In Studio 3 two technicians were sitting in Declan’s and Johnny’s chairs, while the crew sorted out lighting and camera angles. Crispin, the set designer, whisked about in a lavender flying-suit. The set was exactly as Declan had wanted, except the Charles Rennie Mackintosh chairs had been replaced by wooden Celtic ones, with the conic back of Declan’s rising a foot above his head like a wizard’s chair: a symbol of authority and magic.
As a gesture of defiance, on the steel-blue tables which rose like mushrooms at the side of each rostrum, Crispin, the designer, had placed blue-and-red-striped glasses and carafes.
‘I want plain glasses,’ snapped Declan.
‘Oh, they’re so dreary.’ Crispin pouted.
‘I want them — and get rid of those focking flowers.’
‘Cameron ordered them specially.’
Declan picked up the bouquet threateningly.
‘Are you trying to bury me?’
‘All right, no flowers,’ said Crispin sulkily.
At six-thirty there was a very scratchy run-through.
‘Can’t you ad lib us through your line of questioning?’ asked Cameron.
‘No.’
‘You must know your first question.’
‘Depends on his mood.’
‘May be looped, you mean. Your bloody fault, asking a junkie on the first programme.’
Declan went off and shook in the men’s lavatory for half an hour. When he returned to the studio the crew were lining up their four cameras before the meal break.
‘Have you heard the latest Irish joke?’ the Senior Cameraman was saying. ‘There was this Paddy who went into a chemist for his heroin fix.’
The crew gathered round, grinning at the prospect of more Hibernian idiocy. Halfway though the story the Senior Cameraman realized he’d lost his audience. Next moment, he was grabbed by the scruff of the neck.
‘You may be the best focking cameraman in ITV,’ roared Declan, ‘but you’ll not work on my programme if you’re going to tell Irish jokes. You don’t dare tell jokes about Jews and blacks or cripples any more; why pick on the poor bloody Irish?’
With a final shake, which threw the Senior Cameraman half-way across the studio, he stalked out.
‘I’ll report you to my shop steward,’ screamed the Senior Cameraman rubbing his neck.
In the bar they were gathering to catch a glimpse of Johnny Friedlander and to support Declan by watching his programme. There was still a latent esprit de corps at Corinium. Someone had deliberately changed the colour on the bar television, so James Vereker’s face looked like a Jaffa orange.
‘What’s your idea of a romantic hero, Ashley?’ he was saying.
‘You are, James.’
‘That’s very sweet of you, Ashley.’ James smoothed his streaks. ‘What’s romantic about me?’
‘Well, you’re so caring, James, and you’ve got an inner strength like Leslie Howard.’
‘Turn the sound down,’ screamed a Rude Mechanical, hurling a handful of peanuts at the screen.
‘Anyone seen Declan?’ asked Daysee Butler, putting her top half, which had Goofy appropriately knitted on the bosom, round the door to a chorus of wolf-whistles. It was getting perilously close to transmission time.
‘In the bog,’ said Charles Fairburn. ‘I’m surprised he doesn’t move his dressing-room in there. Can’t even keep down a brandy.’
‘Declan,’ shouted the Senior Cameraman. ‘You can stop worrying. Daysee’s too embarrassed to come in ’ere, but Johnny Friedlander’s people have just phoned to say they’ve come off the M4 and they’ll be wiv us in twenty minutes.’
‘Thank Christ for that,’ groaned Declan.
‘And ’ere’s a letter for you.’ A piece of writing paper appeared under the door.
‘Dear Declan, it said. ‘We’re sorry we was telling Paddy jokes. We won’t any more, you was quite right.’
All the crew had signed it.
‘PS. Have you heard the one about the Englishman, the Welshman and the Scotsman?’
Declan grinned, then he glanced at his watch, and nearly threw up again. He’d be on air in less than an hour.
Johnny Friedlander arrived in a black limo which seemed to stretch the length of Cotchester High Street. He was accompanied by a publicity girl and four security men. In a second limo were four lawyers. Looking at the bulges in the security men’s suits, the press allowed Johnny to be smuggled into the building without too much hassle.
From the start Johnny’s visit to Corinium went off with a bang. Taking one look at the ravishing Daysee, he pulled her into his dressing-room and locked the door. The four security men stood outside with folded arms.
‘Who’s she?’ asked Johnny’s publicity girl in horror.
‘A piece of ass,’ said one of the security men.
‘Are you quite sure she’s not a reporter?’
‘Couldn’t report a burglary,’ said Charles Fairburn, whisking past, thoroughly overexcited by so much security muscle.
In his dressing-room a pretty make-up girl with sheep in a field knitted on her bosom fussed around Declan. He wished he could lie down in her field and go to sleep.
‘At least let me paint out the dark rings and give you a bit of base; you’re so pale,’ she murmured. ‘And we’ll have to do something about the beard area. You really ought to shave.’
‘I’m shaking so much I’ll cut myself.’
‘I’ll shave you.’
Next moment Cameron stormed in.
‘Johnny Friedlander’s barricaded himself into his dressing-room with Daysee.’
‘Best place for him,’ said Declan. ‘At least if he’s having a bang, he’s not snorting coke.’
In his fifth-floor office, Tony Baddingham, even more nervous than Declan, was dispensing Krug to his special guests, who included several big advertising clients, the Mayor and Mayoress of Cotchester and Freddie and Valerie Jones. By a ghastly mischance, they had also been joined by the Reverend Fergus Penney, a former Prebendary of the Church of England. A fearful old prude constantly inveighing against sex on television, he had recently become a member of the IBA board, and was currently on a tour of the Independent television companies. Now, primly sipping Perrier, he kept peering across the corridor to the board room, where the press, assembled to watch Declan’s first programme on a big screen pulled down against the far wall, were getting drunk and stuffing their faces with quiche and chicken drumsticks.
In a corner of the board room, as disapproving as the ex-Prebendary, sat Johnny’s four lawyers, also sipping Perrier and fingering calculators at the prospect of litigation.
‘Why the fuck d’you ask so many press?’ Tony hissed to Cyril Peacock, who knew he’d have been equally roasted if only a handful had turned up.
Nor did the fact that Tony had been entirely responsible for hiring Declan stop him now blaming everything on Simon Harris. ‘You ought to be able to control Declan, Simon. That’s what you’re here for. He hasn’t even given Cameron a running order.’
‘All she needs now is a prayer sheet,’ said Charles.
‘Declan’s my favourite telly star,’ the Lady Mayoress was saying excitedly to Valerie. ‘I can’t wait to meet him later.’
‘Oh, we know him quaite well,’ said Valerie Jones, on the strength of last Sunday’s lunch party. ‘He always singles me out — because Ay tell him the truth. Ay think famous folk get so bored with flattery.’
A curious tension was building up through the building.
‘Declan’s just cut me dead,’ complained James Vereker, going into the bar. ‘Awfully uncool to get so uptight.’
Daysee came out of Johnny’s dressing-room, looking as though she’d found the Holy Grail.
‘He’s having a quick shower,’ she said. ‘Then he wants Make-up.’