Rivals (62 page)

    'I've always suspected she was treacherous,' said Declan. 'How do we know she hasn't been spying for Tony from the

    very beginning?' 'Don't let's get Le Carre-ed away,' said Rupert. 'We'll just

    have to keep an eye on her.'

    'We'll have to keep an eye on everyone,' said Declan

    grimly.

    In an atmosphere of sniping and growing suspicion, Venturer carried on preparations for the IBA interview. There were secret communications with Georgie, Billy, Harold and Sally, arranging that they would join Venturer if and when the franchise was won it

    no longer seemed a certainty but

    there was no way they could be present at the IBA meeting on 29th November. Night after night without them, therefore, Hardy Bissett fired endless questions at the rest of the consortium, until they were word perfect, and answered almost without thinking. Then he accused them of being too glib.

    One evening Charles Fairburn, desperately trying to hide his anxiety about being fired, turned up dressed as Lady Gosling in a grey wig, half-moon spectacles, and hundreds of shawls, and proceeded to lay everyone in the aisles by answering questions in a high soprano until Hardy sharply slapped

    him down.

    But the questions rolled on: 'How d'you hope to promote interest in scientific matters in your schedule? What is your attitude to training schemes? How will you ensure equal opportunity for women in your company?'

    'By screwing every one of them,' answered Rupert.'Don't be bloody flip,' yelled Hardy. 'You can be funny, but never flip, and, with a female chairman, never never be funny about women.'

    Rupert was bored and fed up. Why the fuck couldn't they tell the truth, that they just wanted to make good programmes and a lot of money, and dispense with all this flannel? He was relieved when Cameron and Declan set off to Ireland for a final week's shooting. He needed some space and time to think. He spent most of the week they were away in London on political work and keeping the rattled Venturer backers happy. Outside his office the last of the plane leaves were drifting down, reminding him unbearably of Taggie. He still had the thirty leaves she and the children had given him. They hadn't brought him much bloody happiness. He steeled himself not to ring her up, or drop round. He was truly terrified how much he wanted to.

45

    When Rupert didn't take advantage of Cameron's week away to ring her, Taggie wanted only to retreat into her turret room in utter despair. But, alas, Monica had asked her to do the food for the first night party for The Merry Widow next Saturday, and when she wasn't cooking and freezing in both senses of the word (now the cold weather had set in, The Priory was absolutely arctic) Taggie was calming down or boosting the morale of an increasingly demanding and nervous Maud. Corinium were showing highlights of the first night and Maud was counting on Declan getting back from Ireland in time. She couldn't face such an ordeal alone.

    In addition the press were on the prowl for a story. Both Venturer and Corinium consortiums were turning out in force and dinner jackets for the first night. The newly sacked Charles Fairburn was playing Monica's lover, Declan's exquisite wife was making her stage comeback, and her leading man was the handsome Bas who was on opposing sides to his loathed brother Tony. With Declan due back from Ireland, with Rupert Campbell-Black's live-in lover, who was also Tony's ex, it was clear that there were endless possibilities for fireworks. 'Cotchester', wrote Nigel Dempster slyly, 'are celebrating Guy Fawkes Day ten days late this year'.

    The Merry Widow dress rehearsal on Friday afternoon was disastrous. The presence of the television crew on a dry run threw the entire cast. Tempers flared, lights dimmed too

    early, lines were fluffed or forgotten. The television director decided to put two cameras in the dress circle and in the two boxes on either side of the stage, so they wouldn't have to take out any stall seats. The technicians stood around yawning, one sound man even fell asleep and snored loudly throughout the second act. James Vereker (Cotchester's dusty answer to Humphrey Burton, according to Charles Fairburn) would be presenting the programme.

    'Just as well we bombed early,' said Barton Sinclair, The Merry Widow's director, but he seemed far from happy.

    Over in County Galway Cameron and Declan were at the end of their last day's filming. Declan, in a dark-blue fisherman's jersey and jeans, his thick black hair lifting in the gentle west wind, was speaking to camera.

    'Hallow this spot,' he began softly. 'Here once stood the proud white Georgian house which belonged to Lady Gregory. Here for the last thirty years of his life, Yeats spent every summer and most of his winters. That's a long time to put up with not the easiest of house guests -' Declan smiled briefly - 'even bearing in mind the number of servants large houses employed in those days. Here in this tranquil, ordered household, Yeats's genius was able to blossom on and on like a rose right into the winter of his days. "I doubt," said Yeats, "if I'd have done much with my life, but for Lady Gregory's firmness and care."

