Rivals

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Disgusting,’ spluttered the Prebendary and Valerie Jones in unison.

  ‘Anyway I shot down the bed as the security men broke in, and the old sweetie didn’t give me away. I sent her a whole roomful of flowers the next morning, and,’ Johnny paused wickedly – Oh Christ, thought Tony, as the Prebendary turned even more purple – ‘she still sends me Christmas cards.’

  The floor manager was waving a couple of fingers at Declan for two minutes more.

  ‘Now you’re going to play Hamlet, have you got any ambitions left?’

  ‘I guess I’d like to make a happy marriage,’ said Johnny seriously. ‘I went to see my grandma the other day, she’s been married sixty years. Now that is achievement – like building a cathedral brick by brick, a real life’s work. I guess I won’t achieve it, but that’s what I’d like.’

  ‘Aaaaah,’ said Daysee Butler, so moved that she flicked the cue switch too early.

  Now Declan was smiling and thanking Johnny for coming on the programme.

  On came Schubert, jauntier than ever, up rolled the credits, but alas because of Daysee’s early cue, just as Cameron Cook’s name was about to come up at the end, the screen went royal blue and the Corinium television logo appeared, with the little red ram seeming to hold his horned head even higher than usual. A second later they were into the commercials.

  Another great roar went up in the bar and the board room. Even the crew broke into rare spontaneous applause and crowded round Declan and Johnny. Upstairs, the press raced for the telephones.

  ‘I must talk to Declan about those yellow socks. I’m definitely going to do a fashion piece,’ said the girl from the Mail on Sunday, pouring herself another gin.

  ‘Great,’ said Freddie Jones, ‘really great. Congratulations.’

  The lawyers came up and pumped Tony’s hand. ‘We were shitting bricks at the end, but Johnny came across great, a really nice guy, an attractive guy.’

  Valerie Jones was nose to nose with the Prebendary.

  ‘Disgraceful,’ she was saying. ‘My daughter Sharon is only fourteen and when one thinks . . .’

  ‘Screw the Prebendary,’ said Tony five minutes later, as he came off the telephone in his office. ‘Lady Gosling thought it was terrific.’

  ‘It was,’ said Miss Madden. ‘Declan wants a word.’

  ‘That was a terrific programme. Well done,’ said Tony, picking up another telephone.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Declan. ‘D’you mind if we don’t come up? Johnny doesn’t want to see anyone. He’s reached a stage when he might go right over the top. I’m taking him home for a quiet dinner.’

  Through the door Tony could see the press and even the lawyers getting drunk. The Prebendary was still nose to nose with Valerie. Corinium had walked a tightrope that evening and got away with it.

  ‘Understood,’ said Tony. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow, but congratulations anyway.’

  As Cameron went into the board room, everyone cheered. Tony even forgot himself sufficiently to march over and hug her. His eyes were blazing with triumph.

  ‘Lady Gosling rang to say how much she liked it. She sent special congratulations to you.’

  But Cameron felt utterly drained and despairing. Not just because of her lost credit, but because she had produced and directed a programme in which she’d had no part. It had lived and fortunately not died with Declan.

  RIVALS

  13

  Declan’s first programmes for Corinium were a colossal success. The press agreed that Johnny Friedlander was the best interview he’d ever done, that the ones with Jackie Kennedy and the Princess were even better, and the ones with Mick Jagger and Harold Pinter even better than that. The programmes sold everywhere abroad, and there was even talk at the Network meetings of moving the series to seven-thirty on Thursday in an attempt to knock out ‘EastEnders’. Declan sweat shirts, mugs and posters were selling faster than bikinis in June and Schubert must have looked down from heaven and been surprised but delighted to see his Fifth Symphony galloping up the charts.

  Once the first programme was over Declan was much less aggressive and uptight and even drank in the bar with the crew, but he was no less intransigent about wanting his own way. Cameron smouldered and bided her time. Tony was besotted with Declan at the moment, but, knowing the nature of the two men, Cameron realized it wouldn’t last.

  Meanwhile, although the flood of resignations at Corinium had been arrested by Declan’s arrival, Simon Harris was getting nearer his nervous breakdown and the staff were muttering even more mutinously into their glasses of Sancerre at the Bar Sinister that Cameron was about to be put on the Board.

