Rivals (4 page)

    The moment she'd gone, he showered, dressed and, having summoned one of the secretaries from Corinium's American office on 5th Avenue, dictated a completely new treatment for 'Four Men went to Mow'. In the middle, Alicia rang and demanded who had answered the telephone.

    'Your successor,' said Tony, without a trace of compassion, and hung up.

    By midday he had a new and beautifully bound presentation booklet for 'Four Men went to Mow', containing a character analysis of the new hero, who was now the working-class boy

    not the peer's son (who had become a lord), plus a new list of possible stars, suggested locations, story lines, and a couple of pages of simplified dialogue, all based entirely on Cameron's recommendations.

    Ronnie called up as Tony was reading it through. 'How d'you like Cameron?'

    'Like wasn't the operative word. What's bugging her?' 'More enfant than terrible,' said Ronnie, who wanted to do business with Tony very badly, 'but she's too ambitious for her own good, and too upfront. There's a streak of idealism which makes her scream and shout till she gets what she wants; and if you're as sexy as she is you antagonize not only women but also the men who don't get to pull you.

    'Don't tell anyone I told you, but the programme controller's going to axe her last documentary, and she's been so rude to Bella Wakefield she's being taken off the series. But she's bright,' Ronnie sighed. 'Sadly they don't give a shit about talent here any more. But that's off the record.' 'We haven't spoken,' said Tony.

    'As a quid pro quo, can we be the first people to see "Four Men went to Mow? " ' asked Ronnie. 'I know Cameron carved it up, but it looked great to me.' 'Of course,' said Tony smoothly.

    After an exceptionally affable lunch with AH MacGraw, who was an old friend, to discuss a long-term project, Tony strolled down to see USBC, the deadly rivals of NBS.

    At the plaza of the Seagram building tourists and office sat on the walls, eating sandwiches and pizza, trying to woo the blazing sun down between the office blocks on to their bare arms and legs. The flowers in the centre strip of Park Avenue wilted in the heat as Tony sauntered past General Motors and the Pan Am building with their thousand glittering windows, admiring the coloured awnings outside the houses and the beautiful, loping New York girls with their briefcases, who looked back at him with flattering interest. Maybe Cameron was right about the paucity of real New York men.

    The Head of Co-Production at USBC and the Daytime Programme Controller were enchanted by the video of the honey-coloured houses and the Cotswold countryside.

    'This series,' Tony told them, his deep, beautiful voice flowing on like vintage port glugging out of a priceless decanter, 'will be a cross between James Herriot and "Animal House", but in a way it's much, much more. We intend to explore real friendship between real men; not homosexuality, but that Victorian virtue, comradeship. The hero, a poor boy from a deprived background, doesn't inherit the earth or the girl, but he finds his integrity. The story, despite its depths, is simple enough to appeal to a Mexican peasant or to an Alabama black.'

    Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the extremely influential VPICDT Prog, (which stood for Vice-President In Charge of Daytime Programming) had just entered the room. Tony warmed to his subject.

    'In England,' he went on, 'we are sick of wimps who wear their sensitivity on their silk shirtsleeves. The guys in our story are kind to animals and women, but they shoot from the hip first and get in touch with their feelings later. Nor would they be seen dead in an apron. Let us have men as men again, and bring back dignity and chivalry to our sex.'

    Thinking he'd gone slightly over the top, Tony switched briskly to finance. 'We can do it for three-quarters of a million an hour,' he said. 'It'll be thirty per cent cheaper if we make it in England; we'll put up twenty per cent of the cost against Europe and the UK.'

    Admiring the discreet blue coronet on Tony's dark-green shirt, the VPICDT Prog., who'd just been bawled out on the phone by his wife for forgetting to collect the suit she'd had altered at Ralph Lauren, reflected that Lord B had real class. And he was right it

    was high time men were men again.

    'Very interesting, Tony,' he said. 'We'd like to kick the idea around. You in New York for a few days?'

    'Yes,' said Tony.

    'Showing it to other people?'

    'Of course.'

    'We'll get back to you as soon as possible.'

    Outside it had rained. The trees had taken on a deeper greenness. The city had the warm wet smell of a conservatory. Park Avenue was a solid yellow mass of honking taxis. Quivering with the excitement of wheeler-dealing, Tony knew he ought to ring Ronnie and show him the treatment. Let him sweat, he thought, let Cameron sweat. He went! back to the Waldorf, checked out and, without leaving a forwarding address, flew to Los Angeles.

