Score!

‘I nearly did earlier. He was so sweet to me, said George and I are totally unsuited.’

‘He’s right. Marry me instead.’

‘That is the loveliest compliment I’ve ever been paid,’ said Flora, in a choked voice. ‘I can’t think of anyone I’d be happier with, but I’m stuck with loving George.’

Blowing her nose firmly, she looked up at Baby, worried how grey and pinched he looked.

‘Suitably lovesick for Carlos,’ said Baby, handing her a large vodka and tonic. ‘Dame Hermione assured me earlier that she didn’t believe a word of the beastly rumour that I had Aids.’

‘Bitch! God, I wish the memoirs weren’t on the loose. Every time I open a paper, I expect to see you and me cavorting naked on the lawn at Angels’ Reach.’

‘Doubt if they’d find space for us, they’re so obsessed with Rannaldini.’

The murder was still dominating every radio and television bulletin and every newspaper. Press and police helicopters prowled overhead, giving poor Sylvestre terrible sound problems. There was increasing pressure on Gerald Portland to find the killer. Rannaldini’s records were expected to dominate the charts for months to come.

‘Very shrewd career move to cop it,’ mused Baby. ‘Even shrewder if he hasn’t. And, talking of dreadful things, I saw Clive in an extremely expensive new beige leather suit, secreting himself into Eulalia Harrison’s bedroom just now. What d’you think that means?’

‘Something horribly sinister. Perhaps the Sentinel’s bought the memoirs.’

Eleven o’clock — it was dark at last. Illuminated by the powerful lights from beneath, like giants with hollowed eyes and great black devouring mouths, Valhalla’s trees glowered down. Thunder rumbled behind the black mantle of cloud. Everyone had been ready for hours, but still Dame Hermione had not emerged from her caravan.

Glancing up at the house, Rupert saw one of those aggressive, cropped-haired harpies he used to tangle with when he was an MP, glaring out of an upstairs window. She looked vaguely familiar.

‘Where the fuck is Tristan?’ he howled.

‘Winding Hermione up like Big Ben,’ giggled Chloe who, ready and ravishing in her crimson taffeta, was making sly, sliding eyes at Rupert.

‘Christ, she’s looking good,’ muttered Sylvestre. ‘Who the hell’s giving her one?’

‘Valentin, Oscar again, Wolfie, Mikhail again, you again, me again, Alpheus again, Rupert probably, the goat again,’ intoned Ogborne. ‘God, I could murder a beer.’

Back in her caravan, which, like the canteen, had been towed up to the set, Hermione’s determination to look even lovelier than Chloe was not helped by her breaking down every few minutes. ‘How could Sergeant Fanshawe think Sexton and I killed Rannaldini? I loved him so much.’

‘You are the belle of this wonderful ball,’ Tristan was telling her for the hundredth time, ‘but you daren’t dance with Carlos because all the court is spying on you.’

Tristan looked so strung up and defeated Lucy wanted to kiss away the migraine that was crushing and pincering his tired brain like one of Rannaldini’s tortures. But instead she carried on pressing powder into Hermione’s forehead, which was wrinkling again.

‘You were there, Tristan, when I made my début as Elisabetta in Paris. Rannaldini was my handsome prince, my forbidden Carlos, married to Cecilia — who’s now got all the money,’ Hermione snorted indignantly. Then, reverting to tragedy, ‘Can you believe he has gone?’

Oh, don’t cry again, prayed Lucy, who had just added mascara to every single lower lash.

They all jumped at an imperious rat-tat-tat on the door.

‘It’ll be sunrise in a second,’ shouted Rupert. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Briefing Hermione,’ said Tristan evenly.

‘Brief is not the word. You’ve been in there two hours.’

‘I am directing this movie,’ said Tristan haughtily.

‘Even more deeply into the red. For Christ’s sake, move it.’

‘Is that Rupert?’ cried Hermione in excitement.

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Rupert, running away.

Chloe and Pushy thought this was hysterical.

Despite the delays, everyone clapped dutifully when Hermione finally arrived, because Hype-along had bribed the entire crew with miniature bottles of Jack Daniels — very welcome at a time of Rupert’s enforced abstinence.

As Chloe had slagged off Hermione in the Mail that morning, and Hermione had slagged off Chloe in the Telegraph, and Pushy, in her pink satin, had trashed them both in the Mirror (‘Roberto’s chopper was always at my disposal’), the mood was far from sunny. All three women claimed they’d been ‘utterly misquoted’ and that Eulalia Harrison would set the record straight when her definitive piece appeared.

Despite her alleged weight loss, Hermione’s gold flesh was spilling over the top of her vermilion strapless dress like a cheese soufflé.

‘Wonder bravissimo,’ called out Ogborne.

‘Helen could use that cleavage as a cache-pot,’ said Rupert.

‘Hopefully for a cactus,’ giggled Chloe. ‘She looks like the town tart with all that slap.’