  But, to stop Cameron getting smug, Tony, ever the bubble-pricker, finally invited the ravishing Sarah Stratton to lunch and arranged for James Vereker to interview her in the ‘Behind Every Famous Man’ series early in November. Cameron was livid and vented her rage on the rest of the staff.

  The same week Sarah was due to be interviewed, Tony summoned Declan to his office.

  ‘How’s your cold?’ Declan asked Miss Madden as he walked through the outer office.

  ‘Much better,’ said Miss Madden, flushing. ‘How amazing of you to remember. Better hurry. Cameron’s in there already.’

  Cameron was lounging menacingly by the window, wearing a black polo neck, black leather trousers and spiky high heels. Declan wondered if she walked all over Tony in bed in them. The room was full of cigar smoke. Tony was drinking a brandy, but didn’t offer Declan one.

  ‘Sit down. Congratulations to both of you,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ve just heard off the record that we got our highest local rating ever for your interview with the Princess.’

  Declan sank into one of the low squashy sofas, which, with his long legs, were desperately uncomfortable unless one was lying down.

  Tony leant back in his chair: ‘Cameron and I have decided it’s time you spread your wings, Declan.’

  Declan looked wary.

  ‘We’d like you to interview Maurice Wooton this week.’

  ‘He’s not big enough,’ said Declan flatly. Lord Wooton was a high-profile Cotchester property developer but of little interest nationally. ‘And I’m already doing Graham Greene this week.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Cameron. ‘Do Lord Wooton as a special after the ten o’clock news on Friday night.’

  ‘Why can’t James do him?’

  ‘James is already doing Sarah Stratton in the Famous Man slot on “Cotswold Round-Up”. Besides, we want you.’

  ‘I’m only contracted to do one interview a week.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Tony. ‘We’ll pay you extra. We just want you to get really involved in the station.’

  ‘I don’t have the time.’ It was so hot in Tony’s office that Declan could feel his shirt drenched in sweat.

  ‘That’s what researchers are for,’ said Cameron, as though she was explaining to a two-year-old. ‘Deirdre Kilpatrick’s been working on Maurice Wooton all week. She’s come up with some terrific stuff. After all,’ she added tauntingly, ‘a guy as great as Henry Moore wasn’t too proud to employ studio assistants.’

  Like a dog struggling out of a weed-clogged pond, Declan heaved himself up from the squashy sofa. ‘I do my own research,’ he said coldly, and walked out.

  Hooray, thought Cameron, it’s begun to work.

  On Thursday morning Cameron rang Declan at home. It was his official day off. He’d stayed up until four in the morning reading Graham Greene. Inspired, he was determined to spend the next two days on his Yeats biography, and here was Cameron’s horrible rasp ordering him to come into a meeting tomorrow at eleven o’clock.

  ‘So we can kick some ideas around about the line you might take with Maurice Wooton.’

  Declan hung up on her. When he hadn’t shown up by eleven-thirty the following morning, Cameron rang The Priory in a fury. She got Maud, who said she was sorry but Declan was in bed.

  ‘At this hour? Is he ill?’

  ‘No
t at all,’ said Maud. ‘He’s reading.’

  ‘Put him on.’

  Declan told Cameron to go and jump in the River Fleet and that he’d no intention of coming in for any meeting. Tony then rang Declan and ordered him to come in that evening and interview Maurice Wooton. Declan, having just received an eighty-thousand-pound tax bill, which he had no way of ever paying unless he went on working at Corinium, said he’d be in later, but wouldn’t submit questions beforehand.

  He slid into Corinium around two o’clock, when he knew Cameron and Tony would still be at lunch, and went down to the newsroom to talk to Sebastian Burrows, the youngest, brightest and therefore most frustrated of the reporters.

  ‘Deirdre Kilpatrick’s been working like mad on your Maurice Wooton interview,’ said Seb.

  ‘Deirdre Kill-Programme,’ said Declan.

  Seb grinned: ‘You can say that again. Maurice is emerging as a total sweetie.’

  ‘You got any dirt on him?’ asked Declan.

  ‘He’s one of Tony’s best friends, isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Not quite – anything concrete?’

  Sebastian’s thin face lit up. ‘I’ve got enough to send him down for ten years, but I daren’t use it.’