    'Cut!' shouted Cameron. 'That was excellent. We'll now do close-ups of the copper beech on which he carved his initials, and then straight down to the lake for the last shot. We'd better hurry. The sun'll set in three-quarters of an hour.'

    Twenty minutes later Declan was standing on the shore of the lake with a huge blood-red sun sinking gradually behind the coloured trees and casting a warm glow on his face.

    'While Yeats stayed at Coole Park,' said Declan, bending down and picking up a pebble and sending it spinning across the still water, 'he wrote his poetry in a room looking towards this lake, a time lovingly remembered in his poem "The Wild Swans at Coole".' He began to quote softly:

    The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky…

    Oh, that husky, heartbreakingly sexy voice, thought Cameron, feeling the hairs lifting yet again on the back of her neck. She could go to the stake for Declan at times like this. They'd been so lucky with the weather too. Enough leaves still hung from the trees to pretend it was October, but one hard frost would have stripped them in a day.

    The crew, going out to get plastered at an end-of-shoot party, tried to persuade Declan and Cameron to join them, but because they were both tired and faced a late night at The Merry Widow tomorrow, they opted for a quiet dinner at the hotel. Afterwards they sat alone in the bar. Apple logs cracked merrily in the grate, giving off a sweet cider smell. Occasionally the flames flared, lighting up Declan's face, as he sat immersed in the Galway Post, his whisky hardly

    touched.

    Cameron was happy to watch him, memorizing every tiny black bristle of stubble, every deeply trenched line on the battered, craggy Western hero face. Without seeing the rushes, she knew they had made a great programme. Schemes were afoot for other programmes, but this first would always be the most exciting. Exploring and luxuriating in each other's talent, she had learnt so much from him already. Despite the fact that all the crew were at times victims of his almost feudal caprice, he certainly inspired devotion. He allowed no insubordination. Only that morning he'd roared at the sound man for giving the hung-over PA a Bloody Mary for breakfast. He was irascible, with an extremely short fuse, and got so wrapped up in the work that he frequently upset people, but he was so mortified afterwards and so ready to apologize, that they always forgave him, not least because he had more charm than anyone Cameron had ever met.

    Tomorrow, she thought, putting another log on the fire,

    she'd return to Rupert and reality, or was it unreality, with both of them following their separate careers in that huge house with nothing in common except the franchise, only coming together literally for sex in that huge pink and yellow silk-curtained four-poster.

    She wanted to marry Rupert more than anything in the world, to tame and hold such a beautiful man, and have access to all that wealth and privilege. Rupert was her fix, but she was frightened how increasingly she was drawn to Declan. Together they could make an amazing team. He would understand her far better than Rupert, and she would look after him, and sort out his money problems far more efficiently than that parasitic, feckless, hopeless Maud. And what would happen to her and Rupert if they lost the franchise?

    Declan looked up and smiled: 'I'm neglecting you. How's your drink?'

    The barman had wandered off to talk to Mrs Rafrerty about some cows, or it might be cars (Cameron had difficulty with the Irish pronunciation), and had left the whisky bottle and a jug of water on the table for them.

    Cameron was even learning to like whisky without ice; she'd be saying dustbin and petrol soon.

    As Declan filled her glass she said, 'This time in a month, we'll know if we've won. I was just wondering if there was life after franchise for me and Rupert.'

    The dark brooding eyes bored into her. 'I'd like to think there was. I've grown very fond of you both.'

    'Honest?' stammered Cameron.

    'Honest. Under all that bitching and stridency, you're as soft as thistledown. The only problem is that you may be too good at your job for Rupert. He needs a wife to come home to, not one to come home with.'

    'A little stately home maker,' said Cameron bitterly.

    'Partly. He must be the dominant Tom. You'd compete with him, and I'm not sure he could handle you becoming a big star.'

    Then, suddenly, out of the blue, never having mentioned

    it before, he asked: 'Why were you so focking awful to Patrick?'

    Cameron gasped. 'I guess I liked him too much. I was scared. He was so attractive, so elitist, so certain, yet so magnificently unprepared for the knocks that life was bound one day to give him. And Tony was pathological about any competition. All I cared about then was getting to the top, so I could have the space and freedom I needed. There was no way a penniless student could be part of my future goals. I didn't figure he had sufficient weight.'

    'Patrick has more weight than anyone,' said Declan, 'and he's more together. I wish you'd read that play.'

    'And I knew how violently you disapproved of me and Patrick,' said Cameron slyly.

    'Indeed I did,' Declan grinned. 'But I know you better now. He'd suit you better than Rupert. And he wouldn't mess you about.'

