Rivals (39 page)

‘Ah.’

‘And I thought you were after her at Patrick’s birthday party.’

Suddenly Declan didn’t want to mention Maud.

Rupert inhaled deeply on his cigar. ‘Would that have been so bad?’

‘She’s eighteen and desperately insecure,’ said Declan roughly. ‘She’s simply not equipped to cope. You’d break her like a moth caught in the typewriter keys.’

‘Ouch,’ said Rupert wincing.

‘I saw them all slavering this evening,’ went on Declan, ‘Sarah, Cameron, that imbecile Daysee. You could have had any of them. Just spare Taggie.’

Rupert, however, was reluctant to drop the subject.

‘But she seems incredibly competent. She cooked brilliantly for Valerie and she coped with your party on New Year’s Eve virtually single-handed.’

‘Oh, she’s competent enough,’ said Declan. ‘You mustn’t assume people with dyslexia are thick, just because they have difficulty reading and writing. Albert Einstein, Leonardo da Vinci and Thomas Edison were all dyslexic. So was General Patton. He could never learn the alphabet or his tables by heart.’

‘Good God,’ said Rupert in alarm. ‘So we can expect to see Taggie commanding the Third Army at any minute.’

Declan grinned.

Rupert filled up their glasses with brandy.

‘Is Tony really giving you a hard time?’

‘Septic tankwise, I’m up to here.’ Declan drew a finger across his throat.

He got up and wandered slightly unsteadily towards the window.

‘Beautiful house this. Where’s The Priory from here?’

Rupert pointed to the left, where, through a spiky fuzz of trees, a light was burning. ‘Taggie’s still awake, that’s her bedroom,’ he added without thinking. Then, when Declan instantly looked bootfaced, ‘It’s all right. I had to bodily remove some drunk from her room the night of your party because Taggie wanted to go to bed – alone.’

As Rupert joined Declan beside the window, dogs, sprawled all over the floor, sleepily thumped their tails.

‘D’you know what I’ve always wanted to do?’ said Rupert idly. ‘Buy that wood below your house.’

‘Pretty useless piece of land,’ said Declan.

‘Fifty yards to the right of the stream you could make the most perfect dry ski slope. You wouldn’t see it from the road. It’d be hidden by trees on both sides.’

‘How much d’you reckon it’s worth?’

‘About thirty-five grand,’ lied Rupert.

‘Seems a helluva lot,’ said Declan, stroking Jack Russells with both hands.

‘You could still walk through the rest of the wood if you wanted to,’ said Rupert.

But Declan wasn’t listening. Thirty-five grand would get me off the hook for the moment with the tax man, he thought, and pay the electricity bill and Caitlin’s school fees.

‘Think about it, anyway,’ said Rupert. ‘You also need a day off. Come out hunting on Saturday week. I’ll lend vou a horse.’

When Declan finally got back to The Priory, he left all the car lights on, flattened several purple crocuses on the edge of the lawn and drove slap through a flower bed.

Waiting for him on the stairs, both looking equally disapproving, were Taggie and Gertrude.

‘Why,’ said Taggie, ‘were you so g-g-gratuitously beastly to Rupert?’

RIVALS

On the third Monday in March Cameron Cook had the sadistic idea of summoning the entire Corinium staff to a power breakfast in Studio I at eight o’clock in the morning. While they blearily consumed croissants and muesli, and orange juice (scrambled egg was considered to contain too much cholesterol), Tony gave them a rousing pep talk on how each one of them could personally help retain the franchise.

‘This is a very exciting time,’ said Tony heartily. ‘“Dorothy Dove” and “Four Men went to Mow” have yet again been nominated for BAFTA Awards. Our new series on the elderly, “Young as You Feel”, starts next week. And we’re delighted to announce that our new presenter is going to be Naomi Hargreaves, who, as you know, climbed Everest last year at the age of sixty-five.

‘Our new networked quiz, “Master Dog”, to find the canine brain of Britain, starts recording on Wednesday. The new series of “Four Men went to Mow” starts at the end of April and a performance of Michael Tippett’s
Midsummer Marriage
will be recorded in Cotchester Park in early June. James Vereker’s and Sarah Stratton’s new afternoon programme starts on Monday week.’ Tony smiled warmly at Sarah, and received a black look from Cameron. ‘And we all wish them the best of luck.