  ‘Give it to me,’ said Declan. ‘I’m going out.’

  On the same Friday, Rupert Campbell-Black, having spent all week in meetings with the FA and the Club Managers trying to thrash out some suitable compromise on football hooliganism, decided he felt like a pit pony who needed a day off, and went hunting with Basil Baddingham.

  Scent was very bad, however. It rained all day and the foxes sensibly decided to stay in their earths. Having re-boxed their horses, Rupert and Bas got back to Rupert’s dark-blue Aston-Martin to find the windscreen covered with leaves like parking tickets. Removing their drenched red coats and hunting ties, and putting on jerseys, they drove home through the yellow gloom.

  ‘Who shall we do this evening?’ said Bas, who was feeling randy.

  ‘No one,’ sighed Rupert. ‘I’ve got my red box to go through, and I’ve got to look in at some fund-raising drinks party.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Bas slyly, ‘I was going to show you the most amazing girl.’

  ‘That’s different,’ said Rupert. ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Penscombe Priory.’

  Thinking Bas meant Maud, Rupert said, ‘Isn’t she a bit long in the tooth for you?’

  ‘No, I’m talking about the daughter,’ said Bas. ‘She’s absolutely stunning.’

  Back at The Priory, Grace, the housekeeper, who was making ridiculously slow progress sorting out the attic, stumbled on a trunk of Maud’s old clothes. Maud, who had just finished her last P. D. James and was suffering from withdrawal symptoms, wandered upstairs and started trying them on. Now she was parading round in a black-and-red-striped mini which fell just below her groin and showed off her still beautiful legs.

  ‘I remember walking down Grafton Street in 1968 in this,’ she said, ‘and an American clapping his hands over his eyes, and screaming: “Oh my Gard, can they go any higher?” My hair was down like this.’ Maud pulled out the combs so it cascaded down her back. ‘I was only twenty-four.’

  ‘You don’t look a day more than that now. Amizing,’ said Grace.

  ‘Oh, I adored this dress too.’ Maud tugged a sapphire-blue mini with a pie-frill collar out of the trunk. ‘I wore it to Patrick’s christening. I wonder if I can still get into it.’

  ‘Fits you like a glove,’ said Grace, who was trying on a maxicoat. ‘Amizing.’

  As Maud admired herself in an ancient full-length mirror propped against the rafters, she heard Gertrude barking. Not displeased with her appearance, she went downstairs, then paused halfway. Below her in the hall, she could see two heads: one very dark, the other gleaming blond. Her heart missed a beat.

  ‘Maud,’ yelled Bas, ‘are you in?’

  ‘I’m up here,’ said Maud with the light behind her.

  Bas looked up. ‘Caitlin,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d gone back.’

  ‘It’s me.’ Maud came slowly down the stairs. ‘Grice and I were being silly trying on my old clothes.’

  ‘How old were you when you first wore that?’

  ‘About twenty-one.’

  ‘You look about sixteen today,’ said Bas, kissing her.

  ‘Flattery will get you an enormous drink. I assume that’s what you’ve come for. Grice,’ Maud yelled up the stairs, ‘can you come down and fix some drinks? I’ll go and change.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Rupert. ‘I bet Declan fell in love with you in that dress. I’m quite safe,’ he went on, also kissing Maud. ‘Some bloody hunt saboteur sprayed me with Anti-Mate this afternoon.’

  ‘Where’s Declan?’ asked Bas, as they went into the kitchen.

  ‘Ordered in to do an extra programme,’ said Maud, getting a bottle of whisky out of the larder.

  ‘My evil brother got the screws on him already?’ asked Bas. ‘Have you got anything to eat? I’m absolutely starving.’

  ‘There’s some chocolate cake and a quiche in the larder,’ said Maud, splashing whisky into three glasses. ‘Have a look and see what you can find.’

  Rupert prowled round the room. There was a huge scrubbed table in the centre of the room, with chairs down either side. Poetry and cookery books crammed the shelves in equal proportions. A rocking-horse towered over Gertrude’s basket in the corner. Aengus the cat snored on some newly ironed shirts by the Aga. On the walls were drawings of Maud in Juno and the Paycock, and a corkboard covered with recipes and photographs of animals, cut by Taggie out of newspapers. Apart from a television set on a chest of drawers, every other available surface seemed to be littered with letters, bills, colour swatches, photographs waiting to be stuck in, dog and cat worming tablets, biros that didn’t work, newspapers and magazines.

