Score!

In a mad frenzy of superstition, Tristan locked himself away editing twenty-four hours a day. Only when Don Carlos was finished and an unqualified triumph would he feel worthy of seeking out Lucy. It was an agonizing task because every frame with people in it was a testament to her genius.

How could she have made his cast so beautiful yet so full of character? Hermione looked not a day over twenty-five, Flora disturbingly boyish, Baby so pale, wan and fond, Chloe so languorously seductive, Mikhail so noble, Granny so unrelentingly evil, Alpheus so tortured yet kingly.

‘She’s actually made that prat look like a gent,’ observed Rupert, who popped in most days and got frightfully excited over the special effects. Tristan’s filming of the grey, writhing traveller’s joy in winter suggested a wonderfully ghostly Charles V.

On each visit, Tristan begged Rupert for information about Lucy’s whereabouts. Every day he telephoned Gablecross but met the same stonewalling refusal. Too much money was invested in the trial to allow any slip-up.

Another reason Tristan worked through the night was the bad dreams that racked him if he tried to sleep, of Lucy drowning in a sea of blood, of the painting of Cleopatra and the asp in Buckingham Palace — except it was Lucy’s face not Cleopatra’s from which the colour was draining.

Having finished editing, Tristan had to bite his nails until he showed the final cut to the press on 11 January and went into even deeper despair that the whole thing was junk.

‘You’re too close to it,’ said Wolfie soothingly.

‘But will the man in the street like it?’

‘You couldn’t get more philistine than my future father-in-law,’ confessed Wolfie, ‘and he’s mad about it. Admittedly, he’s convinced he directed the entire film. I even heard him singing “Morte de Posa” in the bath the other morning.’

But Tristan wasn’t to be reassured. He was always cold, always miserable. He dreamt of crumpets, big log fires and Lucy winning the mothers’ race. The only glimmer of cheer was that The Lily in the Valley had been nominated many times over in the incredibly prestigious Academia Awards in Edinburgh, which boded well for the Oscars in February. It was widely rumoured that Claudine Lauzerte would be flying up to Scotland for the ceremony. If so, she must have been tipped off she’d won Best Actress. She wouldn’t put her head on the block otherwise.

January 11 and 12 were a hellish two days for Tristan: carrying the coffin at Aunt Hortense’s funeral on the Tuesday morning, flying to London for the première and press screening of Don Carlos, followed by interviews, which would probably go on all night, with a breakfast script conference for Hercule first thing Wednesday morning, then off to Edinburgh for the Academia Awards ceremony.

Tristan arrived at the première in Leicester Square in dark glasses so no-one could see his reddened eyes. He had been icily in control during Hortense’s funeral, and only given way to helpless weeping when he’d reached the sanctuary of his room at the Savoy. He had grown increasingly close to her in his frequent visits to Montvert in the last six months, as they had unlocked his past together. Hortense was also his last link with Lucy. He arrived at the première alone, which fuelled the gossip-mongers, who knew he was meeting Claudine tomorrow. Leicester Square, swarming with police keeping back the huge crowds and the paparazzi, was also horribly reminiscent of Valhalla. He longed to bolt into the cinema.

Alas, the red carpet had already been appropriated by Hermione, resplendent in extremely low-cut purple velvet, arm in arm with Sexton, posing for the huge pack of cameras and press photographers, determined even the Rutminster Echo should have the chance of a decent picture.

‘Hermione.’ ‘Hermione to me.’ ‘Big smile, Hermione.’ ‘Who’s your date, Hermione?’

‘Why, didn’t you know? It’s Sexton Kemp, our producer.’

‘Look this way, Sexton.’ ‘To me, Sexton.’ ‘Sexton.’

Sexton was in heaven. Tristan was going through the roof.

‘“Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my cock erect,”’ sang a voice in Tristan’s ear. ‘“And whistle a happy tune.” Can’t you give the old cow direction to move on?’

It was Baby, straight out of an Australian summer, his bronzed beauty enhanced by a dinner jacket with black satin facings, worn with a black silk shirt and a satin bow-tie.

The press were going nuts trying to identify him.

‘They won’t have to ask after tonight,’ said Tristan, as they finally fought their way in. ‘Everyone will know who you are.’

More than can be said for you, thought Baby. Tristan had lost so much weight he was almost unrecognizable.

Outside, the press was going into further frenzy, as a blond couple emerged from an orange Lamborghini.

‘Must be Chloe Catford,’ said the Mirror.

‘It’s Tabitha Campbell-Black,’ said the Sun. ‘Isn’t she fucking gorgeous?’