Rivals

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Go back to one, take fucking one,’ screamed Cameron.

  The schoolgirls disappeared in mid-dance to be replaced by Maurice Wooton, standing up and shouting at Declan that the whole thing was a trumped-up pack of lies, and he was going home to ring his lawyers. Next moment he’d stormed out, leaving the studio in uproar. Declan sat turned to stone in his chair.

  To their great disappointment, Corinium’s viewers were then treated to soothing music and a film showing close-ups of Cotchester’s wild flowers, so they missed Tony roaring into the studio, so angry he could hardly get the words out.

  ‘I’ve spent five years courting that man,’ he spluttered. ‘He was just about to join the Board and put fifteen million into our satellite project.’

  Declan rose to his feet, towering over Tony.

  ‘You should have given me time to research him properly,’ he said coldly. ‘I might have found something nice to ask him, but I doubt it.’ And with that, he walked out of the studio.

  Back at The Priory, Rupert, wiping his eyes, turned to Maud: ‘That was the best television programme I’ve seen for years and free schoolgirls thrown in, too. After Tony Baddingham, Maurice Wooton is without doubt the biggest shit in England, and your husband is the first socialist I’ve ever really admired. The Corinium switchboard must be absolutely jammed, or “preserved”, as dear Valerie would say, with congratulatory calls.’

  At that moment the telephone rang. Rupert picked it up.

  ‘Brilliant programme,’ said a voice. ‘It’s the Western Daily Press. Is Declan in?’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Rupert, handing the receiver to Maud. ‘Don’t look so cross,’ he added to Taggie. ‘I’ll nip home in a minute and get your father another bottle.’

  After Rupert had returned with the whisky, and he and Bas had left, Taggie watched her mother go to the hall mirror, fluff up her hair on top and smooth the dress over her hips, before sitting down at the drawing-room piano. She must be very drunk, thought Taggie, judging by the number of wrong notes.

  What on earth could she give her father for supper, she wondered wearily, as she started to load the washing-up machine. Perhaps she ought to accept Bas’s offer of a job, and get out and meet people. She couldn’t eat her heart out for Ralphie for ever. She heard the front door bang. Going into the hall, she saw Declan gazing into the drawing-room at Maud playing Schumann in the dress she’d worn when they were first married, living blissfully on no money in Ireland. Her hair almost touched the piano stool.

  Putting his hands on her shoulder, he said, ‘Why did you put that on?’

  ‘Grice and I were tidying away some of my old clothes.’

  ‘You look beautiful.’

  Schumann halted abruptly, as Declan’s hands slid under the pie-frill collar. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  As Maud walked upstairs in front of him, his hands slid up between her bare thighs:

  ‘Christ, you’re wet.’

  Maud smiled sleepily. ‘I’ve been thinking all evening about your coming home.’

  RIVALS

  14

  Tony would have sacked any other member of his staff for savaging Maurice Wooton like that. As it was he spent the weekend poring over Declan’s contract with the lawyers. Unfortunately there was no clause about not presenting his victims with unpalatable truths. So in the end Tony merely wrote Declan a sharp note accusing him of misconduct and warning him that if he stepped out of line a second and third time he’d be out on his ear.

  Tony’s guns were further spiked by the Government immediately ordering an investigation into Cotchester Town Hall’s Housing policy, and by the very favourable press coverage of the programme and Corinium in particular.

  ‘Corinium show their teeth at last,’ wrote the Western Daily Press.

  ‘Corinium prove they’re no longer a Tory poodle,’ wrote the Guardian.

  Hardest for Tony to take was an enthusiastic telephone call from the IBA: ‘Splendid stuff, Tony. No one can accuse you of political bias now.’

  The following Wednesday there was a Corinium Board meeting. Tony’s temper was not improved when one of the non-executive directors, old Lady Evesham, Vice Chancellor of the local university, arrived on her bicycle in the pouring rain, just as Tony rolled up in the Rolls. Why did the stupid old bag always arrive an hour early and go nosing round the office, talking to staff and stirring up trouble? Hoping she’d go away, Tony cringed behind the Financial Times. Next minute she was tapping on the window. Grudgingly, Tony lowered it a few inches.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Lady Evesham, thrusting her wrinkled, whiskery muzzle towards him. ‘That interview with Maurice Wooton’s the sort of thing we should be doing all the time. Routing out injustice. Man’s a rogue. I shall seek out Declan and tell him so in person.’

