Jump! (72 page)

Everyone had in fact dressed up like mad and, while admiring the vast photos of Seth and Corinna in the foyer of the Royal Shakespeare, excitedly told each other how good they looked, particularly Trixie, dark hair rioting over a fuchsia-pink jacket, tight black satin trousers above pink stilettos.

Then Bonny swanned in with Valent, slim as a wand in another little bleak dress which set off Valent’s diamonds, and upstaged everyone. Immediately the theatre audience recognized her and, nudging and squealing like Mrs Wilkinson, thrust their programmes forward to be signed.

‘Oh Lord, there’s the Bishop of Larkminster, I should have worn a dog collar,’ muttered Niall.

Inside, the auditorium was absolutely packed. Although the Major nearly had cracked ribs from being nudged awake by Debbie, for nodding off whenever Corinna wasn’t on stage, and Pocock and Joey, who’d been up since five, kept falling asleep, and Phoebe, the Little No Brow, kept tugging Etta’s arm – ‘What’s going on? Who’s he?’ – the rest of the syndicate enjoyed an awesome performance.

Corinna, in gleaming gold robes, was magnificently commanding, capricious and beguiling as Cleopatra.

‘Is that really our neighbour? Isn’t she wonderful?’ Tilda whispered to Alan.

Seth, on the other hand, made an unbelievably sexy Antony, prowling around, slit eyes smouldering, as they both set the stage on fire with their passion. Etta felt her crush reignite. There couldn’t be a woman who didn’t want to clamber on to the stage and rip off his toga.

All the syndicate cheered in the scene when Cleopatra cried:
‘Oh happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!’ and Seth, his armour gleaming, could be seen on a back projection riding along on Mrs Wilkinson.

Alan was incredibly proud of his mate.

‘Isn’t he marvellous?’ he whispered to Tilda as he rubbed one hidden hand up and down her slender legs and pretended to make notes with the other. Glancing down the row, he could see Bonny, Trixie, Phoebe, Painswick, Debbie, even Woody and Niall, gazing up enraptured at an oiled, bare-chested, bearded Seth. Etta, having heard his lines, was mouthing every wonderful word along with him.

Valent, a competitive man, noticed this too, and sat wild with envy and jealousy, thinking wistfully that he could never compete with Seth.

‘Don’t look, Vicar,’ cried Painswick, putting her hands over Niall’s eyes, when, on a darkened stage, a naked Seth and Corinna could be glimpsed copulating.

‘She hasn’t shaved,’ hissed Debbie.

‘Don’t interrupt,’ snapped the Major, his racing binoculars registering every pubic hair.

‘Oh happy whore to bear the weight of Antony,’ quipped Alan.

More champagne in the interval kept everyone going.

‘Isn’t it fantastic?’ sighed Etta.

‘Jolly good,’ agreed Alban. ‘Pretty strong stuff. Egyptian women don’t behave like that now, more’s the pity. Must say, despite the rows, you can see Seth and Corinna still, well, still …’

‘Fancy each other rotten. I agree, Albie,’ said Joey, who was euphoric after huge wins that afternoon.

‘I don’t agree with you,’ said Bonny sharply. ‘Seth just happens to be a
very
good, underrated actor. He’s so natural, he engages with the audience. Corinna over-dramatizes everything and she’s much too old to take her clothes off.’

‘Cindy said the same about you,’ snapped Trixie and regretted it as Bonny turned on her:

‘And what does that mean?’

‘When Lester suggested you play Godiva.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Trix,’ said Alan hastily. ‘Everyone knows Bonny has the most beautiful body in Larkshire.’

‘England, Europe, the World, Outer Space,’ intoned Trixie.

‘Oh look, there’s Quentin Letts,’ cried Etta.

‘Where, where?’ said an excited Bonny, temporarily distracted as the five-minute bell called them back.

Where’s Valent? wondered a worried Etta, looking at the empty seat at the end of the row.

‘O, withered is the garland of the war,/The soldier’s pole is fallen …’ Corinna’s whisper of infinite sadness could be heard round the entire theatre, ‘And there is nothing left remarkable/Beneath the visiting moon.’

The play’s end was so tragic that it took the syndicate a little time to get back into carnival mood.