    But it's you I want, thought Cameron, resisting a terrible urge to reach out and touch Declan's hand, and then drag him up the black polished winding stairs to her hard narrow bed.

    Wondering if she was crazy to jeopardize what had certainly been their most intimate conversation yet, she said: 'Maud messes you about enough.'

    'Maud,' said Declan, topping up his glass, 'is a dramaholic. That's why she devours novels, soap operas and newspapers like a junkie. Occasionally her heroine-addiction spreads to real life, and she has to live out one of these romantic plots. It never lasts very long.'

    'Has she got something going at the moment?'

    Declan looked out of the window at the moon, peering through the bars of an elder tree like a prisoner. Then he drained half his whisky in one gulp.

    'Yes,' he said harshly, 'Bas.'

    'Doesn't it crucify you?'

    Declan shrugged. 'Adultery isn't the only kind of infidelity. I'm unfaithful to her each time I get locked into work. I can't help myself any more than she can. And if you marry someone

    like Maud you accept the conditions that beautiful people are the blood royal of humanity and not governed by the same rules as ordinary mortals.'

    'She's not that beautiful,' protested Cameron, glancing at her own extremely satisfactory reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.

    'She is to me,' said Declan simply.

    Cameron wanted to shake him. 'How can you be sure one of these men won't come along one day and walk off with her altogether?'

    'She doesn't go after other men for sex,' said Declan arrogantly. 'She knows she'll never better what she has with me. She does it for excitement, flattery and the relief from the loneliness anyone who lives with a writer has to endure.'

    Cameron got up to examine a horse brass, pulling her big black leather belt forward with her thumbs so he could appreciate the slenderness of her waist.

    'Have you ever cheated on her?' she muttered into the flames.

    'No.'

    'Have you ever wanted to?' she whispered to his reflection in the mirror.

    'Yes,' said Declan simply. 'All this week.'

    Cameron stayed motionless by the fire until the heat from the flames became too strong. 'Then it wasn't just me?'

    'It's going on location,' said Declan flatly. 'When you create something you both know is special, it seems natural to have some kind of consummation.'

    'One devoutly to be wished,' said Cameron fiercely.

    'And ludicrously prevalent in television,' said Declan. 'It happens on shoots all the time.'

    'Not like this,' pleaded Cameron. Turning, she went up to him. Idly he reached out and fingered the huge low-slung silver buckle of her belt.

    'It'd complicate things,' he said roughly. 'At a time we don't need complications. Maud would disintegrate; I can't afford to fall out with Rupert. I can't afford anything at the moment.'

    'Don't joke. It's too important,' hissed Cameron, moving her legs between his, pressing her groin forward against the palm of his hand. She felt Declan tremble.

    'We'd be so good together, let's go upstairs now,' she urged. They both jumped as the barman returned.

    'Not much wind tonight, 'he said blithely, 'but what there is is blowing terrible hard.'

    'You look frozen,' said Declan. 'Sit down and have a drink.'

    Fuck fuck fuck, or rather no fuck, Cameron screamed inwardly, as the barman collected a glass and sat down

    between them.

    'You'll be being a bit of a writer, Declan,' he said. 'Did ye know there's another of your kind living not ten minutes from here? Anglo-Irish, name's MacBride.'

    Declan froze, like a dog hearing a rabbit in the undergrowth. 'Dermot MacBride, he lives here?'

    'Came in the other night. Said he'd just finished a play, but he didn't think anyone'd be interested. Thought they'd all forgotten him.'

    'Him!' said Declan incredulously. 'Do you forget Ibsen or Miller? Have you got his address?'

    'I've his number,' said the barman. 'He wanted some manure for his garden.' 'Name's familiar,' said Cameron.

    The angriest of all the angry young men,' said Declan, 'and easily the most unpleasant, and the most talented. He made a bomb from his first play, then the second was so venomous and obscene no one would touch it. He took umbrage and vowed never to write another word. Christ, it's like a new novel from Salinger. Give me the number,' he said to the barman, 'I'm going to ring him.' 'But it's half past eleven,' protested Cameron. Declan was back, ecstatic, ten minutes later. 'He'd gone to Dublin. I rang him there. I'm going to see him at eleven tomorrow morning.'

    'Cutting it a bit fine,' said Cameron. The flight's at one. Maud,' she added bitterly, 'would totally disintegrate if you missed it.'

    'I'll see him alone,' said Declan. 'He's not keen on women. I'll keep a taxi waiting and meet you at the airport.'