    Cameron lived in an eleventh-floor apartment on Riverside Drive with a glorious view of the Hudson River. She got home at about nine after a hellish day, punctuated with screaming matches which had finally culminated in Bella Wakefield turning up on the set wearing two-inch false eyelashes and half a ton of purple eyeshadow to play a Victorian governess. When Cameron had ordered her to take her make-up down, Bella had stormed out, presumably to sob on the Vice-President's already sodden shoulder.

    The moment she got in, Cameron played back her recording machine, but there was no message from Tony, not even a click to show he'd rung and hung up because she wasn't there. He hadn't left any messages at NBS either.

    Cameron, however, had done her homework. As Tony had learnt from Ronnie that she was brilliant but unbalanced she in turn had discovered that Tony was an unprincipled shit, much more interested in making money than good programmes, masterly at board-room intrigue, and so smooth he could slide up a hill. Convinced she could handle him Cameron wasn't at all put out by this information, and decided to accept the job.

    She'd always wanted to work in England and track down her English relations. She admired British television, and she'd bitterly envied all those rich girls at Barnard who'd travelled to Europe so effortlessly on Daddy's income. It would also give her a chance to get away from her mother and her mother's appalling lover, Mike. Cameron gavel shudder; she had recurrent nightmares about Mike.

    She turned on the light. She would be sad to leave her apartment, which was painted white throughout, with yellow curtains and rush matting on the polished floors. Furniture in the living-room included a grand piano, a dentist's chair upholstered in red paisley like Tony's tie, a dartboard, and a gold toe, one foot high, which had been surreptitiously chipped from the foot of a cherub in the Metropolitan Museum. Books lined most of one wall, but half a shelf was taken up with videos of the programmes she'd made. These were her identity. Cameron only felt she truly existed when she saw her credits coming up on the screen.

    And now this English lord had come along and thrown her into complete turmoil because he hadn't called. Denied a father in her teens, Cameron was always drawn to older men. She was attracted by Tony's utter ruthlessness, and, despite her sniping, sexually it had ended up a great night.

    Then why didn't the bastard call? Lord of the Never Rings. Collapsing on the sofa, she gazed out of the window. On the opposite bank, lights from the factories and power stations sent glittering yellow snakes across the black water. Watching the coloured Dinky cars whizzing up and down the freeway, she fell asleep.

    When she woke next morning, very cold and stiff, the Hudson had turned to a sheet of white metal, with the power stations smoking dreamily in the morning mist. Perhaps Tony had only offered her a job as a ruse to get her into bed, but she didn't think he was like that. If he'd just wanted to screw her, he'd have said so. Yet when she rang the Waldorf to accept, she was outraged to be told that Tony had checked out, leaving no forwarding address.

    This guy's mighty popular,' said the operator. 'Everyone's been ringing him.'

    Nor would Corinium's New York office tell her where Tony had gone, and, even worse, the morning paper had a charming picture of him coming out of the Four Seasons with All MacGraw.

    In Los Angeles, when he wasn't spreading the word about 'Four Men went to Mow', or finalizing the deal to buy the

    American distributors, which he'd had to acquire through holding company so as not to upset the IBA, Tony thought about Cameron. Back in New York, two days later, ignoring the increasingly desperate messages from NBS, he went to USBC and after screwing another quarter million dollars a programme out 0 them on the grounds that Disney were madly interested, hi closed the deal. He returned to the Waldorf, sweating like a pig, had a shower, poured himself an enormous whisky and rang Cameron. He had to hold the telephone at arm's length. 'Where the fuck have you been, you bastard?' she screamed.

    'Busy,' said Tony and, when she started to give him an earful, very sharply told her to shut up and calm down. 'I've raised the cash for "Four Men went to Mow".'

    'Who put it up?' demanded Cameron.

    'USBC. The lawyers are thrashing out the nuts and bolts at the moment.'

    'Poor Ronnie. NBS aren't going to be very happy -we didn't even get to see it.'

    'Well, there you go.'

    'He probably will, right out of the front door, and never come back after this. Ronnie's right -you are a shit.'

    'That's no way to address your new boss.'

