Rivals

9

Declan O’Hara had two obsessions in life: his work, and, rare in a profession that tends to regard a broken marriage as the only essential qualification, his wife.

He was born in a thatched cottage on a green hillside in the Wicklow mountains, where his father scratched a living from the land. When Declan was ten, his father broke his back falling from a tractor when drunk, and was thus rendered useless for heavy work, so the family moved back to Cork, his Protestant mother’s home town. Here his mother proceeded to bring up Declan and his three brothers by taking endless cleaning and secretarial jobs, aided by occasional handouts from her parents. Her one joy in an exhausting life was Declan, who fulfilled his promise at school by winning a history scholarship to Trinity, Dublin. Soon he was writing poetry and plays, working freelance for the Irish Times and sending money home.

One evening in his second year at Trinity, he dropped into the theatre to see The Playboy of the Western World. Maud, with her red hair and her amazing green eyes, was the toast of Dublin as Pegeen Mike. Declan went round in a daze for three days afterwards, then sat down, wrote a play for her in a month, and posted it off. Impressed by the play, Maud asked him backstage and was even more impressed by this roaring black-eyed boy with his volcanic moods and his gift for words. The theatre put on the play for a three-month run. It was an instant success, with Maud’s extra radiance being noted by all the critics. By the sixth week she was pregnant and married Declan as soon as the play came off. Although stunned with amazement and joy that this glorious creature was his, Declan soon realized there was no way he could support her and a baby by writing plays, so he junked his academic career and got a full-time job, doing profiles on the Irish Times.

There was talk of Maud returning to the stage when Patrick grew older, but then Taggie came along, and then Caitlin. Habitually strapped for cash, Declan moved to television, where, although his family in Cork thought he was joining the circus, he soon became a star. Snapped up by the BBC in London, that milker of Irish talent, in a year he was writing and fronting his own programmes, culminating in a series of interviews which had promptly climbed to the top of the ratings and remained there for two years.

For not only was Declan the most natural thing ever seen on television, but, unlike other presenters and chat show hosts, he never showed off or talked about himself, and he always did his homework. To get public figures, as a result of this quiet, sympathetic, utterly relentless probing, to reveal facets of their character never seen before made for spellbinding television.

These revelations, however, did not always please the BBC who got rattled if a Sinn Fein leader appeared too attractive or a politician too unpleasant. Known as the terror of Lime Grove because of his black glooms and his sporadic bouts of heavy drinking, Declan bitterly resented interference from above. He finally walked out because the Governors, heavily leant on by the Home Secretary, pulled his interview with Ian Paisley, and because Tony Baddingham offered to triple his salary and Declan couldn’t see any other way of paying his tax bill or ever clearing his overdraft.

After his early childhood in Wicklow, too, Declan had always yearned to live in the country. He truly believed it would be cheaper than London, that he would have more time to spend with his family, particularly Maud, and to finish his biography of Yeats.

Maud herself was lazy, egotistical and selfish. She idled her time away reading novels, and token scripts, spending money and talking. Playing second fiddle, on the other hand, is not an easy part. When she married Declan, she had been the star, pursued by half the men in Dublin, and the mistress of the Director. Then she had to watch Declan rise to international fame, while her career dwindled away through lethargy and terror of failure, on the excuse that she was always too busy with the children. Underneath, she was desperately jealous of Declan’s success, and one reason he had never become spoilt was because Maud showed no interest in his career and was constantly mobbing him up.

There was a tremendously strong erotic pull between them, but, even after twenty-one years, Declan still felt he hadn’t really won her. He was also in a Catch-22 situation. In order to support Maud’s wanton extravagance he was forced to work all hours, which meant she got bored and spent more, and, to goad him, toyed with other men. Another reason Declan had moved to the country was that last year one of her toyings had got out of hand.

A week after the O’Haras moved into The Priory, Declan started work at Corinium. He didn’t sleep at all the night before. It was a long time since February, when he’d accepted the job, but Maud had immediately started spending in the expectation of riches, culminating in a vast Farewell to Fulham party. Christ knew how he was to pay for that, or for all Maud’s re-decorating schemes.

Nor had his friends at the BBC been backward in telling him that Tony Baddingham was a shit, or that ITV, notoriously more reactionary and restrictive than the Beeb, would be far harder to work for. In the end, too, as he had been desolate to leave Ireland, he was sad to leave the BBC, particularly as so many of the staff had come out on strike when his programme on Paisley had been axed. They had then held a succession of riotous and tearful leaving parties, finally clubbing together to give him the Complete Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. But all his life Declan had walked away from the safe thing — that was his instinct.

