by Jilly Cooper
‘Wrong play,’ said Declan. ‘They were supposed to represent Greece.’
Cameron, Tony and James, who was compèring the programme in a midnight-blue dinner jacket with a dinky rose-pink bow-tie, were all absolutely livid they were so late.
‘It’s a bloody disgrace,’ stormed Cameron. ‘There’s no time to brief you. Go into my office and you’ll have a chance to meet the other judges and the fifteen finalists before transmission.’
The other judges were a male pop star called Big Lil, the Mayor of Cotchester, the head of the local tourist board and a naval officer called Ron, who’d just returned from sailing round the world single-handed.
‘After a girl-less ten months,’ whispered Rupert, ‘he’ll have to be lashed to his chair.’
‘We’re now selecting the last seven,’ Cameron told the judges. ‘You should look for the kind of girl you can take anywhere.’
‘In the broom cupboard, under the mulberry tree,’ said Rupert.
As each girl sidled in, Tony and Cameron fired questions at them. Miss Bisley came from Cotchester. Miss Painswick from Bisley. Miss Chipping Sodbury was so well stacked she could have won a National Front award.
When Miss Wotton-under-Edge said her ambition was to run a home for homeless pussies, Rupert and Declan got serious giggles. Fortunately the room was ill-lit.
‘They all talk like Valerie Jones,’ said Rupert.
Having selected the last seven, they all adjourned to Studio 1, which was now organized with tables, at which sat the so-called invited audience, and the contest was on air.
The fifteen contestants then teetered on in bathing dresses and four-inch heels. Although the judges had already preselected their last seven, as far as the audience, the contestants and the viewers were concerned they were picking them now. Seeing the girls in bathing dresses for the first time, however, Declan and Rupert realized some of the ones they hadn’t chosen had much better figures and legs and noisily tried to change their minds.
‘You’re supposed to be picking the first three now,’ hissed Cameron. ‘And stop making that bloody awful row.’
As Declan and Rupert rushed out to have a pee in the commercial break, Rupert grabbed a bottle of champagne from one of the tables, shoving it under his coat. Cameron, waiting in the corridor as they came out of the lavatory, shoved them into an empty dressing-room. ‘Big Lil’s going to sing his new single while the last seven change and you two can bloody well stay in here and behave yourselves.’
Rupert put on Bottom’s head, which was hanging on a hook, and read out a notice on the wall: ‘We apologize to all artistes for any inconvenience caused by accommodating them in a temporary dressing-room.’
‘I am a Pees Arteeste,’ said Declan, taking a swig from Rupert’s bottle. Totally forgetting they were miked up, they starting discussing the contest.
‘Why’s James Vereker wearing red shoes?’ asked Rupert.
‘Must be the blood running down from all the people sticking knives in his back,’ said Declan.
‘What d’you think of Miss Bisley’s bottom?’ said Rupert from the furry depths of his ass’s head.
‘Terrific,’ said Declan. ‘What d’you think of Miss Chipping Sodbury’s tits?’
‘Wonderful, but not as good as Miss Wotton-under-Edge’s crotch.’
‘Which one d’you think Tony Baddingham’s fucking?’ said Declan.
‘The whole lot,’ said Rupert, collapsing on the bed with laughter.
Declan leant against the wall, shaking. ‘And Daysee Butler will get it out to the second.’
Next minute a chalk-white sound man erupted through the door to tell them they were being overheard by everyone in the control room, including Cameron and Tony. After that Declan found events became slightly hazy. Miss Bisley was crowned Miss Corinium Television and even wept a few tears, but not enough to streak her waterproof mascara.
‘I’ll see you in my office in half an hour,’ hissed Tony to Declan, as he ushered the Mayor and a lot of visiting VIPs upstairs.
‘I won’t be long,’ Declan told Rupert. ‘Wait in the car.’
He got his contract out of the filing cabinet in his office and took the lift to the fifth floor. He felt curiously elated.
As he stood in the doorway of the board room he heard Miss Bisley saying to Miss Painswick that Miss Cotchester’s trouble was that she had an unphotogenic crotch.
