Score!

‘Tabitha, you look just laike your sibling,’ said Pushy Galore, who although only in the chorus, had somehow pushed her way into the party and, to match the décor, was busting out of red velvet braided with gold, ‘but not laike your dad or mum.’

‘Rannaldini’s not my father,’ spat Tabitha, ‘any more than he’s my brother.’ She scowled at Wolfgang, who scowled back.

An awkward silence was defused by Tristan wandering in. His hair was still wet from the shower, his eyes bloodshot from late nights poring over the storyboards of each scene, which, like an extended comic strip, covered the walls of his suite upstairs.

Tristan apologized profusely for being late and for Lady Griselda who, knowing everyone in Rutshire as well as Dorset, had gone out to dinner, for his delectable niece Simone, who needed ten hours’ sleep on the eve of a shoot, and for Bernard, his first assistant director, who was handling some row with Equity and couldn’t make it either. He was then so charming to everyone, particularly Helen, that she soon forgot about dust, breakages and chipped paintwork.

In fact, Tristan was incredibly uptight. He always got blinding headaches before filming started, particularly after that row with Rannaldini. He needed five more hours on the score. His confidence had been jolted because his cult film The Betrothed had just lost out in the Oscars to a mainstream American comedy. He was alsosad to see the large salacious Étienne de Montigny of Abelard and Héloïse, which his father had left Rannaldini, hanging opposite the fireplace, to Helen’s obvious distaste.

Oscar, the director of photography, and his son-in-law Valentin, however, were both jolted out of their habitual languor by the painting. ‘That’s the look we need for the shove-and-grunt scenes, Tristan,’ said Oscar, waving his green cigarette-holder in the direction of Héloïse’s left breast. ‘Beautiful flesh tones. Your father certainly knew about light.’

‘I love that painting too,’ said Hermione, smiling warmly at Oscar because she wanted him to light her beautifully, and because she liked the piratical good looks of his son-in-law. ‘Étienne de Montigny was always begging me to sit for him.’

Tristan had had enough and belted off to the more reassuring comfort of Lucy, who had been deserted by Tabitha in need of more vodka, and who went scarlet when Tristan kissed her on both her already flushed cheeks. Oh, why had she worn a red wool twinset to stand by a blazing fire?

‘Thank you ever so much for the bluebells,’ she stammered.

‘I know you love them, and I remember very good poem about Lucy.

‘A violet by a mossy stone,

Half hidden from the eye.

Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.’

Tristan reeled off the verse in triumph.

But no-one looks at her when all the other stars come out, thought Lucy. She’d never found the poem very flattering.

There was a pause.

‘And this must be James.’ Tristan put out a hand to stroke Lucy’s lurcher, who was now curled up on the crimson throne initialled E for Excellent.

‘You remembered,’ said Lucy rapturously.

‘Of course. He is beautiful. How old is he?’

‘About twelve, the vet says.’

‘Where did you get him?’

‘I was on a shoot in the East End. He was running round the streets, terrified, with his lead flapping, so I coaxed him into my caravan with a bit of quiche. He was starving.’

The words were tumbling out of Lucy’s big, trembling mouth. ‘Then he leapt on to a chair, as if he wanted me to make him up, so I took off his lead to make him feel at home and put it on the table. Would you believe it? The next moment, he’d leapt down, snatched back his lead, put it on his chair, jumped back and sat on it.’ As Lucy caressed James’s brown velvet ears, her voice broke. ‘He was desperate not to lose the only possession he had in the world. I had to keep him after that. I’m sorry,’ Lucy wiped her eyes, smearing her mascara, ‘I’m boring you.’

‘I would run around East End with lead trailing,’ said Tristan gently, ‘if it found me an owner like you.’

Squawking, like a pheasant disturbed in a wood, was coming from the other end of the room. Oscar, not recognizing Hermione, had put up the terrible black of assuming Tabitha was the beautiful young girl who was going to play Elisabetta, and loudly assuring her he would have no problem lighting her at all.

Hermione was hopping.

Touching Lucy’s blushing cheek with one finger, Tristan shot off to calm Hermione, which also gave him a chance to say hello to Tab. But Tab had grabbed a bottle and, saying quite untruthfully that Lucy’s glass was empty as an excuse to fill her own, shot past him going the other way.

‘Who’s that man who looks as though a marmalade cat’s died on his head?’ she hissed.

‘That’s Colin Milton,’ grinned Lucy, lowering her voice. ‘Poor old boy’s been in the wilderness for years. Kept forgetting his lines and then had a nervous breakdown. He’s playing the Spanish ambassador. He’s really sweet.’