  Tony, however, had other things on his mind. In the same telephone call praising Declan’s interview, the IBA had complained that Corinium still wasn’t giving sufficient attention to the Southampton end of the area.

  ‘Charles Fairburn has just finished a programme on Isaac Watts,’ Tony had countered swiftly.

  ‘Who’s he?’ asked the IBA’s Head of Television.

  ‘Famous philosopher, poet, teacher.’ Tony hastily consulted the advance programme notes. ‘Watts Square in Southampton is named after him. Wrote “Oh God, our help in ages past”.’

  ‘That’s not much help in ages present,’ said the IBA. ‘People in Southampton will hardly regard one hour on the Sunday Godslot as good enough. We’re talking about news coverage. There was nothing for example about HMS Princess Michael of Kent catching fire at the docks on Friday. The BBC devoted seven minutes to the story.’

  ‘I’ll look into it,’ said Tony.

  As a result of this conversation, Tony summoned his two most valuable executive directors, who usually worked in London but who had come down for the board meeting, into his office beforehand. Known as ‘Beauty and the Beast’, Georgie Baines and Ginger Johnson looked after sales and finance respectively.

  Gorgeous Georgie, who had big brown eyes and even bigger expenses, was up to every single fiddle and lived in the big advertising agencies’ pockets, which he lined as effectively as his own. He also made vast sums of money for Corinium. Ginger Johnson, the Beast, was a thug, with carroty hair and a beetroot face, like a particularly unappetizing winter salad. As Financial Director, he saw that the vast sums netted by Georgie were administered as remuneratively as possible. All the most important business on the agenda was always done by the three men before the board meeting.

  Going into Tony’s office that Wednesday, Georgie and Ginger found him looking at a map of the area.

  ‘If we’re going to hang on to the franchise,’ said Tony, ‘we’ve got to be properly represented.’

  ‘So?’ said Georgie, who’d heard this all before.

  ‘We’re going to build a studio here.’ Tony jabbed the red dot of Southampton with his finger.

  ‘Cost a fortune,’ said Ginger, aghast. ‘Even a small studio’ll set us back five million. We don’t need a studio there.’

  ‘Nor do we want to make any more programmes,’ said Georgie. ‘Programmes cost too much money.’

  ‘The IBA will love the idea,’ said Tony happily. ‘More programmes, more employment, better coverage. We don’t have to actually build the fucking thing. But if we wave Board sanction and some provisional architect’s plans under the IBA’s nose, it’ll keep them quiet until the franchise is in the bag.’

  ‘I’m sure the Board won’t wear it, when we’re slashing budgets everywhere else,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Tony.

  Tony was at his best and his most urbane at board meetings. On his right and left sat Georgie looking beautiful, and Ginger looking ugly. Beyond them sat Simon Harris, who never spoke, and Miss Madden taking the minutes. Beyond these two, down the long elm table, sat members of the Great and the Good, including an MP for Stroud, a winner at Badminton, a famous composer who
lived in Oxford, an educationalist from Stratford, a bishop, a famous footballer, and several industrialists who lived in the area, and, of course, Lady Evesham.

  As the meeting got under way, everyone expressed great satisfaction at the kudos Declan’s programmes had given Corinium. Resolutions were then passed, budget cuts agreed. Lady Evesham then held up the meeting for at least twenty minutes. First she handed round marmite sandwiches. Having risen at six to write her biography of Emily Pankhurst, she was very hungry. Then she raised a complaint from ‘an unnamed young woman researcher’ – actually Deirdre Kilpatrick – who’d been denied the right to breastfeed in the newsroom.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ thought Tony, glaring at Simon Harris.

  Typically, it was Simon who had given Deirdre the go-ahead to bring her baby in, because he thought bonding was all important. Deirdre had then proceeded to whip out great grey tits all over the building. As the coup de grâce, Baby Kilpatrick had regurgitated milk into one of the newsroom word processors just as Charles Fairburn was showing the Bishop of Salisbury round the building. Charles had promptly fainted and Tony had banished the baby.

