Rivals

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Darling, marvellous you’ve arrived. We must lunch later in the week. Love to Maud.’

  ‘Wish we’d never started this fucking production,’ said Tony, punching more fairies out of the way.

  Mercifully he kept the press conference short: ‘We are all absolutely delighted Declan’s joined Corinium,’ he said, when everyone had been given a glass of champagne. ‘We feel he has a tremendous contribution to make, and has just the right kind of incandescent talent to revitalize our current affairs schedule.’

  Declan suppressed a yawn.

  ‘Why d’you move, Declan?’ asked the very young girl reporter from the Cotchester Times.

  ‘Well, to misquote Dr Johnson,’ said Declan, ‘we weren’t tired of life, but we were a bit tired of London.’

  ‘This Dr Johnson,’ persisted the reporter earnestly, ‘is he a private doctor?’

  He’ll crucify her, thought Cameron, waiting for the kill.

  But Declan merely laughed. ‘No, definitely National Health,’ he said.

  The press conference, in fact, was affability itself, compared with the meeting that followed in Tony’s office.

  As Tony, Declan and Cameron trooped past the tiny outer office where Cyril Peacock waited, grey and sweating, for Tony’s reprisals after the disaster of Declan’s arrival, they found Simon Harris, Controller of Programmes, lurking apprehensively in Miss Madden’s office.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry I wasn’t here when Declan arrived,’ said Simon, following Tony into his office. ‘Fiona’s had to go into hospital, so I had to take the kids to school.’

  ‘Couldn’t the nanny have done it?’ snapped Tony.

  ‘She’s had to take the baby to the clinic.’ Simon scratched at his eczema mindlessly.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Declan turned to Simon. ‘Is your wife OK?’

  ‘Multiple sclerosis,’ said Simon helplessly. ‘She’s in for new tests.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Declan again. ‘We met briefly at the Beeb.’ He held out his hand.

  The hand that limply gripped his was wet and trembling. Christ, he’s aged, thought Declan, appalled. Simon looked awful. His eyes were unbecomingly frightened, the shoulders of his grey suit were coated in scurf.

  ‘Well, sit down,’ said Tony irritably, deliberately waving Cameron and Declan towards the squashy dark-green leather sofa which lined two walls of his vast office. Simon Harris had to make do with a hard straight-backed chair right in front of Tony. Despite the room’s size, the plethora of television sets, video machines, and huge shiny-green tropical plants, plus Tony’s massive empty desk and vast carved chair, made it seem unpleasantly overcrowded. A bowl of flesh-coloured orchids on Tony’s desk and, despite the warmth of the day, central heating turned up like the tropical house at the zoo, increased the jungle atmosphere. Any moment Declan expected a leopard to pad out from behind the filing cabinet. As he’d already downed a couple of glasses of champagne, he wanted to go on drinking. But it was at least half an hour until lunchtime.

  ‘After lunch, Declan,’ said Tony, ‘I’ll hand you over to Cameron, but I thought I’d like to be in at the kick-off.’

  Declan looked at Cameron in her sleeveless orange T-shirt and her short black leather skirt. Her hair was greased back, her eyes fierce. She looks like a vulture who’s spent the morning at Vidal Sassoon, thought Declan. He loathed meetings; he wanted to get back to his Johnny Friedlander cuttings.

  Furious at having made an idiot of herself in the car park, Cameron was determined to regain the whip hand and weighed straight in: ‘My goal is to give your programme more pizazz,’ she said. ‘We’ve chosen several possible signature tunes. Once we’ve decided on the right one, we can go ahead and cut a disc, which should go straight to the top of the charts with a nice profit for Corinium. But we ought to get it recorded at once. Could you listen to them this afternoon?’

  Declan’s eyes, which never left the face of the person he was listening to, seemed to darken.

  ‘I know what tune I’m having,’ he said flatly. ‘The opening of the first movement of Schubert’s Fifth Symphony.’

  ‘Too up-market.’

  ‘The programme’s up-market. It’s a great tune, and it’s in the public domain, so we won’t have to pay copyright. All we have to do is to record a jazzed-up version and pay the arranger. ‘

  ‘Am I hearing you right?’ exploded Cameron. ‘This isn’t fucking Radio 3.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Declan. ‘But it’s what I want, so we’re having it.’

