‘But driving down to see me before I flew out to LA and all those questions you asked me? Did you give that “Stowaway” story to Dempster?’
Rupert nodded. Truth, however devastating, was the only answer now.
‘And, Christ, how much have I already told you this weekend?’ whispered Cameron, looking at her watch. ‘And our application’s already gone in.’
Rupert had expected rage, tantrums, having his face clawed, but not this numb state of shock.
‘I trusted you,’ she said slowly. ‘You’re the first person I’ve trusted since I was fourteen. I thought you were so caring, you bloody Judas. This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.’
‘It isn’t as awful as it seems,’ said Rupert soothingly. ‘I thought you were the sexiest thing on two legs the moment I saw you. Didn’t I offer you a lift home after Valerie’s dinner party? I would have moved in both at Declan’s party, if young Patrick hadn’t been making the running, and at Corinium, if Tony hadn’t been hanging about. If I hadn’t fancied you to death, I’d never have bothered coming out to Madrid. I wanted to level with you but I didn’t know how you’d react. We couldn’t afford to let you rush back to Tony and tell him everything, in case he exoceted our bid before it got off the ground.’
Cameron leapt to her feet, tugging down the T-shirt. ‘And I figured you were really interested in me. What a joke. I know how Declan detests me. He must have cracked up, and I suppose Patrick and that dumbass Taggie were in on it too. Christ, you must have been all laughing yourselves sick.’
She was crying now — angry, agonized rasping tears, and Rupert suddenly appreciated her terrible insecurity, her paranoia, her vulnerability and her terror; for the first time his heart was truly touched by her. Getting up, he tried to take her in his arms and comfort her.
‘Angel, you’ve got it wrong. No one’s laughing at you. I want you, I absolutely adore you. We all want you to join Venturer. We were just picking our moment. We’ve got an absolutely alpha line-up, but you’d be the jewel in our crown, and you’d be totally free to make the programmes you wanted.’
‘Get out of my way!’ screamed Cameron. ‘I hate you! I never want to see you again!’ And, diving under his outstretched arms, she bolted out of the door.
Rupert had never felt such a shit in his life. She’ll have to get her clothes and her suitcase from upstairs, he thought; I can cut her off on her way downstairs. But Cameron shot straight out of the front door, and next moment he heard the wheels of the Lotus crunching on the gravel. Tony was probably still on his way down from London and Cameron couldn’t rage round to The Falconry in nothing but that T-shirt, but she’d be on to him on the telephone in a flash. The early-warning system had gone off. It was just a matter of time before the H-bomb landed.
30
All over the country on Sunday, 2nd May, the independent companies and those consortiums who sought to oust them were assembling, colour-coding and ring-binding forty copies of their application document on A4 paper — complete with attached confidential material — to be delivered to the IBA headquarters in Brompton Road by noon the following day.
Corinium, to be on the safe side, had submitted their application the day before. Venturer, who were pushed for time, spent a wildly exciting Sunday at Freddie’s house in Holland Park knocking their final draft into shape.
Everyone agreed that Declan had done a masterly job. But Freddie and Marti Gluckstein, who arrived looking like a costive lizard, felt Declan’s bald and somewhat arrogant claim that ‘We can find £15 million; just ring Henriques Bros’ was inadequate, and were therefore considerably extending the financial section. Freddie and Lord Smith were going through the technical specifications with a toothcomb, while Harold White, Janey Lloyd-Foxe, Charles Fairburn, Dame Enid and Professor Graystock were having fun jazzing up the programme content.
Bas, having provided architects’ plans for the conversion of Cotchester House into studios and offices should Tony turn nasty, was now playing chemmy with Henry Hampshire, the Lord-Lieutenant, who hadn’t spent a Sunday in London for twenty-five years, and with Wesley Emerson, who had nothing really to add to the bid except his illustrious presence. The Bishop was driving up to London immediately after Evensong. Maud, who’d come for the ride, was playing the piano. Upstairs, Ursula and Freddie’s secretary were frantically typing and re-typing drafts and then running okayed pages off on the word processor.
Taggie was in the kitchen. She had given everyone pâté and cheese for lunch, and was now making chicken Estragon for the celebration dinner. Four plump boiling chickens, carrots and onions were already simmering in a huge pan on the Aga. There was an extremely complicated and hazardous sauce to be made later, involving egg yolks, cream and lemon juice which might easily curdle. But at least having tramped the length of Notting Hill Gate that morning, she’d found some fresh tarragon.
From the next-door room she could hear screams of laughter.
‘We must do a series on local studs called “Dongs of Praise”,’ Janey Lloyd-Foxe was saying. ‘We can start off with Rupert; then we won’t have to pay him a fee.’
‘Rupert’d screw a fee out of us anyway,’ said Charles.
‘Well, the programme’s about screwing,’ said Janey.
Janey was absolutely gorgeous, thought Taggie. Rupert had said she was nearly forty, but, except for the fine pencilling of lines round her wicked dark brown eyes, you’d never have known it. Poor Billy, her husband, was abroad covering the Paris Tennis Tournament for the BBC, and Janey had turned up with the most adorable baby, who was so fat, smiling and gurgling that even the men wanted to hold her. And Janey was so blonde and beautiful, and had such wonderful brown breasts after a week in Portugal, that no one minded her breastfeeding at all.
‘I’ve got a terrific idea for a game show,’ Janey was now saying. ‘You have a panel and they have to guess who the celebrity is by interviewing the cleaners who work for them. We call it “Daily Daily”. Mrs Makepiece can give us some wonderful stories about James Vereker, and Mrs Bodkin would be riveting about Rupert’s goings on. Mrs Bodkin used to work for us,’ continued Janey, shifting the baby to her right breast. ‘The first time we got a cordless telephone she found it in our bed and, assuming it was some auto-erotic device, discreetly hid it in my pants’ drawer. Then, when it started ringing, Billy, who was expecting some summons to jump for Britain, went frantic trying to find it.’
Everyone screamed with laughter.
‘Don’t you think it’s a brilliant idea, Declan?’
‘No,’ said Declan, who already adored Janey. ‘The IBA would think it otterly undemocratic.’
‘Well, what about an English “Dallas”, wife-swapping in the Royal triangle?’ said Janey.
‘Later,’ said Declan, ‘when we’ve got the franchise.’
They were all so bright and clever, thought Taggie wistfully. She had contributed nothing. ‘An army marches on its stomach,’ Declan was fond of telling her, but she was sure that everyone would have been just as happy with an Indian takeaway this evening and that her father had only suggested she did the food in order to involve her.
In the house opposite, a lot of young people were sprawled on the drawing-room carpet drinking red wine and reading the Sunday papers. It all came back to reading, thought Taggie despairingly. If she didn’t keep at it, she’d lose the ability more and more, like not talking French. She must try harder.
She pored over the Estragon recipe in the book, but half the words were in French. Embarrassed at having to resort to a tape recorder she shut the door, so no one could hear.