Score!

Rupert had never taken on anything he couldn’t do. Brilliant at show-jumping, he had been a highly successful, if unorthodox, MP and Minister for Sport, a hot-shot financial director of Venturer Television and now, because he’d learnt patience at last and refused to push horses that needed more time, he was one of the leading owner-trainers in the world. But the snail’s pace of filming defeated him. How could you spend a hundred and fifty thousand a day on something quite so ridiculous? The caterwauling from the speakers gave him a headache. The only time that number of people had stood around at Penscombe in the last twenty years had been at Gertrude’s funeral.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ he asked Tristan.

‘Carlos receive letter summoning him to a rendezvous. He think it is from his stepmother, who he adores. But it is from his father’s mistress, who adores him. So if you imagine your mistress…’

‘I don’t have a mistress,’ said Rupert icily.

‘Dommage,’ chorused Chloe and Simone.

The crew grinned.

‘Well, imagine your son being madly in love with your wife.’

‘Impossible,’ said Rupert, even more icily. ‘Marcus is a homosexual.’

‘Well,’ Tristan struggled on, ‘Carlos is so carried away with excitement, he declares passionate love to wrong woman.’

‘Is he pissed? Then how could he possibly mistake Clare—?’

‘Chloe!’ interrupted Chloe in outrage.

‘Sorry, Chloe for Hermione. Hermione’s three times her size.’

Chloe blew Rupert a kiss.

‘Why didn’t you choose singers the same size?’ persisted Rupert.

‘They were chosen for their voices.’ Tristan was just managing to keep his temper. ‘In the dark it is easy to mistake people.’

‘It isn’t dark.’ Rupert glared round at Oscar’s lights. ‘We could be in Blackpool at the height of the season.’

Later they’d moved on to the trio.

‘“Tomorrow the earth will open up to swallow you,”’ sang Chloe, scowling at Baby.

‘“May the earth open up to swallow you,”’ sang Mikhail, scowling at Chloe.

‘“If only the earth would open up to swallow me,”’ sang Baby.

‘Cut,’ shouted Rupert.

The music ground discordantly to a halt.

‘Tristan is directing this film, Monsieur Campbell-Black,’ bellowed an apoplectic Bernard.

‘Why do these singers keep repeating themselves?’ demanded Rupert sarcastically. ‘I thought we were trying to make this film shorter, this film shorter, this film shorter.’

The crew corpsed again.

‘The Chief Constable of Rutminster’s called Swallow,’ said Meredith chattily.

‘Shut up, Meredith,’ howled Tristan and Bernard.

‘And why isn’t that camera motorized?’ Rupert pointed at a buckling Ogborne, pushing Valentin along the tracks. ‘We gave up ploughing with horses forty years ago at Penscombe.’

‘Why’s that man with a beard sticking a knife into that pretty girl?’ demanded Rupert ten minutes later.

‘He’s a freedom fighter,’ hissed Griselda.

‘Typical leftie behaviour,’ said Rupert scornfully. ‘Why haven’t you given him sandals and an Adam’s apple?’

After Mikhail had offered Rupert a slug of vodka, he decided he was quite nice for a leftie.

There was a sticky moment during the break when a hopelessly goaded Tristan made the mistake of assuming Rupert spoke as little French as his daughter.

‘How can that imbecile Sexton have brought in such an ignorant, pig-headed, obstructionist ape?’ he stormed to Valentin.

‘Because you’d have folded, if he hadn’t,’ said Rupert coldly.

Like children who behave worse when their mother wants them on their best behaviour, Tristan’s cast started acting up.

‘“I have stained the name of my mother,”’ sang Baby piously, in the middle of a perfect take.

‘Vot colour ’ave you stained her?’ sang back Mikhail.

‘I have stained her Prussian blue-hoo-hoo.’

‘Cut!’ howled Tristan. ‘Cut, cut, cut, you fuckers!’ then stopped in mid-blast as a mobile rang.

‘Telephones are not allowed on the set,’ roared Bernard.

‘It’s mine,’ mumbled Tristan, disappearing into the dark labyrinths of the maze.

The trees on the horizon were still black silhouettes, but colour was creeping into the foreground. Pigeons were cooing sleepily, thrushes repeating phrases like singers, when at four thirty Tristan called a wrap. Despite Rupert’s constant interference, a miraculous minute or two was in the can. Mikhail’s flick-knife had gone safely back to the props van. Everyone was glad to gather round Maria’s barbecue on which tandoori chicken, sausages, and tomatoes stuffed with herbs sizzled enticingly. As an extra treat after a long night, Maria had made a huge bread and butter pudding. Bottles of red and white were on the tables.

Rupert was very hungry, and could have done with a drink, but he was loath to fraternize. Back at Penscombe, his stable lads would be out on the gallops in an hour, he hated to miss anything.

Gablecross, who’d been waiting patiently all night, edged towards him. ‘Can I have a word, Mr Campbell-Black?’

‘No, you can’t,’ said Rupert curtly. ‘I’m off.’