by Jilly Cooper
‘Get out! I’ll move out tomorrow, but leave me alone now.’ She collapsed, sobbing, on the sofa. Regurgitating her past with Patrick earlier had only underlined how terrifying it was to have no security. She was a panic-stricken sixteen-year-old again, racing through the night away from Mike with nowhere to go.
Tony poured two fingers of brandy into a glass, then moved towards her, until she could feel the solidness of his thigh against hers. She resisted the temptation to cling on to it, as a child might fling its arms around a tree for comfort.
‘You were jealous, really jealous,’ purred Tony. ‘Was that why you led that boy on?’
‘Sure.’
He caught her hair, yanking her head back. ‘Did you sleep with him?’
‘Yes,’ she muttered. Then, terrified he was going to hit her or throw the brandy into her face, ‘But not the way you think, I was so goddam tired. I hadn’t slept for nights worrying about everything. I crashed out on his bed.’
‘And nothing happened?’
‘Nothing, nothing! He’s just a kid.’ Oh please make him believe her.
‘Did Declan know you spent the night there?’
‘No, I never saw him. He never came out of the bedroom.’
With the franchise coming up this year, Tony decided, he didn’t really want to lose her, but he was going to enjoy torturing her a bit more.
‘And you promise never to see the boy again?’
‘I promise,’ said Cameron wearily. ‘But he may try to see me.’
‘We’ll have to put pressure on Declan to stop him then, won’t we?’ said Tony silkily, as he took off Cameron’s jacket.
‘That is a very disturbing dress. I’d rather you didn’t wear it in public again.’
Putting his hand under the skirt, he jabbed two fingers up inside her.
Cameron winced. ‘I can’t, Tony, not tonight. I’m really pooped.’
‘You can,’ said Tony softly, ‘if you want to be Controller of Programmes.’
Three days after Patrick’s party Taggie was gingerly testing her heart and finding that the ache for Ralphie was much less acute than she’d expected it to be when the doorbell rang.
In the doorway stood Rupert. His suntan was already beginning to fade.
‘Hullo,’ he said, soulfully gazing into her eyes. ‘Since your wonderful party, I haven’t been able to eat a thing.’
‘Oh my goodness,’ stammered Taggie, her heart beginning to thump.
Rupert grinned. ‘Could I possibly have my knives and forks and plates back?’
Taggie was used to unrequited love. Patrick, however, was not. Hopelessly spoilt by his mother, accustomed to attracting girls effortlessly, he couldn’t believe Cameron didn’t want to see him any more.
Despite Declan’s tirades and Taggie’s pleading, he continued to pester her with letters and telephone calls. Then, when these were not answered, he hung round the Corinium studios and outside her house.
Cameron, in fact, had hardly had time to think. As well as producing Declan’s programme and coping with her new job as Acting Controller of Programmes, she had to face a virtual palace revolution from a staff outraged by her appointment.
The afternoon before he was due to go back to Trinity, Patrick rang Cameron at the office. Expecting a call from Rupert about coming on Declan’s programme, Cameron unthinkingly picked up the telephone instead of leaving it to her secretary.
‘Can I speak to Cameron?’ said Patrick.
Cameron froze. Putting on a cockney accent, she said, ‘I’m afraid she’s not at her desk at the moment.’
‘Where is she?’ snapped Patrick. ‘Lying with the Managing Director under his desk.’
Cameron hung up.
The telephone was ringing again as she got home that evening. Running into the hall, she snatched up the receiver. It was Rupert answering her call.
‘We were talking about a date for you to come on Declan’s programme,’ she said with a confidence she didn’t feel. ‘I was just hoping to firm you up.’
Rupert laughed. ‘Extraordinary terminology you use in television.’
His diary was ridiculously full, but to her amazement he said he could make a Wednesday in February, which turned out to be St Valentine’s Day. He’d been so adamant he wouldn’t do the programme.
‘And in case I don’t bump into Declan beforehand, can you ask him if he’s free for dinner afterwards?’