  ‘Nice kitchen,’ said Rupert.

  ‘It’s like the room described by Somerville and Ross when they were packing up before moving,’ said Maud. ‘Under everything, there’s something.’

  Valerie Jones, who dropped in half an hour later, didn’t think it was a nice kitchen at all. She was shocked to find Maud showing at least six inches of bare thigh, and Rupert and Basil with their long-booted legs up on the table, all getting tanked up on Declan’s whisky. Rupert was eating bread and bramble jelly and reading the problem page in Jackie. Bas was finishing up the remains of a mackerel mousse with a spoon. Gertrude, eyeing the remains of the quiche and the large chocolate cake, was now sitting drooling on the table on a pile of unironed sheets, which would no doubt go straight back on the beds, thought Valerie with a shudder.

  Valerie herself, natty in a ginger tweed suit and a deerstalker, said she had just been to a Distressed Gentlefolk’s Committee Meeting with Lady Baddingham, and, deciding to ‘straike while the iron was hot’, had looked in to see if Maud had any jumble for the Xmas Bazaar next month.

  ‘Having just moved, you must have lots of old junk to throw out.’

  ‘Only her husband,’ said Bas, starting on the quiche.

  ‘Hush,’ reproved Maud softly. ‘Funnily enough, I’ve just been trying on all my old clothes. This was the dress I wore at Patrick’s christening. The priest gathered up my skirt with the christening robes by mistake and all the congregation were treated to the sight of my red pants.’

  Valerie didn’t want to hear about Maud’s pants. ‘Then you must have lots of jumble,’ she said.

  ‘I never throw clothes away,’ said Maud.

  ‘Well, I’ve brought you a brochure of our Autumn range,’ said Valerie, determined to turn the visit to some advantage.

  ‘Kind,’ said Maud, chucking the brochure into the débris on the Welsh dresser. ‘Have a drink.’

  ‘Ay’m driving. Have you got anything soft?’ said Valerie.

  ‘Not round here, with Maud wearing that dress,’ said Rupert, cutting himself a piece of chocolate cake.

  ‘I’ll have a tea then,’ said Valerie, ‘and
I’d love a piece of that gâteau, and those bramble preserves look quite delicious.’

  ‘Taggie picked the blackberries down your valley; we ought to give you a pot,’ Maud said to Rupert, as she put the kettle on. She felt wildly happy.

  At that moment Grace walked in, wearing Maud’s red and black mini.

  ‘This is Amizing Grice,’ said Maud.

  ‘Amizing,’ said Grace, gazing at Rupert in wonder. ‘I’m just off to that lecture on glass-blowing at the Women’s Institute, Maud,’ she went on. ‘See you later.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was a WI meeting tonight,’ said Valerie, perplexed.

  ‘Straight up to the pub,’ explained Maud, as the front door banged.

  ‘It’s not a very good idea to be on Christian name terms with one’s help,’ said Valerie reprovingly. ‘We don’t really do it in Gloucestershire, you know.’

  ‘’Bye, Grace! Have a good evening,’ yelled Rupert.

  Valerie’s small mouth tightened. Watching Maud pouring boiling water over a teabag, she hoped the mug was clean.

  ‘This quiche is seriously good,’ said Bas. ‘And for Christ’s sake leave some of that chocolate cake, Rupert.’

  ‘Did Grace make it?’ enquired Valerie. Maybe Grace was more of a treasure than she had at first appeared.

  ‘Grace can’t cook a thing,’ said Maud. ‘Taggie made all this. She wants to break into catering and do people’s dinner parties.’

  ‘She’d better come and work at the Bar Sinister,’ said Bas. ‘Darling, I wondered where you’d got to.’ He swung his feet off the table and stood up as Taggie came in.

  She was very pale, with her hair in a thick black plait down her back, and wearing one of Declan’s red shirts above long, long bare legs.

  ‘Hullo,’ she said in delight to Bas. Then, embarrassed that he aimed straight at her mouth, turned her head slightly so he ended up kissing her hair. At that moment, over his shoulder, she saw Rupert. She gave a gasp of horror and turned as red as her shirt.