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.