Rivals

by Jilly Cooper

  RIVALS

  44

  In the first week in November Tony Baddingham called a press conference. He looked on top of the world, the scarlet poppy in his buttonhole adding just the right note of concerned sobriety to offset the hedonistic effect of a splendid Los Angeles suntan.

  He had been in LA, he told the waiting army of reporters and cameramen, to sign up a brilliant new woman programme controller who would start in the new year.

  ‘Assuming you win the franchise?’ asked ITN.

  ‘There’s no doubt about that,’ said Tony smugly.

  ‘Is she better than Cameron Cook?’

  ‘I have no doubt about that either,’ said Tony even more smugly.

  He went on to say that Corinium had set aside sixteen million pounds next year for new programmes and pledged to have ‘an even fresher and more responsible approach to covering the region’.

  ‘The old fox is up to something,’ muttered the Mail on Sunday. ‘He didn’t get us here just for this crap.’

  ‘What about advertising?’ asked the Observer.

  ‘Revenue may be down,’ Tony replied smoothly, ‘but so is the advertising revenue of all the ITV companies.’

  It had been a bad summer for advertising, he explained, because the weather had been so good, but this had boosted Corinium’s leisure interests, so shareholders could expect excellent mid-term results in December.

  ‘Why weren’t you prepared to face Declan O’Hara on Radio Cotchester?’ asked the Scorpion.

  ‘Because Corinium prefer to rest on their laurels and not indulge in vulgar abuse and -’ Tony lowered his voice, so the journalists had to crane forward to catch what he was saying – ‘Declan O’Hara might not have been quite so happy to face me had he been aware that I know everything he’s been up to.’

  ‘Here it comes,’ said ITN, as Tony very slowly got out a cigar and made a great play of cutting off the end before lighting it.

  ‘Declan O’Hara,’ he went on slowly, ‘has been poaching my staff. This summer he enticed Cameron Cook away, but as early as May he had signed up my sales director, Georgie Baines, my religious editor, Charles Fairburn, and my finest news reporter, Sebastian Burrows. I’d like also to warn the BBC, London Weekend, and Yorkshire Television, that Billy Lloyd-Foxe, Harold White and Sally Maples -’ Tony enunciated the names particularly carefully so all the journalists could get them down – ‘are also signed up and poised to move to Venturer in the most unlikely event of them winning the franchise.’

  There was a stunned silence.

  ‘How the hell did you find all this out?’ asked the Mail on Sunday, almost sent flying by the unseemly dash for the telephones.

  ‘I wouldn’t be chief executive of Corinium if I didn’t know everything that was going on in my own company,’ said Tony grimly, ‘and I intend to keep it that way for many years to come. Unlike Venturer,’ he added dismissively, ‘whose security is even worse than MIS.’

  For twenty-four hours Tony left the three Corinium moles to sweat, and the whole Corinium building in a turmoil of rumour and speculation. James Vereker, for one, was absolutely furious on initially hearing the news. How dare Declan ignore him and sign up Charles, who was nothing but a fat drunken fag, or Seb, who was infinitely junior to James in the newsroom, or Georgie, of whose longer eyelashes James was inordinately jealous? Then James’s fury turned to pleasure, as he realized that all three moles would be for the high jump. He even gave several interviews to the nationals, saying he was utterly disgusted by their disloyal, uncaring behaviour, and that he felt huge sympathy for Tony Baddingham in his hour of desertion.

  James was therefore not the only member of Corinium’s staff hanging round the newsroom waiting for fireworks the following morning, after word whistled round the building that Tony had sent for Georgie Baines. Seb was demented with worry, thinking of the loan he’d wheedled out of his bank manager for a new Ferrari. Charles could only take another gulp of claret and think greyly of his five-figure overdraft and the mortgage he’d just taken out on a tumbledown cottage near Penscombe.

  Half an hour later Georgie Baines staggered into the newsroom making agonized faces and clutching his bottom as though he’d just been given twelve of the best. Then, very slowly, he drew the latest Corinium Company Report out of the seat of his trousers, then roared and roared with laughter.

