Rivals (40 page)

‘Never grumble about fan mail,’ chided Charles. ‘Think of poor me going off to Southampton first thing tomorrow to supervise Holy Communion for the Deaf. Have you been asked to Tony’s bash for Badminton? He’s put the little red ram logo on the corner of all the invites so he can offload the whole thing on expenses.’

‘He won’t ask me,’ said Declan grimly.

‘No, you are a bit out of favour, poor dear,’ said Charles sympathetically, ‘and you work harder than any of us. I’m expecting to get the Old Queen’s Award for Lack of Industry any minute. That’s better; at least you’re smiling. And I’ll tell you something else to cheer you up even more. In Studio 2 you’ll find a lot of lovable mongrels rummaging for choc drops which have all melted under the lights, on caring James’s pastel sofa. James is going to be livid when he gets back from another three-hour lunch with Mrs Stratton.’

The telephone rang. ‘Corinium Waifs and Strays,’ said Charles, picking it up. ‘Oh, hi, Madden dear. All right, I’ll send him along. Tony’s leaving for London in twenty minutes, thank God,’ he told Declan, ‘but he wants a word with you first. I’d take the slow lift. He’s in a vile mood.’

Tony, in fact, seemed in an excellent mood, purring away like a great cat about to enjoy an extended game of mouse-taunting.

‘Ah, Declan. Shut the door behind you and sit down.’

As usual the central heating was turned up so high Declan felt he was having a hot flush.

‘I wonder if you’d explain this.’

Tony threw Declan a picture postcard of a huge crocodile with gaping jaws. On the other side was scrawled in huge black writing: ‘Here’s a picture of your boss. Bloody hot here. If I don’t talk to you before, I’ll pick you up at The Priory at eleven o’clock. Rupert.’

There was no address or stamp.

‘Who the fock opened this?’ asked Declan.

‘We open all mail during franchise year,’ said Tony smoothly. ‘Just to check whether any of our staff are being propositioned by other franchise contenders.’

‘This place gets more like the KGB every minute.’ Declan made no attempt to hide his rage.

‘I also see you’ve taken up elitist sports,’ went on Tony, happily handing Declan the
Daily Express
, which was folded back at a picture of Rupert and Declan out hunting.

‘Burying the hatchet after their recent encounter on “Declan”,’ read the caption.

Tony shook his head. ‘You’re not keeping very good company, Declan.’

‘Then why has Rupert been asked to judge Miss Corinium tomorrow?’

‘That’s a slip-up of Cameron’s. It won’t happen again. There’s also a piece in yesterday’s
Standard
quoting you as saying you’ve given up hope for Lent. Not a very positive attitude. Be a bit more careful when you talk to the press in future.’

Tony got up and wandered towards the drinks cupboard.

‘Like a drink?’

Declan shook his head.

‘Just as well,’ said Tony, pouring himself one. ‘I gather you were plastered when you interviewed Guilini yesterday.’ Then, as Declan opened his mouth to protest, he went on, ‘I saw your old boss, Johnny Abrahams, from the BBC last night. He said they’d let you go at just the right time, that you were burnt out.’

‘The bastard,’ said Declan furiously. ‘He’s got a bloody nerve.’

‘I hoped you’d take it like that,’ said Tony softly, ‘because I am very worried about your ratings. Only ten million for the week ending 2nd March. Cameron was at a network meeting yesterday and they’re now considering what was unthinkable a few months ago, shifting your programme from peak time to shallower waters, perhaps a ten-thirty or even an eleven o’clock slot.’

‘That’s insane,’ said Declan. ‘We only got ten million because the BBC have moved “Dallas” against us. We’ll get it back.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Tony brutally. ‘Quite honestly you’ve lost your authority, Declan. There was a time when every interview made the front page of every newspaper. Now even the critics ignore them. You didn’t make a single national last week.’

‘I will next week. Bob Geldof’s coming on.’

‘Bit old hat – all that Aid stuff.’

Tony tipped back his chair, stretched his legs, and gazed at Declan considerately. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I know how depressing it is for stars when they drop down from Number One. I do hope you’re not overdoing things. Why are your hands shaking?’ He looked complacently down at his own beautifully manicured hands. ‘Mine don’t shake.’

