Rivals

43

Across at The Priory, by some lucky chance, a starry-eyed but slightly sheepish Maud swanned in at five to twelve just in time to take a telephone call from Declan saying he was coming home tomorrow. Cameron would drop him off and, bar fogs or airport strikes, he would be with her by twilight.

All next day Taggie waited for Rupert to ring, and by some vicious twist of fate, as she cleaned the house and cautiously dusted and hoovered round the chaos of precious papers in her father’s study and put clean sheets on her parents’ bed, the telephone rang incessantly. But it was only Archie ringing once again to say goodbye to Caitlin, or members of the cast ringing for Maud, or every member of Venturer ringing to ask whether Declan was back. Each time, Taggie pounced on the telephone, and each time, like a stray dog dumped bewildered on the motorway hoping each passing car might be her master returning, when it wasn’t Rupert she slunk back in utter despair. And as the day ebbed, so did her hopes. Once Cameron was home, he wouldn’t ring.

The weather had changed too, and as the grey skies closed in on the October afternoon, the black tracery of ivy fretted against the casement windows and sharp bitter winds swept the leaves from the lime walk and drove them in withered heaps along the dry gravel paths. However many jerseys she put on, however much she raced about the house, Taggie was still cold, while upstairs Maud oiled and scented herself for Declan’s return, no doubt leaving a horrible mess both in the bathroom and bedroom, which Taggie had just cleaned.

In the kitchen, having put some green tomato chutney to cook on the Aga, Taggie was trying to find a place on Caitlin’s incredibly skimpy pants to sew a name tape. Caitlin, having scattered breadcrumbs all over the dresser, dumped papers and magazines on the table, left the orange juice carton out and her scrambled-egg pan unwashed in the sink, was now peeling an orange.

Give me to drink mandragora,

That I might sleep out this great gap of time

My Archie is away [she moaned].

‘One day you’ll be sewing the name Caitlin Baddingham and a coronet on my pants. Don’t you think I’ll make a good Lady Baddingham?’ She dropped a deep curtsey. ‘I’m going to bunk out of school next weekend so I can see him.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ said Taggie, breaking off a thread with her teeth. ‘You’ll get expelled and it’s bound to get in the papers. Oh, for God’s sake,’ she snapped, as Caitlin dropped her orange peel on the table, ‘can’t you ever throw anything in the bin?’

‘Don’t nag,’ said Caitlin. ‘When I grow up I’m going to live in a really messy house.’

‘What happens when you meet a fantastic man at a party and want to bring him back for a cup of coffee afterwards?’

‘I’d go to his house,’ said Caitlin. ‘How can I live without Archie till next weekend?’

How can I live without Rupert for ever? thought Taggie, getting up to give the tomato chutney a stir. She jumped as Gertrude and Claudius rushed in and leapt on to the window-seat, bristling furiously. They were followed by Maud in a big fluffy pink towel.

‘What on earth are you cooking?’ she demanded in outraged tones.

‘Tomato chutney,’ said Taggie, through gritted teeth.

‘What a disgusting smell to welcome home your poor father, and there are cows in the garden doing great splattering cowpats all over the lawn and the paths, which is even worse. They must be Rupert’s. Ring him up and tell him to take them away.’

‘You ring him,’ screamed Taggie. ‘I can’t do everything.’

‘Temper temper,’ said Maud, exchanging surprised glances with Caitlin. ‘Well, I certainly haven’t got time to ring. Someone’s got to be ready to welcome him.’

‘Scrubbing off other men’s fingerprints,’ said Caitlin scornfully, as Maud flounced off upstairs.

She put a hand on Taggie’s shoulder.

‘You OK?’

‘N-not really.’

‘Is it Rupert? Did you have a lovely day?’

Taggie nodded. ‘But Sarah Stratton was waiting for him when we got back, so I came home. He said he’d ring, but. .’ Her voice trailed off. She stared at the great congealing brown mass of onions, brown sugar and tomatoes. Her mother was right. It was a repulsive smell.

‘I’ll ring him about the cows,’ said Caitlin. ‘That’ll remind him.’

But when she got through, Rupert was on the other line and the secretary said she’d send the farm manager over at once to remove the cows.

