Rivals (2 page)

    After his programme with Rupert and the Home Secretary at Thames Television yesterday, Charles Crawford had gone on to the Garrick to dine with Tony.

    'As an old friend,' said Charles, greedily pouring the cream Tony had rejected together with his own supply over his strawberries, "I don't see what else we can do but give you a stinking mid-term report. You promised us Corinium would provide at least ten hours' drama a year for the network, and all you've produced is one lousy cops-and-robbers two-parter, totally targeted at the American market. Why can't you provide some decent programmes, like Patrick Dromgoole does at HTV?'

    For a second Tony gritted his teeth. He was fed up with having Patrick Dromgoole and HTV held up to him as models of perfection. Then pulling himself together he filled up Charles Crawford's glass with priceless Barsac.

    'Things are going to change,' he said soothingly. 'I've just poached Simon Harris from the BBC as Programme Controller. He's very hot on drama, and has dreamed up a terrific idea for a thirteen-parter, a cross between James Herriot and "Animal House".'

    'Well that's a start,' grumbled Charles, 'but your regional programmes are quite awful too. Your territory which

    you conveniently seem to have forgotten stretches

    from Oxford to Wales, and from Southampton to Stratford. And you're supposed to cover the whole area. That's why we gave you the franchise.

    'We also know you've been spending Corinium advertising profits, which should have been spent improving your programmes, buying up…' Charles ticked the list off with his fat fingers, 'a film production company, a publishing firm, a travel agency, a cinema chain, a film library, and a safari park, and what's this I hear about plans to buy an American distribution company? American, for Christ's sake.'

    'That's fallen through,' lied Tony. 'It was only an idea.'

    'Well, keep it that way. Finally you've got to spend more time in your area. Many of your staff have absolutely no idea what you look like. I could understand if you had to live in the middle of Birmingham or even Manchester, but Cotchester must be the most delightfully civilized town in the country. We awarded you the franchise to reflect the region responsibly, and we've given you a very easy ride up till now.'

    And I've given you some bloody good dinners, thought Tony sourly, as Charles sniffed appreciatively at a passing plate of welsh rarebit.

    'But when Lady Gosling takes over from me in the autumn,' went on Charles, spooning up the last drop of pink cream, 'you're all going to feel the chill cloud of higher education across the industry. Lady G believes in quality programmes and lots of women at the helm. Go on producing your usual crap, and you'll be out on your ear.'

    Having brooded on this conversation and on Rupert Campbell-Black's contumely the entire flight, the only thing that managed to cheer Tony up was when the limousine that met him at Kennedy turned out to be at least three feet longer than Rupert's and twice as plush.

    Tony's rule, once he got to America, was never to check what time it was in England. To compensate for such an unsatisfactory start to the day, he spent the next few hours in a heady spate of wheeling and dealing, selling the format of two sit-coms and a game show for such a large sum that it wouldn't matter even if they bombed. It was only when he got back to the Waldorf and found three messages to ring his very demanding mistress, Alicia, and, checking the time, realized that he couldn't because it was long after midnight and she'd be tucked up in bed with her husband, that he suddenly felt tired.

    He kicked himself for agreeing to dine with Ronnie Havegal, Head of Co-Productions at NBS, particularly as Ronnie had asked if he could bring some producer called Cameron Cook.

    'Cameron's a good friend of mine,' Ronnie had said in his Harvard drawl. 'Very bright, just done a documentary on debutantes, up for a Peabody award, real class; they like that sort of thing in England.'

    With his royal-blue blazers, butterscotch tan, and streaked hair, Tony had often wondered about Ronnie's sexual preferences. He didn't want to spend an evening avoiding buying some lousy programme from one of Ronnie's fag friends. Yanks always got class wrong anyway.

    Christ, he was tired. Unable to master the taps in the

    shower, he shot boiling lava straight into his eyes. Then, forgetting to put the shower curtain inside the bath, he drenched the floor and his only pair of black shoes.