Tony was talking to his VIPs, who included the Prebendary and who were all ogling the girls. Declan went up and tapped Tony on the shoulder.
‘I’d like a word now.’
‘Piss off.’
‘Now – in your office,’ said Declan, ‘unless you want me to tell these creeps exactly what I think of you.’
‘Do be careful,’ said Miss Madden, who was sitting at her typewriter in a mauve satin dress.
Sauntering after Tony, Declan blew her a kiss.
‘You look beautiful,’ he told her.
‘How dare you?’ thundered Tony, as Declan slammed the door behind them.
‘Because you’re rotten,’ said Declan. ‘So rotten, even maggots throw you up.’
Tony went purple. ‘You’ve flouted my authority at every opportunity,’ he spluttered.
Slowly Declan walked towards him, huge, cavernous-eyed and menacing. ‘Violence isn’t the answer,’ he said softly, ‘but it’s a bloody good start.’
Tony backed up against the wall, licking his lips, eyes darting, hand edging towards the intercom button.
‘Don’t touch me,’ he croaked. ‘I’ll get you for GBH.’
‘The H would be so fucking G,’ said Declan, ‘that you’d never open your big mouth again, you bastard.’
As he raised his hand, Tony cringed away until his head crashed against the framed photograph of himself and the Queen. Then he realized that Declan was holding a folded-up piece of paper.
‘This is my contract,’ said Declan grimly. Slowly and with great relish he tore it into tiny pieces and sprinkled it over Tony’s head. Then he turned towards the door.
For a second Tony was struck dumb, but, as Declan’s hand touched the door handle, he said, ‘Can I take it you’ve resigned?’
‘Indeed you can,’ said Declan. ‘I’ve prostituted myself for —’ he counted up on his fingers – ‘seven months too long, and tonight I’m going to have the first night’s sleep since I started working for you.’
‘Has it occurred to you that you’re breaking your contract?’
‘I don’t give a fuck,’ said Declan, opening the door. ‘I’m not staying here till you break me, like you broke Cyril, and Simon and half the poor mentally crippled sods in this building.’
The moment he’d gone Tony pressed the re-wind button on the tape recorder and poured himself a huge glass of brandy.
‘Miss Madden,’ he shouted, extracting the tape from the cassette, ‘can you transcribe this at once? Make a dozen copies. Then sweep up these bits of paper and put them in an envelope marked Declan O’Hara’s contract. What the fuck are you crying for?’
‘He was a nice man,’ sobbed Miss Madden. ‘He always asked me about my life as though it mattered to him.’
Outside in the car park the wind had dropped and the moon was shining dimly through the clouds like a ten-watt bulb.
Rupert, still wearing Bottom’s head, had finished the bottle of champagne.
‘Sorry to keep you,’ said Declan, getting into the car.
‘How did it go?’
‘I’m out.’
‘Christ!’ Rupert pulled off the ass’s head. ‘I thought you had a water-tight contract?’
‘Unfortunately it wasn’t whisky-tight,’ said Declan. ‘Let’s go and get seriously drunk.’
RIVALS
24
Taggie slept fitfully, worried about her father, disturbed by a restless Gertrude, who imagined every creak and rattle of creeper blown against the turret windows was Declan returning. Waking at five, Taggie glanced out across the valley, as she always
seemed to be doing these days, and saw that Rupert’s lights were on. She tried not to envy her father spending a whole day with him; he’d had such a ghastly time at work lately, he deserved a break. Going downstairs to check if the car was back she froze with horror to see it once more parked across a flowerbed with all the lights on. Rushing outside, she found it empty and stealthily started to search the house. Declan was not in the bedroom – her mother sprawled diagonally across the bed as though denying him access – nor in the spare room. He wasn’t in Patrick’s room, or the kitchen, or either of the drawing-rooms or the dining-room.
She was beginning to panic that he’d gone for a walk in the wood and fallen down the ravine when she heard an excited squeak from the library. Gertrude had found him, still dressed, passed out cold over his desk. In his hand he still held the pen with which he had been writing his Yeats biography. He had knocked over a glass of whisky which had spilt over the open page of the notebook, blurring the drunken scrawl.
Taggie wrapped a couple of blankets round him, and put a cushion under his head, but he didn’t stir.