Cameron didn’t say that after Declan had taken Rupert to the cleaners she thought it most unlikely.
‘That was a good party on New Year’s Eve,’ said Rupert. ‘I saw you bopping in your suede dress. I hoped you’d jump out of your skin.’
The next moment Cameron nearly did jump out of her skin, as she felt a kiss on the back of her neck. Patrick had walked in through the unlocked door.
‘Get out,’ hissed Cameron, clapping her hand over the receiver.
Shaking his head, Patrick sauntered into the living-room. She caught a blast of whisky as he passed.
Talking gibberish, furious at having to wind up her conversation with Rupert so abruptly, she said goodbye and went into the living-room, where she found Patrick hurling darts at the dart board.
‘Nice place you’ve got here. I can see why you wouldn’t want to give it up in a hurry.’
‘Get out,’ screamed Cameron.
‘Not until you tell me why you didn’t ring back.’
He went up to the board, and pulled out the darts. His hands were shaking, his eyes were black hollows in a deathly pale face. He must have lost pounds; he looked terrible.
‘There was no reason to call back. We had a fun day.’
‘A fun day?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Was that all it meant to you, after the sunrise, and all you told me about your mother and Mike and you falling asleep in my arms?’
‘Shut up,’ hissed Cameron, looking round in terror, expecting Tony to pop up from under the piano.
Patrick picked up a huge bunch of anemones which he’d left on the dentist’s chair.
‘I bought you these. For Christ’s sake, I love you. Can’t you understand that?’
In answer Cameron snatched the flowers from him and hurled them into the fireplace. Patrick winced and turned back to the dart board. The first dart missed, crashing into the wall, the second hit the glass in the frame of one of Cameron’s awards, the third hit a plate.
‘Pack it in,’ said Cameron more calmly. ‘If Tony turns up, he’ll kill us both.’
‘He’s a fiend. I’ve been checking up on him,’ said Patrick, sitting down at the piano. ‘He’s so avaricious,’ he went on between crashing chords, ‘even the bags under his eyes have got gold in them, and he’s corrupting you too, turning you into his pet Rottweiler to savage any of his staff he wants to reduce to jelly. You’ll never get out of the Underworld if you stay with him.’
‘Tony suits me,’ said Cameron over the din. ‘We’ve been together for three years, OK? My career’s the only thing that matters.’
‘So you agreed to drop me if he made you Controller of Programmes?’
‘You flatter yourself. What can you offer me?’
Patrick’s hands came down in a jumble of discords. ‘I, being poor,’ he said bitterly, ‘can only offer you my dreams.’
‘Stop talking like a prime-time soap.’
‘You should know, you make enough of them. Can I have a drink?’
‘You’ve had enough,’ snarled Cameron. ‘Tony’ll be here in a minute.’
‘And he’ll settle you in that dentist’s chair,’ said Patrick scornfully, ‘and say “open wide”, and then it’s Wham, bam, thank you, Mammon. My Christ.’
He slammed the piano lid down and got to his feet.
‘Don’t be obnoxious,’ hissed Cameron.
On New Year’s Day, when she’d sobbed in his arms, he’d seemed so strong. Suddenly now he looked terribly young and frightened. Cameron was too insecure herself to be drawn to frailty.
‘I’m truly sorry,’
he muttered. ‘It hurts loving you, that’s all. Look, I’ll do anything. I’ll chuck Trinity, get a job. It’ll be easy with Pa’s connections.’
‘Always fall back on Daddy, don’t you?’ taunted Cameron. ‘You bitch about his philistine programme, but you’ll bleed him white when it suits you. Well I’m not having you bleeding me white. Can’t you get it into your Neanderthal skull that I don’t want you around?’
Guilt at the way she’d treated him made her even more brutal.
‘I can’t help myself,’ said Patrick, going towards the door. ‘La Belle Dame sans merci has me totally in thrall.’
He went to the nearest pub and drank until long after closing time. The landlady felt sorry for the beautiful, obviously desolate young man sitting there quietly gazing into space.