‘Finally,
Midsummer Night’s Dream
,’ Tony added with a sigh of relief, ‘is virtually in the can. We anticipate two days re-shooting, tomorrow and Wednesday, leaving Studio I free for “Miss Corinium Television” on Thursday.’

To put Declan down, Tony had deliberately not mentioned his programme, but now, looking round the packed studio, he discovered to his fury that Declan didn’t appear to be present.

Declan, in fact, was at home, having got up at five to wrestle with his Yeats biography. Looking at the pile of scribbled notes and typed pages on his desk, he felt like Vidal Sassoon confronted by the wild woman of the West with fifty years of burrs and tangles in her hair. He wished he had Vidal Sassoon’s skills. He was so tired, he hadn’t had an original thought for weeks. Matters had not been helped by Grace finally walking out at the weekend because Declan had bawled her out for drinking all his whisky. Maud, furious at losing her ally and sparring partner, blamed Declan for the whole thing and was refusing to talk to him.

His black gloom was interrupted by Ursula ringing up to say she had flu.

‘Poor thing. Stay in bed,’ said Declan. ‘Can I bring you anything?’

‘No, but I’m terribly sorry, I forgot to remind you about Cameron’s power breakfast,’ said Ursula.

At Corinium Tony was winding up his peroration: ‘I have no doubt that Corinium will retain the franchise, but I cannot remind you too strongly that this year we are on show. The IBA will not only be monitoring our programmes more closely, and examining our finances and our staff relations, but they will be looking to see how we conduct ourselves both as individuals and as a company. Any complaints from a local body, pressure group or a restaurateur will count as the blackest mark. Seb Burrows’ twenty-first birthday party last week, for example, completely broke up the Beaufort room at the Cotchester Arms. If you ever have another twenty-first birthday, Seb —’ Tony’s big smile flashed on – ‘you’ll be fired.’

Realizing some sort of joke had been made, the staff tittered feebly.

‘Finally I must warn you that that scourge of violence and, particularly, sex, the Reverend Fergus Penney, ex-Prebendary of the Church of England, will be visiting the station tomorrow, so for Christ’s sake behave yourselves and make him feel welcome. And remember above all, appearance does matter.’

Exactly on cue, Declan walked in, deathly pale, hair unbrushed, stubble blacking his jaw, and his jersey inside out.

‘I’m sorry, Tony,’ he said, ‘1 forgot.’

‘We’ve just finished,’ said Tony coolly. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the boat, but that’s nothing unusual.’

‘Where are you going?’ shouted Cameron, as Declan turned towards the exit.

‘Home,’ snapped Declan, ‘I’ve got a lot of lying down to do.’

The next day, 21st March, was the first day of Spring. The Head of News sent a crew off to photograph lambs playing in a field. James wore a new primrose yellow tracksuit to urge viewers to join his new sponsored Slim-for-Spring campaign to raise money for heart research, and Declan came in to interview Guilini. The programme, for once, was being recorded as Guilini was flying to New York for a concert straight afterwards.

The fair Daysee Butler, keen to do her bit for the franchise, accepted an invitation to lunch from someone almost as grand as Guilini. As it was programme day, she only sipped Perrier and ate one course of chefs salad. Her very distinguished companion, however, departed from his usual Perrier and put away a large whisky before lunch, a whole bottle of claret during, and a large brandy afterwards. He hardly touched his monkfish, but was charmed that Daysee should peel his Mediterranean prawns for him as she told him, admittedly rather monotonously, how she got every programme out on time.

On the drive back from the restaurant, which was several miles outside Cotchester, Daysee’s very distinguished companion, mindful that it was the first day of Spring, pulled into a side road to admire some leaping lambs and leapt on poor Daysee. By the time he had torn half the buttons off her yellow angora jersey with the picture of Donald Duck on the front, and grabbed goatily at her thighs, laddering her stockings, Daysee was so frightened she dashed out of the car and, taking off her high heels, ran sobbing across Cotchester water meadows, across the tarmac of the car park and in through the back door of Corinium Television. Here she collided with Tony, who had lunched not wisely but too well. The sight of poor Daysee with her blonde hair awry, her mascara streaked with tears, her stockings muddy and laddered, and her yellow jersey half torn off her beautiful body, melted even Tony’s stony heart.

‘My dear child, what
is
the matter?’

‘Someone’s just tried to rape me,’ wailed Daysee.

