by Jilly Cooper
‘There are some small victories left to me,’ he said.
‘Was C-C-Cameron with you?’
Taggie felt it would be better if they could talk about her openly.
‘No, it was much too public. Every photographer would have picked us up. Anyway, Tony’s in situ this weekend.’
‘It must be awfully difficult for you both.’
‘Worse for her. At least I don’t have to sleep with Tony. I wish she wasn’t so fucking insecure. She’s like a Jack Russell. One spends one’s time removing her from the target of her aggression – usually oneself.’
‘Patrick said she had a terrible childhood,’ said Taggie. ‘He didn’t give any details,’ she added quickly. ‘Just said she’d really been through it.’
What on earth am I doing defending her, she wondered.
‘I don’t believe all that junk about terrible childhoods,’ said Rupert. ‘I’ve had four stepmothers and five stepfathers. You had Declan and Maud, which is even worse.’
Taggie giggled.
‘We’re not screwed up,’ said Rupert.
That was debatable, thought Taggie.
Rupert picked up the petition. ‘Look at all these names!’ His eyes ran down page after page. ‘Christ, you’ve been working hard.’
‘It wasn’t so good today,’ said Taggie. Then she told him about the rugger club.
Rupert was absolutely furious. ‘The bastards,’ he howled. ‘Give me their names and I’ll get their ground ploughed up. But what can you expect from a lot of rugger yobbos? Poor darling, I’m so sorry. It must have been awful.’
He yawned without even putting his hand over his mouth, showing a long pink tongue, and teeth without a single stopping. Then he said, ‘Why have you written L and R on the back of your hands?’
Blushing, Taggie shoved her hands under the table.
‘I’ll drive you home,’ she said quickly.
As she started up the car, the tape came on. Frantic with embarrassment, she tried to tug it out of the machine, but Rupert’s hand closed over hers like a vice.
‘Leave it.’
‘Turn left at the A412,’ said Taggie’s deep breathy voice, ‘then keep going for two miles, then turn left just before the Old Mill pub, then keep going till you come to a big barn, turn right, then left up a winding road. Winchley Women’s Institute is at the top on the right.’
Pulling out the tape, Rupert looked up at the windscreen, on which a large capital L and R were stuck on opposite sides.
‘You poor little duck,’ he said softly.
The chestnut candles were shedding their white petals along his drive, a couple of horses blinked in the gloom. As Taggie drew up in front of the house, he said again, ‘You poor little duck.’
Taggie hung her head. ‘I can’t map-read very well. It takes me so long and signposts are difficult too, because I don’t know the words. If I put it on tape it speeds everything up, and we’ve got so much ground to cover before July.’
Rupert couldn’t bear it. What was it about Taggie that so often brought a lump to his throat?
‘Angel, you can’t go round on your own. Particularly not at night.’
‘I don’t always. Dame Enid’s come with me, and the Bishop, and Professor Graystock once or twice.’
Rupert shuddered. ‘That’s worse than being alone.’
Enforced celibacy was not natural to Rupert. It was like asking a man who smoked sixty cigarettes a day only to smoke ten cigarettes one day a week. Denied Cameron, he was certainly not used to sleeping alone. Still very drunk, he only just stopped himself taking Taggie in his arms to comfort her, and Christ knows where that would have led to. Declan would take him apart and Cameron would bolt straight back to Tony.
Getting out of the car, however, a brilliant idea struck him. ‘I’ll be travelling all round the area canvassing over the next month. You can come with me and hand out Venturer posters and stickers, and paddle the Venturer canoe at the same time. We can even use the Tory loudspeaker to plug Venturer when no one from the Party’s listening.’
‘Is that allowed?’ said Taggie in awe.
‘Politics is a dirty business,’ said Rupert blandly. ‘The Socialists paid a lot of actors twenty-five pounds to dress up in shit order and pretend to be a dole queue for their election poster last time.’
RIVALS
33
Next morning Caitlin rang up The Priory, wild with excitement.
‘Gertrude’s in the Daily Mail! She looks so sweet.’
‘What’s she doing?’ asked Taggie.
‘Wearing a Venturer T-shirt and an expression of absolute outrage. She’s sitting on your knee. You look nice, much better than that old tart Sarah Stratton.’
