Rivals (46 page)

‘Hey diddly dee, a plutocrat’s life for me,’ sang Cameron, demolishing a tray of chocolates. Then she started worrying about spots. She’d better stop.

There were also telephones everywhere, even in the shower. Tony would be circulating at his drinks party now. It brought her up with a nasty jolt that no one else in the world would like to be called by her, except Patrick and she didn’t know where he was.

She strolled out on to the balcony and saw that there was a little garden restaurant below, with a summer house and floodlit lemon trees and a lawn with a fountain. The tables were filled with handsome, hawklike men with sleek black hair, and beautiful women in suits with very padded shoulders, who were all talking their heads off and having a wonderful time.

Going back into the living-room to attack a pomegranate, she noticed an etching of the Judgement of Paris on the wall. Juno and Athene, both fully dressed, were looking furious, as Venus, who was flashing an ankle and a bare boob, was awarded the apple. Venus looked just like Sarah Stratton. Cameron turned the picture to the wall. It must be tiredness that suddenly made her feel so unbelievably down again. She couldn’t be bothered with supper; taking two Mogadon, she crashed out.

She got up early, spent two hours working out camera angles for the first part of ‘Four Men went to Mow’, then spent the rest of the morning working on Corinium’s application. God it was turgid, longer than
Gone with the Wind
and infinitely less readable: all those Brownie points being notched up with promises to employ independent production companies and set up audio-visual workshops, or subsidize roving repertory companies and youth orchestras. There was also a lot of guff about grass-roots involvement and worker participation schemes. A few figures had been provided, but there was very little talk of profits.

Unable to face tinkering with it any more, Cameron lunched at the hotel, wandered round Madrid, which seemed to be packed with Scottish football supporters, then spent two hours restoring her sanity looking at the Goyas and El Grecos in the Prado. The telephone was ringing as she let herself into her suite. It was Joyce Madden.

‘Lord B’s terribly sorry.’ Cameron could tell Madden wasn’t. ‘He’s been trying to get you all afternoon. He’s sorry but he won’t be able to fly out for the awards. Something’s cropped up. The Duke’s asked him to dine at Badminton tonight. He says he can’t refuse, particularly in franchise year. Hullo, hullo . . .’ but Cameron had hung up.

She was so angry she ate all the chocolates on the silver tray. How dare he, the bastard! Standing her up for a bloody dinner party. Bloody star-fucker.

Absolutely on cue there was a knock on the door and in came a valet bringing a huge bunch of roses.

‘
Sorry I can’t make it, Darling
,’ said the card. ‘
Good luck tomorrow, All love, Tony.
’

Cameron was so furious she went out and hurled the roses over the balcony, watching them whizz round and round until they landed on a mob of cheering fans.

‘Bastard, fucker, asshole,’ screamed Cameron at the top of her voice, then let out an enormous fart, which seemed the only way she could demonstrate her utter contempt for Tony.

‘Hush,’ drawled a voice, ‘you’ll frighten the pigeons.’

Cameron swung round and gave a gasp of appalled embarrassment.

For there, laughing his handsome head off on the next-door balcony, his face as brown as the glass of whisky in his hand, lounged Rupert.

‘What are you doing here?’ muttered Cameron.

‘Watching Hearts win a football match. Never thought I’d get in here, but they had a last-minute cancellation, a Mr Smith.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘What an extraordinary coincidence to find you here. Why are you looking so bad-tempered?’

‘I am bad-tempered. The TV doesn’t speak English.’

‘You expecting guests?’

‘Not any more.’

‘So that bouquet you were bombing the masses with was a peace offering from the Oily Baron?’

‘You’re so fucking perceptive,’ said Cameron sulkily. Then rage overcame pride. ‘Madden just called to say he can’t make it. He’s been summoned to dine at Badminton.’

‘Probably has,’ said Rupert. ‘I know there’s a dinner party there tonight and the Princess is going. Let’s have a drink. Your place or mine?’

‘Mine,’ said Cameron. ‘Give me half an hour while I take a bath and dress.’

‘I wouldn’t bother.’ said Rupert. ‘You’re overdressed as it is.’