  Now Tony cleared his throat: ‘I told the girl not to bring her baby in any more,’ he said to Lady Evesham. ‘It was quite old enough to go on the bottle, and she’s got a perfectly good nanny at home. It distracted my reporters in the newsroom.’

  ‘Surely they should be above that kind of distraction?’ said Lady Evesham frostily. ‘This is the twentieth century.’

  ‘If one girl is allowed to bring her baby in, they all will.’

  The famous footballer, who was given to ribaldry, then said it was always the ugly old feminist boots who wanted to breastfeed in public. If the pretty ones wanted to do it, none of the blokes would mind. He received a stony glare from Lady Evesham.

  Tony, who thoroughly agreed with the famous footballer, but had to pretend to look disapproving, thought it was high time Lady Evesham resigned, and Cameron, who wouldn’t stand any truck with breastfeeders, took her place on the Board.

  Saying he’d look into it, Tony moved briskly on to the subject of cutting costs. He then proceeded to bore the meeting rigid with details of expenditure on stationery and calculators, and whether it was really necessary to supply the sales’ staff with portable computers. Everyone glazed as he compared the merits of endless different models.

  It was two minutes to one. Hearing the chink of bottles in the director’s dining-room next door, everyone perked up. A delicious smell of boeuf Wellington drifted under the door.

  ‘Well, that’s all for the day,’ said Tony. Then, as everyone dived for their bags and briefcases, he added, ‘Except for one item that may not be on everyone’s agenda: the proposed new studio in Southampton. The question of our not giving sufficient attention to the Southampton end of the territory has been raised before.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said the footballer, who’d once played for the Saints.

  ‘You’ve all agreed the idea of a new studio in principle,’ went on Tony.

  The directors scratched their heads. . . . Had they? They were instantly distracted by another waft of boeuf Wellington.

  ‘The building of the studios will create a lot of employment in the area,’ said Tony briskly. ‘We’ve got a costing which can be easily accommodated within the budget. Ginger?’ He cocked an eyebrow at Ginger Johnson.

  ‘Easily,’ said Ginger.

  ‘And you’re for it, Georgie?’

  ‘Very much so,’ said Georgie, who was lost in admiration.

  ‘Simon?’

  Simon Harris had been so unnerved by the breastfeeding incident that he nodded even before Tony got his name out.

  ‘Oh look, it’s snowing,’ said the footballer, distracting people even further.

  ‘Everyone else in favour?’ Tony smiled down the table.

  Lady Evesham’s was the only dissenting hand.

  ‘Good,’ said Tony, gathering up his papers. ‘Come and have a drink everyone and meet Declan O’Hara.’

  Any further thoughts about studios evaporated as they surged next door.

  There was great excitement at Corinium the following Wednesday, when Dame Nellie Finegold, a friend of Lady Evesham, and one of the last surviving suffragettes, who’d agreed to come on Declan’s programme that evening, dropped dead from a heart attack.

  Even greater excitement was caused when the Prime Minister, who was in Gloucestershire opening a new hospital and later dining with the Cotchester Regiment, graciously agreed to step into Dame Nellie’s shoes to balance Declan’s extremely favourable interview with the Leader of the Opposition the previous week. The Prime Minister, appreciating the value of preaching to eighteen million viewers, thought she could handle Declan. Her one condition, which Tony leapt at, was that Declan should submit questions first, and make an undertaking not to depart from them.

  ‘This is our chance to nail him,’ Tony told Cameron gleefully. ‘If he submits questions today, we can insist he does the same for all future interviews. Then we can manipulate him to our own advantage. You’ve seen how lethal he can be with Maurice; just think what havoc he could cause in an election year.’

  Declan looked tired and tense as he walked into Tony’s office waving a sheaf of the Prime Minister’s cuttings. Tipping back his chair, Tony stretched his legs and gazed consideringly at him for a moment.

  ‘This is a big day for you, Declan.’