  Cameron was spitting, but she particularly didn’t want to lose face in front of Tony and Simon, so she tried another tack which would certainly have worked with James Vereker.

  ‘I keep hearing the same complaint about your programmes.’

  ‘What?’ said Declan softly.

  ‘The viewers don’t see enough of you. We want to feature you much more in the interview, that’s why we’ve designed a terrific set with book shelves and some really good abstracts, and this jade-green sofa.’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Declan sharply. ‘I only interview people face to face.’

  ‘Confrontational TV’s kind a dated,’ taunted Cameron.

  Simon Harris opened his mouth to protest and shut it again.

  ‘I’m not using a sofa,’ said Declan firmly.

  ‘Well, we’ll argue about that later,’ said Cameron.

  ‘We will not. We’ll decide now. I want two Charles Rennie Mackintosh chairs, facing each other six feet apart on pale steely-blue circular rostra.’

  ‘Steely blue?’ screeched Cameron.

  ‘Steely blue,’ said Declan firmly, ‘so they rise like islands from a floor of dark-blue gloss. Then carrying on the dark blue up the bottom of the cyclorama into a limitless white horizon.’

  ‘This is insane!’ Outraged, Cameron swung round to Tony for help. ‘Well?’

  But Tony was calmly doing his expenses.

  ‘It’s Declan’s programme,’ he said smoothly. ‘He knows by now how to get the best out of people.’

  ‘How does he know until he’s tried a sofa?’

  ‘Sofa’s make it look like any other chat show,’ mumbled Simon.

  ‘No one’s asking you, dumbass,’ hissed Cameron.

  She’s like a hawk not a vulture, decided Declan. She prefers her victims alive. He imagined her cruising the hillside, scanning the ground for prey, or darting down a woodland ride, scattering terrified small birds.

  Squaring her shoulders, Cameron turned back to Declan. ‘And we’re scrapping the introductory package,’ she said. ‘We want you talking to camera for two or three minutes about the guest, to replace all those dreary stills and clips with a voice over.’

  ‘The point of those dreary stills and clips with a VO,’ said Declan, dangerously quietly, ‘is that they concentrate the viewers’ minds on the guest and set the tone of the interview. I get uptight enough as it is without having to ponce about making a long spiel on autocue. This way I can concentrate on the first questions.’

  ‘I must disagree on this one,’ said Tony, putting down his red fountain pen. ‘The point is, Declan, that you have immense presence. It’s you the viewers turn on for. You should open the programme talking to camera in a really decent suit,’ he added, raising a disapproving eyebrow at Declan’s scuffed leather jacket, check shirt and ancient jeans. ‘It’ll be up to Cameron to make you relax and be less uptight.’

  Through half-closed eyes Declan looked at Cameron who was now pacing up and down through the rubber plants burning up the calories. No wonder she was so thin.

  ‘She?’ said Declan incredulously, ‘She make me relax?’

  ‘We’ve got to be different from the Beeb, ‘snarled Cameron, ‘or they’ll just say we’re serving up the same old garbage.’

  ‘Anyway we’ve got three weeks to kick the idea around,’ said Tony, ‘and to cheer you up, Declan. I know Cameron’s had a great time dreaming up people for you to interview.’

  ‘We’ve checked out on
all their availability,’ said Cameron.

  ‘Well, you can just uncheck them again,’ said Declan harshly. ‘I decide who I’m going to interview.’

  Cameron stopped in her tracks, glaring at him. ‘They may not be hot enough.’

  Declan then stunned the three of them. He was kicking off with Johnny Friedlander on September 21, he announced, followed by Jackie Kennedy the week after.

  Frantic now to keep her end up, Cameron snarled that Jackie Kennedy would just rabbit on about her boring publishing job.

  ‘She may indeed,’ said Declan, ‘but she’s also going to talk about her marriages, and her life as a single woman in New York.’

  ‘You and she should have much in common, Cameron,’ said Tony bitchily.

  Cameron ignored him, but a muscle pounded in her cheek.

  ‘Isn’t it going to overextend your budget, flying her over?’ she demanded.

  Declan suddenly relaxed and gave Cameron the benefit of the wicked gap-toothed schoolboy grin: ‘She’s coming over on a private visit, and she’ll probably stay with us,’ he said.