Back at the Tempest Inn, the Prospero Suite turned out to have a mural of great black storm clouds, flashing lightning zipping out of purple waves and mariners being tossed on to the palest apple-green island, on which Miranda and Ferdinand wandered hand in hand, Caliban sulked in the bushes and Prospero could be seen drowning his book.

‘Wish I could afford to drown mine,’ grumbled Alan.

Tables were grouped around a little dance floor with a disco alternating between golden oldies and the latest pop music in the corner.

‘One would expect viols and lutes,’ said the Major pompously.

The behaviour of the syndicate, however, grew more like that of Stephano and Trinculo, the play’s drunkards, as they tucked into flagons of booze and piles of Shakespearean food: boar’s heads, sucking pigs, and mountains of figs and grapes.

‘Why no roast swan?’ asked Alan.

Cheers greeted the arrival of Seth and Corinna.

‘O eastern star!’ cried the Major, kissing her hand.

‘The lighting was awesome,’ Bonny told her, ‘you didn’t look a day over fifty-five, Corinna. And weren’t the sets marvellous? What a good supporting cast and you must be so proud of Seth.’

Unable to come down to earth at once, Etta escaped to her lovely room to tart up.

‘I have immortal longings in me,’ she sighed.

The play had been so wonderful, but the best part of the day had been Valent hugging her after Wilkie won and his tucking her trousers into her gumboots and feeling his big strong hands on her legs. She hoped they’d have a dance later. She was sure
he’d be a terrific dancer, he’d spent enough time dancing round the goal mouth.

She was worried, however, by the way Bonny was leaping to Seth’s defence. She hoped Valent wouldn’t be hurt and things wouldn’t get out of hand. Going downstairs she found a note in her pigeon hole.

‘Dear Etta, Sorry, had to fly off to the States to sort out some crisis. Have a good evening, Valent,’ and felt winded by a huge charging bullock of disappointment. Turning, she found Seth talking to a boot-faced Bonny.

‘Whatever’s the matter?’

‘Valent’s pushed off to the States. The Yanks are kicking up because he’s refusing to have his miracle teething gel tested on baby chimps.’

‘Quite right,’ said Etta warmly.

‘For the sake of a few monkeys,’ spat Bonny.

‘Let’s have one other gaudy night,’ mocked Seth, linking arms with them both, ‘and fill our bowls once more and mock the midnight bell.’

Having acted her heart out, taken a dozen curtain calls and been sought out in her dressing room by the great French director Tristan de Montigny, who was mad about her Phèdre, Corinna wasn’t up to another gaudy night and retired to bed after about an hour.

Seth, aware she was an infinitely greater actor than he, psychologically wanted to flaunt his pulling power and decided to play Trixie and Bonny off against each other.

Punishing Trixie for her initial indifference, gradually over the last months he had reeled her in, all over her one moment, pulling up the drawbridge the next, not ringing her for a fort-night, reducing her to desperate uncertainty. Tonight she’d drop into his hand like a ripe fig.

‘Such a sad ending,’ Miss Painswick was saying to Pocock. ‘At least Antony and Cleopatra are together in heaven.’

‘Not sure they’d go to heaven,’ chuntered Debbie.

‘Did you know, in Shakespeare’s day, Cleopatra would have been played by a boy in his late teens,’ said Tilda.

‘Dora’s boyfriend Paris would be perfect for it,’ said Trixie.

‘What bliss,’ Niall murmured to Woody.

‘Drink up,’ said Seth, filling their glasses.

Joey had put his woolly hat on Shakespeare’s bust and tucked in his gold pen. He longed to ring Chrissie, but the Fox was
laying off staff and she’d be serving in the bar. Pity they weren’t celebrating there where they needed the custom.

Painswick was very happy because the yard had done so well. Mrs Wilkinson’s health was drunk as often as Seth and Corinna’s.

To Alban, not drinking, everyone seemed very silly. But at least he was warm and the food was delicious. Just before the party, Valent had tipped him off about an impending inquiry into the Iraq war.

‘With your encyclopaedic knowledge of the Middle East, Alban, you’d be a real asset. And the money’d be great and it’s likely to last a year or two. I’m just leaving,’ Valent had added, ‘but I’d be very grateful if you’d keep an eye on things. Not sure I troost Seth not to let things get out of hand. Don’t want Trixie or Etta to get hurt.’

‘Certainly not,’ said a delighted Alban.