He woke six hours later with a debilitating hangover and an even worse sense of foreboding. Staggering groaning into the kitchen, he found Maud reading Anthony Powell upside-down and looking bootfaced. Without being asked, Taggie tore four Alka-Seltzers from their blue and silver metal wrapping and dropped them into a glass. Declan took a gulp, retched and fled from the room.
‘Well,’ said Maud, when he came back, even more white and shaking, ‘what kept you?’
‘I don’t remember,’ growled Declan.
The telephone rang and he clutched his head, groaning. It was the Scorpion, the most seamy of the tabloids. Could they speak to Declan?
‘He’s not here,’ said Taggie quickly.
‘I gather he’s resigned from Corinium. D’you know where I can get hold of him?’
Taggie went pale. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite. The press office confirmed it.’
‘No. He’s definitely not here.’ Taggie slammed down the telephone.
Declan glared at her with bloodshot eyes, sensing trouble. ‘What am I supposed to have done?’
Taggie looked nervously at her mother.
‘Come on,’ said Declan.
‘G-given in your notice.’
‘Kerist! Did I really?’
‘You bloody idiot,’ hissed Maud. ‘Ring up Tony at once and apologize. Say you were drunk.’
At that moment Ursula arrived, looking pale from her flu, but very overexcited by events. Joyce Madden had rung her in tears in the middle of the night and told her what had happened.
‘I was just telling Declan to ring Tony and say he’s sorry,’ said Maud. ‘They’re bound to take him back. He’s such a big star.’ The contempt was undeniable.
‘I’m not sure they will,’ sighed Ursula.
‘Sit down,’ said Taggie, pulling out a chair. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
‘Declan’s got a contract,’ said Maud, ‘and he was far too plastered to put anything in writing last night.’
Ursula turned to Declan who was sitting with his head in his hands.
‘Don’t you remember anything?’
‘I remember a lot of girls in bathing dresses, who were rather ugly, and Rupert dressed up as a horse, and I think I remember having a row with Tony,’ he muttered.
‘You did,’ said Ursula. ‘You gave him an earful. Then you tore up your contract and scattered it all over him and resigned.’
‘Oh Jesus!’ Declan opened a bloodshot eye. ‘Did I really?’
‘And Tony taped the entire conversation, and Joyce Madden transcribed it at once, and no doubt copies are winging their way to the IBA and the ITCA and God knows who else at this moment.’
‘You stupid idiot,’ whispered Maud.
Fear is the parent of cruelty. Having found Declan impossible to live with for the past few months, she had considerable sympathy with Tony. Declan’s career, albeit meteoric, had always been peppered with rows. She was totally unable to appreciate the pressures he’d been under. She proceeded to be blisteringly unsympathetic.
‘Well, I’m not going back,’ said Declan at the end of her tirade.
‘You have no choice. The BBC wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole. You’ll have to crawl for once.’
‘Oh Mummy,’ protested Taggie, putting heavily sweetened, very strong cups of tea in front of Declan and Ursula.
Declan warmed his shaking hands round the mug which had a picture of a girl whose bikini disappeared when the mug was filled with boiling liquid. Like my career, thought Declan.
‘It’s all your fault,’ went on Maud, ‘taking days off to go hunting, going on the bat with Rupert before a programme. You’re like a couple of schoolboys.’
All the animosity she harboured after Rupert had rejected her and embraced Declan seemed to pour forth like scalding lava.
‘I rang up Personnel and resigned too,’ said Ursula importantly. ‘I’m not working for a police state any more.’
Oh Christ, thought Declan, that means I’ll have to pay her salary myself until she gets another job. But he put a hand on her arm.
‘Thanks, darling. That was very loyal of you.’
Everyone jumped as the telephone rang. Maud picked it up. It was the Star. Maud could never resist journalists.
‘We’re a bit hazy this end,’ she said. ‘Declan hasn’t told us anything. What happened?’
The reporter, enchanted by Maud’s soft, caressing tones, told her.
‘I see,’ said Maud grimly. ‘Where’s Rupert?’
