Rivals

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.

She was worried about Rupert too. He’d been edgy and refused to eat anything when he’d popped in earlier, then furious because he’d forgotten to bring up the T-shirts. He’d also taken an instant dislike to Professor Graystock, whom he hadn’t met before, and who had black straggly hair, like a jumble-sale crone, a wet, sensual mouth and a pale, waxy, formless face.

‘Who’s he in mourning for?’ Rupert asked Taggie in horror.

‘No one, I don’t think.’

‘Must be. Look at his fingernails and the inside of his collar.’

Then Rupert had pushed off, promising he and the T-shirts would be back later. Taggie was sure he didn’t look after himself properly. If she made the chicken particularly nice, he might eat something this evening.

At eight o’clock the first bottle of Bollinger was cracked as they waited for the final draft to be ready. Declan had just re-written the last page to give the whole thing a uniformity of style. Ursula and Freddie’s secretary were busy collating everything and Freddie and Declan were now folding up the confidential memos listing Harold White, Georgie Baines, Charles, Seb and Billy as Heads of various departments and putting these memos into envelopes.

‘Pity we can’t add Cameron Cook,’ sighed Freddie.

‘Rupert would have rung by now if he had anything to report,’ said Declan, who preferred it that way.

Dame Enid and Maud, both well away, were now playing duets. The Lord-Lieutenant had lost so much money to Bas he’d probably have to sell another Pre-Raphaelite, but he couldn’t have enjoyed himself more. There were so many pretty women to gaze at, and they were all such splendid chaps, and Rupert had promised he should meet Joanna Lumley very soon.

Janey, who was well stuck into the Bollinger, was breastfeeding again.

‘Mother and child — a lovely sight,’ said the Bishop who’d just arrived.

‘So much prettier than Deirdre Kill-Programme and her disgusting brat,’ said Georgie Baines to Seb Burrows.

‘Please,’ said Charles Fairburn faintly.

‘That baby’s drinking neat Bollinger,’ said Bas. ‘That’s why it’s so cheerful.’

‘I hope all our burn money isn’t being squandered on bubbly,’ said Professor Graystock, who was on his fourth glass.

‘It isn’t,’ said Taggie quickly. ‘Rupert’s paid for all of it.’

Helped by Seb, she was now putting out big plates of chicken Estragon and rice salad. She’d worried herself sick that the sauce had gone wrong, but mercifully it had thickened as it cooled.

‘That looks marvellous, Taggie. I wish you’d marry me when I grow up,’ said Bas, who was now comfortably ensconced on the sofa with Janey and a full bottle.

‘This tomato salad is out of this world,’ said Seb, carrying the bowl in.

Taggie liked Seb. He had a good body, hunky without being fat, thick light-brown hair, short at the back and long at the front, very direct slate grey eyes and he was very nearly as tall as she was.

Then, as Big Ben struck nine, the applications were ready: forty copies of beautifully typed, ring-bound pages. On the front, beneath the clear plastic cover, was a drawing of a beautiful boy with his hand to his forehead, standing on the capitals T and U of the word Venturer against a clear cerulean background. On the back, also protected by a plastic cover, was an exquisite water-colour map of the area, painted by Caitlin, including the towns and villages, with little drawings of the relevant houses, where all the prospective Venturer directors lived, and with pale blue arrows from each of them converging on Cotchester. It had cost a lot to print, but they’d all thought it was worth it.

Everyone went mad with excitement as they sat round reading, and at last holding in their hands tangible proof that it was all really happening.

‘Don’t spill drink over them, for Christ’s sake,’ said Declan.

‘It’s very good, Declan,’ said Harold White. ‘I’d forgotten how well you write. I love the bit about “carpets being so thick and offices so sound-proofed on the Corinium directors’ floor, that all one can hear is the faint rustle of nests being feathered”.’

‘I liked that bit too,’ said Declan, blushing.

‘And I love this bit about Corinium’s local news programmes being presented by “pretentious pastel-clad narcissists”,’ boomed Dame Enid. ‘That boring little fart Vereker won’t like that one bit.’

‘I hope that’s not actionable,’ said Professor Graystock primly. ‘And are you quite sure there was a Roman camp at Whychey?’

‘Quite,’ said Declan.

‘I like my cottage,’ said Marti Gluckstein, examining the map at the back. ‘I must come and look at it some time. Ouch!’ he yelled, as Freddie kicked him sharply on the ankle.

‘Sorry, but Declan thinks you spend every weekend there,’ whispered Freddie.