It was all going too fast for her. What the hell was Rupert doing here? It could hardly be coincidence. He was the biggest rake in the world. No one emerged unscathed. So why was she feeling so wildly elated, washing her ears when she’d washed them that morning, and trimming her bush, and rubbing Fracas into her belly and inner thighs? As she slid into her new peach satin underwear it seemed to be caressing her in anticipation. For once she didn’t need blusher, the glow came from within. Finally, she put on a pale apricot tunic, very demure and clinging with all the buttons done up, but with the hemline six inches above the knee, making her legs seem endless.

All powerful men are attractive. Men who are powerful and kind are irresistible. For once Rupert seemed to have abandoned his flip cracks and his sexual innuendoes. He appeared to be really, really interested in her career, in Corinium’s programme plans and how they were approaching their application for the franchise. He was also incredibly well informed. She’d always thought he was only interested in sport and screwing.

Cameron was enjoying herself so much she didn’t notice she’d drunk almost an entire bottle of champagne and Rupert had hardly touched his glass of whisky. As the boat race is usually won in the first two minutes by one crew surging ahead and taking advantage of smoother water, so the conquest of Cameron was really achieved in that first hour when she was off-guard and feeling bruised and vulnerable because Tony had stood her up. As Rupert got up to fill her glass yet again, he pointed to the mound of paper on her desk.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Working on the final application.’

‘Anyone bidding against you?’ asked Rupert, idly.

‘Tony’s discovered a group of Bristol businessmen calling themselves Mid-West are having a go. They claim we’re too Cotchester-orientated. But I don’t figure they’re much cop.’

That’s three of us pitching, thought Rupert, reflecting that, as Cameron Cook had such wonderful legs, spying on her was no hardship at all.

‘Is Tony worried?’ he asked.

‘No way, but we can’t afford to be complacent. Southern lost their franchises in 1980, and they didn’t appear to have done anything wrong. The IBA have to make some changes to be seen to be doing their job properly.’

‘What about Declan? Tony lost a network slot there. How’s he going to replace him?’

‘I’m not sure. Declan cost Tony so much dough, and he really zapped him out. Tony can’t stand not being able to bully people. He’s much less uptight since Declan walked out, but he needs a replacement. I guess he’ll poach some top front-of-camera person in the next few weeks, just to distract people from Declan’s departure. The media are still sniffing round.’

‘Any idea who it might be?’ said Rupert.

‘No. Tony loves to surround himself in mystery.’

‘How are you enjoying being Programme Controller?’

Cameron shrugged. ‘Not as much as I expected. There’s so much hassle. Admin bores me rigid. Thinking up brilliant ideas, which other people promptly screw up. I had to sack four people last week. You ever done that?’

‘Frequently,’ said Rupert. Christ, he thought, as Cameron rabbited on, her mouth’s like a dumper. I could use her to unblock my drains.

‘You should get out,’ he said when she finally paused for breath. ‘Any of the network companies would snap you up.’

Cameron looked at the bulky application on the desk. ‘I’d like to see Corinium retain the franchise. I’ll probably look around in the Autumn. Although why I hang in with that bastard, I can’t think. Is it usual to be asked to dine with royalty at the last moment?’

‘No,’ said Rupert.

‘So Tony must have known about the dinner party for ages, and didn’t have the guts to tell me he wouldn’t be coming out.’

‘Probably didn’t want you to make other arrangements,’ said Rupert, emptying the bottle into her glass.

He was shrewd enough to realize that, having existed on a diet of Tony for three years, and having been flaunted at work and on the occasional jolly abroad but ruthlessly excluded from anything else, what Cameron was missing was a legitimate social life. He got to his feet.

‘Well, thanks for the drink. I’m going out to dinner.’

Cameron’s happiness drained away. ‘Goodbye,’ she said coldly, gazing at the plane trees in the square which were turning pink in the setting sun. ‘Well, go on then,’ she snapped a few seconds later.

‘Stop sulking,’ said Rupert. ‘You’re invited as well.’

‘To a restaurant?’

‘No, a private house.’

‘They won’t want me.’

‘Yes they will. Nicky and Mary. You’ll adore them. I’m just going to put on a tie.’

Next door he extracted a tape recorder the width and size of half a pencil from his top pocket, removed the tape, and put it in a secret drawer at the back of his brief case. There’d be too much noise at dinner to isolate anything interesting.

