Rivals (57 page)

‘That is the most cynical remark I’ve ever heard,’ stormed Cameron.

‘Not at all. The secret of a happy marriage is not getting found out.’

‘How d’you know? You didn’t have a happy marriage.’ ‘That’s because I was always getting found out.’

As the election was over, and Tony was tied up all day in meetings in London, she and Rupert had arranged to meet at a hotel outside Henley. As they settled down to Bloody Marys and a splendid view of the Thames, a barge came chugging up stream. Two young girls in bikinis were sunbathing on deck. Cameron watched Rupert run an expert eye over them. Now he had free time on his hands, would she find it increasingly difficult to hold him? All the same, she was still not prepared to burn her boats with Corinium until Venturer had safely won the franchise, and, she had to confess, all the secret meetings with Rupert did give the affair a certain edge.

‘Come on,’ he said, draining his Bloody Mary and picking up the keys of their hotel bedroom. ‘I want to indulge in some mole-molesting.’

But she who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one, must die. Next day, in the Corinium canteen, Daysee Butler and Deirdre Kilpatrick took their cottage cheese and kiwi-fruit salads to a corner table and didn’t notice Cameron sitting next door.

At first there were the usual grumbles about bosses and crews, but just as Cameron had abandoned her shepherd’s pie half-eaten and started on her yoghurt, Deirdre said, ‘I don’t usually read the
Scorpion
but did you see that story that Rupert Campbell-Black’s having an affair with a cook?’

‘Cameron Cook?’ said Daysee in amazement. ‘Lord B won’t like that.’

‘Not Cameron Cook – a cook. Declan O’Hara’s daughter. She does directors’ lunches and things. She’s seriously pretty. Well, according to the
Scorpion
, she’s been canvassing with Rupert and now they’re absolutely inseparable.’

Looking down, Cameron saw she had squeezed her yoghurt so hard that it had spurted all over the table. Without attempting to clear up the mess, she walked out of the canteen into Cotchester High Street and the nearest telephone box.

Rupert was trying out one of his new, very young horses over a row of fences in the field beyond the stables. When the telephone suddenly rang in his pocket, the horse nearly took off back to Ireland. Even when he’d pressed the answer button to silence the ringing, it took all his strength to pull up the terrified animal. All Cameron could hear was a muffled thunder of hooves and expletives.

‘Hullo,’ Rupert said finally.

‘Have you seen the
Scorpion
?’

‘Yes. So what?’

‘All about you and Ms O’Hara.’

‘That was yesterday’s
Scorpion.
They’ve linked me with Mary Whitehouse this morning.’

‘Can’t you be fucking serious?’ screamed Cameron. ‘Everyone’s talking about it.’

‘Good,’ said Rupert. ‘At least it keeps the heat off us.’ Then, as Cameron showed no signs of calming down, he added, ‘Darling, there’s nothing in it, I promise you. As Taggie said in today’s
Star
, “Rupert’s old enough to be my father. In fact he’s a friend of my father’s”.’

‘Doesn’t mean a thing – Augustus John was old enough to be a lot of girls’ great-grandfather – that didn’t stop him. Oh Christ . . .’ she screamed as her money ran out. ‘I’ll call you back in a minute.’

‘Please don’t until you’ve cooled down,’ said Rupert. ‘I don’t want both you and the horse having hysterics at the same time.’

Next time they met, it took a great deal of sweet-talking to win her round.

The next big event in the franchise battle was the public meeting held in Cotchester Town Hall at the beginning of July. Chaired by members of the IBA board, it was supposed to give the general public the chance to air their grievances about existing programme content and quiz the rival applicants about their plans. It also gave the IBA the opportunity to observe the applicants in action and gauge the degree of local support.

In fact, the audience consisted mostly of Corinium, Venturer and Mid-West staff and their local supporters, members of consortiums from other franchise areas who would soon go through the same ordeal, picking up tips, local councillors whose sole object was to persuade Venturer or Mid-West that their borough was the perfect site for the new studios, members of Gay Lib, the Women’s Movement and other pressure groups, and a handful of the public, only interested in gazing at Declan, Rupert and Wesley Emerson.

Much-needed rain had been bucketing down all day, but it stopped just before the meeting was due to start. Venturer arrived first. As Rupert had given them all a pep talk about being properly dressed, Declan had sulkily put on a suit and a tie.

‘And you can get out of jeans,’ he had snapped in turn at Taggie. ‘I’ve hardly seen your legs since you were born.’

