by Jilly Cooper
‘How was the dinner party?’
Cameron grimaced. ‘Said he only accepted because he felt the Duke needed his support and it was always a bit nerve-racking entertaining royalty.’
Rupert had to bury his face in her neck to stop himself laughing.
Afterwards he wanted to go back to sleep, but Cameron, who felt one shouldn’t waste a minute in a foreign country, made the mistake of dragging him off to Toledo.
‘You are now entering the Imperial capital,’ read a large sign as they drove through the ancient city gates.
‘I can think of things I’d much rather enter,’ said Rupert broodily.
‘Hardly Cyril Smith country,’ he went on, as the official car rumbled cautiously up incredibly narrow streets, where the flowers in the window boxes on either side seemed to bend over to kiss each other beneath a thin blue strip of sky.
Cameron’s hopes that Rupert might like the cathedral were soon dashed. He whizzed past the ravishing stained-glass windows, the carved pillars and the breathtaking pictures as though he was riding against the clock. A Velasquez Borgia reminded him of Tony. After gazing at a Rubens Madonna and Child for three seconds, he said they both should be dispatched to Weightwatchers. The El Grecos finished him off altogether because they all reminded him of his ex-wife’s husband, Malise Gordon.
Just inside the entrance to the cathedral was a gift shop selling not only religious relics and postcards, but also flick knives, swords, guns, thumbscrews and racks. Was this symbolic of the torture Rupert was going to put her through? wondered Cameron. To cheer him up, she insisted they stop for Margueritas at a nearby bar. Rupert pronounced them absolutely disgusting: neat salt water with added salt water. They’ll all be at the first Venturer lunch on Salisbury Plain, he thought sourly, getting drunk and enjoying themselves. He wished he were there too.
As they were leaving Toledo, Cameron suddenly thought wistfully of Patrick and how much he would have enjoyed wandering round the city and the cathedral.
‘Can we just drive up to the top and look back?’ she asked the chauffeur.
The view took her breath away. The whole of Toledo sprawled out on the hillside, little houses, palaces, churches, bleached and baked over the centuries by the burning sun to the palest terracottas, roans, corals and ochres, with the occasional black-green cypress as an exclamation mark. On the right flowed the Tagus, like dark-green glass, going into a flurry of foaming water as it dropped down a level, then becoming absolutely still again, as though someone had added gelatine.
‘Christ, I’d like to bring a film crew here,’ said Cameron. Then she looked at Rupert’s face, which was as still and cold as the dark-green water.
I’ve lost him, she thought despairingly. I should have let him sleep.
But, as they were driving back to Madrid, his hand along the back of the seat suddenly touched her hair. It was as though he’d sawn through the ropes and dragged her off the railroad track as the express thundered towards her.
She melted towards him. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t you like culture?’
‘Not a lot. It’s already happened, and I hate being trapped. The first time Helen and I stayed in Madrid, she went to Toledo by herself and raved on and on and on about it. I even remember her making Malise blush when she told him he was pure El Greco. She was crazy about sightseeing. I’m afraid the things I disliked in her I don’t like any better in other people.’
‘But you can’t expect people always to do what you want.’
‘I don’t, but if they want to do something, I’d rather they went off and did it alone, and then not gas about it afterwards.’
‘What were you doing all the time she was sightseeing?’
‘I was show-jumping,’ said Rupert.
When they got back to the room, they made love again, with less energy but more tenderness.
‘Can I get down?’ said Cameron finally as she straddled him.
‘You are able to get down,’ said Rupert, quoting his old nanny, ‘but whether you may is another matter.’
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. ‘Ha
ve 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.
RIVALS
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.
He had only been away a week, but already bluebells were flaming like Bunsen burners in his woods, and the crimson glow of the beeches had turned to a rusty terracotta as green leaves burst out of their narrow brown buds. Although brilliant sunshine and blue skies welcomed him, across the valley he could see an April shower tumbling darkly out of a huge purple cloud on to The Priory.
However angry he was, returning to Penscombe always soothed him. He was greeted by messages from Gerald that the two stabbed policemen were now off the danger list and that Cameron Cook had rung three times, leaving a number. Instead of calling her, he had a quick shower and drove over to The Priory where the rain had almost stopped, leaving a heady smell of wet earth and nettles. As he walked through the door, he was greeted by an even headier smell of frying garlic and onions. Taggie must be home, which unconsciously soothed him even more. He’d go and see her when he’d reported in. In the library he found Freddie, Bas and Charles giving a slightly unreceptive Declan tips on how to write the application.
‘What a focking awful week you’re having,’ said Declan. ‘You poor bastard. You must feel like Sisyphus.’
‘I don’t know who he is,’ said Rupert, ‘but I’m sure I do.’