Next minute she was whisked up in the fast lift to Tony’s office and ensconced on the squashy leather sofa, sobbing her heart out while Tony poured her a vast brandy.

‘There, drink this.’

‘I mustn’t,’ sobbed Daysee. ‘I’ll never be able to count Declan’s programme out on time.’

‘Nonsense! One glass of brandy won’t hurt you. Anyway, it’s only some tinpot conductor.’

Getting out his red silk handkerchief smelling of Paco Rabanne, Tony dried Daysee’s eyes. She was really very, very pretty.

‘Now, tell me who it was.’

‘I c-c-can’t.’

‘Come on, you can trust me.’ He sat down on the sofa beside her.

‘It was such a shock,’ whispered Daysee. ‘I thought he was just interested in our programmes. I wanted to help Corinium win the franchise.’

‘I know you did,’ said Tony warmly. ‘That’s what makes it so reprehensible. Just give me his name.’

‘I’d truly rather not.’

‘Someone connected with work?’

Daysee gulped and nodded.

Better and better, thought Tony, mentally rubbing his hands. How wonderful if it were Declan or even James.

‘If we don’t get him for rape, we’ll clobber him for sexual harassment,’ he said, trying not to sound too eager.

Daysee shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I was convinced he was just interested in my mind.’

Noticing the ten inches of thigh and the glorious depth of cleavage revealed by the torn jersey, Tony sidled down the dark-green squashy sofa and said, ‘Of course he was.’

Daysee looked up, her huge eyes spilling over once more with tears. Tony put an arm round her shoulders.

‘Come on, my dear, we can’t allow animals like him to roam at large. He may strike again and succeed next time. Think of your female colleagues. Don’t worry, I’ll see your name’s kept out of the papers. Now tell me who it was.’ Gently he stroked her silky hair.

‘It was the Prebendary,’ murmured Daysee.

‘What!’ exploded Tony.

‘The Reverend Fergus Penney from the IBA,’ whispered Daysee miserably.

Instantly the solicitous smile was wiped off Tony’s face. His arm jumped off her shoulders as though they were red hot.

‘I don’t want to hear any more about this business,’ he said chillingly. ‘If you value your job, don’t blab about it to anyone. And I hope you’ve learnt your lesson, not to wear such short skirts or tight sweaters to the office in future.’ With that he slammed his door in poor Daysee’s face.

Still trying to be a loyal Corinium employee, Daysee tried to keep her trap shut. But Declan, noticing her reddened eyes and lack of bounce during the afternoon and being infinitely more skilled at getting confidences out of people than Tony, soon had the whole story from her with the help of a few whiskys from his office bottle.

‘Lord Baddingham said the Prebendary was so against sex and violence,’ sobbed Daysee.

‘Only on television,’ said Declan grimly. ‘It’s fine in real life.’

As he was intending to take Thursday off to go to the Gold Cup with Rupert, Declan went into the office on Wednesday to wade through a mountain of post. After the row with Maud about the telephone and drink bills which she’d hidden behind the recipe books in the kitchen, Corinium, with all its ructions, seemed the quieter place. The tax man had also called the day before to collect twenty thousand pounds, and, being told Declan was out, said he would call again next day, which was another reason for not hanging around at home. He was beginning to think there was no alternative except to sell Rupert the wood. The only thought that sustained him was that he was due for a two-month break at the end of April, but, as things were going, he’d have to spend the time off doing programmes in America to raise some cash.

He was also aware that his programmes had been very lacklustre recently. The one on Rupert had attracted huge ratings and newspaper coverage, but Declan in retrospect was bitterly ashamed of it, knowing that initially he’d let personal animosity overwhelm his detachment. Since then, the programmes had had the bite of a rubber duck.

God, he was tired. He looked at the mountain of post, a lot of it probably bills. Ursula was still away. He could smell today’s special, boeuf bourguignon, flavoured from a packet no doubt, drifting down from the canteen, as could the contestants of ‘Master Dog’ who were barking hungrily in Studio 2.

He picked up the first memo.
‘The Gay and Lesbian Sub-Committee of the ACTT has been re-named the Sexuality Sub-Committee.’

On cue, Charles Fairburn drifted in, having just collected his expenses.

‘Come and have a drink at the Bar Sinister.’

Declan shook his head. ‘Got to deal with all this.’