‘Rupert’s probably terribly busy,’ said Caitlin consolingly. Then, as the telephone rang, ‘There, that’ll be him now.’

‘You answer it,’ gasped Taggie. Please God make it be Rupert, she whispered over and over again into the vat of chutney.

‘Hullo, Upland House Bakery. Which tart would you like to fill?’ said Caitlin. ‘Oh Archie, darling, I won’t survive either.’

She was interrupted by frantic barking. Gertrude and Claudius shot off the window-seat, taking the cushions with them, and rushed into the hall as a car crunched on the gravel.

‘My father’s just got back. He’d lynch me if he knew I was talking to you,’ said Caitlin hastily. ‘I’ll write tonight. Love you madly. Ciao.’

Fighting back the tears, Taggie went out to welcome Declan. He looked wonderful, incredibly suntanned from filming outside and much less tired. He was about to hug her when she was sent flying by Maud, a tornado of Arpège and desire, wearing Taggie’s new grey cashmere jersey. Throwing herself on Declan, she buried her face in his chest so that he shouldn’t see the guilt flickering in her eyes.

‘Darling, you’re so brown and handsome,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve missed you every single minute.’

Caitlin, lounging in the doorway, whistled, then she quoted sardonically:

When my love swears that she is made of truth,

I do believe her, though I know she lies.

Declan was too delighted to find Maud in such good spirits to take in what Caitlin was saying. ‘Cameron’s outside,’ he said. ‘Come and say hullo while I unload the car.’

Taggie’s heart sank as Cameron came through the door. Like Declan, she looked wonderful. Her face seemed even softer, her hair less severe. She was wearing a cream silk shirt tucked into brown suede jodhpurs above tight, shiny brown boots. Either it had been a highly successful shoot or she was obviously over the moon about seeing Rupert again.

Ignoring Taggie and Caitlin, she went straight up to Maud and hugged her. ‘Ireland was terrific, but we sure missed you. If you’d been playing Maud Gonne, we’d get an Emmy. Esther McDermott was just awful. But Declan was such an inspiration. His sarcasm can bruise, but, wow, it makes you grow.’

‘Really,’ said Maud, not altogether enthusiastically.

Taggie, unable to take any more, went out to the car, where she had no difficulty in picking out her father’s battered roped-together leather case from Cameron’s Louis Vuitton. On the second journey she picked up a couple of carrier bags.

‘No,’ said Cameron sharply, appearing in the doorway. ‘Those are gifts for Rupert and the kids. I must show you what I got Tabitha, Maud.’

She produced a little leather pony, with a girl rider, and bridles and saddles that came off.

‘Isn’t it neat?’

‘Lovely,’ said Maud without interest.

Cameron had bought a beautifully illustrated book of Irish legends for Marcus, and a pair of gold cuff links for Rupert, which she insisted on showing to Taggie.

‘I’ll get his crest put on later,’ she said. Taggie stared at her dumbly.

‘Very nice, I’m sure,’ said Caitlin tartly. Then, looking at Cameron’s jodhpurs, ‘Are you going for a ride?’

‘I sure am,’ said Cameron with a sudden lascivious smile. ‘After three weeks away I need one, and not on the back of a horse. I’m off, Declan,’ she yelled into the house, ‘I’ll call you as soon as I know when we can see the rushes.’

‘Bitch,’ screamed Caitlin at the departing Lotus. Taggie shook her head. Cameron was the one who Rupert belonged to.

Taking a bottle of duty-free whisky, Declan and Maud went up to bed. Taggie also went up to her room, and, with trembling hands, tried to hold Caitlin’s binoculars still as she looked across the valley to Penscombe Court. Enough leaves had come off the trees now for her to see lights on downstairs in the kitchen and the drawing-room. Then, like a firefly lighting up the almost leafless chestnut avenue, she saw Cameron’s Lotus storming up Rupert’s drive. In an unbearably short time another light went on, which Taggie knew from Tabitha’s guided tour of the house yesterday was Rupert’s bedroom. No one bothered to draw the curtains.

Taggie collapsed on the bed. What was that expression her father was always quoting? ‘The heart transfixed upon the huddled spears.’ She knew what it meant now. Two minutes later there was a bang on her door.

