Glancing across the room at Rupert, who was gazing moodily out of the window at Claudius chewing a library book, she knew that he was bored. There was nothing he loathed more than other people’s waffle. He’d been affectionate enough recently, but slightly detached; perhaps he always distanced himself before a separation. She hated the thought of him going to Virginia on his own. She couldn’t imagine American women leaving anything as beautiful or as explosively macho alone. She’d lived with him for sixty-eight days and — she glanced at her watch — eighteen hours, and she still wanted him continually.

‘Now, you all know that I’m on the end of the telephone,’ Declan was saying. ‘By the time I get back we should have the date for our IBA interview. Then we can start having dry-runs. I’ve booked Hardy Bisset to coach us. He’s ex-IBA so he’s witnessed the interviewing process from the other side. ‘There’s also a permanent exhibition on the history of television at the IBA,’ he went on. ‘Parties of school-children and tourists visit it every day. I think you should all try and have a look at it before the interview so you at least know something about the business you’re intending to run. Go in, in ones or twos, or it’ll look too obvious. We must get Wesley, Marti, Bas and particularly Henry along there, or they’ll make complete pratts of themselves at the interview. I think that’s all.’

He ran his hands through his hair and leaned back in his chair surveying the chaos on his desk in despair.

Rupert turned away from the window. ‘When d’you reckon Yeats’ll be finally in the can?’ he said.

‘For Chrissake, dumbass,’ screamed Cameron, ‘I’ve told you a hundred times, it’s pronounced “Yates”.’

Declan raised a disapproving eyebrow. Dame Enid was much more up front. ‘You haven’t learned to pronounce the word “hostile” yet, young lady,’ she snapped, ‘but you certainly manage to be it most of the time.’

‘Thank you, Enid. The age of chivalry is not entirely dead,’ said Rupert lightly, but his face had lost all expression.

Oh, God, thought Cameron, I shouldn’t have said that.

‘The answer to your question,’ said Declan to Rupert, ‘is sometime in December. We’ll have to edit and do all the VOs when we get back.’

‘I hope you’ve got in the story about Yeats cutting his precious fur coat in half because he didn’t want to disturb a cat who was sitting on it,’ said Dame Enid. ‘Must have been a good bloke to do that.’

‘Or the time that he signed a lot of cheques “Yours sincerely, W. B. Yeats”,’ said Professor Graystock, determined not to be upstaged. ‘Or even the story. .’ he began.

Rupert had had enough — fucking intellectuals. He walked out of the library, out of the front door, and down the garden. Migrating arrows of birds were flapping down the valley. There had been a storm at lunchtime; roses were pulping and disintegrating; tobacco plants prostrated themselves like palms before his feet. Beyond the garden, in one of his fields, the grass had been flattened by the deluge, as though a herd of elephants had been having a gang bang.

Half a dozen young steers grazing there had recently been joined by a Guernsey cow and a little chocolate-brown calf, which a grateful neighbouring farmer had sent Rupert as an early birthday present. Now he could see the steers pushing the baby calf away and drinking her mother’s milk. With her long-legged gawkiness, her big eyes and long fringed eyelashes, the calf reminded him of Taggie. He looked at the mother’s pink udder with its four teats. Perhaps Cameron would pronounce them ‘tates’. Fucking intellectual. He’d get the mother and calf moved to a field of their own tomorrow.

Instead of returning to the library, he went round to the kitchen and found Taggie listening to pop music and trying to iron a great pile of Declan’s shirts and read a recipe at the same time.

‘Dashing away with a smoothing iron, she stole my heart away,’ said Rupert.

Taggie gave a start. ‘I don’t see how anyone could steal anybody’s heart away when they’re ironing,’ she mumbled. ‘One gets so red in the face.’

‘And you’re about to singe that shirt,’ said Rupert.

Hastily Taggie upended the iron. ‘You’re just the person I wanted to see. Sarah Stratton wants me to do a dinner party for her the week after next, and she’s given me this recipe all in French, and I can’t make head nor tail of it.’

Rupert, who’d had plenty of experience of Sarah’s writing, took the piece of paper and reeled off the recipe.

‘Oh marvellous! Could you read it out to me?’ said Taggie, grabbing a pencil.

Rupert was about to take the pencil, saying it’d be much quicker if he scribbled it down himself. Then he remembered something he’d read recently about encouraging dyslexies. Very slowly, making sure he didn’t get too far ahead, resisting the urge to touch Taggie’s white neck, revealed in all its vulnerability as her black ponytail fell sideways, he read it out.

