Free Rivals by Jilly Cooper Page A

offer.’
    At that moment Monica came up.
    ‘I was just saying, Monica, that Gloucestershire has so much to offer, particularly,’ Valerie raised her untouched glass, ‘on a gracious evening like tonight.’
    ‘Not if we don’t get any grub,’ said Monica briskly. ‘We’ve decided not to wait for Rupert. Do either of you need a loo?’
    Outside it had turned bitterly cold. Valerie came out of the house smothered in an almost floor-length mink. I hope hounds get her, thought Lizzie savagely, as she watched Freddie open the door and settle Valerie in, before going round to the driving seat.
    ‘Isn’t she a poppet?’ said James. ‘Knew so much about my programme.’
    ‘Sarah Stratton?’ asked Lizzie.
    ‘No, Valerie Jones. I do hope Freddie joins the Board. We could do with a few caring wives like Valerie at Corinium.’
    Lizzie was dumbfounded. Was James such a dreadful judge of character?
    ‘What did you think of Sarah Stratton?’ she asked.
    ‘Not a lot. Didn’t even know who I was. You’d have thought Paul would have briefed her.’
    Off they set in convoy, cars with silver foxes on the bonnet skidding all over the road, rattling the cattle grids, lighting up the last grey curls of the traveller’s joy and the last red beech leaves. Flakes of snow were drifting down as they arrived at Cotchester Town Hall.
    ‘It’s already fetlock-deep in Stow,’ bellowed a woman who’d just driven up with a white windscreen. ‘But of course you’re a coat warmer down here.’
    Cotchester Town Hall, a splendid baroque edifice, two hundred yards down on the other side of the High Street from Corinium Television, had been built in 1902 to replace the old Assembly Rooms. The huge dining-rooms on either side of the ballroom were filled with tables, packed with laughing, chattering people. But in a noisy, glamorous gathering easily the most glamorous, scrutinized table belonged to Corinium Television. The Krug was circulating (Tony was always generous when the evening was deductible) and dinner was now well underway, but Rupert and Beattie Johnson still hadn’t turned up and Sarah Stratton, who should have been on Rupert’s right, and Tony, who should have had Beattie on his left, were trying to hide their irritation and disappointment.
    Lizzie Vereker, however, was having a lovely time sitting next to Freddie Jones. Totally unpompous, instinctively courteous, noisily sucking up his bortsch, rattling off remarks in a broad Cockney accent at a speed which must tax the most accomplished shorthand typist, he was also, despite a scarlet cummerbund strained double by his wide girth, curiously attractive.
    ‘I don’t know anything about electronics,’ confessed Lizzie, taking a belt of Krug, ‘but I know you’re very good at them. James says you’re one of the most powerful men in England.’
    ‘My wife doesn’t fink so,’ said Freddie. ‘It’s a fallacy women are attracted to power. No one’s fallen in love wiv me for years. I’d like to be tall like your ’usband. But I got my height from my muvver and my shoulders from my Dad, and the rest ’ad to go somewhere.’ He roared with laughter.
    At the head of the table Monica listened politely to James Vereker talking about his programme and his ideas for other programmes, and surreptitiously gazed at Sarah Stratton. Her tobacco-brown shawl had slid right off her golden shoulders now. Her piled-up blonde hair emphasized her long slender neck. The seat beside her, which should have been Rupert’s, had now been taken by Bas, Tony’s wicked brother, who was chatting her up like mad.
    She’s so beautiful, thought Monica. What chance could poor Winifred have stood?
    She felt jolted and uneasy. She wished she were at home reading gardening books and listening to Lohengrin.
    Valerie Jones had one aim in life – to rise socially. She had therefore done her homework. Knowing James was coming this evening, she had watched his programme all week so she could comment on