    Tony spent a lot of money on his clothes and ever since he'd seen Marlon Brando in Guys and Dolls as a teenager tended to wear dark shirts with light ties. The new dark-blue silk shirt Alicia had given him for his birthday would be wasted on two fags. He would keep it for lunch with AH MacCraw tomorrow. Dressed, he fortified himself with a large whisky and put the presentation booklet of Four Men went to Mow', Simon Harris's new idea for a thirteen-part series, on the glass table, together with a video of possible exteriors and interiors to give the Americans a taste of the ravishing Cots wood countryside.

    He was woken by Ronnie ringing up from downstairs. But when Ronnie came through the door, Tony suddenly didn't feel tired any more, for with him was the sexiest, most truculent-looking girl Tony had ever seen. Around twenty-six, she was wearing a straight linen dress, the colour of a New York taxi, and earrings like mini satellite dishes. She had a lean, wonderfully rapacious body, long legs, very short dark hair sleeked back from her thin face, and a clear olive skin. With her straight black brows, angry, slightly protruding amber eyes, beaky nose and predatory mouth, she reminded him of a bird of prey beautiful,

    intensely ferocious and tameable only by the few. She gave out an appalling sexual energy.

    She was also so rude to Ronnie, who was very much her senior, that at first Tony assumed they must be sleeping together. He soon realized she was rude to everyone.

    'This is Cameron Cook,' said Ronnie.

    Nodding angrily in Tony's direction, Cameron set off prowling round the huge suite, looking at the large blue urn in the centre of the living-room holding agapanthus as big as footballs, the leather sofas and arm chairs, the vast double bed next door, and the six telephones (with one even in the shower).

    'Shit!' Her voice was low and rasping. 'This place is bigger

    than Buckingham Palace; no wonder you Brits need American co-production money.'

    Tony, who was opening a bottle of Dom Perignon, ignored the jibe, and asked Cameron where she came from. 'Cincinnati.'

    'City of the seven hills,' said Tony smoothly. 'But you must have bought those legs in New York.' Cameron didn't smile.

    'You don't look like a Lord, more like a Mafia hood. What do I call you: Your Grace, Sir, my Lord, Baron, Lord Ant?' 'You can call me Tony.' He handed her a glass.

    Cameron picked up the presentation booklet of 'Four Men went to Mow'. Kicking off her flat black shoes, she curled up, looking very tiny on the huge pockmarked red leather sofa. 'What's this shit?'

    'Cameron!' remonstrated Ronnie.

    'Corinium's latest thirteen-parter,' explained Tony. 'We aim to start shooting in October.'

    'If you get American finance,' said Cameron, sharply.

    Tony nodded. 'We'll put it cut early in the evening; should appeal to kids and adults.'

    'Dumb title. What the shit does it mean?'

    'It's the line of an English song,' said Tony evenly.

    'Thought it was a series about back yards.'

    'It's about four agricultural students living in a house.'

    'I can read, thank you,' snapped Cameron, running her eyes down the page. 'And someone finds someone in bed with someone in the first episode. Jesus, and you're expecting this shit to go out as wholesome family entertainment in Middle America, where we haven't seen a nipple on the network for years.' 'Don't listen to Cameron,' said Ronnie. 'She needs a muzzle in the office to stop her savaging her colleagues.' 'Shut up and let me read it.'

    Ronnie then proceeded to update Tony on the recent changes at NBS. They axed twenty people last week, good people who've been there fifteen years. The new business guys are running the place like a supermarket.' But Tony wasn't listening. He was watching this incredibly savage girl with her skirt rucked up round her thighs. Christ, he'd like to screw all that smouldering bad temper out of her. As if aware of his scrutiny, she glanced up.

    'There's too much air in this glass,' she said, holding it out for a refill.

    'You're too old for TV at twenty-five these days,' Ronnie rattled on obsessively. 'I work with a guy of fifty. He lives in such constant fear of his age getting out, he keeps on having his face lifted." Ronnie looked desperately tired. Beneath the butterscotch tan, there were new lines round the eyes. Cameron chucked the presentation booklet back on the glass table. 'Well?' Tony raised his eyebrows.