    Cameron's heart was hammering so hard, her palms were suddenly so damp, that the receiver nearly slid out of ha hand. 'Hullo, hullo,' said Tony. 'Have you thought about that job I offered you?'

    'You just fuck off like that. How do I know I can trust you?'

    'Give me the address. I'll be over in half an hour and we' talk terms.'

    Yet when he arrived at Cameron's flat, armed with bottle of champagne, he was outraged to find an impossibly handsome young man lounging in the dentist's chair, holding a glass that definitely didn't contain mouthwash. 'Who the hell's he?' snarled Tony.

    'This is Skip, my lawyer. He dropped by to draw up my contract of employment,' said Cameron. 'Why the hell's he wearing my shirt and tie?' Cameron laughed. 'Since I'm moving to England, I figured he deserved a leaving present.'

4

    On a cold Friday in February, exactly twenty months after he'd signed up Cameron Cook in New York, Tony Baddingham made an infinitely more dramatic and controversial addition to his staff. Having exchanged contracts in the utmost secrecy in the morning, he popped into the IBA headquarters in Brompton Road for a midday glass of sherry with the new chairman, Lady Gosling, to dazzle her with the secret news of his latest acquisition before setting out on the two-hour drive down to Cotchester.

    Even on a raw blustery February afternoon, Cotchester's wide streets and ancient pale gold houses gave off an air of serenity and prosperity. To the north of the town, in the market square, a statue of Charles I on his horse indicated that Cotchester had once been a Royalist stronghold. Round the plinth, pigeons pecked among the straw left by the sheep and cattle sold in the market earlier in the day. To the south soared the cathedral, its great bell only muted during rush hour, the shadow of its spire on bright days lying like a benediction over the town.

    Dominating the High Street was a fine Queen Anne building, once the Corn Exchange, now the headquarters of Corinium Television. Although, over the last twenty years, the building had been considerably extended at the back to include studios, dressing-rooms, an imposing new board room, and a suite of splendid offices for the directors, nothing

    except pale-yellow rambler roses had been allowed to alter its imposing facade. On the roof the vast dark red letters CTV could be seen for miles around, letters topped by a splendid ram standing four-square, with a Roman nose and curly horns. Originally chosen as a symbol of the wool trade which once characterized the area, according to some of Corinium's more uncharitable employees the ram could now be used to symbolize Tony Baddingham's sexual excesses.

    At the back of the building an entire wall of the board room consisted of a huge window looking out on to the cathedral close, water meadows and willows trailing their yellow branches in the River Fleet, a peaceful scene totally at variance with the tensions and feuds within Corinium Television itself.

    These tensions had been exacerbated that particular Friday by Tony returning unexpectedly from London and calling a programme-planning meeting at three o'clock, when he knew most of his staff would be hoping to slope off early.

    Tony had actually returned in an excellent mood. His meeting with Lady Gosling had been decidedly satisfactory. Simon Harris, the ex-BBC Golden Boy, and Cameron Cook had so improved Corinium programmes over the last twenty months that he was no longer seriously worried that his franchise would be taken away in mid-term. But, in case there were rival groups who might pitch for the Corinium franchise when it came up for renewal next year, he had made the decision on the way down to clean up Corinium's act well in advance.

    Until that time therefore, until Corinium were officially re-selected, he was determined not only to trail some of the most glittering names in television and the arts in front of the IBA, but also to put on some really worthy regional programmes.

    It was to map out ideas for these programmes that he'd called the impromptu meeting. Unfortunately half the staff were away. The Head of News was in Munich on a freebie, the Head of Documentaries was in Rome getting a prize, the

    male Head of Light Entertainment and the comely female Head of Kids' Programmes were both away with gastric flu, which caused a few raised eyebrows, as they had been seen looking perfectly healthy the day before.

    Tony took the chair, but was instantly summoned to take an urgent call from Los Angeles. The only people in the room who didn't appear terrified or at least extremely wary of him were Charles Fairburn, Head of Religious Programmes,! who'd got pissed at lunchtime, and Cameron Cook, nod Head of Drama.

    The Head of Sport, Mike Meadows, a once-famous footballer with ginger sideboards, whose muscle-bound shoulders had grown too big for his shiny blue blazer, smoked one) cigarette after another.