He was now enjoying a lovely bop with Etta. He wondered which room she was in. In the absence of Ione he was far less inhibited, as was Niall, who was dancing with Woody, as was Pocock, who later danced with both Etta and Painswick. Alan danced with Tilda.

The director of
Antony and Cleopatra
rolled up and was soon nose to perfect nose with Bonny.

‘You’d make a wonderful Rosalind,’ he was saying.

Plastered and forgiving her for being so offhand and cool, the syndicate surged round Amber when she arrived. She had washed her long gold hair and was wearing her clinging catkin-yellow mini, showing off her lovely legs in high-heeled black boots.

‘I’d forgotten how gorgeous she was,’ murmured Seth to Alan. ‘Those awful helmets don’t do women jockeys any favours.’

‘Wilkie is so gutsy,’ Amber was saying. ‘Bloody Rogue snatched my whip, we rowed all the way round. Stupid idiot made his run too early, now he’s livid he got beat.’

‘Beaten,’ sighed Alan. ‘Did Bagley Hall teach you even less than my daughter?’

‘Is Marius coming?’ asked Etta.

‘Bastard!’ snarled Amber. ‘After the race he saw my silks were soaked in blood and went berserk because he thought Wilkie had bled. When I explained she’d tossed her head up, practically broken my nose and given me a nosebleed, he just said, “Thank God for that!” ‘

‘Was little House Price OK?’ asked Etta.

‘Put down on the course,’ said Amber dolefully. ‘Even Michelle was in floods, probably more because Harvey-Holden just
screamed at her, “Forget the horse, just get the fucking bridle back.” He’s worse than Marius.’ Seeing the shocked faces around her, Amber shrugged. ‘House Price was lame going down to post. H-H prefers horses to break down on the course rather than at home, so he’ll get insurance, not blame.’

Amber took a slug of champagne then looked round the room: ‘Which of you lot am I going to shag tonight? Rafiq’s gone home with the horses and there’s too much competition for Seth.’

‘I’m always in love,’ Seth was telling a pretty reporter from the
Stage
. ‘If not with myself, then with someone else. Was I really good?’

‘Awesome, so, so sexy, you ought to be in Hollywood.’

Rogue, who’d won on History Painting, and Marius arrived to more loud cheers. Both were extremely drunk. Marius, talking between clenched jaws, was soon telling Joey and Alan that he’d won enough today for a down payment on an all-weather.

‘Then we’ll bury that fucker Harvey-Holden.’

The Major, refreshed from his long sleep during the play, was hot to trot. Disappointed Corinna had pushed off, he asked Etta to dance.

‘Just like
Strictly,
’ called out Phoebe as they quickstepped round. ‘I can feel Bump kicking,’ she told Debbie, who was guzzling a third helping of sucking pig. ‘Do hope it’s a boy, it would mean so much to Toby. Wonderful if Valent can produce this gel to stop teething troubles.’

The music switched to the Black Eyed Peas. Rogue, to wind Amber up, had removed Trixie’s stilettos, making her two inches smaller than him, and led her off to dance. After some vigorous gyrating, he pressed his cheek against hers and drew her against him. Feeling herself shot into orbit by the biggest tackle in the weighing-in room, Trixie leapt away.

Not as sophisticated as she makes out, thought Rogue in amusement.

‘The poetry’s wonderful, but I still prefer
Julius Caesar,
’ Tilda, reeling from the bliss of not minding being neglected by Shagger, was saying to Alan.

Having escaped Rogue, Trixie took refuge at a table with Woody and Niall, and was reading next Sunday’s gospel in Niall’s prayer book.

‘Jesus cast out devils from two men,’ she said furiously, ‘and drove them into a herd of swine, which sent the poor demented pigs jumping off a cliff and drowning. Jesus ought to be shot.
Compassion in World Farming and Joanna Lumley would have something to say about that.’

‘You have to put it in context, Trixie,’ said Niall, ‘Jesus and the disciples were Jewish and regarded swine as unclean.’

‘The vicar’s awfully good-looking without his specs,’ murmured Painswick to Etta.

‘Come on, Marius, dance with me,’ said Amber, swaying in front of him and putting her arms round his neck. She
must
be drunk. He had such a lovely face, so planed and austere, drink never seemed to blur or redden his features.