As he lay in the huge double bed, smoking one cigarette after another, watching dawn creep through the curtainless windows, Maud slept peacefully beside him. Her red hair spilled over the rose-pink pillow case, the whole of the dark-blue duvet was wrapped round her hips, and her breasts fell sideways on to a pale-green bottom sheet. Nothing ever matched in their house, reflected Declan.

He longed to make love to her to ease the panic and tension, but there was no way she’d wake before ten o’clock. She was as obsessive about sleep as he was about work. Tony had told him to roll up at eleven, but knowing work was the only way out of his black panic, Declan decided to go in early. He was expecting a pile of Johnny Friedlander’s cuttings from America.

Thank God for Taggie, he thought, as he put on a beautifully ironed black and green checked shirt. Grace the housekeeper, who also never rose before ten, had an ability to singe or iron buttons off everything she touched.

As he went into the kitchen to pick up his car keys, Taggie came barefoot and hollow-eyed down the back stairs in her nightgown.

‘Daddy, you shouldn’t be up yet.’

‘Couldn’t sleep. Thought I might as well go in.’

‘You must have some breakfast, or at least a cup of coffee.’

When he shook his head, she put her arms round him.

‘It’ll be OK, I know it will. Remember you’re the best in the world.’

Declan reached the Corinium Television building at a quarter to eight, just as the night security man on the car park was about to go off. Seeing a pair of vaguely familiar eyes looking over the half-open window of the absolutely filthy Mini, he raised the horizontal pole, and, having waved Declan through, went back to enjoying Page Three of the Sun.

Walking through the revolving front door, absolutely sick with nerves, Declan found the place deserted except for a cleaner down the passage morosely pushing a mop, and a young man in pink trousers arranging roses on the marble-topped reception desk.

Aware that every other girl who worked in the building was at home washing her hair, putting on her prettiest clothes, and emptying scent bottles over herself in anticipation of Declan’s arrival, the receptionist had just nipped down to Make-up to re-do her eyes before the hordes started arriving at nine.

Declan therefore waited a few minutes, admired the framed awards on the wall, which seemed all to have been won by Cameron Cook, then, still finding no one at Reception, took a lift to the fifth floor, where he eventually discovered a coffee machine and an office with his name on it at the end of the passage.

It was a splendid office with a thick blue carpet, a huge bare desk with empty drawers, two empty filing cabinets, a radio cassette, two television sets, a video machine and a large bunch of red roses, which had obviously been arranged by the pink-trousered youth. Out of the window was a marvellous view of the close, and the water meadows still white with dew. But even more marvellous on the virgin sheet of pink blotting paper lay a pile of mail including two fat airmail envelopes. Lighting a cigarette, sitting down at his desk, Declan was soon totally immersed in Johnny Friedlander’s cuttings — most of them highly speculative and fictitious because Johnny never gave interviews.

The great bell of Cotchester Cathedral had tolled the hour three times when suddenly a red-faced middle-aged lady, reeking of Devon Violets, and with tightly permed hair, barged into his office, gave a squawk of amazed relief and shot out again, shrieking down the passage, ‘He’s here, Lord B, he’s here.’

Next minute Tony Baddingham erupted into the room, absolutely purple with rage. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’

Declan sat back in his chair. ‘Sitting here, since about eight o’clock.’

‘Why the hell didn’t you tell anyone?’

‘There was no one here to tell.’

With a colossal effort Tony gained control of himself and shook Declan’s hand. ‘Well, welcome anyway. Look, I’ve got most of the national press outside waiting to witness your arrival. We nearly had the police out.’

‘They said you’d left home at seven-thirty,’ said the lady reeking of Devon Violets, who was Tony’s secretary, Miss Madden. ‘We thought you might have had a car crash.’

‘Or second thoughts,’ said Charles Fairburn, Head of Religious Programmes, shimmying in and giving Declan a great kiss on both cheeks. ‘You’re not to be bloody to him on his first day, Tony. First days in an office are like birthdays. No one’s allowed to be bloody to you.’

‘Fuck off, Charles,’ snarled Tony.

‘See you later, darling,’ said Charles, whisking out again, nearly colliding with an ashen Cyril Peacock.

