Rivals (14 page)

‘I interview people, I don’t give interviews,’ said Declan, not budging. ‘The press made enough fuss when we arrived at Penscombe, staking us out all bloody night.’

Tony tried a different tack. ‘It’ll be such a thrill for all the staff,’ he said suavely. ‘All we want is pictures of you driving into the car park for the first time and having a glass of champagne in the board room afterwards, and then we can all get down to work.’

Declan suddenly decided he needed a drink.

‘All right, I’ll go and get my car.’

‘You can’t do that. They’ll see you,’ said Tony.

‘Give Cyril your keys. He’ll drive it round to the front, then you can drive in again.’

‘It’s a Mini, parked in the far corner,’ said Declan.

As Declan drove his absolutely filthy Mini into the parking slot with his name on, which was between Tony’s maroon Rolls Royce with the silver Corinium ram on the bonnet, and Cameron’s green Lotus, there was absolutely no reaction from the crowd of reporters and cameramen. The next minute, however, there was a furious banging on the roof. Declan wound down the window half an inch. He could see a beaky nose, and a predatory mouth.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘You can’t park here, asshole,’ said an enraged female voice.

‘Why not?’

‘Can’t you read, you fucking dumbass? This slot’s reserved for Declan O’Hara.’

‘Is it indeed?’ said Declan softly. ‘Then I’ve come to the right place.’

Winding up the window, he got out, towering over Cameron Cook, who gasped and stepped back as she instantly recognized the tousled black curls, the brooding dark eyes and the familiar face as battered as the Irish coastline. Shock made her even more hostile.

‘Where the fuck have you been? You should have been here at eleven. It’s nearly twenty past.’

‘So I was, crosspatch, in my office. Nobody thought to look.’

There was a shout as the press recognized Declan and surged forward, their cameras clicking away like weaving looms, hugely enjoying the contrast between Declan’s rusty banger and Tony’s gleaming Rolls. From every window female staff, their clean hair flopping, screamed and cheered with excitement. Declan grinned up at them and waved.

In the Gent’s, James lowered the Venetian blind a quarter of an inch and was delighted to see how old Declan was looking and that he was not even wearing a suit or a tie. Tony would not like that at all.

Outside there was almost a punch-up, as the Corinium camera crew battled to get the press out of the way, so they could get their own cameras in and film Declan’s arrival for the lunchtime news bulletin.

Inside the building everyone surged forward to say hullo to Declan. The corridor was swarming with
Midsummer Night’s Dream
fairies coming back from their mid-morning coffee-break. As Declan fought his way through them, shaking hands, Bottom took off his ass’s head to have a better look. Next minute, Titania struggled to Declan’s side, her crown askew, and kissed him on both cheeks.

‘Darling, marvellous you’ve arrived. We must lunch later in the week. Love to Maud.’

‘Wish we’d never started this fucking production,’ said Tony, punching more fairies out of the way.

Mercifully he kept the press conference short: ‘We are all absolutely delighted Declan’s joined Corinium,’ he said, when everyone had been given a glass of champagne. ‘We feel he has a tremendous contribution to make, and has just the right kind of incandescent talent to revitalize our current affairs schedule.’

Declan suppressed a yawn.

‘Why d’you move, Declan?’ asked the very young girl reporter from the
Cotchester Times.

‘Well, to misquote Dr Johnson,’ said Declan, ‘we weren’t tired of life, but we were a bit tired of London.’

‘This Dr Johnson,’ persisted the reporter earnestly, ‘is he a private doctor?’

He’ll crucify her, thought Cameron, waiting for the kill.

But Declan merely laughed. ‘No, definitely National Health,’ he said.

The press conference, in fact, was affability itself, compared with the meeting that followed in Tony’s office.

As Tony, Declan and Cameron trooped past the tiny outer office where Cyril Peacock waited, grey and sweating, for Tony’s reprisals after the disaster of Declan’s arrival, they found Simon Harris, Controller of Programmes, lurking apprehensively in Miss Madden’s office.

‘I’m terribly sorry I wasn’t here when Declan arrived,’ said Simon, following Tony into his office. ‘Fiona’s had to go into hospital, so I had to take the kids to school.’

‘Couldn’t the nanny have done it?’ snapped Tony.

‘She’s had to take the baby to the clinic.’ Simon scratched at his eczema mindlessly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Declan turned to Simon. ‘Is your wife OK?’

