Rivals (43 page)

Taggie popped her head round the door: ‘Anyone want more drinks?’

Too excited to be deflected, Declan shook his head. So did Freddie, who’d hardly touched his glass. Only Rupert handed out his. ‘Please, angel,’ he said with a grin, ‘and could I have soda this time?’

‘Oh goodness, did I give you Coke? I’m really sorry, and poor Mr Jones must have had Bacardi and soda.’

‘I don’t think he’s noticed,’ said Rupert.

As Freddie and Declan got more and more excited over their plans, Rupert thought about Taggie, how she’d trembled when he kissed her, and how adorable she’d looked with her long legs in those black boots, and her hair tied back like a boy soldier. But he mustn’t think about her, he told himself grimly. She was Declan’s kid daughter, totally out of bounds. Wrenching his mind back, he heard Declan saying: ‘In fact Tony’s only trump card with the IBA is Cameron Cook, and the staff are in a state of uproar about her as it is.’

‘How would it be if I seduced her on to our side?’ said Rupert idly.

‘We don’t want
her
!’ Declan exploded. ‘She’s a treacherous evil bitch.’

‘Not once I’ve sorted her out,’ said Rupert. ‘I was always good with difficult horses. I guarantee to have her eating out of my hand in a few weeks.’

RIVALS

Overwhelmed by the day’s vicissitudes, Declan went to bed and didn’t emerge for thirty-six hours, waking on Saturday morning to thank God he wouldn’t ever have to work for Tony again, before falling back to sleep. On Sunday he woke to a glorious day and apologized to his darling Maud for being such a bear. She apologized for being such a bitch and, after he had explained about bidding for the franchise and selling the wood to Rupert to raise some cash, they vowed that things would be better between them and made passionate, ecstatic love. Replete, tranquillized, Maud wondered why she had ever wanted to look at anyone else. Taggie, as she cooked lunch later, listened to her mother singing and playing Schubert
lieder.
She found these staggering
volte-faces
bewildering, but felt only relief that the row was over.

Rupert, having spent Saturday hunting and on constituency business, rose early on Sunday and tried out each of a new intake of horses that had arrived from Ireland earlier in the week. One dark bay mare was really exceptional, incredibly quick off the mark with a huge wild jump. In a couple of years he could have made a world-class horse out of her. He felt, as always, that reluctance to sell her on, that temptation to have one more crack at show-jumping, then put the thought sternly behind him. An election was in the offing this summer and there was the franchise to be won. He was seeing Declan and Freddie that afternoon to work out a plan of campaign. They had arranged to meet at Freddie’s house because they wanted to keep their bid secret until the applications went in, and because the press were still hanging around Penscombe Court and The Priory hoping to get some juicy story about Declan’s exit from Corinium.

Handing the mare back to one of the grooms, Rupert mounted his old Olympic gold medal horse, Rocky, for a ride round the estate, as he always did if he was at home on a Sunday. The pack of dogs raced ahead putting up pheasants, chasing rabbits, snuffling down badger sets and foxes’ earths. Rocky loved these outings, and to prove they were both still great, Rupert put the old horse over the occasional wall and any streams or fallen logs in their path. Rupert’s eagle eye missed nothing, a loose wire here, a tree blown across a fence there, which would have to be repaired before sheep were moved in, how poor or good the grass was in each field, and how the winter barley was spreading in an emerald-green haze over the rich brown earth.

In the distance he could hear Penscombe church bells ringing, and the rattle of a clay shoot. Across the valley The Priory was in shadow with the sun behind it. The beech trees in front were a crimson blur as the buds thickened. Soon the leaves would be out and he wouldn’t be able to see the house any more. Taking the muddy track that wound high above the Frogsmore, he noticed the first primroses blooming happily and safely under wild rose and bramble bushes, the spiky branches keeping the predatory grazing horses and cattle away.

In their sweet pale trusting innocence, the primroses reminded him of Taggie, who, he felt, could only blossom in life if she were fiercely protected. He suddenly wished he could be those spiky powerful branches keeping away anyone who threatened her. He imagined putting her on his gentlest horse, showing her all over his land, pointing out his favourite places, then making love to her among the wild flowers, as he had done to so many other women before – but with Taggie it would be different. Christ, he must get a grip on himself and get stuck into someone else very quickly. Thank goodness Nathalie Perrault was arriving this evening for a few days, and there was still the conquest of Cameron Cook to be orchestrated.