  ‘Tony gave me an absolute bollocking,’ he told his amazed audience, ‘said if I have any more dealings with Venturer, he’ll sue me for breach of contract, but it’s made him realize how much I’m worth to Corinium. So he’s doubled my salary, and made me Deputy Managing Director – so you better all behave yourselves, my darlings.’

  ‘Oh, how sweet,’ said Daysee Butler, bursting into tears.

  ‘You’re not joining Venturer then?’ asked Seb.

  ‘Not for the moment,’ said Georgie. Then, rubbing his hands, ‘And now that I’m deputy MD I’m going to start getting heavy. Off with his head!’ he yelled, pointing at a very discomforted James Vereker. ‘And don’t you go giving any more interviews to the press about me and disloyalty, you little twerp.’

  Muttering about being seriously misquoted, James bolted out of the newsroom, whereupon everyone cheered and started opening bottles to celebrate.

  Seb was summoned ten minutes later and received more or less the same treatment.

  ‘Tony’s sending me to the New York office for six months to get me out of the way,’ he said. ‘Then, if I behave myself, I can come back. I suppose it’s better than the sack.’

  ‘Much, much,’ said Charles Fairburn, draining his bottle of red. Feeling vastly relieved that he wasn’t going to be out on his ear, Charles too obeyed a summons from above.

  ‘Mea culpa,’ he said in mock seriousness, winking at Miss Madden as he sauntered into Tony’s office.

  Five minutes later he was back in the newsroom, trembling like a great white blancmange. Everyone stopped their revelling.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ said Georgie, who’d been tangoing in and out of the desks with Daysee Butler.

  ‘I’ve been sacked,’ whispered Charles. ‘On the spot, and he’s not giving me any redundancy money because I was warned three times.’

  Over at the BBC, at London Weekend and Yorkshire Television, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, Harold White and Sally Maples, all ashen and trembling and mindful of their overdrafts and their dependants, denied any involvement with Venturer and were all suspended from programme-making pending further investigation, and warned that the most tenuous contact with Venturer would mean the sack.

  The story was front page in every paper for several days. Declan and Rupert, as the best-known members of Venturer, were blamed for enticement, which no one minded about very much, and lousy security, which, however, reflected very badly on their management skills. Worst of all, Venturer was now left without a sales director, a programme controller, a children’s editor, a sports editor, and a head of news, until Seb, enraged by the cavalier sacking of Charles Fairburn, told Tony to stuff his New York job and resigned as well. This was all very high-minded of Seb, but now meant that Venturer’s fast diminishing kitty was faced with paying both his and Charles’s salaries. Seb would have no difficulty finding another job, but, at fifty-one and a notorious piss artist, Charles was far more of a problem.

  Venturer, meanwhile, had been thrown into complete pandemonium. On the afternoon of Tony’s putsch, Rupert, Freddie and Declan met up at The Priory.

  ‘There must be a countermole, or how could Tony have found out all these things?’ said Declan. Freddie, however, was scrabbling under Declan’s desk. Then he took Declan’s telephone apart.

  ‘Bugged,’ he said bleakly. ‘I’ll get my men in at once to sweep the room and check all the phones. It’s possible the ‘ole place is bugged. They’d better do your phones as well, Rupe.’

  Declan was appalled. ‘Christ knows how much Tony has found out, then.’

  ‘If he smashes Venturer, he finks he’ll get Cameron back,’
said Freddie. ‘I said we was dealing with a villain. He’s out to bury us.’

  ‘But how the hell did his men get in here to bug the telephone?’ said Rupert. ‘The dogs would frighten anyone away, and there’s always someone in the house.’

  As Taggie was out doing a dinner party in Cheltenham, Declan sent for Maud. ‘Has anyone called to check the telephones lately?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Maud, ‘someone from British Telecom came last Friday; such a delightful young man. He said his mother’s favourite opera was The Merry Widow. He heard me rehearsing and made me sing the Vilja song over and over again.’

  ‘What was he doing here?’ asked Declan wearily.

  ‘His department had been notified that we’d been overcharged, so he was checking all the telephones to see if they were using up too many units,’ said Maud beaming. ‘He said they might be able to give us a rebate. I quite forgot to tell you.’

  Declan put his head in his hands.

  ‘How long was he here?’ he groaned.

  ‘About three hours,’ said Maud.