Declan stood up. ‘That’s because you don’t have to work with people like you,’ he snarled.

Out of the window he could see a posse of lovable mongrels scampering across the water meadows after an aniseed trail, being pursued by a panting camera crew.

Tony also rose to his feet: ‘I’m trying to be sympathetic,’ he said in a voice that froze even Declan’s blood, ‘and all I get is abuse.’

He pressed a button. Miss Madden appeared so quickly she must have been listening at the door.

‘Declan’s leaving,’ said Tony imperiously.

Back in his office, trembling from head to foot, Declan got a bottle of whisky from the cupboard and, pouring two inches into a paper cup, drained it. The first thing that really registered in his post was a typescript and a letter from Patrick. He had finished his play and sent it to Declan to read:

Patrick, Declan reflected, was a bloody sight better at getting down to things than he was. He was about to start reading when there was a knock on the door. It was Miss Madden, puce as a beetroot, bringing him a cup of coffee and two rounds of roast beef sandwiches.

‘You don’t eat enough.’

‘You mean I’m drinking too much. That’s terribly sweet of you, darling. How much do I owe you?’

‘It’s a present,’ said Miss Madden, blushing even more deeply. ‘As Lord B’s gone to town and Ursula’s sick, I thought you might like some help with your mail. I can polish off that lot in no time. I expect it’s mostly from fans.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Don’t take Lord B’s remarks too much to heart. He’s only trying to goad you. Please don’t walk out. We need you here.’

Declan was touched, and dutifully sat down and went through his post. When Miss Madden had taken it away, he felt unable to settle down to Bob Geldof’s cuttings. Wandering down the corridor, he found James and Sarah recording their first afternoon programme in front of a small geriatric audience.

James was interviewing a large woman in a pin-striped suit and a monocle, who looked not unlike Thomas the Tank Engine. Insufficiently briefed, having spent far too long lunching with Sarah, he was frantically leafing through his notes to find out something about her. At last he turned up Deirdre’s list of questions. Christ, she was a fucking composer. James was tone-deaf.

‘A very good afternoon and welcome to Dame Edith Spink,’ he said.

The audience clapped lethargically.

‘May I call you Edith?’

‘You may, but my name’s actually Enid,’ said the lady composer.

Flustered, James consulted his notes. He’d kill Deirdre after the programme.

‘I’d like to say, Enid, how much I personally have enjoyed all your symphonies.’

‘I’ve only written one,’ snapped Dame Enid.

From the darkness by the door, Declan was beginning to enjoy himself. Dame Enid Spink was an extremely distinguished musician who lived on the borders of Wiltshire and Gloucestershire, and was probably only second to Michael Tippett as a composer in Britain. A notorious lesbian and a feminist, she was already furious that Corinium were doing Michael Tippett’s opera this year rather than one of hers.

‘You’ve just visited the States, Enid,’ ploughed on James, ‘to conduct your newest opera. Er, what do the Americans think of your work?’

‘Bloody stupid question,’ said Dame Enid. ‘I didn’t ask them all. There are about two-hundred million, you know.’

Bitch, thought James furiously, I’ll fix her.

‘Many critics,’ he read from Deirdre’s notes, ‘say this latest opera of yours isn’t up to standard.’

Crash came Dame Enid’s hands down on her wide-apart pinstriped thighs. ‘Name four,’ she thundered.

‘Pardon?’ stammered James.

‘Name four of those critics,’ persisted Dame Enid.

James couldn’t. Dame Enid stalked off the set.

James mopped his brow, thanking Christ the programme wasn’t live. He was lucky that it was not until ten minutes later that Cameron put in an appearance and therefore entirely missed the encounter.

Now it was Sarah’s turn. Her task was to interview some female rugger players and a group of lady buyers in suits with pussy-cat bows on whether it was still a man’s world, followed by a studio discussion in which James would whizz round the audience with a roving mike.

Although there was already an extremely competent director, Cameron, in her role as Programme Controller, couldn’t resist sticking her oar in, making an already nervous Sarah fluff her introductory patter over and over again. Now Cameron had come down on the studio floor.

‘Thank you so much for spending March with us,’ she told the tittering audience after the tenth take.