‘Get him a drink, Bas,’ said Declan.
‘Only Perrier,’ said Rupert. ‘I’ve got to fly back and vote after this. How did the first Venturer meeting go?’
The others looked at each other. Was the sun shining through the stained glass window or was Freddie blushing?
‘It was somewhat hazardous,’ said Declan.
‘Did you all fall out?’ asked Rupert, taking the Perrier from Bas, and trying to find an inch on one of the window seats that wasn’t covered with books and tapes to sit on.
‘Charles and Dame Enid did,’ said Bas with a grin.
‘Shut up,’ giggled Charles.
‘You tell him, Freddie,’ said Declan.
‘Well, we all went down to this pub on Salisbury Plain,’ said Freddie sheepishly, ‘which I could’ve sworn was always deserted, and we’d just settled into pre-lunch drinks and managed to stop Wesley Emerson offering the Bishop a joint, and got over the fact that Charles, here, turned up dressed as a woman . . .’
‘Knowing the IBA’s obsession with the fair sex, I thought it fitting,’ interrupted Charles demurely.
‘. . . when the entire nation’s press arrived in three coaches to ’ave a beano before witnessing the launching of a new tank at some army base down the road.’
‘Christ,’ Rupert started to laugh. ‘Did any of them see you?’
‘Billy the Kid couldn’t have emptied a saloon bar faster,’ said Freddie, ‘and Charles and Dame Enid got stuck trying to climb out of the Ladies’.’
‘It was seriously funny,’ said Bas. ‘We all hotfooted it back to The Priory for a Chinese takeaway, and the whole thing seemed to bring us closer together. I must say I’d forgotten how stunningly attractive Janey Lloyd-Foxe is.’
‘And belongs to Billy,’ said Rupert firmly.
Through the window he could see Taggie, who’d gone out into the garden to pick some thyme from the herb garden, gazing in rapture at a rainbow. She had the most adorable bottom, he decided, which became even more adorable when she bent over the flower bed in her jeans.
‘Rupert,’ said Bas, ‘are you still with us?’
‘Looking at the rainbow,’ said Rupert, hastily opening his briefcase.
‘Never knew rainbows were female and five foot ten,’ said Bas slyly.
‘Fuck off,’ said Rupert. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a stunning bit of news to cheer you all up. I’ve brought you an Easter present, Declan.’
Triumphantly he chucked the two tapes and the photostat of the Corinium application down on Declan’s desk.
‘What’s this?’ said Declan, putting on his spectacles.
‘Two extraordinarily informative conversations with Cameron Cook, and a photostat of the corrected final draft of Corinium’s application.’
Freddie, Bas and Charles were so excited, none of them noticed Declan’s look of thunderous disapproval, or that he’d dropped the application as though it was a wasp-infested pear.
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br /> ‘Where did you get that?’ asked Freddie in awe.
‘I spent the weekend in Madrid and in bed with Cameron.’
Basil’s jaw clanged. ‘Does my brother know?’
‘Tony was due out there,’ said Rupert, ‘but I arranged for a chum to offer Tony an invite for Saturday night he couldn’t refuse.’
Basil started to laugh. ‘To meet HRH at Badminton?’
‘My God, was that your doing?’ said Charles in amazement. ‘Tony was boasting about it to everyone.’
‘So he stood up Ms Cook,’ said Rupert, wandering over to the drinks table and splashing more Perrier into his glass, ‘who was not overly delighted until I suddenly appeared on the adjacent balcony like Private Lives and took Tony’s place.’
‘What was she like?’ asked Bas, fascinated.
‘Fucks like a stoat,’ said Rupert. ‘In fact the end-away definitely justified the means. Although I had to endure some hellish sightseeing on Sunday before she went off to collect her prize. That was when I got the application photostated.’
‘Bloody good,’ said Freddie.
‘You ought to join the CIA,’ said Bas.
‘She’ll be after your blood, your untainted AIDS-free blood, when she finds out,’ said Charles delightedly.
‘She won’t,’ said Rupert. ‘She hadn’t a clue. Well?’ He turned to Declan for approval.
But Declan was looking infinitely more thunderous than the cloud that had drenched The Priory earlier.
‘You can’t focking do that,’ he exploded.
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because it’s bloddy dishonest.’
‘I must be dreaming,’ said Rupert incredulously. ‘Declan dear, we’re pitching for a business with a hundred-and-twenty-five-million-pound turnover, not playing fucking tiddlywinks. Have a read. You can find out exactly what Tony’s up to and pre-empt it. It’s the most turgid stuff, much more effective than Mogadon. Tony seems to be promising an unchecked flow of good causes and Elizabethan drama for the next ten years!’