‘Oh goodness,’ said Taggie. ‘What’s the piece about?’
‘The headline says: “Rival Beauties weigh in for the Battle of the Box”,’ read Caitlin. ‘They’ve used the two posters of you and Sarah. “Will the blonde or the brunette pack the greater punch?” it starts. Then there’s a lot of guff about Sarah being Paul Stratton’s second wife, and Corinium’s latest star presenter, who pulls in three hundred fan letters a week.
‘Then it goes on: “The dark horse (or rather beauty) in the race is Agatha O’Hara, 18-year-old daughter of TV megastar Declan O’Hara, who’s bidding to oust his ex-boss Lord Baddingham in the Corinium franchise fight. Agatha runs her own business” . . . get you . . . “cooking for the great and famous, but sadly she can no longer undertake dinner parties for her favourite client, Tony Baddingham’s wife, Monica, in case state secrets slip out over the soufflé.”’
‘Gosh,’ said Taggie in amazement. ‘Where did they get all that from? I hope Lady B isn’t cross. How are you anyway?’
‘All right. Fed up with revising. Can you send me some money? And tell bloody Mummy and Daddy to write.’
‘They’ve been really busy with the franchise and things,’ said Taggie.
‘Mummy’s never busy with anything,’ said Caitlin bitterly.
The long, hard grind of getting Venturer’s message across to the people who mattered continued throughout the long, hot summer. But things were much easier now for Taggie. Several other papers reproduced the poster and, as she toured the area, people began to know all about Venturer, recognize her, welcome her and even ask her to autograph the poster.
More important, she spent much of May and June driving around with Rupert on his campaign trail. Leaving him to canvass or to rally support for other South-West Tory MPs. Taggie nipped off to visit vicars, youth clubs and Chambers of Commerce.
Rather too often for Tony Baddingham or Central Office’s liking, the two campaigns merged. Rupert was not above urging people to support Venturer on the Tory loudspeaker, or sticking Venturer posters up on the van alongside those urging the public to vote Conservative. Everywhere he and Taggie went, they handed out Venturer publicity material and had great fun after dark, driving round plastering the gateposts of Corinium directors, and even the Corinium building itself, with ‘Support Venturer’ stickers.
To add to Tony’s apoplexy, Rupert conducted the entire campaign in a blue Venturer T-shirt and twice appeared similarly clad on ‘Cotswold Round-Up’, and, even worse, with huge ‘Support Venturer’ posters on the Tory party van behind him.
Tony was quoted as saying the Venturer T-shirts had been chosen entirely by Rupert to match his blue eyes, and that no doubt the boy shading his forehead on the front symbolized all those Gloucestershire husbands trying to see where Rupert had hidden their wives. Rupert cracked back that everyone knew who the Corinium Ram was supposed to symbolize.
And so the mudslinging went on, with the local press and radio stations uniformly backing Corinium, but the National and Trade press, having scrutinized the applications and the candidates, universally agreeing that Venturer had the more exciting programme plans. Dame Enid wrote a battle song, sung by Maud, called ‘Everything Venture’, which to Venturer’s relief didn’t get into the charts.
&n
bsp; On 24th June Labour won the election by twenty seats, with the SDP holding the balance of power. Paul Stratton lost his seat. Rupert kept his. He had, in fact, fought a brilliant campaign. Taggie’s presence seemed to soothe him, so he was far less acerbic with bores and hecklers, and, as he was one of the only Tories returned with a much increased majority, Central Office had to stop grumbling about him using Tory funds and equipment to promote Venturer.
In an unprecedented move, Owen Davies, the new Labour Prime Minister, asked Rupert whether he would like to stay on as Minister for Sport if the post was made non-political. Rupert was deeply touched, but refused. He was fed up with swimming galas and ping-pong matches, and there was a big row brewing about players taking drugs at Wimbledon, which he was only too happy to hand on to his successor. He was also immediately offered a job by the International Olympics Committee, but refused that too for the moment, knowing it would mean more buzzing round the world.