At midnight Patrick parked his car four houses down from Cameron’s and got out. It was a punishingly cold night. Cotchester slumbered beneath her eiderdown of snow. In a sky russet from the streetlamps huge stars flickered. Icicles glittered from Cameron’s gutters. In front of the house beside Cameron’s green Lotus was parked Tony’s bloody great dark-red Rolls Royce with the Corinium ram on the bonnet. There was a light on in the top of the house – Cameron’s bedroom, guessed Patrick. He imagined Tony brutally clambering over her lovely body. The Sunday before last she’d lain in his arms, pliant as a child. He wanted to plunge one of the icicles into Tony’s heart.
Wearing only a jersey and an old pair of cords, he was shivering violently now. Then he noticed that Tony’s car keys were still in the dashboard. Trying the car door he found it open. The lecherous bugger had obviously been in such a hurry to get at Cameron he’d forgotten to lock it.
Easing open the door, pulling out the keys, Patrick chucked them into a nearby flower bed. They landed deep in a lavender bush, hardly scattering the snow.
At four o’clock in the morning Tony looked at his watch. ‘I must go.’
Cameron didn’t dissuade him. She was utterly shattered. To eradicate any memory of Patrick, Tony had recently insisted on indulging in sexual marathons. Four times that night, he thought smugly; no one could accuse him of losing his touch. Cameron daren’t complain. She was also twitchy that Patrick might do something insane to rock the boat.
Hearing Tony let himself out, she was just falling asleep when she heard a key turn in the door. It was a sound that always unnerved her, reminding her of Mike. For a wild moment of dread and longing she thought it might be Patrick.
‘Did I leave my keys here?’ shouted Tony.
By the time they’d upended the entire house, the car and the drive, screamed at each other and nearly frozen to death, the lights had come on in the houses opposite and curtains were twitching in the houses on either side. There was no way Tony could start the Rolls, or get someone to help push it out of the way. If he rang Percy, his chauffeur, it would be round the entire network in a flash, so he spent the next three hours frantically and abortively ringing round the country, trying to find another set of keys.
In the end he had to order a taxi from the station. His temper was not improved by the driver recognizing him and slyly my Lording him all the way home.
Arriving at The Falconry, he had to provide Monica with a ridiculously convoluted explanation that he’d decided to come home that night, but that his car had gone into a skid on the motorway and he’d had to abandon it. He then had to keep her in bed in the morning, so she wouldn’t drive into Cotchester and see his car parked outside Cameron’s house.
As it was, poor, loyal Cyril Peacock tracked down a key and removed the Rolls by midday, but by then almost the entire Corinium staff had seen the car on their way in to work and had had a good laugh. That afternoon, Cameron passed the staff noticeboard. Beneath the card announcing her appointment as Acting Controller of Programmes, someone had added the words: ‘and Mistress of the Rolls’.
Later that day, Patrick rang Cameron from Birmingham Airport to say goodbye.
‘Did you steal Tony’s keys?’ she shouted.
‘Tell him to look under the lavender on the left of the front door.’
Cameron let Patrick have it. ‘You stupid asshole. If Monica had come by and seen the car, you’d have landed Tony in a divorce court.’
‘I thought that’s what you wanted.’
‘Don’t be so fucking infantile.’
‘I couldn’t help it.’ Patrick’s voice faltered. ‘I can’t bear to think of that great toad in bed with you.’
‘Get out of my life,’ screamed Cameron. ‘You don’t know the rules.’
‘I love you.’ Patrick was almost crying.
‘Well, I don’t love you. You’re a fucking nuisance. Piss off and try and do something worthwhile with your life.’
She was dead scared of telling Tony about the keys, but was amazed to find that he was grimly pleased.
‘What a very silly little boy to put such a very large nail in his father’s coffin.’
RIVALS
20
At the end of January the IBA formally asked for applications for the new franchises. These applications, which had to be provided not only by the fifteen incumbent independent companies, but also by any rival consortium who sought to oust them, often ran to hundreds of beautifully bound pages, giving details of finance, staffing policies, plans for future programmes and proposed boards of management.
