Cameron caressed his cheek. ‘Are you coming with me tonight?’
Rupert shook his head. ‘Not safe. There’ll be too many press.’
Despite no sleep, Cameron looked so seductive in her new kingfisher-blue backless that Rupert nearly dragged her back to bed again.
‘Uh, uh.’ Cameron skipped out of the way. ‘I’ll stagger onto the podium like John Wayne as it is. I hope I don’t fall asleep in the speeches.’
As soon as she walked into the Reception she realized that it was a very good thing she’d come by herself. There was Ivor Hicks, Corinium’s corporate development controller, chatting up a tough-looking Spanish woman. She also recognized people from Granada and TVS, and one of Robert Maxwell’s henchmen.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she whispered to Ivor.
‘Tony’s after a stake in Spanish television,’ said Ivor. ‘The Government here’s creating three new channels. Tony wants twenty-five per cent of one of them. Maxwell, Granada and TVS are after the same thing.’
Cameron sighed. ‘That means less money for programmes.’
‘But more security for Tony, in case he loses the franchise,’ said Ivor. ‘Diversification is the name of the game.’
Rupert gave Cameron half an hour. Then, seeing her going into dinner on television, he went systematically through her Filofax, dictating her future appointments into his tape recorder — and a lot of Tony’s that she’d listed. Then he opened her briefcase, and removed the Corinium application. It was very bulky, like smuggling in Lady Chatterley’s Lover when he was at Prep School.
At first the pretty girl on the reception desk told Rupert the office was closed and there was no way the application could be photostated. But Spanish guests at the hotel seldom had such blond hair, or such blue eyes, or such good teeth, or waved so many thousands and thousands of pesetas in front of her. She would see what she could do, she said. She’d have to secrete the application into the office, it might take a little time, as the manager was about. She’d ring Rupert’s room as soon as it was done. Sweating, he went back upstairs and paced up and down drinking whisky. On television the awards were well underway. Stars were tottering up on to the platform wiping their eyes and thanking every member of the crew, and every madre and padre for the help they had given. What if Cameron had been on already and, overcome with lust, was belting back to him?
Going downstairs again, he met the receptionist, very flustered, but with the completed copy. It was only when he got back to his room that he realized the silly cow had put it back out of order; the sections on ‘Master Dog’ and ‘Dorothy Dove’ didn’t follow on and James Vereker’s afternoon programme was in the middle of Engineering specifications. It was a long and laborious task to get them in the right order, and even then Rupert wasn’t sure he’d done it right. For the third time he rushed down to get the various chapters stapled together.
He was just getting back into the lift when he saw Cameron coming through the revolving door. Pressing the button, he creaked up to the seventh floor, rushed along to her room, which he’d rashly left open because he didn’t have a key and double-locked it on the inside.
With trembling hands he shoved the original back in her briefcase, hoping it was the right way up, snapped the clasp and shoved the copied pages inside his jacket under his arm. The next minute there was a tantivy on the door.
‘Rupert, open up,’ said Cameron.
Pretending to rub the sleep out of his eyes, he opened the door. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t want to be disturbed by maids replacing chocolates and turning down beds. How was it?’
‘Scary,’ said Cameron. ‘I’ll never, never be mean to any front-of-camera people again. Wasn’t it awful when I dried?’
‘You were sweet,’ lied Rupert, ‘and they were all so touched you tried to speak Spanish.’
Fortunately Cameron was a bit pissed. ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.
‘I wasn’t hungry,’ said Rupert, edging towards the door. ‘In fact I’ve got a bloody awful headache.’
‘I’ve got some Panadol,’ said Cameron, going to her briefcase.
‘I’ve got something even stronger next door,’ said Rupert hastily. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
Back in his suite, he nearly died. He’d never had nerves like this in the old days when he was show jumping, and screwing everyone else’s wives. With shaking, sweating hands, he stuffed the photostated application in the secret compartment of his briefcase.
Cameron had kicked off her shoes and was lying on the bed drinking white wine when he got back.
‘Good thing you didn’t come,’ she said. ‘There were so many people who’d have recognized you. I picked up a Sunday Times.’
‘Thanks.’
Rupert turned immediately to the sports page, she noticed, then the smile was wiped off his face.
‘Fucking hell!’ He turned to the front page.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Riots after both semi-finals of the FA Cup,’ he howled. ‘Petrol bombs thrown at the police, two policemen stabbed, cars overturned and burnt, shop windows smashed, twenty people taken to hospital, forty-five arrests. Fucking, fucking hell! I play hookey for one weekend and this happens.’
In a second he was on to Gerald in London.
‘I’ve been trying to get you since yesterday, Minister.’
There were obviously other people in the room or Gerald would never have been so formal.
‘Is it very serious?’
‘Yes — four people are still in intensive care.’
‘I’ll fly back tonight.’
‘I’m sorry, Minister. After all your hard work, it’s a most tragic setback.’
By one o’clock, Rupert managed to get on to a private jet, arranged by the British Ambassador. He seemed to have forgotten Cameron’s existence until he was leaving.
‘I’m sorry to walk out on you, angel. I’m just so pissed off. I was so certain I’d pegged the violence.’ He took her face in his hands. ‘Look, it’s been great. I won’t ring you in case I get Tony, but promise to ring me. Here’s Gerald’s number; he’ll know where to find me.’
And he was gone.
It’s a beginning, thought Cameron, hanging over the balcony to see if she could catch a glimpse of him getting into his car. It was still warm. Breathing in the scent of the lemon trees rising from the little garden, she had a sudden vision of Rupert’s beautiful house in Gloucestershire and all that wonderful sweep of land, and decided the only status symbol she really wanted was a Cartier wedding-ring with R C-B and CC engraved inside.
28
Rupert went back to England slap into a political storm. The dramatic drop in football hooliganism had been a high spot of the Tory administration. Now, after a sickening day of violence, their claims were looking very dubious. With an election in the offing, the opposition were roaring for blood and, in an emergency debate on Monday night, tabled a motion of no confidence in the Minister for Sport and howled for Rupert’s resignation. Although Rupert was certain left-wing militants were behind the riots and hinted as much in the House, he couldn’t prove it yet and the Government won the debate by the narrowest majority. Some of his own side were not displeased by events; Rupert had been the PM’s darling for too long. The Cup Final was not until 11th May, but all Rupert’s energies were now channelled into seeing the violence wasn’t repeated.
He spent most of the next week trying not to lose his temper with the pack of reporters snarling at his heels as he visited the two devastated football clubs, and comforted those who’d been hurt in the riots. As a result, he didn’t get down to Penscombe until late Wednesday afternoon, landing the helicopter on the lawn.