  Rupert and Freddie exchanged glances of horror. If it hadn’t been so terrible, it would have been funny.

  ‘That was your bugger,’ said Rupert.

  ‘D’you mean to say all that time he was bugging our house?’ said Maud indignantly. ‘And I gave him three cups of tea with sugar and a Penguin.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ sighed Declan after she’d gone, ‘I’m not making excuses for her, but I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that. Tony knew about all the moles, but I’ve never rung Billy on this telephone. Rupert’s always been the one to get in touch with him. And because I was ultra-conscious of security, I’ve always made a point of directly contacting all the moles from a call box outside Penscombe, so the calls couldn’t be traced back. Anyway, if the telephone was only bugged last Friday, I rang everyone about the dry run before that. I’ve got a horrible feeling someone tipped Tony off.’

  ‘All right,’ said Freddie, sitting down heavily on a lot of tapes, ‘let’s go through the list of possibilities. Taggie was working at Sarah Stratton’s a fortnight ago and the Baddinghams and the Verekers were both there.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody silly,’ snapped Rupert, who was pacing up and down the room. ‘Of course it’s not Taggie. She’s entirely responsible for all those letters being sent to the IBA and what the fucking hell’s she got to gain by leaking secrets to Tony?’

  Freddie raised his eyebrows. ‘No need to overreact. She could have just let somefink slip to Sarah over the dishes.’

  ‘And how d’you know the Verekers and the Baddinghams were at the Strattons the other night?’ said Rupert, still furious. ‘I suppose Lizzie told you. Lizzie’s much more likely to have told Tony.’

  ‘Lizzie’s nothing to do with us,’ said Declan irritably. ‘Do keep to the point, Rupert.’

  ‘Lizzie’s something to do with Freddie,’ persisted Rupert. ‘You could easily have talked in your sleep.’

  Freddie turned dark red. ‘There’s nuffink going on there.’

  ‘Hum,’ said Rupert.

  Declan looked disapproving. ‘Is there?’ he said icily.

  Freddie shuffled his feet. ‘I’m very fond of Lizzie. I haven’t told her anyfing.’

  Declan then admitted that Maud had told him Caitlin had been out once with Archie Baddingham, but they were just a couple of kids, and he was quite certain Caitlin knew nothing of importance. Anyway she was back at school now.

  ‘Caitlin knows everything,’ said Rupert. ‘She doesn’t miss a trick, and she might easily have seen Sally Maples or Harold.’

  ‘They’ve never been to the house,’ said Declan. ‘I suppose one of the moles could have turned countermole.’

  ‘More than their life’s wurf,’ said Freddie, shaking his head. ‘If they shopped us, they automatically shop themselves. Georgie is the only one it might have been, and he was far too upset when Tony broke the news yesterday. I expect Tony’s got the thumbscrew on him now, getting the rest of Venturer’s secrets out of him.’

  ‘What about Maud?’ said Rupert. ‘She’s always hanging around with Monica.’

  ‘When did my wife ever take the slightest interest in the franchise? She doesn’t know a thing,’ said Declan bitterly.

  ‘Valerie’s got a soft spot for James Vereker,’ suggested Rupert.

  Freddie sighed. ‘Valerie’s like Maud, simply not interested.’

  ‘Much as I’d like to suspect the Bishop and Professor Graystock,’ said Rupert, ‘they’re far too motivated by greed and self-interest to shop us, and the same goes for Marti.’

  ‘Not if Tony made it worth their while,’ said Declan. ‘I wouldn’t rule them out.’

  ‘Well, Basil’s in the clear,’ went on Rupert, ‘and I honestly think Wesley and Henry are too thick, or in Wesley’s case too spaced out to remember anyone’s names anyway. But I suppose they’re possibilities.’

  ‘Everyone’s a possibility,’ said Declan bleakly, ‘and finally there’s Cameron. She’s my choice. I’ve had my doubts about her all along.’

  ‘Balls,’ said Rupert irritably. ‘She’s far too obsessed with us winning the franchise and, since she came back from Ireland, with making movies with you.’

  ‘And frankly,’ said Freddie, ‘she’s far too smitten by our Rupe.’