  Fifteen love to Declan, thought Simon Harris joyfully. Then it was game and first set when Declan announced that in subsequent weeks he’d be doing the French Foreign Secretary who was in the middle of a gloriously seamy sex scandal, followed by Mick Jagger, and the most controversial of the royal Princesses.

  Desperately fighting a rear-guard action, Cameron said she had lined up a couple of ace researchers, who’d better get started on Johnny Friedlander and Jackie Kennedy at once.

  There was a long pause. Very slowly Declan got out a cigarette, lit it, inhaled deeply, and only just avoided blowing smoke in Cameron’s face.

  ‘I do my own research,’ he said softly.

  ‘For Chrissake,’ screamed Cameron, ‘you can’t cover subjects like this singled-handed!’

  ‘I have done for the past ten years. For better or worse, what you’ve bought is not my face, but my vision – what I can get out of people.’

  ‘It’s a team effort,’ hissed Cameron.

  ‘Good,’ said Declan amiably. ‘Then I suggest we put your researchers on to finding some decent footage and stills.’

  ‘We’ve got an excellent library,’ said Simon, tugging his beard.

  ‘Shut up!’ howled Cameron.

  Tony was lasciviously fingering one of the flesh-coloured orchids. Glancing round, Declan tried to analyse the expression on his face. He’s enjoying it, he thought with a shudder, he’s excited by seeing her rip people apart.

  Noticing the disapproval on Declan’s face, Tony looked at his watch.

  ‘That was a very stimulating exchange of views,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘but I, for one, need some lunch.’ Then, deliberately excluding Simon, he added, ‘Cameron and I’ve booked a table at a little French restaurant a couple of miles outside Cotchester. We hope you’ll join us, Declan, and we can carry on the – er – discussion.’ He smiled expansively.

  Declan didn’t smile back. ‘Thanks, but I’m lunching with Charles Fairburn. We worked together at the Beeb,’ he added, by way of slight mitigation.

  Tony was about to order Declan to cancel, then decided there would be oodles of time later to get heavy. Besides, the clash of wills had turned him on so much he had a sudden craving to take Cameron back to Hamilton Terrace for a quickie.

  ‘What are your plans for the afternoon?’ Cameron asked Declan sulkily.

  ‘I’m going home,’ said Declan. ‘I’ve got Johnny’s cuttings and all my reference books are there.’

  ‘I trust you’ll do most of your research in the building and report regularly to me and Tony,’ she said. ‘This is a group effort. OK? We want to be fully briefed at all times. Cock-ups occur at Corinium when no one knows what anyone else is doing.’

  As she flopped down again on the green leather sofa, Declan immediately got up, as if he couldn’t bear to share the same seating. From the depths of the sofa, he seemed to Cameron almost to touch the ceiling, his massive rugger player’s shoulders blocking out the light, his face bleak and uncompromising. She never dreamed he’d be so dauntingly self-confident.

  ‘I have to be left alone,’ he said, speaking only to her. ‘It’s the only way I can operate.’

  ‘I’m producing this programme,’ she said furiously.

  ‘Yes, but it’s my programme you’re producing.’

  For a second they glared at each other, then a knock on the door made them start. Round it, like the rising sun, came Charles Fairburn’s red beaming face.

  ‘Are you through, sweeties?’ he said blithely. ‘Because I’ve come to take Declan to din-dins.’

  They lunched at a very pretty pink and white restaurant off the High Street. Pretty waiters in pink jerseys and pink-and-white striped bow-ties converged on Charles.

  ‘We’ve got your usual table,’ they said, sweeping him and Declan off into a dark corner.

  ‘Good boys,’ said Charles. ‘You know how I detest windows, they show up my red veins. Now get your little asses into gear and bring me a colossal dry Martini, and my friend here would like? Whisky is it still, Declan?’

  ‘Bad as that, is it?’ asked Declan three minutes later, as Charles drained his dry Martini and asked the waiter for another one.

  ‘Well, I don’t want to slag off the company on your first day, dear boy, but things are a shade tense.’

  ‘Cameron Cook,’ said Declan, tearing his roll savagely apart.

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘What’s her position in the company?’