After the applications were handed in in early May, the IBA would study them and then conduct a series of public meetings around the country, attempting to find out whether the public felt well-served by their particular local television company. After private meetings between the IBA and all the individual contenders in October and November, the franchises would be finally awarded in December.
Anticipating a long year full of lobbying and hustling, Tony Baddingham’s immediate task in the New Year was to strengthen the Corinium Board. Knowing the IBA and particularly Lady Gosling’s penchant for women, he intended to make Cameron a director. But he wanted to punish her as long as possible for stepping out of line with Patrick, and, as the staff were still in a state of mutiny over her appointment, he didn’t want a strike on his hands in franchise year. The staff, however, had short memories. Cameron had found Simon Harris’s affairs in such a shambles that Tony had quite enough excuses to dispense with his services when he came out of hospital, but that would have to be done discreetly too. Then he could appoint Cameron to the Board just before the applications went in.
Tony also had his lunch with Freddie Jones, who, heavily pressured by Valerie, was poised to join the Corinium Board. His only reservation was whether, with his electronics empire and his race horses and his hunting, he would have sufficient time. If he were a director, he wanted to do some directing.
As an added incentive to Valerie, however, Tony invited Freddie shooting the last Saturday in January, and asked some extremely grand people to shoot as well. Never having shot with Freddie before, Tony issued a warning to the other guns beforehand.
‘Freddie Jones is a bit of a rough diamond, but exceptionally able. He’s going to be very useful on our board, if you know what I mean. But I’m not sure how good a shot he is, so bring your tin hat.’
In the master bedroom at Green Lawns Freddie Jones lay beside his wife in the vast suede oval bed, covered with dials for quadraphonic stereo, radio, dimmer switches, razors and vibrators which Valerie used to massage her neck. They had to leave for Tony’s about nine. It was now only six forty-five, which left plenty of time for sex, thought Freddie hopefully. They had already drunk two cups of tea from the Teasmade. Reaching across, Freddie put his hand on Valerie’s bush, fingering her clitoris from time to time as a door-to-door salesman, not very hopeful of entrance, might press a doorbell.
Valerie sighed. She knew no wife should deny her husband his conjugal rights, but one of the joys of Freddie getting up early to go hunting every Saturday meant that she could pretend to be asleep as she did every weekday when he left for work at six-thirty.
‘D’you want to come, Fred-Fred?’
‘Do you?’
‘Not really. I want to be fresh for Tony and Monica.’
‘Will you help me then?’
Valerie sighed again. Kneeling, she raised the red woollen nightgown, so Freddie could admire her candy pink nipples and her neatly clipped bush. She loathed watching him, but at least it stopped her getting messy.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ sighed Freddie. ‘You’ve got the body of a little girl.’
‘Here’s some tissues. Don’t waste a clean towel, Fred-Fred.’
He had barely finished his lonely act before Valerie had reached up to press another switch on the bedhead which instantly sent boiling water gushing out of the 22-carat-gold mixer taps into the vast onyx and sepia marble double bath next door. Then, remembering she didn’t want a flushed face, Valerie twiddled another knob to lower the temperature.
Snowdrops spread in a milk-white blur on either side of Tony Baddingham’s drive. The guns, in their dung-coloured clothes, gathered outside The Falconry, pulling on gumboots and bellowing at excited dogs that whisked about lifting their legs on Monica’s aconites.
At nine-thirty, just as it stopped raining, Freddie’s freshly cleaned red Jaguar roared up the drive.
‘Oh dear,’ said Freddie, leaning out of the window and roaring with laughter at the other guns’ filthy Landrovers, ‘I forgot to chuck a bucket of mud over my car before I came out. Amizing, those snowdrops,’ he said, clambering out. ‘Just like a big fall of snow.’
He was wearing a red jersey, a Barbour and no cap on his red-gold curls. Next minute Valerie emerged from her side in a ginger knickerbocker suit, with a matching ginger cloak flung round her shoulders, and a ginger deerstalker.