Taggie, having rifled through her wardrobe in despair, had rushed into Cheltenham and bought a beautiful violet dress with a scooped neckline, a nipped-in waist and flounced gypsy skirt. Newly washed, her dark hair fluffed down to her shoulder blades as though she’d beaten it with an egg whisk.

Declan, in somewhat unflattering amazement, told her she looked absolutely gorgeous. She was glad she did, when she later found that Sarah Stratton, Cameron, Daysee and Janey had all pulled out the stops. To Taggie’s delight she also found the audience packed with people whose support she had sought in her drives round the area. Local councillors, race relations officers, social workers, ladies from the WI, from as far afield as Southampton, Oxford and Stratford, had turned up and now surged forward to shake her hand.

‘We’ve still got your lovely poster up; we’ve written to the IBA; we’ve been following Venturer’s programme with such interest,’ they all said. ‘We thought we’d come and cheer you on.’

‘Remember me?’ said a gaunt-looking man in a crumpled lightweight suit, which had obviously just been unearthed from a trunk in the attic.

‘Of course,’ said Taggie, quite overwhelmed. ‘How wonderful of you to turn up.’

It was the headmaster with the dyslexic son.

A diversion was caused when Marti Gluckstein, who’d never been to the country before, tried to enter the hall wearing gumboots, a waterproof deerstalker, a riding mac and holding an umbrella over his head.

‘Don’t bring that thing in here. It’s unlucky!’ boomed Dame Edith.

‘Come on, Marti, I’ll buy you a stiff drink before we kick off,’ said Bas, guiding Marti back through the puddles over the road to the Cotchester Arms for a quick de-robing.

Sprinting after them, Rupert handed Bas his hip flask. ‘Can you fill this up with weak rum for Wes? His attention span will never last the course unlaced.’

Wesley, having taken another five wickets that afternoon, and having just been picked for the third test, had been celebrating and was now busy signing autographs.

The next arrivals were three shiny red-faced stocky young men, who’d obviously been in the Cotchester Arms since opening time, who strode up to Taggie waving their tickets. The shortest one, who had hard blue eyes and crinkly hair, thrust a melting box of chocolates into Taggie’s hand.

‘Hullo, Agatha,’ he said. ‘Bet you didn’t expect us.’

‘Sorry we were a bit rowdy when you dropped in,’ said the second.

‘Thought we’d come and give you a bit of support,’ said the third.

It was the Captain and two props from Winchley Rugger Club. Tears filled Taggie’s eyes as she hugged them all. ‘How sweet of you. Come and meet my father. He adores rugger.’

Declan shook them all by the hand several times. ‘Treat Corinium like the Welsh at Twickenham,’ he said. ‘And here they come.’

A great theatrical hiss went up from the Venturer camp as the Corinium mafia trooped in. They were led by Tony, very brown from Ascot. Wearing a new dark-pink and blue silk shirt, a pink tie, and a pink carnation in his buttonhole, he managed to flash his teeth at everyone in the room except Venturer. He was followed by Ginger Johnson, Georgie Baines, who’d obviously had a few to steady his nerves, Mike Meadows, Head of Sport, Charles Fairburn, Seb Burrows, Simon Harris, who’d been allowed back in a consultancy capacity to impress the IBA, and whose straggly beard had turned quite white, Cyril Peacock, false teeth rattling, sweating through his suit, and Cameron, truculent in an elongated black T-shirt which came five inches above her knees. Sarah Stratton, wearing a dress in Virgin Mary-blue, with a white Puritan collar also to impress the IBA, brought up the rear with James Vereker, whose head was held high so more people could recognize him.

‘I fear the Greeks when they come bearing Presenters,’ muttered Declan.

‘Who’s chair?’ James asked Charles Fairburn as the Corinium contingent sat down in the front row.

‘Dunno. Belongs to the Town Hall, I should think,’ said Charles.

‘No,’ said James impatiently, ‘who’s Chair?’

‘I’ve just told you.’

‘I’m asking you, who is chairing the meeting?’

‘Oh.’ Comprehension dawned on Charles’s round red face. ‘Might be Old Mother Goose —’ which was everyone’s nickname for Lady Gosling – ‘but I wouldn’t have thought she’d have bothered to come this far.’

Cameron grabbed a seat at the end of the row by the window, as far away from Tony as possible. All she could see was one of his beautifully polished black shoes, rotating as if he were doing an ankle-slimming exercise – a sign that he was nervous. The company
in situ
always got more flak at public meetings than those seeking to oust it. Tony, frightened of ridicule, knew he was in for a bumpy evening. The entire Corinium contingent studiously ignored Venturer – the committed from distaste, the moles from embarrassment. Henry Hampshire, however, who’d been to a drinks party, had no such reservations.