  ‘Usually prostrate. She’s Tony’s bit of crumpet. Officially she’s Head of Drama – particularly appropriate in the circs as she’s always making scenes, but she’s also got a finger up to the elbow in every other pie. That’s how she talked Tony into letting her produce your programme.’

  ‘Simon Harris has aged twenty years. He used to be such a whizz-kid.’

  ‘Well, he’s a was-kid now, and totally castrated. He’s been threatening to have a nervous breakdown since Cameron arrived. Unfortunately he can’t walk out, because he’s got a second mortgage on his house, an invalid wife, three young children, and two to support from his first marriage.’

  ‘Quite a burden.’

  ‘Makes one feel like Midas by comparison, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Declan, thinking of his tax bill.

  ‘Well, Cameron, as you no doubt observed, jackboots all over Simon and every time he or anyone else queries her behaviour she bolts straight to Tony. The food is utterly wonderful here,’ Charles went on, smiling at the prettiest waiter. ‘I’ll have liver and marmalade and radicchio salad. Ta, duckie.’

  Declan, who liked his food plain, ordered steak, chips and some french beans.

  ‘And we’d like a bottle of No. 32, and bring us another whisky and a dry Martini while you’re about it,’ said Charles. ‘Hasn’t he got a sweet little face?’ he added, lowering his voice.

  As soon as the waiter had disappeared to the bar, however, Charles returned to the subject of Corinium: ‘The entire staff are in a state of revolt. They’ve all been denied rises, and they’re forced to make utterly tedious programmes in order to retain the franchise. James Vereker’s ghastly “Round-Up” is just a wank for local councillors and Tony’s business chums; and the reason why Midsummer Night’s Dream is taking so long is that you can’t get a carpenter to build a set – they’re all up at The Falconry building an indoor swimming pool and a conservatory for Tony, when they’re not installing a multi-gym and Jacuzzi for Cameron.’

  Declan grinned. Charles, he remembered from the BBC, had always had the ability to make things seem less awful.

  ‘Nor,’ added Charles, draining his third dry Martini and beckoning to the pretty waiter to pour out the claret, ‘are the staff overjoyed that you’ve been brought in at a vast salary – yes they all read the Guardian yesterday – to wow the IBA. Gorgeous Georgie Baines, the Sales Director, who’s stunning at his job incidentally, a
nd whose expenses are even larger than mine, went straight in and asked Tony for a rise this morning. Tony refused, of course. Said they were paying you the market price. Depends what market you shop in, shouted Georgie, and stormed out.

  ‘Thank you, duck,’ he added as the waiter placed a plate of liver reverently before him.

  Declan stubbed out his cigarette. Suddenly he didn’t feel remotely hungry any more.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Charles, cheering up as the Martinis began to take effect, ‘the staff like the idea of you, Declan. Christ, this liver is ambrosial. I’ve told them you’re a good egg.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Declan dryly.

  ‘They all admire your work, and they can’t wait to see the fireworks when you tangle with Ms Cook.’

  ‘I already have,’ said Declan, watching the blood run out as he plunged the knife into his steak. ‘Tell me about Tony.’

  ‘Complete shit, but extremely complex. One never knows which way he’s going to jump. Believes in deride and rule, plants his spies at all levels, so really we’re all spying on each other. But he does have alarming charm, when it suits him. Because he’s so irredeemably bloody most of the time, when he’s nice it’s like a dentist stopping drilling on a raw nerve.’

  ‘What’s the best way to handle him?’

  ‘Well, he claims to like people who shout back at him like Cameron does; but, unfortunately, after a row, you and I can’t make it up with him in bed, which I bet is where he and Cameron are now. Things were so much more peaceful when he spent all his time in London, but the IBA’s warning him to spend more time in the area neatly coincided with his falling in love (though that’s hardly the word) with Ms Cook, so he’s down here making a nuisance of himself most of the time now.’

  Charles suddenly looked contrite.

  ‘You’re not eating a thing, dear boy. Have I upset you?’

  ‘Yes, but I’d rather know the score.’

  ‘My budget has been so slashed,’ said Charles, pinching one of Declan’s chips, ‘that I intend to interview two rubber dummies in dog collars on the epilogue tonight. Not that anyone would notice.’