by Jilly Cooper
‘They’re much better than Corinium’s T-shirts,’ said Seb in delight. ‘They’re custard yellow with Caring Corinium written across the front. Tony eschewed the symbol of the Corinium ram as being too libidinous.’
More champagne was drunk and food eaten. Then the photographer arrived.
‘Where the hell’s Rupert?’ said Declan irritably.
‘I think we ought to get on and get this pickie taken without him,’ said Freddie in an undertone. ‘Lord Smiff’s shipped enough to float the QE2 an’ Wesley’s on somefink else, and he’s supposed to drive back to Leeds tonight for an eleven o’clock start.’
‘He better go first thing tomorrow,’ said Declan. ‘We don’t want him busted the day the applications go in.’
Bas and Janey were still nose to nose on the sofa; the baby had fallen asleep in Bas’s arms.
‘Line up for the photograph everyone,’ shouted Freddie.
Seb dragged Taggie in from the kitchen. She loathed group photographs. She was always taller than half the men.
‘You’re as much a part of Venturer as anyone else,’ said Seb.
Taggie sat on the sofa, Gertrude on her knee, bristling in a child’s T-shirt, with Maud on one side and Janey and the baby on the other. Bas stood behind Janey. Taggie suddenly noticed his suntanned fingers caressing the back of Janey’s neck and hastily looked away.
‘Straighten your T-shirt, so I can see all the Venturers,’ said the photographer. ‘Look nice and happy please. Can you get the little dog to prick up his ears? Lovely! Smile please.’
He was still snapping away two minutes later when Taggie gave a shriek of pain as Gertrude leapt off her bare legs, barking furiously, as Rupert came through the door.
He had that same look of blazing triumph on his face, reflected Janey, that he used to have in the old days when one of his horses won a big class and he used to ride it out of the ring, giving its neck great slaps of joy. He hadn’t looked like that for years.
Rupert paused in the doorway.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he drawled, ‘may I introduce Venturer’s Head of Drama.’
Taggie gave a gasp of horror; Harold White went white. Seb, Georgie and Charles nearly jumped out of the window in terror, as Rupert turned round and, putting his arm around Cameron’s shoulders very much in a gesture of possession, drew her into the room.
She looked very pale and very shy, but incredibly beautiful, with her face strangely softened by love.
Maud broke the stunned silence. For months, despite Declan’s denials, she had suspected Rupert of having a growing preference for Taggie. It was the one thing she couldn’t have stood. Joyfully, she welcomed such a public transferring of his affections to Cameron. Rushing forward, she hugged them both.
‘Congratulations, darlings. Now I’m convinced Venturer’s going to get the franchise.’
‘Don’t look so worried,’ said Rupert mockingly to the cringing Corinium contingent. ‘Cameron’s on the level. Her name’s going to be put forward on the confidential memo like the rest of you, and she’s going to stay working for Corinium until December.’
Charles decided to make the best of a bad job. ‘Welcome to Venturer, sweetie,’ he said, kissing Cameron.
‘Fucking hell,’ muttered Seb to Georgie.
‘Look at the way she’s looking at Rupert,’ said Georgie. ‘He’s got her exactly where he wants her.’
‘As long as he stays wanting her,’ said Seb, shaking his head.
Janey’s baby woke up suddenly and started bawling its head off.
‘Probably got a hangover,’ said Bas.
Soon the champagne was circulating again. Cameron was sitting on the sofa now, flipping through the application document with one hand, clinging onto Rupert’s hand with the other.
‘Why’s Taggie crying in the kitchen?’ Dame Enid asked Maud.
‘I expect she’d like to be able to read her father’s application like everyone else,’ said Maud airily. ‘She’s dyslexic, you see.’
‘Poor darling,’ said Dame Enid. ‘She’s a bloody good cook. I’m going to have thirds.’
Seb put his arm round Taggie in the kitchen. ‘You OK, babes?’
‘Fine,’ she muttered blowing her nose on a drying-up cloth. ‘I’m just tired, I guess.’
‘Your application’s dazzling,’ said Cameron, following Declan over to the drinks table where he was opening another bottle. ‘Miles, miles better than ours. Any slight doubts I might have had about joining Venturer have been dispelled by reading it. I do hope Rupert hasn’t railroaded you all into accepting me?’