‘Hello everyone,’ he beamed as he came through the door. ‘Hullo, Taggie darling, you’re looking beautiful. Hullo, Rupert.’ Then, turning to the cringing Corinium contingent, boomed, ‘Oh look, there’s Charles, Georgie and Cameron. Must go and say hello.’

‘Hen-ree,’ hissed Rupert, grabbing his arm and whispering in his ear. ‘You’re not supposed to know they’re on our side.’

‘What?’ said Henry loudly. ‘What’s that? How d’yer mean, not on our side? ’Course they are.’

Fortunately Tony was talking to the Archdeacon and didn’t hear. As Rupert tried to explain, Henry looked as deflated as an English setter who’s been told he’s not going on a walk, then cheered up when he saw Daysee Butler.

‘Who’s she? She on our side?’

‘No, she’s with Corinium.’

‘Damn shame, pretty girl like that, and that’s Sarah Stratton next to her, isn’t it? She’s a damn pretty girl too. Why isn’t
she
on our side? Met her shooting at Tony’s.’

And next moment Henry had broken away from Rupert’s restraining hand and marched across the room to talk to Sarah, who introduced him to Daysee.

‘Just saying to Rupert, pretty girls like you should be on our side.’

Sarah giggled: ‘I don’t think Tony’d like that very much. How’s your Springer spaniel?’

‘How incredible you remembering that,’ said Henry, now beaming down on the two girls like an English setter waving his plumy tail at two bitches. ‘What are you both doing afterwards?’

‘Bugger off, Henry,’ snarled Tony.

‘Hen-ree,’ Rupert dragged him off.

Fortunately at that moment a diversion was provided by Basil returning with Marti, quite soberly dressed now, and Janey Lloyd-Foxe in a pink flying-suit.

‘Hullo, Rupert darling.’ Janey kissed him full on the mouth. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

Rupert tugged up her zip to the bounds of decency, saying, ‘For Christ’s sake go and distract Henry.’

Basil took Rupert aside. ‘I’ve filled up the hip flask for Wesley.’ Then, dropping his voice, he whispered, ‘Those lovely lips just puckered up to meet yours were round my dick at eight o’clock this morning.’

‘What?’ exploded Rupert. ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard,’ said Basil, grinning.

‘How dare you,’ thundered Rupert. ‘She’s married to my best friend.’

‘’Course she is, and very happily. I’m just making sure she doesn’t suffer from post-natal depression when Billy’s away.’

Rupert might well have hit Bas across the room if the IBA – three members of the Board and various members of their staff – hadn’t trooped in and taken up their places on the platform.

‘We
are
honoured,’ Charles whispered to James. ‘Old Mother Goose is in the chair. The IBA must regard the outcome as by no means certain then, if she’s come all this way to have a look.’

‘I can’t think why you’re looking so cheerful,’ said James fretfully. ‘Venturer’s bound to offer me a job if they get the franchise. I mean I am “Cotswold Round-Up”, but, as they’ve got the Bishop to handle religious programmes, I can’t see them wanting you.’

‘Who are those deadbeats over there?’ Janey asked Bas.

‘The Mid-West consortium,’ said Bas. ‘Can’t think they’ll bother us much.’

Rupert, having at last persuaded Henry to stop chatting up Daysee and sit down, collapsed into a seat between Taggie and Declan.

‘How the hell am I going to keep this lot under control until December?’ he said.

Taggie giggled: ‘Henry’s certainly fallen for Daysee.’

‘Let me not to the marriage of true mindlessness admit impediments,’ said Declan.

The audience were now occupying every seat in the body of the hall, with Corinium spread out along the front row and Cameron at the far end by the window. Next to her, at right-angles, on a single row of chairs, sat the Mid-West consortium, who looked a pretty moth-eaten bunch. Facing them, also on a single row of chairs, forming a square with the platform, sat Venturer.

Lady Gosling, decided Cameron, looked more like a hedgehog than a goose, a Mrs Tiggywinkle, with small twinkling intelligent eyes, a long thin nose, a pointed chin and rather wild grey hair, held down on either side by tortoise-shell slides. She wore no make-up and, despite the warmth of the evening, was smothered in several shawls over her olive-green wool dress. The cosy exterior, however, was deceptive and hid a rapier mind. As Head of an Oxford college, Gwendolyn Gosling had taught Russian. Her fellow dons were not altogether joking when they nicknamed her ‘Khruschev’. There was shrewdness beneath the amiability, and the twinkling eyes, like the stars, gave off little warmth.