    Simon Harris, the Controller of Programmes, who was principled and intelligent and always saw both sides of every problem, and was therefore labelled indecisive, trembled on Tony's right. He kept his hands under the table to hide a nerve rash he had scratched raw. His thin face twitched. In an attempt to gain some kind of authority he had recently grown a straggly beard. When he took off his coat Tony

    always kept the central heating tropical you

    could hear THE rattle of the Valium bottle, and see the great damp patches under his arms.

    Beyond Simon was Tony's PA, Cyril Peacock, DFC, Corinium's ex-Sales Manager, once a stocky, jolly, assertive fellow, sensational at his job. The point of a PA, however, is that he should be utterly loyal. Some Chief Executives in television buy this loyalty with money, which is dangerous, because someone else can buy it with more money. Tony bought it with fear. After making Cyril his PA, and sometime publicity officer, Tony had encouraged him to invest his savings in a company that promptly went broke. Now the terror of the Luftwaffe was someone Tony hung his coat on

    a

    poor old dodderer in his early sixties, with loss of job and pension hanging over his head like a sword of Damocles. Tony took great pleasure in making Cyril do his dirty work

    he

    had four people for him to fire on Monday.

    On Tony's left was Miss Madden, his secretary, also in her sixties, plain, and utterly dedicated, whose chilblains were itching because of the central heating, and who never let anyone into Tony's office without an appointment except Cameron Cook, on whom she had a love-hate crush.

    Finally, down the table, opposite Cameron sat James Vereker, the impossibly good-looking, beautifully coiffeured Anchorman of the six o'clock regional news programme, 'Cotswold Round-Up'.

    James should have been in the newsroom getting ready for the evening's programme, but, hating to miss anything, he had muscled in on the meeting and was now using Tony's absence to rewrite the links he would have to say later on air to fit his own speech patterns.

    Glancing across at Cameron, James wondered if she and Tony had rehearsed the whole meeting in bed earlier this week, turning each other on by seeing who could be the most gratuitously bloody to everyone else. He looked at Cameron's dark-brown cashmere jersey, snugly fitting the lean body, the pale-brown suede skirt, the Charles Jourdan boots and the lascivious unmade-up face, and felt a wave of loathing. Today her short hair had been coaxed upwards in gelled spikes, like a hedgehog who'd rolled in chicken fat.

    James pointedly moved the arrangement of Spring flowers left over from Wednesday's board meeting up a couple of inches to obscure his view of her and, getting out a packet of Polos, handed one to Miss Madden, who went slightly pink as she accepted it.

    James offered Polos to no one else. He knew who to suck up to. Properly courted, Miss Madden would sing his praises to Tony and admit him to the inner sanctum when necessary.

    As Tony walked back into the room, everyone rose from their chairs except Cameron, who pointedly ignored him. Perhaps they've had a bust-up, thought James Vereker hopefully.

    The good thing about Tony, reflected Charles Fairburn, Head of Religious Programmes, was that he did cut out the

    waffle. There was a good chance that Charles, who was going to the ballet at Covent Garden that evening, would be out of the building by five.

    'I'd like to start,' said Tony briskly, 'by congratulating Cameron on being nominated for a BAFTA award. As you all know, "Four Men went to Mow" has not only been a huge network success, and sold everywhere overseas, but also because of the exceptional camera work, attracted scores of tourists to the area, and last month toppled "Howard's Way" in the ratings. We're looking for more programmes like this that project the area into the network.'

    'Hear, hear,' said Cyril Peacock, his false teeth rattling

    with nerves.

    Tony's conveniently forgotten that 'Four Men went to Mow' was my idea in the first place, thought Simon Harris bitterly. Cameron, still ignoring Tony, gazed sourly at the framed photograph on the wall of him smilingly assisting Princess Margaret to plant a cherry tree on the Corinium front lawn.

    Christ, they have had a row, thought James. 'I'd like to give the go-ahead for a second series,' Tony went on. 'We've got the co-production money again from USBC, but I think it would be a good idea, Cameron, if you introduced perhaps a black unmarried mother into the cottage of the agricultural students to appeal to the IBA.'

    Charles Fairburn suppressed a grin. The IBA were crazy about minority groups. Cameron looked outraged.

    'Black unmarried mothers don't become agricultural students,' she snarled.

    'There's always a first time,' said Tony smoothly. 'She could be the girlfriend of one of the four boys.'