‘I don’t want any bullying,’ said Declan, glaring at her. ‘One’s only as good as one’s work force and don’t you ever forget it.’
I’m going to have to put in a lot of spade work to win him over, thought Cameron, but all that really mattered was that Rupert loved her.
Freddie clapped his hands. ‘Let’s get this pickie finished.’
‘Come on, Cameron,’ said Charles, brandishing a T-shirt.
‘I’m not sure I ought to appear in it,’ stammered Cameron, suddenly realizing what compromising evidence it would be.
‘Put it on,’ snapped Declan.
Charles slid the T-shirt over her head and once again they all lined up, George and Seb taking up their position on either side of her, with Charles standing behind.
‘Straighten your T-shirts, look happy everyone,’ said the photographer.
‘Let’s get one thing straight beside T-shirts, Miss Cook,’ said Georgie out of the corner of his handsome mouth, as he beamed into the camera.
‘If you shop us to Tony, we’ll shop you,’ said Seb as he also beamed into the camera.
‘And don’t forget, there are well over two hundred shopping days to 15th December,’ said Charles.
As Venturer had called a press conference for the following afternoon, Declan stayed the night at Freddie’s house and Taggie drove her mother and Gertrude back to Penscombe just after midnight.
Maud was plastered and went on and on about how nice Janey was, and wasn’t it a turn-up for the books Rupert rolling up with Cameron, and did Taggie think Rupert had offered her marriage or to move into Penscombe or what. Taggie answered in monosyllables and fortunately, as they passed the Reading exit, Maud fell into a drunken sleep.
Taggie then proceeded to give herself a very good talking to. What the hell was she feeling so miserable about? Rupert was as far beyond her as the huge stars daisying the black lawn of sky above, and plainly as impervious to her love. It was the stupid sort of crush teenagers had on pop stars or actors, someone to dream about when you were tucked up in bed, or wandering through the woods.
Rupert had probably been kind to her because he missed his own children. The silver necklace, Gertrude’s Valentine, the little Easter Egg, were all presents you might give a child, she told herself firmly. And saying that no one could resist her (Taggie wished she could memorize recipes and how to spell words as easily as she remembered every conversation she’d had with Rupert) was just the sort of thing he’d say to any girl. Cameron was beautiful, brilliant, sophisticated and tough. Taggie was sure she only disliked her because she’d upset Declan and hurt Patrick so much, but Rupert wouldn’t stand any nonsense, so maybe they were well suited.
Next minute she felt a cold nose nudging her elbow and put out her hand to stroke Gertrude, who slid forward along the hand brake until she could climb onto Taggie’s knee and settle down with a martyred sigh.
Taggie knew she shouldn’t allow Gertrude to lie there. On a motorway it was particularly dangerous. But she needed the comfort. She was not someone who regarded happiness as a right, but the ghastly shock of seeing Cameron and Rupert so obviously in love tonight made her realize how happy, without being conscious of it, she’d been since Valentine’s Day, when Rupert began dropping in at The Priory whenever he was at home. Despite the talking to, she didn’t think she’d ever felt so unhappy in her life.
RIVALS
At noon the lists closed. The information office at the IBA then had a frantic three and a half hours going through the applications and extracting the names and addresses of those involved for a press release at three-thirty.
Down at Cotchester three of the four Corinium moles made themselves scarce. Charles Fairburn drove to the Forest of Dean to spend two days in an enclosed order, ostensibly interviewing monks. Georgie flew to Manchester to see a big pet-food client. Cameron disappeared to Stow-on-the-Wold on location, leaving strict instructions that she wasn’t to be interrupted. Seb Burrows, being a true journalist and hating to miss the fireworks, hung around the newsroom.
Corinium staff not involved with the Venturer bid were also kept busy. James Vereker slipped home with Sarah Stratton for an extended lunch hour. Daysee Butler, who’d been out in the evenings so much recently she hadn’t watched any television, was reading the soap updates in the Mail, as she soaked up the sun in her bikini in the Cathedral close. Tony Baddingham and Ginger Johnson were having a celebrity board-room lunch with the French co-producers of ‘Stowaway’, having just sold it both to NBS and BBC. What a relief, they all agreed, they hadn’t killed off the handsome pirate villain, as a sequel was already planned.