‘Multiple sclerosis,’ said Simon helplessly. ‘She’s in for new tests.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Declan again. ‘We met briefly at the Beeb.’ He held out his hand.

The hand that limply gripped his was wet and trembling. Christ, he’s aged, thought Declan, appalled. Simon looked awful. His eyes were unbecomingly frightened, the shoulders of his grey suit were coated in scurf.

‘Well, sit down,’ said Tony irritably, deliberately waving Cameron and Declan towards the squashy dark-green leather sofa which lined two walls of his vast office. Simon Harris had to make do with a hard straight-backed chair right in front of Tony. Despite the room’s size, the plethora of television sets, video machines, and huge shiny-green tropical plants, plus Tony’s massive empty desk and vast carved chair, made it seem unpleasantly overcrowded. A bowl of flesh-coloured orchids on Tony’s desk and, despite the warmth of the day, central heating turned up like the tropical house at the zoo, increased the jungle atmosphere. Any moment Declan expected a leopard to pad out from behind the filing cabinet. As he’d already downed a couple of glasses of champagne, he wanted to go on drinking. But it was at least half an hour until lunchtime.

‘After lunch, Declan,’ said Tony, ‘I’ll hand you over to Cameron, but I thought I’d like to be in at the kick-off.’

Declan looked at Cameron in her sleeveless orange T-shirt and her short black leather skirt. Her hair was greased back, her eyes fierce. She looks like a vulture who’s spent the morning at Vidal Sassoon, thought Declan. He loathed meetings; he wanted to get back to his Johnny Friedlander cuttings.

Furious at having made an idiot of herself in the car park, Cameron was determined to regain the whip hand and weighed straight in: ‘My goal is to give your programme more pizazz,’ she said. ‘We’ve chosen several possible signature tunes. Once we’ve decided on the right one, we can go ahead and cut a disc, which should go straight to the top of the charts with a nice profit for Corinium. But we ought to get it recorded at once. Could you listen to them this afternoon?’

Declan’s eyes, which never left the face of the person he was listening to, seemed to darken.

‘I know what tune I’m having,’ he said flatly. ‘The opening of the first movement of Schubert’s Fifth Symphony.’

‘Too up-market.’

‘The programme’s up-market. It’s a great tune, and it’s in the public domain, so we won’t have to pay copyright. All we have to do is to record a jazzed-up version and pay the arranger. ‘

‘Am I hearing you right?’ exploded Cameron. ‘This isn’t fucking Radio 3.’

‘No,’ agreed Declan. ‘But it’s what I want, so we’re having it.’

Cameron was spitting, but she particularly didn’t want to lose face in front of Tony and Simon, so she tried another tack which would certainly have worked with James Vereker.

‘I keep hearing the same complaint about your programmes.’

‘What?’ said Declan softly.

‘The viewers don’t see enough of you. We want to feature you much more in the interview, that’s why we’ve designed a terrific set with book shelves and some really good abstracts, and this jade-green sofa.’

‘No,’ interrupted Declan sharply. ‘I only interview people face to face.’

‘Confrontational TV’s kind a dated,’ taunted Cameron.

Simon Harris opened his mouth to protest and shut it again.

‘I’m not using a sofa,’ said Declan firmly.

‘Well, we’ll argue about that later,’ said Cameron.

‘We will not. We’ll decide now. I want two Charles Rennie Mackintosh chairs, facing each other six feet apart on pale steely-blue circular rostra.’

‘Steely blue?’ screeched Cameron.

‘Steely blue,’ said Declan firmly, ‘so they rise like islands from a floor of dark-blue gloss. Then carrying on the dark blue up the bottom of the cyclorama into a limitless white horizon.’

‘This is insane!’ Outraged, Cameron swung round to Tony for help. ‘Well?’

But Tony was calmly doing his expenses.

‘It’s Declan’s programme,’ he said smoothly. ‘He knows by now how to get the best out of people.’

‘How does he know until he’s tried a sofa?’

‘Sofa’s make it look like any other chat show,’ mumbled Simon.

‘No one’s asking you, dumbass,’ hissed Cameron.

She’s like a hawk not a vulture, decided Declan. She prefers her victims alive. He imagined her cruising the hillside, scanning the ground for prey, or darting down a woodland ride, scattering terrified small birds.

Squaring her shoulders, Cameron turned back to Declan. ‘And we’re scrapping the introductory package,’ she said. ‘We want you talking to camera for two or three minutes about the guest, to replace all those dreary stills and clips with a voice over.’