    'For Chrissake, why not have a gay shepherdess with one leg?' said Cameron.

    'Why not a deaf, unemployed merry peasant?' suggested Charles Fairburn with a hiccup. 'Or a handicapped harvester!' 'That's enough,' snapped Tony.

    He then went on to OK plans for an obscure Michael Tippett opera, which Cameron also scowled at, detecting Lady Baddingham's influence (Tony's wife was crazy about opera) and a production of Midsummer Night's Dream as a sop to Stratford-on-Avon which was just within the Corinium boundary.

    Now it was the turn of James Vereker, who, having finished re-writing his links, helped himself to a glass of Perrier and then suggested Corinium ought to show its 'caring face, Tony' and do a series on poverty and the aged.

    'Jesus, how turgid,' said Cameron, glaring at him through the screen of fading daffodils. 'Of all the boring…"

    Tony raised his hand for silence, his huge signet ring catching the light.

    'Not a bad idea. We could do a very cheap pilot to impress the IBA. We don't have to make the series. Perhaps Cyril,' he smiled malevolently at his PA, 'could front it. He's been looking rather old and poverty-stricken lately.'

    Cyril Peacock cracked his twitching face, trying to smile back. Thus encouraged, James suggested they should do something 'very strong, Tony' on rioting and drug abuse at Cotchester University. Swiftly Cameron swooped, the falcon Tony had trained, tearing into James:

    'What a crappy awful idea,' she screamed. 'D'you want to antagonize the entire Tourist Board because everyone's scared to visit Cotchester any more? No one will want to invest money here. We're trying to boost the area for Chrissake.'

    'What about a programme on the role of women in Cotchester town hall?' stammered Simon Harris, tugging at his straggling yellow beard.

    'And have the town halls at Bath, Southampton, Oxford, Winchester, Stratford, et cetera et cetera in an uproar because we haven't done programmes on them,' said Cameron crushingly.

    'I thought your idea, Tony, of interviewing the wives of celebrities living in the area looked a winner,' said Cyril Peacock, desperate to get back into favour.

    '"Behind Every Famous Man"?' Cameron turned on Cyril furiously. That was my idea.'

    'We could start with one of our director's wives, or perhaps,' Cyril lumbered on, 'even Lady Baddingham.' Tony looked not unpleased. "I think that would be a bit close to home.'

    'Why not do a series on the very very rich?' said Charles Fairburn, who had not quite sobered up, 'They're far more of a minority group than anyone else. We could start with you, Tony.'

    He was quelled by an icy glance from Tony, who, aware that the meeting was slightly lacking in carnage, suddenly realized that his Head of Operations, whose role was to tell creative people what they could not do, was missing. 'Where's Victor Page?' he said ominously.

    'Gone to his grandmother's funeral,' said Miss Madden, her lips tightening.

    'But he killed off two grandmothers during Wimbledon last year.'

    'This was his step-granny,' said Miss Madden. 'His mother married twice.'

    'No doubt his other step-grandmother will pop off during next Wimbledon,' said Tony, making a note on his memo pad. That would be five people for Cyril to fire on Monday. Tony then turned to the points made during his talk with Lady Gosling that morning. There was no need to let his production staff get complacent. 'Several viewers,' he said, 'have complained about field mice copulating too long on our "Nature at Night" programme.' Charles Fairburn, who had a round red face like a Dutch cheese, suppressed another smile. He'd better do his expenses. He hadn't been anywhere this week, but we needed some cash to buy drinks for his airline-steward friend at the ballet tonight.

    'Cloakroom and gratuities Ł5,' wrote Charles Fairburn. 'Drinks with the Archdeacon 15 pounds pence That was pushing it; the Archdeacon was teetotal, but the Accounts Department didn't know it. They'd be shut if Tony didn't wrap up this I meeting soon. 'On the kids' programmes front,' went on Tony, 'we've also had complaints about too much violence in "Dorothy Dove".' 'What kind of violence?' asked Simon Harris.

    'Pecking Priscilla Pigeon and pulling out all her feathers.'

    James was tempted to say his children had absolutely adored that particular episode, but decided not to. The Head of Kids' Programmes had rejected his advances at the Christmas party; he didn't owe her any favours. 'Dorothy Dove is supposed to be a symbol of peace,' said Tony.