  Declan grunted. ‘I’m very much looking foward to shaking her by – ‘he paused – ‘the neck.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Tony, ‘let’s keep it all sweetness and light.’

  ‘The PM’s only coming on the programme if she knows exactly what you’re going to ask her, and no funny business,’ said Cameron.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Declan. ‘Why should she be treated differently to anyone else?’

  ‘Because she’s the PM, dumbass, and the IBA is ultimately answerable to her, so she’s got to be kept sweet.’

  ‘Not by me she hasn’t.’

  ‘Don’t be so fucking pigheaded,’ screeched Cameron.

  An almighty row followed, ending in Declan flatly refusing to do the interview and walking out.

  Cameron and Tony exchanged glances of joy and horror – what the hell were they going to do? The Prime Minister was already in the area. She was due at the studios at seven-forty to go on air at eight. The network had been trailing Declan’s dramatic change of guest since lunchtime.

  ‘James will have to do it,’ said Tony. ‘But we won’t announce the change of plan until just before transmission, or we’ll lose the audience.’

  In his office, having just re-written his links for ‘Cotswold Round-Up’, James switched off the wireless because he was fed up with hearing Declan’s signature tune. Turning to his fan mail, he found a letter from Sarah Stratton thanking him for his standard letter thanking her for coming on the programme. Nice bold handwriting, thought James; he was sure those huge loops to the Ls meant something. During their drink at the bar, he’d decided she was very attractive, and wondered by what ruse he could see her again. But a second later, as Cameron burst into his office, his thoughts were only for one woman: the Prime Minister.

  ‘Deirdre’s working on your questions at the moment,’ said Cameron. ‘We’ve got to rush them over to the PM at Gloucester so she can look at them while she’s changing. We should be able to let you have them about five. If you’ve got any questions to add, let Deirdre know. Here’s a brief of what the PM’s been up to in the last two months, but you’re pretty well briefed anyway, aren’t you?’

  James blushed. It was the first compliment Cameron had ever paid him.

  ‘I thought Declan was doing this interview.’

  ‘Declan’s sick,’ said Cameron.

  ‘Seriously?’ said James, trying to look suitably caring.

  ‘Not nearly seriously enough,’ said Cameron viciously.

  As soon as she’d gone, thanking God he’d had his hair streaked last wee
k, James rang Lizzie: ‘I’ll be late. I’ve got to interview the PM.’

  ‘My God! Ask her when she last got laid.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, this is for real. I’m sending a driver over for my blue suit, and could you put in my jade-green silk shirt, and the sapphire-blue tie. And could you phone the Strattons and ask them to record the programme.’ He wanted Sarah to witness his hour of glory. ‘I don’t trust our machine one hundred per cent.’

  You mean you don’t trust me to remember, thought Lizzie.

  Cameron, popping in to the studio later on her way to the control room, was nearly knocked sideways by Aramis.

  ‘She’s arrived. Tony’ll bring her through in a minute. Are you nervous?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said James, re-plumping cushions on the pastel-pink sofa.

  ‘Nice change from Declan,’ said Cameron. ‘Good luck.’

  Perhaps he’d maligned Cameron, thought James, as he combed his hair for the hundredth time and removed the shine on his nose with Nouveau Beige creme puff. He used to use Gay Whisper, but had decided the name had rather unfortunate connotations.

  The Prime Minister, like most women, had a weakness for charming, handsome men. Seeing her appearing through the black curtain, radiant in dark-blue taffeta, being guided over the cables and uneven surfaces by Tony, James leapt to his feet. For a second Diorella fought with Aramis. Aramis won easily.

  ‘Welcome to Cotchester, Prime Minister. I can’t tell you how privileged I feel to meet you,’ said James, giving her the benefit of his beautiful aquamarine eyes, now subtly enhanced by the jade-green shirt and the sapphire-blue tie. Then, when she offered him her hand, he bowed his streaked head and kissed it reverently.

  ‘Silly cunt,’ muttered the Senior Cameraman.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ said James.

  Down came the famous bottom on the pastel-pink sofa.

  ‘I’ll leave you in good hands, Prime Minister,’ said Tony.

  ‘Indeed, Lord Baddingham,’ said the PM in her low voice.