Score!

Thunderclouds had blotted out the russet glare of Rutminster, the tiny sliver of new moon had gone gratefully to bed behind the wood. Down at the court, the conscientious, frugal Bernard suggested everyone look for balls, whereupon most people sloped off claiming the need to make urgent telephone calls. Lucy, who had returned after her storm of tears in time to watch the last game and give back Wolfie’s signet ring, set off with James clinging to her heels for a last run round the south side of Hangman’s Wood.

She soon regretted it. The wood exuded such evil. At any moment she expected dark branches to grab her, or the Hanging Blacksmith to thunder by. She was glad when the path curved and she could see the comfortingly twinkling lights of Paradise village. She was just wondering wistfully how Tristan had coped, knowing he was no longer a Montigny at such a tribal gathering as Aunt Hortense’s party, when James bounded forward, wagging his long tail, giving excited little squeaks.

Peering through the darkness, Lucy could see nothing. Perhaps James had caught a white glimpse of Sharon across the valley, but settling back on his haunches, still wagging, he gazed in the direction of the west gate. Perhaps he had seen a ghost. Turning in terror, Lucy raced back to the tennis court, to find Ogborne guzzling the last of the strawberries.

‘All sorts of exciting crashing,’ bellowed Griselda, emerging from the wood.

‘Probably cows,’ said Bernard, appearing from a more northerly direction.

‘And lots of shooting,’ added Griselda defiantly. ‘OK, Bernard, it probably was Teddy Brimscombe after pigeon. And a helicopter landing and taking off.’

‘I always feel this wood’s watching me,’ shivered Lucy.

‘We’re still about twenty balls short,’ sighed Bernard.

‘Here are two more.’ Coming out of the wood, Granny dropped a shocking pink and a lime green one on the pile.

As the chapel clock struck a quarter to eleven, Ogborne filled up everyone’s glass.

‘What are we going to do about Rannaldini’s balls?’ he intoned.

‘Chop ’em off,’ said Granny.

It wasn’t very funny but even Bernard was braying with laughter, when Lucy’s mobile rang. It was Rozzy. Terrified, as the howls of mirth escalated, that Rozzy might think people were laughing at her, Lucy spanked the air with her hand to shut them up.

‘How did the party go, Rozzy? Really well, judging by the din in the background.’

Rozzy, however, sounded suicidal. After all her hard work to make Glyn’s birthday special, Sylvia the housekeeper had given him a single of ‘S’Wonderful’, and he’d been playing it and dancing with her all evening.

‘Oh, poor you, how was the food?’

‘They seemed to like it, although Glyn fed his smoked-salmon parcel to the cat, and everyone’s plastered.’

Over drunken shouts of ‘Happy birthday, dear Glyn’, Lucy could hear the strains of ‘S’wonderful, s’marvellous’.

‘He’s a pig, Rozzy. How was your dress?’

Glancing round, Lucy saw Granny and Griselda playing imaginary violins and Ogborne holding his fat sides, and wandered away from them.

Rozzy admitted the dress had been a success.

‘You’ll see it at the wrap party. Are you having fun?’

‘Yes,’ lied Lucy.

‘I miss you all so much.’

‘And we you, Rozzy. Where are you ringing from?’

‘Upstairs. I’ve got a migraine.’

‘Not surprising, if they’re making such a noise.’

Lucy could now hear roars of ‘Why Was He Born So Beautiful?’ ‘When are you coming back?’

‘First thing tomorrow. ’Bye, Lucy darling.’

‘She’s always been a masochist,’ sighed Griselda, when Lucy had recounted Rozzy’s tale of woe.

‘In the old days, they were known as Glyn and Bear It,’ said Granny. ‘Mind you, I’m one to talk.’

Lucy’s mobile rang and she blushed, feeling disloyal when it turned out to be Rozzy again.

‘I forgot to say why I rang in the first place. Can you remind Griselda to get Hermione’s cloak out of Wardrobe, or leave me a key so I can mend that tear? I doubt…’ Rozzy paused to listen to the laughter at Lucy’s end ‘… you lot’ll surface before the afternoon.’

‘Griselda and Granny reached the finals,’ began Lucy, but Rozzy had rung off. ‘She wants you to get out Hermione’s cloak.’

‘What a little treasure she is— Whoops, sorry, dearie,’ added Griselda, as she cannoned off one of Rannaldini’s bronze nudes. ‘I’d better fetch it before I get really whistled.’

‘Rozzy doesn’t sound in carnival mood,’ said Granny.

‘She’d never have gone home this weekend if Tristan hadn’t shoved off to Paris,’ observed Griselda. ‘Oh, sorry, Bernie, I forgot you had the chauds for her.’

Up at the house, unable to find Wolfie, the others were having a rip-roaring party on the terrace.

‘Where’s Mikhail?’ giggled Simone. ‘Still snoring under weeping ash?’

‘Shouldn’t we wake him?’ said Lucy.

‘Oh, leave the bloody killjoy. With any luck he’ll get struck by lightning,’ said a newly arrived Chloe, who was looking lit from inside and wonderfully beautiful.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her without bright crimson lips, thought the eagle-eyed Simone. She looks so much softer.

Five minutes later, Griselda tottered in.