Score!

Screeching that she would get both Pushy and Rannaldini, and never work with Tristan again, Hermione flapped off towards River House, so like a great goose that everyone expected her to break into flight.

‘Shame the river’s too low for her to drown herself,’ sighed Baby.

But her departing screech was interrupted by a far more pitiful sound. In the summer drawing room, Granny was crouched weeping over his patchwork quilt, which had been slashed into such tiny pieces that, unlike Foxie, it couldn’t be sewn together again. Like eaglets fluttering round a mother bird with an irrevocably broken wing, Lucy, Baby and Flora surged forward, frantic to comfort him, but Granny refused to let Tristan call the police. ‘No, no, nothing can bring it and my darling boy back again.’

Ten minutes later, utterly unmoved by such tragedy, Pushy returned from cleaning her teeth in Helen’s bathroom (after all, it would be hers soon) and, sidling up to Rannaldini, asked if it were too early to slope off to the watchtower.

‘Frankly it is,’ smirked Rannaldini. ‘Because I ’ave subsequent engagement,’ and singing, ‘Life is just a bowl of Cheryl,’ he disappeared into the dark.

Ten minutes later he let himself into the watchtower.

‘My darling,’ he crooned to Mikhail’s Lara, who Clive had just smuggled down a newly strimmed ride. ‘Don’t spoil your lovely eyes with tears. Suffering will make your wayward husband sing even more beautifully, and you will have a night to tell your great-grandchildren about.’

Then, as a feisty blonde in a foxglove-pink and purple dressing-gown came down the spiral staircase, ‘I don’t think you know Cheryl Shaw.’

35

The next two and a half days, thank God, were rest days. Tristan had a big press screening of The Lily in the Valley in Paris on Saturday night, and then a lunch party for Aunt Hortense’s eighty-sixth birthday on Sunday. Night-shooting would start on Monday evening.

Roused early on Saturday morning from the same hideous nightmare, Tristan found his light on and Rannaldini standing in his bedroom doorway. With his bare muscular chest soaring out of tight black trousers, he was hideously reminiscent of himself in The Snake Charmer.

‘If I have any more hassle from you,’ Tristan reached for a Gauloise with a shaking hand, ‘I’m taking my name off this film.’

‘What name?’ taunted Rannaldini. ‘You’re not a Montigny any more. In fact, your lack of roots is showing, my dear.’

Tristan felt churning black loathing. Unless he jumped to Rannaldini’s tune, the bastard would tell the world Étienne wasn’t his father.

‘Hurry or you’ll miss that plane,’ smirked Rannaldini, ‘and do give my best to Claudine Lauzerte.’

Strolling down the landing, Rannaldini was greeted by his cat, Sarastro, mewing with rage. Stooping to stroke him, Rannaldini found his white fur drenched. How could this be, when it hadn’t rained for weeks? Out of the window, through the pre-dawn half-light, he saw Rozzy with a watering-can, like a nurse in the trenches, trying to bring succour to his dying plants.

Padding downstairs out into the garden, he caught her so red-handed, she dropped the watering-can.

‘First, you water my cat, next my flagstones.’

‘I’m terribly sorry, Rannaldini. I’m so shortsighted I mistook poor Sarastro for some white violas.’

‘Rozzy, my dear,’ said Rannaldini silkily, ‘I had such an interesting session with James Benson yesterday.’

The colour stole from Rozzy’s cheeks as though she was bleeding to death.

Flora woke when the sun was high in the sky to find Baby had already left. It was too hot to wear anything but cotton, so she wandered out to the facilities unit in her white nightie. As Trevor rushed reproachfully around lifting his leg on wheels and guy ropes, she could hear Meredith’s voice issuing petulantly from Make Up.

‘How can I expect darling Sexton to re-instate me, when Rannaldini plays that loathsome tape?’

‘Baby sent his love, Flora, and said he’d be back some time on Monday,’ called Rozzy, as she emerged from Wardrobe clutching a large Harrods bag. ‘I’ve got the remains of Granny’s patchwork quilt in here,’ she added conspiratorially, shoving it into the boot of the car. ‘I’m going to try and save it.’

‘Poor old boy,’ said Flora sadly. ‘I bet Giuseppe’s doing more cruising than singing in the Bosphorus. Although I can’t really believe Baby saw a ghost.’

She handed Rozzy another carrier-bag. ‘I got Mum to sign two photos and her new album for Glyn.’

‘Oh, you darling child.’ Rozzy hugged her.

‘It was the least I could do after you mending Foxie. Are you OK, Rozzy? You look dreadfully pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ sighed Rozzy. ‘I’ve got to be.’

‘Well, don’t work too hard. I hope Glyn jolly well appreciates his birthday party.’

‘You look pretty pale too,’ Rozzy called after her. ‘Why don’t you ring your nice George?’