Nicky and Mary turned out to be the British Ambassador and his beautiful wife, who’d been a mad success in Madrid. They lived in a ravishing house a few miles from the centre of the town and the dinner party was just as grand as the one Tony and Monica were enjoying in England, but everyone was so friendly and easy-going and knew all about Cameron coming to Madrid to accept an award, that she instantly felt at home.

Mary, who had known Rupert at the height of his show-jumping career, was a good enough friend not to mind his totally upsetting the rigid protocol usually observed in diplomatic circles by bringing an extra guest, though it did mean a last-minute arrangement of the
placement
. At dinner Cameron sat between the Italian Ambassador and a Spanish duke, who both spoke perfect English. The gossip about royalty, politics and the jet set was sensational, but it was generally accepted that nothing would be passed on.

As Cameron ate the most delicious ravioli filled with scallop and lobster she had ever tasted, the Spanish Duke, who had slicked-back ebony hair, and hooded eyes, talked to her about the national character. ‘As a people we are obsessed with death, but indifferent to it as long as the right attitude is struck. Note the matador’s lack of concern for his own life. Life should be enjoyed now, not devoted to working for some distant fulfilment.’

Cameron looked at Rupert, who was seated on the other side of the table, laughing with his beautiful hostess.

Reading her thoughts, the Duke went on, ‘Rupert in some ways is very Spanish, very brave, very macho, very sad underneath.’

‘Sad?’ said Cameron, amazed. ‘Rupert?’

The Duke nodded. ‘You never saw him in the show ring? It was magnificent. All the grace and courage, and apparent effortlessness of the matador. It must have been terrible for him to give it up. I thought he would drink or womanize himself to death.’

‘He’s made a great success of Minister for Sport,’ said Cameron.

‘It would hurt his pride not to make a success of anything, but he is still not fulfilled, and if the Tories lose the election, as everyone thinks they will, he’ll be out of a job. He needs a great love in his life. I ‘ope you are she.’ He raised his glass to her.

‘What was his wife like?’

The Duke kissed his bunched-up fingers. ‘So beautiful, but quite wrong, nervy and not really interested in him, only what she thought he could become. You can’t change Rupert, only make him more secure.’

With the Cochinillo everyone turned to talk to the person on their left.

‘Rupert is very lucky,’ said the Italian Ambassador. ‘He has always had beautiful women, but seldom so clever. I believe you come to Rome next month for another prize?’

I’m having fun, thought Cameron in amazement. Tony’s virtually kept me in prison for three years. For the first time since New Year’s Eve with Patrick, I’m really having fun.

Rupert took her home just after midnight. They sat on opposite sides of the back of the embassy car and he made no attempt to touch her. In the darkness, she could see his profile, Spanish too with its thick slicked-back hair and forehead which ran down in a dead straight line to his nose. The only luxuriance in such a finely planed face were the wicked long blue eyes which she couldn’t see in the dark, and the fullness of the lower lip. I want him she thought, helplessly; I want to be the woman who brings him fulfilment.

To their left a lot of drunken Scottish football fans were splashing about in a fountain. Above them soared the statue of Christopher Columbus.

‘Can we get out and look at him?’ said Cameron. ‘After all, he did discover America.’

As they got out, Rupert’s hair gleamed in the moonlight.

‘Rupert,’ screamed one of the Scottish fans. ‘Look, it’s Rupert.’

‘No, thank you very much,’ said Rupert, pulling Cameron back into the car.

Furious with herself for wanting him so badly, Cameron spoke only in monosyllables all the way back to the hotel. Totally ignoring the two smiling footmen who leapt forward to turn the revolving door for her, she shot into the elevator. In such a small space, you wouldn’t have thought it possible to be so far apart, but Cameron felt her belly button touching her spine. Falling out of the elevator, she set out at a run across the patterned carpet, then, realizing she’d turned the wrong way, had to retrace her steps. What the hell was the matter with her, Controller of Programmes, mega-prizewinner, woman of substance, flapping around like a blackbird trapped in a fruit cage?

‘I must be pooped,’ she said in an over-bright voice. ‘Thank you so much,’ she mumbled outside her door, and, the moment Rupert had opened it for her, she shot inside.