    'Schmaltz, schlock, shit, what d'you want me to say? It's utterly-provincial, right, but the dialogue's far too sophisticated. If you're going to appeal to Alabama blacks, Mexican peasants and Russian Jews in the same programme, you can't have a vocab bigger than three hundred words. And I don't know any of the stars.' 'No one had heard of Tim Piggott-Smith, or Charles Dance, or Geraldine James before "Jewel".' 'They'd heard of Peggy Ashcroft. Your characters are so stereotyped. And you've got the wrong hero, Johnny's the guy the Americans will identify with. He's got drive, he comes from a poor home, he's going to make it. The Hon Will's got it already. What's an Hon anyway?' 'A peer's son,' said Tony.

    'Well, make him a Lord. Americans understand Lords. And they're all far too wimpish. Americans are pissed off with wimps. We've seen too many guys crying in pinnies. You can't wear your sensitivity on your silk shirtsleeve any more.

    Tony, who'd never done any of these things, warmed to this girl.

    'Go on,' he said.

    'As a nation, we're getting behind the family and the strong patriarch again. There's a large part of the population that want men to reassert themselves, be more aggressive, more accountable, more heterosexual. And you've got a marvellous chance with four guys in a house together to explore friendship between men, I don't mean faggotry; I mean comradeship. It was a great Victorian virtue, but no one associated it with being gay. Today's man shoots first, then gets in touch with his feelings later.' 'Is that how you like your men?' said Tony, getting up to put the video into the machine.

    'Shit no, I'm just talking about the viewers. You've got one of the guys ironing the girl's ball gown for her; yuk!'

    Tony filled up her glass yet again.

    'Have a look at this.'

    Up on the screen came a honey-coloured Cotswold village, an ancient church, golden cornfields, then a particularly ravishing Queen Anne house. 'We plan to use this as Will's father's house,' said Tony.

    'Bit arty-farty," snapped Cameron, as the camera roved lasciviously over a lime-tree avenue, waterfalls of old roses, and a lake surrounded by yellow irises. 'Beautiful place,' said Ronnie in awe.

    'Mine,' said Tony smugly.

    'Don't you have a wife who owns it as well?' said Cameron, feminist hackles rising.

    'Of course; she's a very good gardener.'

    'Looks like fucking Disneyland,' said Cameron.

    Switching off the video machine, Tony emptied the bottle into Cameron's glass and said, 'Corinium did make more than twelve million pounds last year selling programmes to America, so we're not quite amateurs. Some of the points you made are interesting, but we do have to appeal to a slightly more sophisticated audience at home.' 'We ought to eat soon,' said Ronnie. 'You must be exhausted. '

    'Not at all,' said Tony, who was looking at Cameron, 'must just have a pee.'

    Alone in the bathroom, he whipped out his red fountain pen and in the memo page of his diary listed every criticism Cameron had made. Then he brushed his hair and, smiling at his reflection, hastily removed a honey-roast peanut from between his teeth. Fortunately he hadn't been smiling much at that bitch. Even in a packed restaurant swarming with celebrities Cameron turned heads. There was something about her combative unsmiling beauty, her refusal to look to left or right, that made even the vainest diners put on their spectacles to have a second glance. Immediately they'd ordered, Ronnie went off table-hopping. 'Nice guy,' said Tony, fishing.

    'Very social register,' said Cameron dismissively. 'Watch him work the room, he makes everyone feel they've had a meaningful intimate conversation in ten seconds flat.' 'Seems a bit flustered about the blood-letting at NBS.'

    Cameron took a slug of Dom Perignon. 'He needs a big success. Both the series he set up last year have bombed.'

    'Given him an ulcer too.'

    Cameron looked at Tony speculatively.

    'I guess you've never had an ulcer, Lord Ant.'

    'No,' said Tony smoothly. 'I give them to other people. How do the NBS sackings affect you?'

    Cameron shrugged. 'I don't mind the sackings or the rows, but now the money men have moved in, I figure I'll have less freedom to make the programmes I want.' 'How d'you get into television?'