Score!

‘They were both marvellous,’ mumbled Tristan, who’d been far too uptight to eat anything in prison. ‘My God!’

For a second he thought he’d let himself into the wrong caravan. There were vases of wild flowers everywhere.

‘Marjoram, honeysuckle, scabious, forget-me-not, bellflower, thyme, wild basil and those dark purple bugle-like flowers are called self-heal. I picked two vases of them, because I know you will heal after your horrible experience.’

‘You’re so kind,’ muttered Tristan, breathing in the honeysuckle, which reminded him of Lucy’s lone sprig in prison.

How dare Rozzy ponce up his caravan! All the books and magazines had been straightened. All the notes secured under a paperweight. The floor was hoovered, even the windows cleaned, so everyone could see when he was there. He wanted to scream.

‘It’s very kind, Rozzy.’

‘It’s been a pleasure.’ She added playfully, ‘I’ve made you a sort of brunch. I know how strong you like your coffee. Sit down and relax. I’ve made you an omelette and Mrs Brimscombe picked me these with the dew on them this morning.’

‘Rozzy, please.’ Tristan opened his mouth in protest, and Rozzy popped a raspberry into it.

‘Anyway,’ she added, as the rattle of rain on the roof increased, ‘you can’t film at the moment.’

‘You’re incorrigible.’

‘I’m not taking “non” for an answer.’ Rozzy got a couple of croissants out of the microwave, and dropped one on his side plate.

For a second, Tristan was tempted to pour out his problems. But Rozzy had enough troubles of her own.

Having cut him a slice of omelette, primrose yellow and oozing herbs and butter, she poured him coffee and orange juice, and shoved the butter plate against his side plate. As she reached behind him to get the pepper-pot out of the cupboard, he felt her breasts brush against him and had to steel himself not to flinch. Rozzy put a hand on his shoulder.

‘You’re so tense, I’ll give you a massage later.’

Suddenly the caravan seemed tiny. James, sulking on the sofa, was no chaperon. Next moment Rozzy’s hand had clenched on his shoulder as the rain rattle on the roof was augmented by a rat-tat-tat on the door.

‘I am not going to let people hassle you,’ hissed Rozzy.

‘Hi, chaps, that looks scrummy.’ Griselda’s green and purple striped turban came round the door.

‘I’m trying to persuade Tristan to eat,’ said Rozzy evenly.

‘Don’t force the poor boy. Nice to have you back.’ Griselda added to Tristan, ‘We’ve got a problem. Alpheus’s white suit has been nicked for the second time. I’ve ordered another from Paris because he won’t wear a blazer. But if you could wait to shoot his little scene until midday, by which time Lucy should be back to fix his face. I wondered if we could ask her and Wolfie to make a detour through Paris to pick up his new suit.’

There was another knock. It was Bernard this time, wanting a word with Rozzy.

‘I do hope they’ve had a nice jaunt,’ said Griselda, slapping unsalted butter and strawberry jam on a croissant, as Rozzy ran down the caravan steps to the shelter of Bernard’s yellow striped umbrella.

‘Wolfie’s such a smashing chap,’ went on Griselda, with her mouth full, ‘and had such a bad time with his father copping it, and Lucy’s such a lovely girl, but lonely in a way.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Wolfie and Lucy went off in the Gulf on Saturday morning. Makes a jolly good passion wagon. Always thought they fancied each other.’

‘Don’t talk such fucking rubbish!’ yelled Tristan, walking out of the caravan, slamming the door behind him.

Jumping off the sofa, James tried to follow him, scraping his long claws against the caravan door and whining.

‘Hum,’ said Griselda, helping herself to a slice of cold omelette. ‘Tristan seems to miss Lucy almost more than you do, old boy.’

Half-way across the field, Tristan found he was still clutching one of Rozzy’s rose-patterned cups. Next moment Alpheus had descended from one side, Mikhail from another, Pushy from still another.

‘Tabitha has been so rude to me,’ they shouted in unison.

‘I wish I cared,’ snarled Tristan.

After two and a half days of Gablecross’s interrogation, he could cope with scenes only if he were making them. He’d been so worried that finding out about Claudine was going to break Lucy’s heart, and now she’d buggered off with Wolfie and clearly couldn’t give a stuff.

‘“What news from the court in France, that lovely country of elegant ways?”’ sang Chloe to his departing back, and everyone giggled.

Then Tristan watched Saturday night’s rushes, which he thought were quite awful and said so. Oscar and Valentin, who’d worked very hard and been rather proud of their efforts, looked utterly deflated.

‘What has got into our boy?’ sighed Oscar. ‘The flics obviously put him through it.’

They had all been ecstatic about Tristan’s release, but instead of acknowledging their cards and welcome-home banner, he’d just stalked in and criticized everything.

‘I’m not working with that fucker any more,’ said the crew and cast in unison.