Back at Penscombe, stripped for a bath, Rupert got on to the scales and winced. Twelve and a half stone: at six feet two, no one could call him fat, but it was a far cry from the honed muscular leanness, the eleven stone, produced by eight hours in the saddle, which he’d trained down to before the Olympic Games and the World Championship. Too many dinners, too much booze, not enough exercise, he was hopelessly unfit. If he was going to seduce Cameron, he’d have to knock off a stone first – that meant no alcohol, and just meat, fish and vegetables for the next month.

When he rolled up at Freddie’s house, Declan, looking ten years younger, had already arrived, and he and Freddie were poring over a book called
How to Win The Franchise.

‘The first thing we gotta do is appoint a chairman,’ said Freddie.

‘Better be you,’ said Rupert.

‘OK,’ said Freddie, ‘but we’ll need someone respectable like a lord or a bishop or somefing as deputy chairman.’

‘We must also remember,’ said Declan, ‘that the IBA, despite all their pronouncements about quality, are looking for applicants who won’t go broke in the first eighteen months, and who’ll be able to produce programmes that’ll keep the company in the black over the next eight years. That’s why we need a very experienced MD and a very strong Programme Controller.’

‘You’d better be MD, then,’ said Rupert.

‘But I’m terrible with money.’

‘You know about television. I’ll be Financial Director, and I’ll get hold of a shit-hot accountant to keep an eye on you. Sandwiched between him and me and Freddie, you can’t go far wrong.’

‘I’ve got just the man for Programme Controller,’ said Declan: ‘Harold White, ex-ITN and BBC. Currently Director of Programmes at London Weekend. He’s bloody good.’

‘I’ve been doing some sums,’ said Freddie. ‘We’ll need at least fifteen million to keep the station going for the first two years, but before that we’ll need at least two hundred grand up front as burn money to pay for brokers, bankers, running costs and to launch the publicity campaign.’

‘Which we’ll forfeit if the bid fails,’ said Declan.

‘Right,’ said Freddie. ‘Why don’t we put that up ourselves? Give us some control.’

Rupert was about to agree. Then, catching sign of Declan’s twitching face, said, ‘Let’s argue about that later. Now which do we find first, board or backing?’

‘Backing’s easy,’ said Freddie. ‘Let’s get the right people first. Apart from the directors, who are actually going to run the station, we need some local millionaires, and a liberal sprinkling of the great and the good as non-executive directors.’

‘Before we approach anyone, we’d better come up with a name,’ said Rupert.

‘I’ve been thinking. What about Venturer?’ said Declan.

‘Sounds all right,’ said Freddie. ‘What’s it say it means in the dictionary?’

‘Someone who’s daring and willing to take risks, someone who’s prepared to brave dangers, or embark on a possibly hazardous journey.’

In Declan’s deep husky voice it sounded wonderfully romantic.

‘Perfick. What we going to use as a logo?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that too,’ said Declan. ‘You know that bronze I admired in your sitting-room, Rupert?’ He turned back to Freddie. ‘It’s of a boy in an open-necked shirt and knickerbockers with bare legs. He’s shading his forehead with his hand as he gazes into the distance. It’s ravishing and it’s got the right mix of strength and grace and vision.’

‘I’ve seen it, it’s grite,’ said Freddie in excitement. ‘We’ll get someone to draw it; then we can put it on all our stationery and on the front of the application.’

‘We’d better get T-shirts and ties and car stickers printed,’ said Rupert, ‘and posters too. Just imagine a poster of Taggie in a Victory for Venturer T-shirt!’

‘What about a studio?’ said Declan.

‘Well if Tony Baddingham’s prepared to sell the Corinium building, it would be much cheaper to take over that,’ said Rupert. ‘But, in case he turns really nasty, we’d better make contingency plans.’

Valerie Jones was absolutely livid. She never admitted reading the
Scorpion
, but the weekend fish had arrived in Saturday’s edition, and Valerie couldn’t miss the huge headline announcing that Declan had resigned from Corinium while getting disgustingly drunk with Rupert, and now they were both closeted together in Fred-Fred’s den, and the air was thick with cigar smoke, and she was sure they were up to no good. She’d grumbled so much in the past about Freddie blasting her out with his music that he’d had the room thoroughly sound-proofed. Now she couldn’t hear a word that was going on inside, even when she went outside and pretended to pull non-existent weeds out of the flowerbed under the window. How could they keep the windows closed on such a lovely day?