‘You are brilliant,’ sighed Taggie as she finished. ‘No one else could translate it. Daddy doesn’t read French, nor Mummy, nor even Cameron.’

Suddenly Rupert felt ten feet tall again. What a bugger he had to fly to Virginia tomorrow, but he desperately needed a new stallion and he hoped to get in a few days’ hunting. He was about to make a firm date for dinner the moment he got back when the repulsive Professor Graystock wandered in.

‘Ah, Taggie,’ the Professor’s formless mouth widened, showing crooked yellow teeth. ‘I’m frightfully hungry; only had time for a bowl of soup at lunchtime. Could I have something to eat? Nothing fancy, simple repast, bread and cheese will be quite sufficient.’

Disgusting old goat, thought Rupert with a shudder, typical leftie with his second house, and no school fees to pay, bumming off anyone he regarded as capitalist. Taggie tried to smile. The Professor gave her the creeps, too. He still never missed an opportunity to squeeze her, or gaze at her breasts, or make risqué remarks.

‘Cameron’s looking for you, Rupert,’ said the Professor pointedly. ‘She wants to go home.’

Rupert took no notice and went on stroking Aengus, who was stretched out by the Aga.

Mouth watering, the Professor watched Taggie put out a loaf of wholemeal bread, some Brie and Cheddar, and half a pound of butter.

‘Any celery?’ he asked. ‘I’m partial to celery. With Father in Ireland and Mother rehearsing all the time, you’re going to be rather lonely, Taggie. Perhaps you’ll come over one evening to the campus and cook supper for a lonely old man?’

‘She’s working every night,’ snapped Rupert. ‘Someone’s got to keep this doss house in whisky.’

‘No need to over-react, dear boy,’ said the Professor, cutting a doorstep of bread and spreading it thickly with butter. ‘I’ve got an intellectual poser for you both. What would you have done — ’ he leered at Taggie — ‘if you’d discovered, as I did last term, your most brilliant first-year student — guaranteed to get a first — in bed in college with a naked girl? Would you have sent him down?’

‘If she’d been pretty,’ said Rupert coldly, ‘I’d have confiscated her.’

Cameron felt twitchy as she packed. She was still kicking herself for showing Rupert up in front of the others, but she got so uptight before she went on location. It was a million times worse than before a period. At the bottom of her bags she’d packed a book on coping with stepmotherhood. When she came back from Ireland, she was determined to get it together with Marcus and Tab. Wandering into Rupert’s dressing-room, she found him also packing. He was catching Concorde in the morning.

‘I love you,’ she said, putting her arms round him. ‘You will fly out to Ireland when you get back from the States, won’t you?’

‘Of course,’ said Rupert, as he hastily flipped a book called Overcoming Dyslexia under a pile of shirts.

For a man so confident in business matters, Freddie Jones was surprisingly timid in matters of the heart. For months he had longed to ring up Lizzie Vereker, but only screwed up the courage the day Declan and Cameron left for Ireland.

‘How about lunch today?’ he said, wading straight in.

‘Where’s Valerie?’ asked Lizzie.

‘In Portugal.’

Because she had the curse, two large spots, dirty hair, hairy legs, unpainted toe nails, needed a hundred years to go on a crash diet and had been caught on the hop, Lizzie said no, she was frantically busy. Then felt absolutely miserable. ‘What about next week?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Valerie’ll be home,’ said Freddie despondently.

‘Well, ring me anyway,’ said Lizzie.

All week Lizzie was very absent-minded. She spilt red wine over a review copy which she hadn’t reviewed, and which James intended to give to his mother for a birthday present. On Thursday morning she kept filling up cups of coffee with cold water and even swallowed a conditioning pill herself which she’d intended to give to the dog. Perhaps she’d go barking mad. She knew she ought to be working on her new book, but all she could think about was Freddie. Distracted and miserable, she walked in the pouring rain down to the lake. A moorhen was summoning her chicks into the rushes with a strange fluted call. The beeches trailed their red leaves in the raindrop-pitted water. Suddenly Lizzie heard shouting from the french windows. It was Jilly, her treasure of a nanny, who seemed even more of a treasure when she said Mr Jones was on the telephone.

‘’Ullo,’ said Freddie. ‘Fort you might like to go for a picnic?’

‘But it’s pouring,’ said Lizzie joyfully.

‘We could ’ave it indoors at Green Lawns.’

‘Where’s Valerie?’

‘At the Nearly New Sale for the Distressed Gentlefolk.’