Sarah fluffed her patter again.

‘This is really an elaborate way of handing in your notice, Sarah,’ taunted Cameron to more titters. Sarah looked imploringly at James, who, sitting on the yellow sofa, suddenly seemed very interested in his cuticles. Sarah fluffed the patter again.

‘If you don’t pull your finger out,’ Cameron told her, ‘we’ll be going out live.’

Declan had seen enough. ‘Stop being a fucking bitch,’ he yelled, marching up to Cameron.

The crew, grinning broadly, gave him a round of applause. The audience, wildly excited to see such a megastar and thinking it was part of the show, started to clap and cheer too.

‘How dare you lay that number on me?’ screamed Cameron over the din. ‘I’m going home.’

‘Put the kettle on,’ the Floor Manager shouted after her. ‘We’ll all be round for tea in half an hour.’

Down the steps swarmed the audience, crowding round Declan, clamouring for his autograph.

‘You’re very like yourself,’ said one lady.

‘Thank you so much, Declan,’ said Sarah tearfully.

‘Now you can get on with the programme,’ said Declan, beating a hasty retreat.

Utterly dispirited after his outburst, Declan returned to his office and, getting out the whisky bottle, settled down to read Patrick’s play. As he finished it, he was equally consumed with pleasure and despair, because the play was quite simply marvellous: incredibly original, funny, very moving, slightly over the top, but possessing all the vigour and fearlessness of youth. Reading it made Declan realize once again what an utter cock-up he’d made of his own career.

Emptying the bottle, very drunk now, he wandered into the corridor, ending up in the big studio where they were shooting the last re-take of
Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Even the cardboard trees seemed to pulsate with midsummer heat and enchantment. Declan stood in the shadows, tears pouring down his face, impossibly moved by the poetry. Would
he
ever write anything good again?

Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he jumped violently. It was Cameron. Rubbing his eyes frantically, he followed her out into the corridor.

‘I’m sorry I came on strong this afternoon,’ she said. ‘“Four Men went to Mow” starts again next month. I guess I’m uptight.’

‘I guess you are,’ said Declan ungraciously. ‘Pick someone your own weight next time. Sarah could be very good if you don’t frighten her off too soon.’

He stalked into his office, rather laboriously gathered up the pages of Patrick’s play, and chucked the whisky bottle into the wastepaper basket with a clang.

‘As Tony’s opening people’s post, I suppose he’s frisking wastepaper baskets as well,’ he snarled at Cameron. ‘That should really convince him I’m drinking too much. I imagine it was you who told him I was drunk on the programme yesterday.’

Cameron blushed. ‘No way.’

‘Well, I wasn’t.’ He went on gathering papers together.

‘What’s that?’ said Cameron, anxious to change the subject.

‘Patrick’s play.’

‘Any good?’

‘Exceptional. You’ll be sorry one day you passed him up.’

‘I’m sure you won’t be,’ snapped Cameron.

‘No.’ Declan’s brooding eyes looked at her contemptuously. ‘I can’t imagine anything that would have filled me with more horror. He sent his love by the way.’

Cameron tried again: ‘Look, I know it’s screwing you up working here.’

‘I’m surprised you talk in the present tense,’ growled Declan, going towards the door.

‘Don’t forget you’re judging “Miss Corinium Television” tomorrow. We want you and Rupert here by seven,’ said Cameron.

‘About all I’m fit for,’ said Declan wearily, and walked out.

Declan was not a vain man, but if anything could have boosted his self-confidence it was that day at Cheltenham. Whenever he put his nose out of Freddie’s tent to have a bet, he was mobbed, and the combination of him and Rupert together among that horse-loving, strongly Irish crowd, caused almost as much excitement as the returning winner of the Gold Cup. To add to everyone’s high spirits, Freddie’s horse danced home an effortless winner in the second race. Nor was it anyone’s fault that, as a result of a freak snowstorm, the Gold Cup was postponed for an hour, or that Rupert had a monkey each way on the winner. Consequently Rupert and Declan got unbelievably drunk and didn’t reach Cotchester until seven forty-five.

‘Is this the Forest of Hard-On?’ said Rupert, as he tripped over a lot of stacked-up cardboard trees outside Studio 1.