‘I do like your ideas for religious programmes,’ said Janey, smiling up at the Bishop, who went very pink.

Declan saw that everyone’s glasses were full, then got to his feet. ‘I’d just like to thank you all for having the courage to join Venturer, and for all the hard work you’ve put in already. But I must warn you, this has been the easy bit. Once it’s out in the open that we’re pitching for Corinium, Tony Baddingham is going to do everything to discredit us and rake up dirt about all of us. Our only hope is to stick together and trosst each other.’ He smiled round at everyone. ‘This is a very very proud day for me. Let’s all raise our glasses.’

‘Victory to Venturer,’ said Henry Hampshire, and amazingly, unselfconsciously, everyone followed suit.

‘I shall compose a battle song for Venturer and we’ll make a record,’ said Dame Enid.

‘I hope it’s better than the song cycle she’s just written,’ muttered Seb to Taggie. ‘It sounded more like a lot of tom cats being garrotted by knicker elastic. This chicken is just as much a work of art as your father’s application,’ he went on. ‘Can I have some more?’

Everyone jumped as the doorbell went.

‘I can’t help thinking it’s Tony with a pitchfork,’ said Georgie Baines nervously.

But it was only the man with the T-shirts and once again everyone went wild and put them on, including the baby and Gertrude. They were baggy enough, having been ordered to Caitlin’s specification, to fit Dame Enid and Charles Fairburn, and even the Bishop wore one over his dog collar. Janey wore hers just over pants to show off her long brown legs, and, after a lot of persuading, Taggie did the same.

‘They’re much better than Corinium’s T-shirts,’ said Seb in delight. ‘They’re custard yellow with Caring Corinium written across the front. Tony eschewed the symbol of the Corinium ram as being too libidinous.’

More champagne was drunk and food eaten. Then the photographer arrived.

‘Where the hell’s Rupert?’ said Declan irritably.

‘I think we ought to get on and get this pickie taken without him,’ said Freddie in an undertone. ‘Lord Smiff’s shipped enough to float the QE2 an’ Wesley’s on somefink else, and he’s supposed to drive back to Leeds tonight for an eleven o’clock start.’

‘He better go first thing tomorrow,’ said Declan. ‘We don’t want him busted the day the applications go in.’

Bas and Janey were still nose to nose on the sofa; the baby had fallen asleep in Bas’s arms.

‘Line up for the photograph everyone,’ shouted Freddie.

Seb dragged Taggie in from the kitchen. She loathed group photographs. She was always taller than half the men.

‘You’re as much a part of Venturer as anyone else,’ said Seb.

Taggie sat on the sofa, Gertrude on her knee, bristling in a child’s T-shirt, with Maud on one side and Janey and the baby on the other. Bas stood behind Janey. Taggie suddenly noticed his suntanned fingers caressing the back of Janey’s neck and hastily looked away.

‘Straighten your T-shirt, so I can see all the Venturers,’ said the photographer. ‘Look nice and happy please. Can you get the little dog to prick up his ears? Lovely! Smile please.’

He was still snapping away two minutes later when Taggie gave a shriek of pain as Gertrude leapt off her bare legs, barking furiously, as Rupert came through the door.

He had that same look of blazing triumph on his face, reflected Janey, that he used to have in the old days when one of his horses won a big class and he used to ride it out of the ring, giving its neck great slaps of joy. He hadn’t looked like that for years.

Rupert paused in the doorway.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he drawled, ‘may I introduce Venturer’s Head of Drama.’

Taggie gave a gasp of horror; Harold White went white. Seb, Georgie and Charles nearly jumped out of the window in terror, as Rupert turned round and, putting his arm around Cameron’s shoulders very much in a gesture of possession, drew her into the room.

She looked very pale and very shy, but incredibly beautiful, with her face strangely softened by love.

Maud broke the stunned silence. For months, despite Declan’s denials, she had suspected Rupert of having a growing preference for Taggie. It was the one thing she couldn’t have stood. Joyfully, she welcomed such a public transferring of his affections to Cameron. Rushing forward, she hugged them both.

‘Congratulations, darlings. Now I’m convinced Venturer’s going to get the franchise.’

‘Don’t look so worried,’ said Rupert mockingly to the cringing Corinium contingent. ‘Cameron’s on the level. Her name’s going to be put forward on the confidential memo like the rest of you, and she’s going to stay working for Corinium until December.’