He wanted a breathing space, to spend the rest of the summer at home concentrating on the yard, seeing something of his children and putting in a lot of spade work with Cameron, who was getting increasingly uptight. Falling more and more in love with Rupert, she found it almost impossible to pander to Tony’s sexual needs and cope with the demanding job of Programme Controller at Corinium. While Rupert was fighting the election, he’d been constantly hounded by the press, baying for franchise gossip and trying to catch him out in some new affair, so he and Cameron had had to be doubly careful.
‘All this secrecy’s just like adultery, darling,’ said Rupert on one of their few meetings. ‘Very good training for when you’re married.’
‘That is the most cynical remark I’ve ever heard,’ stormed Cameron.
‘Not at all. The secret of a happy marriage is not getting found out.’
‘How d’you know? You didn’t have a happy marriage.’ ‘That’s because I was always getting found out.’
As the election was over, and Tony was tied up all day in meetings in London, she and Rupert had arranged to meet at a hotel outside Henley. As they settled down to Bloody Marys and a splendid view of the Thames, a barge came chugging up stream. Two young girls in bikinis were sunbathing on deck. Cameron watched Rupert run an expert eye over them. Now he had free time on his hands, would she find it increasingly difficult to hold him? All the same, she was still not prepared to burn her boats with Corinium until Venturer had safely won the franchise, and, she had to confess, all the secret meetings with Rupert did give the affair a certain edge.
‘Come on,’ he said, draining his Bloody Mary and picking up the keys of their hotel bedroom. ‘I want to indulge in some mole-molesting.’
But she who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one, must die. Next day, in the Corinium canteen, Daysee Butler and Deirdre Kilpatrick took their cottage cheese and kiwi-fruit salads to a corner table and didn’t notice Cameron sitting next door.
At first there were the usual grumbles about bosses and crews, but just as Cameron had abandoned her shepherd’s pie half-eaten and started on her yoghurt, Deirdre said, ‘I don’t usually read the Scorpion but did you see that story that Rupert Campbell-Black’s having an affair with a cook?’
‘Cameron Cook?’ said Daysee in amazement. ‘Lord B won’t like that.’
‘Not Cameron Cook – a cook. Declan O’Hara’s daughter. She does directors’ lunches and things. She’s seriously pretty. Well, according to the Scorpion, she’s been canvassing with Rupert and now they’re absolutely inseparable.’
Looking down, Cameron saw she had squeezed her yoghurt so hard that it had spurted all over the table. Without attempting to clear up the mess, she walked out of the canteen into Cotchester High Street and the nearest telephone box.
Rupert was trying out one of his new, very young horses over a row of fences in the field beyond the stables. When the telephone suddenly rang in his pocket, the horse nearly took off back to Ireland. Even when he’d pressed the answer button to silence the ringing, it took all his strength to pull up the terrified animal. All Cameron could hear was a muffled thunder of hooves and expletives.
‘Hullo,’ Rupert said finally.
‘Have you seen the Scorpion?’
‘Yes. So what?’
‘All about you and Ms O’Hara.’
‘That was yesterday’s Scorpion. They’ve linked me with Mary Whitehouse this morning.’
‘Can’t you be fucking serious?’ screamed Cameron. ‘Everyone’s talking about it.’
‘Good,’ said Rupert. ‘At least it keeps the heat off us.’ Then, as Cameron showed no signs of calming down, he added, ‘Darling, there’s nothing in it, I promise you. As Taggie said in today’s Star, “Rupert’s old enough to be my father. In fact he’s a friend of my father’s”.’
‘Doesn’t mean a thing – Augustus John was old enough to be a lot of girls’ great-grandfather – that didn’t stop him. Oh Christ . . .’ she screamed as her money ran out. ‘I’ll call you back in a minute.’
‘Please don’t until you’ve cooled down,’ said Rupert. ‘I don’t want both you and the horse having hysterics at the same time.’
Next time they met, it took a great deal of sweet-talking to win her round.
The next big event in the franchise battle was the public meeting held in Cotchester Town Hall at the beginning of July. Chaired by members of the IBA board, it was supposed to give the general public the chance to air their grievances about existing programme content and quiz the rival applicants about their plans. It also gave the IBA the opportunity to observe the applicants in action and gauge the degree of local support.