How nice it was too, thought Tony, to lunch with Europeans who still appreciated a good blow-out and decent claret, compared with the Yanks who seemed totally addicted to rabbit food and Perrier.
By three forty-five Tony was back in his office. In half an hour he would have sobered up and be wondering who to bully. Now he merely felt lecherous. All those pale-green trees and pale half-naked girls stretched out among the buttercups. The first flush and flesh of Spring always got him going. Having spent a weekend without Cameron, he decided to drop in and see her after the Chamber of Commerce dinner that night, an event which had to be endured in a franchise year.
Still feeling randy, he was about to summon Sarah Stratton to discuss her posing with a lamb for a Caring Corinium poster when Miss Madden buzzed. ‘Barney Williams from the Telegraph, Lord B. He wants to talk about the franchise.’
‘Put him on.’ Tony extracted a cigar from the box on his desk and relaxed in his leather chair, preparing to be generous about Mid-West’s pathetic bid.
Barney Williams came straight to the point. ‘Did you know Declan O’Hara put in a rival bid?’
Tony laughed heartily. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t.’
‘Who else is involved?’
‘Rupert Campbell-Black, Freddie Jones.’
‘Whaaaat!’
It sounded like a great oak tree crashing to the ground. Even through sound-proofed doors, Miss Madden jumped in the next-door office. Then Tony was leaning on the buzzer.
‘Miss Madden!’ he yelled. ‘Take these names down. Who else?’ he asked Barney.
‘Henry Hampshire, the Bishop of Cotchester, Marti Gluckstein.’
‘He’s never been to Gloucestershire.’
‘Evidently he has a weekend cottage there. Janey Lloyd-Foxe, Dame Enid Spink, Lord Smith.’
‘He can’t join. He’s a union member.’
‘Ex-member – just. Crispin Graystock. Wesley Emerson – he’s the only bit of name-plate engineering. They’re all pretty heavyweight, in fact, and, oh yes, there’s your brother Bas. Bit Jacob and Esau isn’t it?’
Tony gave a low hiss that was almost a sigh.
‘And you had absolutely no idea?’ asked Barney.
‘None.’
‘And they’re all friends of yours?’
‘They were.’
‘They’re calling a press conference in London at four-thirty. Will you be doing the same, or can I have a quote now?’
‘I’ve nothing to say until I’ve talked to my Board!’
Tony slammed down the telephone. Bastards! Traitors! Every single one of them. They’d all eaten his salt, and he’d absolutely no inkling. What kind of fucking newsroom did he have? The maddened bull’s roar could be heard all down the passage.
‘Ginger, Cyril, Georgie, Cameron, Charles! Come in here.’
‘Georgie’s in Manchester,’ said Miss Madden, ‘and Cameron’s on location.’
‘Get them back.’
Ginger Johnson thought Tony was going to have a coronary. He was magenta in the face, veins bulged like huge snakes on his forehead. He seemed to be popping out of his dark-green collar. Ginger wanted Tony’s job, but not until the franchise was safely in the bag.
‘What on earth’s up?’
Tony was so angry as he paced up and down, fists clenched, froth flecking his mouth, he could hardly get the words out to tell him. Once he lit a cigar from the wrong end, then hurled it out of the window. Without taking the top off, he tried to pour himself a stiff whisky, then banged the bottle down.
‘What have they called themselves?’ asked Cyril Peacock, who was taking down the inevitable notes.
‘Venturer – adventurers more likely – every bloody one of them! God, I’ll crucify them! I’ll take them to the cleaners!’
Ginger went to the drinks cupboard and poured Tony a large brandy. He was equally shocked at the possible loss of a £125 million turnover, but, having no personal vendettas with any of the Venturer team, he didn’t feel Tony’s paranoia or passionate sense of being deliberately ganged up on.
Miss Madden buzzed: ‘It’s the Sun, Lord B, and just hang on a minute . . . Beryl says the Mirror are on the other line.’
‘Tell them Lord B’s in conference and to ring back in half an hour,’ said Ginger, taking the initiative. ‘Don’t talk to them now,’ he added to Tony. ‘Get your breath back. The most important thing at this stage is not to show we’re rattled. Leave the mud-slinging to Venturer. We’ve got seven months to put the boot in. The only possible approach now is Olympian. These boring little pygmies are yapping at my heels, but I can’t feel it.’