Charles decided to make the best of a bad job. ‘Welcome to Venturer, sweetie,’ he said, kissing Cameron.

‘Fucking hell,’ muttered Seb to Georgie.

‘Look at the way she’s looking at Rupert,’ said Georgie. ‘He’s got her exactly where he wants her.’

‘As long as he stays wanting her,’ said Seb, shaking his head.

Janey’s baby woke up suddenly and started bawling its head off.

‘Probably got a hangover,’ said Bas.

Soon the champagne was circulating again. Cameron was sitting on the sofa now, flipping through the application document with one hand, clinging onto Rupert’s hand with the other.

‘Why’s Taggie crying in the kitchen?’ Dame Enid asked Maud.

‘I expect she’d like to be able to read her father’s application like everyone else,’ said Maud airily. ‘She’s dyslexic, you see.’

‘Poor darling,’ said Dame Enid. ‘She’s a bloody good cook. I’m going to have thirds.’

Seb put his arm round Taggie in the kitchen. ‘You OK, babes?’

‘Fine,’ she muttered blowing her nose on a drying-up cloth. ‘I’m just tired, I guess.’

‘Your application’s dazzling,’ said Cameron, following Declan over to the drinks table where he was opening another bottle. ‘Miles, miles better than ours. Any slight doubts I might have had about joining Venturer have been dispelled by reading it. I do hope Rupert hasn’t railroaded you all into accepting me?’

‘I don’t want any bullying,’ said Declan, glaring at her. ‘One’s only as good as one’s work force and don’t you ever forget it.’

I’m going to have to put in a lot of spade work to win him over, thought Cameron, but all that really mattered was that Rupert loved her.

Freddie clapped his hands. ‘Let’s get this pickie finished.’

‘Come on, Cameron,’ said Charles, brandishing a T-shirt.

‘I’m not sure I ought to appear in it,’ stammered Cameron, suddenly realizing what compromising evidence it would be.

‘Put it on,’ snapped Declan.

Charles slid the T-shirt over her head and once again they all lined up, George and Seb taking up their position on either side of her, with Charles standing behind.

‘Straighten your T-shirts, look happy everyone,’ said the photographer.

‘Let’s get one thing straight beside T-shirts, Miss Cook,’ said Georgie out of the corner of his handsome mouth, as he beamed into the camera.

‘If you shop us to Tony, we’ll shop you,’ said Seb as he also beamed into the camera.

‘And don’t forget, there are well over two hundred shopping days to 15th December,’ said Charles.

As Venturer had called a press conference for the following afternoon, Declan stayed the night at Freddie’s house and Taggie drove her mother and Gertrude back to Penscombe just after midnight.

Maud was plastered and went on and on about how nice Janey was, and wasn’t it a turn-up for the books Rupert rolling up with Cameron, and did Taggie think Rupert had offered her marriage or to move into Penscombe or what. Taggie answered in monosyllables and fortunately, as they passed the Reading exit, Maud fell into a drunken sleep.

Taggie then proceeded to give herself a very good talking to. What the hell was she feeling so miserable about? Rupert was as far beyond her as the huge stars daisying the black lawn of sky above, and plainly as impervious to her love. It was the stupid sort of crush teenagers had on pop stars or actors, someone to dream about when you were tucked up in bed, or wandering through the woods.

Rupert had probably been kind to her because he missed his own children. The silver necklace, Gertrude’s Valentine, the little Easter Egg, were all presents you might give a child, she told herself firmly. And saying that no one could resist her (Taggie wished she could memorize recipes and how to spell words as easily as she remembered every conversation she’d had with Rupert) was just the sort of thing he’d say to any girl. Cameron was beautiful, brilliant, sophisticated and tough. Taggie was sure she only disliked her because she’d upset Declan and hurt Patrick so much, but Rupert wouldn’t stand any nonsense, so maybe they were well suited.

Next minute she felt a cold nose nudging her elbow and put out her hand to stroke Gertrude, who slid forward along the hand brake until she could climb onto Taggie’s knee and settle down with a martyred sigh.

Taggie knew she shouldn’t allow Gertrude to lie there. On a motorway it was particularly dangerous. But she needed the comfort. She was not someone who regarded happiness as a right, but the ghastly shock of seeing Cameron and Rupert so obviously in love tonight made her realize how happy, without being conscious of it, she’d been since Valentine’s Day, when Rupert began dropping in at The Priory whenever he was at home. Despite the talking to, she didn’t think she’d ever felt so unhappy in her life.