayal?

A week before Christmas, Catriona sat at the kitchen table at The Rookery, mindlessly peeling potatoes. Tonight at seven o’clock the first Talent Quest was finally going to air. Ivan was up in London, the show was going out live; though Catriona had offered to go with him, he preferred to do it alone.

‘I’m so bloody nervous as it is, I’ll fall to pieces completely if I know you’re there,’ he told her this morning. Standing in the bathroom, his face seaweed green, the poor thing looked as if he were off to face a firing squad. ‘Is this hair dye too obvious? I feel like the roots are almost orange.’

‘It’s fine darling, very natural,’ lied Catriona. Ever since he’d turned forty, Ivan had started obsessing about the signs of ageing, from the grey streaks at his temples to the faint fan of lines etched at the corners of his eyes. Since he’d been offered the television job, his anxiety about his looks had got exponentially worse. Catriona couldn’t understand it. In her eyes, Ivan was much more handsome now than he had been in his twenties. She was the one who was going to seed. But like all her husband’s foibles, she treated this one with kindness and equanimity, and did her best to bolster his confidence.

In the end, Ivan’s hands were shaking so much that Catriona had had to shave him, otherwise he’d have appeared on screen looking as though he’d just staggered out of Sweeney Todd’s. ‘You and the kids watch it here, and make sure you Sky+ it.’

‘Of course,’ Catriona said loyally. She’d have to ask Rosie to show her how the Sky+ worked again. Last time Ivan had asked her to record Entourage , she’d somehow ended up with six episodes of Ben & Holly instead. ‘Call us as soon as it’s over, won’t you?’

Ivan kissed her on the cheek. ‘I promise.’

That was nine hours ago. It was six o’clock now, an hour till kick-off, and Catriona was starting to feel unpleasantly nervous herself. Outside, the afternoon’s thin dusting of snow had turned into a full dump. Through the kitchen window, Catriona watched the fat, soft flakes fall in silent succession, illuminated by a brightly full winter moon. She loved all the seasons in Swinbrook, but winter was probably her favourite. The crisp blue skies and snowy river bank never failed to lift her spirits, but it was also wonderfully comforting to come in from the cold to The Rookery’s roaring log fires, or to brew up a saucepan of home-made mulled wine on the always hot Aga. Of course, the downside of the cold weather was the irresistible urge to eat biscuits and mince pies and buttery mashed potatoes and all other varieties of warming comfort food. When Ivan was around, Cat made more of an effort to restrain her appetite. But left to her own devices, and particularly when Hector or Rosie were playing her up, she found it nigh on impossible not to go for the extra spoonful of brandy butter. She spent her life wrapped up in baggy sweaters anyway, like Nanook of the North. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to actually see her expanding stomach, or the embarrassing red lines left by the waistband of her favourite elasticated tweed skirt.

Tonight, however, Catriona was too nervous to eat. She was only peeling the stupid potatoes for something to do, and because the alternative was going upstairs to try and reason with a sulky Hector, who was refusing to come and watch his father’s television debut. (‘Why should I care about Dad’s things? He never gives a shit about mine.’) The boy was getting more like a teenager by the day. Or comforting Rosie, who’d taken to her bed this morning in a paroxysm of grief because Ned Williams had announced he was abandoning his Widford cottage for Christmas and jetting off to Mustique instead.

‘Mustique!’ Rosie spat out the word in disgust. ‘It sounds like a bloody deodorant.’

‘Please don’t swear, darling.’

‘Why would he want to go to Mustique when he could be here with us in Burford? It doesn’t make any sense. And what about poor old Badger? I bet he pines to death. Dogs do that, you know. Then Ned’ll be sorry. How can he be so selfish? ’

After an entire afternoon of the children’s histrionics, Catriona had given up and retreated downstairs. But as soon as she was alone, she found her own nerves began in earnest. Just thinking about poor Ivan going green in the Green Room – was that why they called them Green Rooms, because everyone felt so ill before they went on air? – was enough to turn her stomach in sympathy. Please, please let him be good. Let the show be a success.

Having taken the edge off with two large gin and tonics, Catriona poured herself a third for luck and went through into the drawing room to find the TV already on. Rosie had apparently tired of sobbing Ned’s name into her pillow and decided to watch her father’s television debut after all. Coiled up on the sofa with a big bowl of Quality Street, she looked happy as a clam. Oh, the resilience of youth , thought Catriona.

‘It’s still the adverts.’ Rosie scooched over to make room for her mother. ‘Should I go and get Hector?’

‘No, leave him,’ said Cat. ‘There’s no point forcing it. He can watch the recording later. Oh my God, it is recording, isn’t it? Daddy’ll kill me if I muck it up.’

‘Yeeees, Mum.’ Rosie rolled her eyes wearily. Catriona’s technological incompetence was legendary. ‘Ooo, oo, oo, it’s starting!’

‘Good evening ladies and gentlemen and welcome tooooo … TALENT QUEST !’

As the voiceover boomed out, the camera zoomed around a cheering studio audience. There were strobe lights everywhere and clouds of dry ice from which the show’s presenter, a generic blonde called Isabella James, emerged in a gold-sequined minidress. A cantilevered stage lifted her upwards, the cameras trained firmly on her lithe, gazelle-like legs, while a six-piece live band played the show’s theme tune to rapturous applause.

It’s very old- fashioned , thought Catriona. Almost like a seventies game show.

‘Cool!’ Rosie breathed rapturously. ‘I love the smoke.’

Isabella James rattled off her script from the autocue, briefly outlining the show’s premise – to find the best vocal talent from all sides of the spectrum, pitting classical against pop and jazz against opera – before introducing the judges.

First up was Stacey Harlow, lead singer of Heavenly, a hugely successful girl band. A natural performer, Stacey smiled and waved at the camera, as relaxed as if she were posing for a family photograph. Next was Richard Bay, a handsome American in his early thirties, better known for his string of celebrity girlfriends – Cameron Diaz, Scarlett Johansson and Amanda Seyfried to name a few – than for the fact that he had written and produced two of the most successful Broadway musicals of recent years. And finally Ivan, whom Isabella James introduced as ‘Britain’s top music manager and the man who brought you the sensational Kendall Bryce.’