In fact, the audience consisted mostly of Corinium, Venturer and Mid-West staff and their local supporters, members of consortiums from other franchise areas who would soon go through the same ordeal, picking up tips, local councillors whose sole object was to persuade Venturer or Mid-West that their borough was the perfect site for the new studios, members of Gay Lib, the Women’s Movement and other pressure groups, and a handful of the public, only interested in gazing at Declan, Rupert and Wesley Emerson.
Much-needed rain had been bucketing down all day, but it stopped just before the meeting was due to start. Venturer arrived first. As Rupert had given them all a pep talk about being properly dressed, Declan had sulkily put on a suit and a tie.
‘And you can get out of jeans,’ he had snapped in turn at Taggie. ‘I’ve hardly seen your legs since you were born.’
Taggie, having rifled through her wardrobe in despair, had rushed into Cheltenham and bought a beautiful violet dress with a scooped neckline, a nipped-in waist and flounced gypsy skirt. Newly washed, her dark hair fluffed down to her shoulder blades as though she’d beaten it with an egg whisk.
Declan, in somewhat unflattering amazement, told her she looked absolutely gorgeous. She was glad she did, when she later found that Sarah Stratton, Cameron, Daysee and Janey had all pulled out the stops. To Taggie’s delight she also found the audience packed with people whose support she had sought in her drives round the area. Local councillors, race relations officers, social workers, ladies from the WI, from as far afield as Southampton, Oxford and Stratford, had turned up and now surged forward to shake her hand.
‘We’ve still got your lovely poster up; we’ve written to the IBA; we’ve been following Venturer’s programme with such interest,’ they all said. ‘We thought we’d come and cheer you on.’
‘Remember me?’ said a gaunt-looking man in a crumpled lightweight suit, which had obviously just been unearthed from a trunk in the attic.
‘Of course,’ said Taggie, quite overwhelmed. ‘How wonderful of you to turn up.’
It was the headmaster with the dyslexic son.
A diversion was caused when Marti Gluckstein, who’d never been to the country before, tried to enter the hall wearing gumboots, a waterproof deerstalker, a riding mac and holding an umbrella over his head.
‘Don’t bring that thing in here. It’s unlucky!’ boomed Dame Edith.<
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‘Come on, Marti, I’ll buy you a stiff drink before we kick off,’ said Bas, guiding Marti back through the puddles over the road to the Cotchester Arms for a quick de-robing.
Sprinting after them, Rupert handed Bas his hip flask. ‘Can you fill this up with weak rum for Wes? His attention span will never last the course unlaced.’
Wesley, having taken another five wickets that afternoon, and having just been picked for the third test, had been celebrating and was now busy signing autographs.
The next arrivals were three shiny red-faced stocky young men, who’d obviously been in the Cotchester Arms since opening time, who strode up to Taggie waving their tickets. The shortest one, who had hard blue eyes and crinkly hair, thrust a melting box of chocolates into Taggie’s hand.
‘Hullo, Agatha,’ he said. ‘Bet you didn’t expect us.’
‘Sorry we were a bit rowdy when you dropped in,’ said the second.
‘Thought we’d come and give you a bit of support,’ said the third.
It was the Captain and two props from Winchley Rugger Club. Tears filled Taggie’s eyes as she hugged them all. ‘How sweet of you. Come and meet my father. He adores rugger.’
Declan shook them all by the hand several times. ‘Treat Corinium like the Welsh at Twickenham,’ he said. ‘And here they come.’
A great theatrical hiss went up from the Venturer camp as the Corinium mafia trooped in. They were led by Tony, very brown from Ascot. Wearing a new dark-pink and blue silk shirt, a pink tie, and a pink carnation in his buttonhole, he managed to flash his teeth at everyone in the room except Venturer. He was followed by Ginger Johnson, Georgie Baines, who’d obviously had a few to steady his nerves, Mike Meadows, Head of Sport, Charles Fairburn, Seb Burrows, Simon Harris, who’d been allowed back in a consultancy capacity to impress the IBA, and whose straggly beard had turned quite white, Cyril Peacock, false teeth rattling, sweating through his suit, and Cameron, truculent in an elongated black T-shirt which came five inches above her knees. Sarah Stratton, wearing a dress in Virgin Mary-blue, with a white Puritan collar also to impress the IBA, brought up the rear with James Vereker, whose head was held high so more people could recognize him.