‘The point of those dreary stills and clips with a VO,’ said Declan, dangerously quietly, ‘is that they concentrate the viewers’ minds on the guest and set the tone of the interview. I get uptight enough as it is without having to ponce about making a long spiel on autocue. This way I can concentrate on the first questions.’

‘I
must
disagree on this one,’ said Tony, putting down his red fountain pen. ‘The point is, Declan, that you have immense presence. It’s you the viewers turn on for. You should open the programme talking to camera in a really decent suit,’ he added, raising a disapproving eyebrow at Declan’s scuffed leather jacket, check shirt and ancient jeans. ‘It’ll be up to Cameron to make you relax and be less uptight.’

Through half-closed eyes Declan looked at Cameron who was now pacing up and down through the rubber plants burning up the calories. No wonder she was so thin.

‘She?’ said Declan incredulously, ‘
She
make me relax?’

‘We’ve got to be different from the Beeb, ‘snarled Cameron, ‘or they’ll just say we’re serving up the same old garbage.’

‘Anyway we’ve got three weeks to kick the idea around,’ said Tony, ‘and to cheer you up, Declan. I know Cameron’s had a great time dreaming up people for you to interview.’

‘We’ve checked out on all their availability,’ said Cameron.

‘Well, you can just uncheck them again,’ said Declan harshly. ‘I decide who I’m going to interview.’

Cameron stopped in her tracks, glaring at him. ‘They may not be hot enough.’

Declan then stunned the three of them. He was kicking off with Johnny Friedlander on September 21, he announced, followed by Jackie Kennedy the week after.

Frantic now to keep her end up, Cameron snarled that Jackie Kennedy would just rabbit on about her boring publishing job.

‘She may indeed,’ said Declan, ‘but she’s also going to talk about her marriages, and her life as a single woman in New York.’

‘You and she should have much in common, Cameron,’ said Tony bitchily.

Cameron ignored him, but a muscle pounded in her cheek.

‘Isn’t it going to overextend your budget, flying her over?’ she demanded.

Declan suddenly relaxed and gave Cameron the benefit of the wicked gap-toothed schoolboy grin: ‘She’s coming over on a private visit, and she’ll probably stay with us,’ he said.

Fifteen love to Declan, thought Simon Harris joyfully. Then it was game and first set when Declan announced that in subsequent weeks he’d be doing the French Foreign Secretary who was in the middle of a gloriously seamy sex scandal, followed by Mick Jagger, and the most controversial of the royal Princesses.

Desperately fighting a rear-guard action, Cameron said she had lined up a couple of ace researchers, who’d better get started on Johnny Friedlander and Jackie Kennedy at once.

There was a long pause. Very slowly Declan got out a cigarette, lit it, inhaled deeply, and only just avoided blowing smoke in Cameron’s face.

‘I do my own research,’ he said softly.

‘For Chrissake,’ screamed Cameron, ‘you can’t cover subjects like this singled-handed!’

‘I have done for the past ten years. For better or worse, what you’ve bought is not my face, but my vision – what I can get out of people.’

‘It’s a team effort,’ hissed Cameron.

‘Good,’ said Declan amiably. ‘Then I suggest we put your researchers on to finding some decent footage and stills.’

‘We’ve got an excellent library,’ said Simon, tugging his beard.

‘Shut up!’ howled Cameron.

Tony was lasciviously fingering one of the flesh-coloured orchids. Glancing round, Declan tried to analyse the expression on his face. He’s enjoying it, he thought with a shudder, he’s excited by seeing her rip people apart.

Noticing the disapproval on Declan’s face, Tony looked at his watch.

‘That was a very stimulating exchange of views,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘but I, for one, need some lunch.’ Then, deliberately excluding Simon, he added, ‘Cameron and I’ve booked a table at a little French restaurant a couple of miles outside Cotchester. We hope you’ll join us, Declan, and we can carry on the – er – discussion.’ He smiled expansively.

Declan didn’t smile back. ‘Thanks, but I’m lunching with Charles Fairburn. We worked together at the Beeb,’ he added, by way of slight mitigation.

Tony was about to order Declan to cancel, then decided there would be oodles of time later to get heavy. Besides, the clash of wills had turned him on so much he had a sudden craving to take Cameron back to Hamilton Terrace for a quickie.