‘Should we call a press conference?’
‘Certainly not. They’re not worth it. Why show them we’re panicking?’
Downstairs in the newsroom Seb Burrows picked up his telephone. It was ITN: ‘Hello, Seb. Christ, what a story!’
‘What story?’ said Seb innocently.
ITN told him. ‘Did you know anything about it?’
‘None of us did. Christ!’
‘Can you interview Tony for us for the five forty-five news?’
‘I’ll try. I don’t imagine he’ll be in carnival mood.’
But, to Seb’s amazement, Tony agreed. By the time the crew got up to Tony’s office, every award Corinium had ever won, including the EMMYs and the BAFT As nicked from Cameron’s office, had been put on the bookshelf or hung on the wall behind Tony’s head.
The earlier storm had subsided; Tony’s rage was ice cold now. He had even extracted a salmon-pink carnation from the vase on the desk to put in his buttonhole.
‘What’s your reaction to Venturer’s bid?’ asked Seb.
Tony gave a big, but slightly dismissive smile: ‘Well, they’re good chaps, all jolly good friends of mine. I’m sure there’s a lot of merit in their application, but frankly I’m more interested in the things Corinium are doing – like announcing plans for a ten-million-pound studio near Southampton, which’ll mean about four hundred extra jobs, and spending two million on new equipment at Cotchester, to enable us to make even better programmes, and meet with every confidence the challenge of cable and satellite. We’ve won a lot of awards over the last few years.’ He waved airily at the trophies glittering behind him. ‘We provide an excellent local news service and make jolly good programmes, and there we rest our case.’
I’m not getting anywhere, thought Seb.
‘People are saying that Declan O’Hara and your brother Basil have been deliberately plotting to oust you since Declan walked out of here last March in a blaze of publicity.’
Tony examined his nails. ‘Are they?’ he said with another big smile.
Ask a silly question, thought Seb,
kicking himself.
‘Had you any idea they were engaged in a rival bid?’
‘None. I wish them luck. It would be a dull race if there were no other contenders, but it doesn’t dent my confidence.’
‘Which consortium, Mid-West or Venturer, worries you the most?’
‘Neither. I congratulate Venturer on putting an application together at such short notice and with such secrecy. I’ll be interested to see what’s in it in due course.’
‘And you feel no bitterness towards Freddie Jones and Rupert Campbell-Black and Henry Hampshire, who have all enjoyed your hospitality?’
‘None at all,’ laughed Tony, as though the idea had never occurred to him. ‘Nor do Corinium have any desire to get involved in mudslinging. Let “Dorothy Dove”, who recently won us a BAFTA award, be a symbol of our company, non-combative but victorious.’
The moment the camera stopped rolling the smile was wiped from Tony’s face. ‘Now bugger off, all of you, but come back the moment “Cotswold Round-Up” is over, Seb, and bring James Vereker with you.’
Cameron ignored Tony’s summons to return at once and insisted on carrying on shooting until the four-thirty tea break. It was vital to be as bolshie as usual, or Tony would suspect something. As she drove through the angelic spring greenness with the roof down, she heard a flash on the five-thirty news that Declan O’Hara, after a mega-bust-up with Corinium in March, was now getting his revenge on Tony by heading a rival bid for Corinium. Rupert, Freddie, Dame Enid, the Bishop, Wesley, Lord Smith and Janey were also mentioned. Cameron waited in terror for her name to be tagged on at the end.
She was still in a state of shock after the weekend. When she’d run out on Rupert on Saturday, she’d gone straight home and rung Tony at home – something he’d told her never to do – and promptly got Monica. Remembering that Tony had the French co-production people over for the weekend, who were probably Mon Dieu-ing over Monica’s fading stretch of daffodils at that moment, she’d hung up. For the next twenty-four hours she crouched shuddering in her bedroom, telephone off the hook, all doors locked, not answering the bell, going through every kind of torture at the prospect of life without Rupert. The craving had got so bad that when, on Sunday afternoon, he’d smashed the pane of her french windows at the back, let himself in, pounded up the stairs, and taken her in his arms, telling her he couldn’t go on without her, the sheer relief of having him back made her agree to anything. She would join Venturer; she would stay at Corinium and spy on Tony.