‘Shall I take them in afternoon tea?’ said poor fat Sharon, who still cherished a long-range crush on Rupert.

‘No,’ snapped Valerie. ‘You haven’t done your religious study yet. Miss Fidduck said at least an hour a day; nor have you groomed Merrylegs. What is the point of your father buying you an event horse?’

As Sharon waddled upstairs, Valerie could bear it no longer.

‘Afternoon tea,’ she announced ten minutes later, barging into Freddie’s den with a tray.

Declan was striding up and down the room scattering cigarette ash. Freddie was whizzing round excitedly in his revolving chair. Rupert lounged on the sofa, playing with one of Freddie’s executive games, which involved clashing huge ball-bearings against each other. All three of them looked up with ill-concealed irritation.

‘What a fug,’ said Valerie, dumping down the tray and throwing open the window, so all Freddie’s papers blew around.

‘I don’t know how you can stay inside. I hope you won’t be long, Fred-Fred. We’re due at Sir Arthur’s for cocktails at six-thirty and you promised to walk round the grounds with me beforehand.’

She turned to Rupert and Declan: ‘We’re opening Green Lawns to the public in July. All proceeds to the NSPCC. I’m surprised you’re not opening Penscombe Court this year, Rupert,’ she added, raising her voice to cover the increasing clash of ball-bearings.

‘You can hardly expect the public to look at a lot of weeds,’ said Rupert.

‘But you’ve got buckets of time to get it shipshape. It seems so selfish not to raise the money if you can.’ Valerie gave her little laugh.

‘I’m sure the NSPCC would prefer a cheque,’ said Rupert evenly.

‘I don’t expect Maud’ll be interested in opening
your
garden,’ went on Valerie, turning to Declan. ‘I’ve just read all about your exploits in the
Sunday Express.
Tony Baddingham is quoted as saying one of the reasons you left Corinium was because you couldn’t face being knocked out by “Dallas”.’

As Freddie gently shooed her out, Rupert and Declan both reflected that not throttling Valerie before December would be infinitely harder than winning the franchise.

The next five weeks were frantic. Many of the bidders for franchises in other territories had spent several years perfecting their applications, raising the cash, and getting their boards together. To speed up the operation, Freddie, Declan and Rupert divided the role of recruiting officer between them.

‘There’s no point enlisting people who won’t contribute anything,’ said Declan. ‘We mustn’t confuse celebrity with attainment, and they
must
live in the area. Once we land a really big fish, the rest will follow.’

Hubert Brenton, Bishop of Cotchester, whom luckily Declan hadn’t bitched up during his New Year’s Eve interview and who was currently furious with Tony for deciding to televise Easter Communion at Gloucester Cathedral rather then Cotchester, was the first to be signed up. Declan invited him to lunch at The Priory the following week, and, as it was Lent and a Friday, Taggie cooked the most succulent Coquille St Jacques, followed by sole Veronique. Maud, with a cross round her neck and her titian hair drawn back in a bun, gravely asked the Bishop to say Grace, and pointed out the beautiful spring flowers in the centre of the table, which her children had sent her for Mothering Sunday.

Rupert, who, as part of his getting-fit-for-Cameron-Cook campaign, was off the booze, provided the most exquisite white wine. Caitlin, who, unlike poor Sharon Jones, had passed her religious studies O-level, was able to converse with the Bishop at length about St Luke, and particularly the Prodigal Son.

There was a dicey moment when she dropped her bread, butter-side down, and said ‘Shit’, but by then the Bishop was fortunately talking to Maud about his recent trip to the Holy Land. Fortunately, too, he’d been wandering round the Sea of Galilee last weekend and missed the newspaper reports of Declan’s exit from Corinium. Over the lemon sorbet, Declan and the Bishop discussed how thrilling it would be to dramatize Lytton Strachey’s brilliant essay about Cardinal Newman and Cardinal Manning, who had both lived in Oxford, which was, after all, within the franchise area.

After lunch Maud, Taggie and Caitlin discreetly withdrew, and Declan produced Rupert’s venerable port.