The Mediterranean suited Tony; his olive skin had already turned mahogany. As he purred round the clipper ship in his dark glasses and discreetly coroneted black shirt, clinching deals and pinching bottoms, he looked more like a pirate king than ever.
Cameron had had plenty of time to compare Tony with Rupert while she was away. Both were reputed to be absolute shits. But, while Tony was coldly sensual, utterly venal, eaten up with envy and sadistically dedicated to putting people down, Rupert, Cameron felt, was only sharp-tongued because he was arrogant and easily bored. Apart from the day they went to Toledo, when he’d been reminded too much of Helen (which showed he was capable of deep feeling), he had been angelic and really interested not only in her as a woman, but in her career, and her programmes. She had been so touched that he’d driven all the way down to Cotchester on that last night, and that after he’d made love to her he hadn’t fallen asleep as most men would, but stayed awake pestering her with questions about what she and Tony would be doing and selling in LA and Cannes.
It was a relief too that he couldn’t call her, so she didn’t go through the roof with expectation every time the telephone rang. Instead, at grave risk, she’d rung him twice from LA and every day from Cannes.
There was no doubt, too, that she was the flavour of the month at the festival. The third series of ‘Four Men went to Mow’ had already been pre-sold world wide. The Corinium publicity department had taken a full page advertisement in Broadcast that week, with a stunning photograph of Cameron holding a baby lamb, with the caption: ‘Cameron Cook works for Corinium, meet her on stand 329’, then listing all the prizes she’d won in the last year. Everyone wanted to congratulate her and offer her work.
Back at The Priory, Declan was still working on the Venturer application, only pausing occasionally to pick up the binoculars on the window seat to check on some newly-arrived migrant bird; swallows, housemartins, whitethroats were all winging in now. Last night he had even heard the first nightingale in the wood.
‘Our duty,’ wrote Declan, ‘is to tell the truth, to be relevant, entertaining and interesting, to monitor power and expose its abuse, to be nobody’s mouthpiece.’
Christ, it was difficult not to use clichés, to be concise: To bring the balloon of the mind that bellies and drags in the wind, as Yeats had so perfectly put it, into its narrow shed.
‘We will give the area a nationally recognized television identity,’ he wrote. ‘This we feel Corinium has failed to do. In their last application they promised to provide a new studio, a new youth orchestra, a trust fund for the arts and sciences, adequate training schemes and worker participation at board level. This they have failed to do.
‘They also promised that fifty per cent of their profits after tax would go to shareholders, and the rest would be ploughed back into making programmes. This they have also failed to do.’
He was about to tackle Venturer’s programme plans, when Gertrude leapt barking off the sofa, scattering papers, as Rupert and Freddie walked in.
‘Christ, you’re a slut, Declan,’ said Rupert, looking round at the files, tapes, coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays that covered every available inch of space. ‘Why don’t you let Taggie tidy up a bit?’
‘I’m superstitious,’ grumbled Declan. ‘I never tidy up between books in case I throw pages away.’
Rupert threw a copy of Broadcast, open at Cameron’s advertisement, down on Declan’s desk. ‘We must have her for Venturer.’
‘She’s riding far too high to be interested in us,’ said Declan quickly.
‘She’s not. She’s really pissed off,’ said Rupert. ‘She was on to me from Cannes only half an hour ago grumbling that Tony’d blued forty-five grand hiring a boat to promote some crappy mini series not even made by Corinium.’
‘We need some ’eavy-weight ladies,’ said Freddie, moving the binoculars and sitting on the window seat.
‘Think how useful Cameron would be for the rest of the year as a mole in the Corinium camp,’ said Rupert.
‘We’ve got Georgie and Seb and Charles,’ protested Declan.
‘None of them sleep with Tony,’ persisted Rupert. ‘We can use her to manipulate him.’
‘More likely Tony’ll use her to manipulate you.’
‘No one manipulates me,’ said Rupert haughtily. ‘I don’t mean to sound conceited, but I do know when a woman’s absolutely mad about me.’
‘You do sound conceited,’ snapped Declan. ‘She may be mad about you at the moment, but it’s a long, long time from May to December, and if you get bored or start playing her up she’ll bolt straight back to Tony with all our secrets.’
‘Look,’ said Rupert patiently, ‘she’s Tony’s only trump card. If the IBA know from the start she’s with us, it’ll totally discredit him.’
‘It’s a risk wurf taking,’ said Freddie. ‘We needn’t tell her too much.’
‘I’ve got to tell her anyway,’ said Rupert flatly. ‘If she reads that we’re pitching for the franchise in the press on Tuesday morning, she’ll never forgive me and there’ll be no hope of ever getting her.’
Declan shook his head. ‘I want it to go on record,’ he said grimly, ‘that I utterly deplore the idea of using her as a mole. It’s unethical and dangerous. Nor is Cameron going to be very pleased when you tell her what you’ve been up to already.’
Freddie scratched his curls. ‘I ’aven’t told Valerie yet,’ he confessed. ‘Been putting it off. Don’t fink she’ll be very pleased either.’
Valerie, in fact, was absolutely livid. Having studied her very good friend Monica Baddingham’s behaviour, Valerie had decided it was upper class to be keen on gardening and she must therefore channel more of her energy into transforming Green Lawns into an absolute paradise. Wearing new gardening gloves and a tan scarf tied at the back of her very clean neck to keep her curls neat, and kneeling on a new green rubber mat, Valerie was now tackling her favourite spot, the mauve and pink garden. Fat mauve clumps of aubretia fell over the walls, candy-pink double cherries danced in the breeze above serried ranks of mauve and pink tulips. Such a pity, sighed Valerie, that none of them would be out for her Opening in July. And then Freddie had to drop this disgusting bombshell about the franchise.
‘We can’t do that to Monica and Tony,’ she shrieked. ‘It’s so unsupportive. Ay’ll never hold my head up high on the Distressed Gentlefolk’s Committee. Who else is behaind it?’
Freddie took a deep breath: ‘Declan O’Hara.’
Valerie was so cross she weeded up a purple tulip. ‘That drunk — he’s practically IRA, and Sharon nearly got raped at their New Year’s Eve party.’
‘And Rupert,’ said Freddie, quailing.
‘Rupert,’ screamed Valerie, as purple now as the tulip she was trying to force back into the earth. ‘He’s a bounder. No female is safe. The evil way I saw him looking at Sharon’s legs when she was wearing her tennis shorts the other day. Even worse, I found a snap-shot of him in her brassière drawer yesterday. And both Declan and Rupert are enemies of poor Tony,’ said Valerie. ‘Monica will be outraged.’
Like a small boy plunging into icy water, Freddie battled on: ‘And Marti Gluckstein and Bas.’