  When Declan said nothing, Rupert protested: ‘Cameron’s got a lot of faults, but she’s basically honest. That’s why she so loathed carrying on with Tony and Corinium while she was sleeping with me.’

  ‘I’ve always suspected she was treacherous,’ said Declan. ‘How do we know she hasn’t been spying for Tony from the very beginning?’

  ‘Don’t let’s get Le Carré-ed away,’ said Rupert. ‘We’ll just have to keep an eye on her.’

  ‘We’ll have to keep an eye on everyone,’ said Declan grimly.

  In an atmosphere of sniping and growing suspicion, Venturer carried on preparations for the IBA interview. There were secret communications with Georgie, Billy, Harold and Sally, arranging that they would join Venturer if and when the franchise was won – it no longer seemed a certainty – but there was no way they could be present at the IBA meeting on 29th November. Night after night without them, therefore, Hardy Bissett fired endless questions at the rest of the consortium, until they were word perfect, and answered almost without thinking. Then he accused them of being too glib.

  One evening Charles Fairburn, desperately trying to hide his anxiety about being fired, turned up dressed as Lady Gosling in a grey wig, half-moon spectacles, and hundreds of shawls, and proceeded to lay everyone in the aisles by answering questions in a high soprano until Hardy sharply slapped him down.

  But the questions rolled on: ‘How d’you hope to promote interest in scientific matters in your schedule? What is your attitude to training schemes? How will you ensure equal opportunity for women in your company?’

  ‘By screwing every one of them,’ answered Rupert.

  ‘Don’t be bloody flip,’ yelled Hardy. ‘You can be funny, but never flip, and, with a female chairman, never never be funny about women.’

  Rupert was bored and fed up. Why the fuck couldn’t they tell the truth, that they just wanted to make good programmes and a lot of money, and dispense with all this flannel? He was relieved when Cameron and Declan set off to Ireland for a final week’s shooting. He needed some space and time to think. He spent most of the week they were away in London on political work and keeping the rattled Venturer backers happy. Outside his office the last of the plane leaves were drifting down, reminding him unbearably of Taggie. He still had the thirty leaves she and the children had given him. They hadn’t brought him much bloody happiness. He steeled himself not to ring her up, or drop round. He was truly terrified how much he wanted to.

  RIVALS

  45

  When Rupert didn’t take advantage of Cameron’s week away to ring her, Taggie wanted only to retreat into her turret room in utter despair. But, alas, Monica
had asked her to do the food for the first night party for The Merry Widow next Saturday, and when she wasn’t cooking and freezing in both senses of the word (now the cold weather had set in, The Priory was absolutely arctic) Taggie was calming down or boosting the morale of an increasingly demanding and nervous Maud. Corinium were showing highlights of the first night and Maud was counting on Declan getting back from Ireland in time. She couldn’t face such an ordeal alone.

  In addition the press were on the prowl for a story. Both Venturer and Corinium consortiums were turning out in force and dinner jackets for the first night. The newly sacked Charles Fairburn was playing Monica’s lover, Declan’s exquisite wife was making her stage comeback, and her leading man was the handsome Bas who was on opposing sides to his loathed brother Tony. With Declan due back from Ireland, with Rupert Campbell-Black’s live-in lover, who was also Tony’s ex, it was clear that there were endless possibilities for fireworks. ‘Cotchester’, wrote Nigel Dempster slyly, ‘are celebrating Guy Fawkes Day ten days late this year.’

  The Merry Widow dress rehearsal on Friday afternoon was disastrous. The presence of the television crew on a dry run threw the entire cast. Tempers flared, lights dimmed too early, lines were fluffed or forgotten. The television director decided to put two cameras in the dress circle and in the two boxes on either side of the stage, so they wouldn’t have to take out any stall seats. The technicians stood around yawning, one sound man even fell asleep and snored loudly throughout the second act. James Vereker (Cotchester’s dusty answer to Humphrey Burton, according to Charles Fairburn) would be presenting the programme.

  ‘Just as well we bombed early,’ said Barton Sinclair, The Merry Widow’s director, but he seemed far from happy.

  Over in County Galway Cameron and Declan were at the end of their last day’s filming. Declan, in a dark-blue fisherman’s jersey and jeans, his thick black hair lifting in the gentle west wind, was speaking to camera.