‘They’re getting awfully fed up, Tony. Where the hell can the stupid fucker have got to?’

‘He’s been here all the time,’ said Tony nastily. ‘You just didn’t look, Cyril. Another classical Peacock-up.’

‘Oh, hello Declan. Welcome to Corinium,’ said Cyril, his false teeth rattling even more violently with nerves. ‘Marvellous to see you. They’re all waiting for you in the car park, getting very hot.’

‘Uh-uh,’ Declan shook his head, looking mutinous. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to them.’

‘Well for a start you might like to refute that piece in the Guardian claiming you joined Corinium merely to clear your overdraft and not as a vocational choice,’ said Tony with a cold smile.

‘I interview people, I don’t give interviews,’ said Declan, not budging. ‘The press made enough fuss when we arrived at Penscombe, staking us out all bloody night.’

Tony tried a different tack. ‘It’ll be such a thrill for all the staff,’ he said suavely. ‘All we want is pictures of you driving into the car park for the first time and having a glass of champagne in the board room afterwards, and then we can all get down to work.’

Declan suddenly decided he needed a drink.

‘All right, I’ll go and get my car.’

‘You can’t do that. They’ll see you,’ said Tony.

‘Give Cyril your keys. He’ll drive it round to the front, then you can drive in again.’

‘It’s a Mini, parked in the far corner,’ said Declan.

As Declan drove his absolutely filthy Mini into the parking slot with his name on, which was between Tony’s maroon Rolls Royce with the silver Corinium ram on the bonnet, and Cameron’s green Lotus, there was absolutely no reaction from the crowd of reporters and cameramen. The next minute, however, there was a furious banging on the roof. Declan wound down the window half an inch. He could see a beaky nose, and a predatory mouth.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘You can’t park here, asshole,’ said an enraged female voice.

‘Why not?’

‘Can’t you read, you fucking dumbass? This slot’s reserved for Declan O’Hara.’

‘Is it indeed?’ said Declan softly. ‘Then I’ve come to the right place.’

Winding up the window, he got out, towering over Cameron Cook, who gasped and stepped back as she instantly recognized the tousled black curls, the brooding dark eyes and the familiar face as battered as the Irish coastline. Shock made her even more hostile.

‘Where the fuck have you been? You should have been here at eleven. It’s nearly twenty past.’

‘So I was, crosspatch, in my office. Nobody thought to look.’

There was a shout as the press recognized Declan and surged forward, their cameras clicking away like weaving looms, hugely enjoying the contrast between Declan’s rusty banger and Tony’s gleaming Rolls. From every window female staff, their clean hair flopping, screamed and cheered with excitement. Declan grinned up at them and waved.

In the Gent’s, James lowered the Venetian blind a quarter of an inch and was delighted to see how old Declan was looking and that he was not even wearing a suit or a tie. Tony would not like that at all.

Outside there was almost a punch-up, as the Corinium camera crew battled to get the press out of the way, so they could get their own cameras in and film Declan’s arrival for the lunchtime news bulletin.

Inside the building everyone surged forward to say hullo to Declan. The corridor was swarming with Midsummer Night’s Dream fairies coming back from their mid-morning coffee-break. As Declan fought his way through them, shaking hands, Bottom took off his ass’s head to have a better look. Next minute, Titania struggled to Declan’s side, her crown askew, and kissed him on both cheeks.

‘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, and 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.’

‘Will Tony leave Monica?’

‘I doubt it. Any scandal, even a piece in Private Eye, is the last thing he wants with the franchise coming up. The pity of it, lago, is that Ms Cook is very good at her job, once you dispense with all the crip-crap about checking out on your availability. I’ve acted as her walker at the odd dinner, when she had to take a man and didn’t want to rouse Tony’s ire. And she can be quite fun when she forgets to be insecure. If she had someone really strong to slap her down, there’d be no stopping her.’

‘There doesn’t seem much stopping her at the moment,’ said Declan gloomily.

‘If she gets on the Board, we’re all in trouble,’ said Charles, pinching another chip. ‘But we have great hopes you’re going to rout her, Declan; now let’s have another bottle and you can tell me all about poor bored Maud, and that ravishing son of yours.’

Back at Corinium, James Vereker fingered the prettiest secretary from the Newsroom with one hand as he re-read today’s fan mail for comfort with the other.

‘I do really think,’ he said petulantly, ‘Tony might have had the manners to introduce me to Declan.’