‘Well, he arrived in London ten minutes late to chair a seminar on “Alcoholism in the ex-Athlete”. Looked like a prime target, but he refused to comment.’
‘Thanks,’ said Maud. ‘We’ll ring you back when he comes in. How could you?’ She rounded on Declan. ‘Slagging off Tony when you were miked up. I thought you were supposed to be a professional.’
Declan hardly heard her. ‘We’ll have to sell the house,’ he said bleakly.
The telephone rang again. Declan got up and seized the receiver. ‘Will you fucking go away?’ he screamed.
‘Charming,’ said a shrill voice. ‘This is Caitlin, your daughter, if you hadn’t forgotten, and why hasn’t someone come to pick me up?’
‘Oh God,’ said Taggie in anguish, catching the gist. ‘I thought she broke up this afternoon.’
‘Well, you’d better go and get her,’ snapped Maud, who had forgotten to pass on the message.
‘I’m going out,’ said Declan.
‘Whatever for?’ screamed Maud.
‘To do some thinking.’
‘Well, you’d better come up with something pretty quickly. I have no intention of selling this house.’
With four Anadin Extra, four Alka-Seltzers, a cup of strong tea and the remains of last night’s whisky churning uneasily inside him, Declan set out. A mild and sunny day with a gentle breeze had followed yesterday’s torrential rain, freak snow storms and razor-sharp winds. Everything sparkled. For the first time in months the birds ignored Declan’s bird-table and were busy singing and courting in the trees.
Down the Frogsmore, in one day, Spring seemed to have arrived. Primroses nestled on the bank. Coltsfoot exploded sulphur yellow beneath his feet, celandines arched back their shiny yellow petals in the sunshine; even the most uncompromising spiked red blackberry cable was putting out tiny pale-green leaves.
In the fields above, he could see Rupert’s horses pounding round in their New Zealand rugs, tails held high, like children let out of school. In the woods, he found the first anemones and blue and white violets. Far above him the woodpecker was rattling away at a tree trunk. He could almost hear the buds bursting open.
Why the hell had he blown it all in his fucking intellectual arrogance? All he’d had to do was to endure working at Corinium until the end of April, then in the break look around for another job. Now that he’d left in a blaze of drunken publici
ty with plummeting ratings, no one would want him.
He crushed a wild garlic leaf between his fingers. The smell reminded him of lunches in Soho and endlessly plotting with his cronies to make a better world at the BBC. He’d loved London, but he didn’t want to go back. It was so hot that, on the way home, he took off his coat and sat down on the bank of the stream for a long time, watching the water as it glittered and squirmed with pleasure beneath the sunshine. Gertrude splashed about, and, picking up a stick, bounced up to Declan hoping he’d pull the other end; then, when he wouldn’t, dropped it and licked his face.
An old man, walking his ancient Jack Russell back from Penscombe, stopped for a chat. His grandfather used to be the gamekeeper at The Priory, he said, a hundred years ago, when the land stretched for three hundred acres across the north side of the Penscombe–Chalford Road. He’d kept the place like a new pin. It was sad to see the state it had fallen into, the rotting trees and collapsing walls everywhere. Declan felt ashamed.
‘You can tell Spring’s come at last,’ said the old man, ‘because all the blackbirds are singing.’
But not for me any more, thought Declan in despair.
Then the old man peered closer. ‘Didn’t you used to be Declan O’Hara?’ he said.
By late afternoon Taggie was shattered. Ursula, having parried the press all day, had gone home. After another terrible row with Maud, Declan had barricaded himself into the library, refusing to talk to anyone. Caitlin sat on the kitchen table with her arm round Gertrude, both watching Taggie stuffing a chicken with a mixture of apricots, sausage meat, breadcrumbs and garlic. Used to the central heating and constant chatter of Upland House, Caitlin was shivering like a whippet and gabbling away nonstop.
‘There are going to be no more balls against boys’ schools,’ she announced. ‘Last Friday we danced against Rugborough and one lot of boys took some fifth formers up on the garage roof and they were all smoking and drinking and telling the teachers to fuck off, and Miss Lovett-Standing – think of being saddled with a name like that – the gym mistress, found three condoms in the rhododendrons next morning.