‘Go away,’ she groaned.

Caitlin walked in with the dogs, who leapt on to the bed, frantically trying to lick away Taggie’s tears.

‘You got over Ralphie; you’ll get over Rupert,’ said Caitlin. ‘Anyway you may not have to. He’s got to keep that bitch sweet until after the franchise.’

‘Bugger the franchise,’ sobbed Taggie. ‘What would you do if you saw Archie and some woman in bed?’

‘I’d light a cigarette, have a drink and go and stuff my face,’ said Caitlin. ‘Look, I hate intruding on your grief, but the tomato chutney smells even more disgusting burning, and as those carnal beasts won’t emerge from their bedroom before morning, I’m afraid you’ll have to take me back to Uplift House.’

‘There’s a pauper just behind me and he’s treading on my tail,’ groaned Declan the following morning as, reeling from hangover and too much sex, he went through the pile of final reminders and endless requests from charity organizations for his time, his money or ‘one of his very personal things’.

‘Why don’t you send them all a lock of your hair?’ suggested Ursula.

‘I’d be bald in a week.’

‘It’s only because you’re a household name that people mistakenly assume you’re rolling,’ said Ursula soothingly.

‘I’ll be a poorhouse-hold name at this rate.’ Declan winced as he bent down to retrieve an unopened letter that had fallen under the table among the débris of biros and pencils chewed up by Claudius. ‘This looks more interesting.’

The letter was from the IBA telling Venturer that their interview would be at ten o’clock on 29th November at the IBA headquarters at 80 Brompton Road.

Declan immediately swung into action and called a Venturer meeting the following week. The room over the nightclub in Cheltenham was considered too risky, so a suite was booked in an obscure Bloomsbury Hotel. For security’s sake, a large board in the lobby announced in white plastic letters that the O’Hara, Black & Jones Drainage Co. Sales Conference was being held in the Virginia Woolf Suite on the fourth floor. The whole of Venturer turned up except Dame Enid, who had a concert in New York, Janey Lloyd-Foxe, whose baby had gastric flu, and Bas who had ostensibly been caught up in some crisis at the Bar Sinister.

Cameron took special trouble with her appearance, wearing a new very waisted red silk suit with padded shoulders, a very plunging neckline and an extremely short skirt. This was because she was meeting Rupert’s best friend, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, for the first time. He’d been away making a film on rugger for the BBC for the past three months and Cameron was determined to make a good impression. She needn’t have worried. Billy came up to her straight away with that famous smile which had been described as ‘able to beam into millions of homes without the aid of satellite’.

‘Hullo, gosh, I’ve been longing to meet you,’ he said, kissing her. ‘I’m mad about “Four Men went to Mow”. Janey’s taped all the episodes for me. It’s exactly how Rupe and I used to carry on before we were married. It was just starting in Australia when I left, and being marvellously received.’

He was extremely attractive, Cameron decided. His light-brown hair had gone greyer and he’d thickened out since his show-jumping days, but he had such a young face, and his turned-down eyes were so merry you didn’t notice the broken nose or the doubling chin. He also had a sweetness and an air of life being hilarious, but at the same time a little bit too much for him that had endeared him as much to the BBC viewers as to everyone in the sporting world. Janey was mad to mess him around, thought Cameron. She wondered if that was why Bas wasn’t here today.

Rupert and he seemed to know each other so well, they slipped into familiarity like a pair of old bedroom slippers, arguing about horses, finishing each other’s sentences, howling with laughter at each other’s jokes. It was nice to see Rupert happy again, thought Cameron. His fuse had been very short since she got back. She suspected, although he denied it, that he hated being in opposition — a shadow minister of his former self.

‘When you come back to Penscombe, we’re bloody well going to start a racing stable,’ Rupert was saying in an undertone.

‘I thought we were going to run a television station,’ said Billy.

‘We are, but with the revenue coming in, we’ll have access to a hundred and twenty-five million a year. Just think what we can do with that.’

‘Good God,’ said Billy in amazement. ‘Christy may be able to go to Harrow after all. I must have a drink.’

At that moment Declan tapped a large mahogany table in the centre of the room and asked everyone to sit down on the row of chairs lined up on the opposite side.

‘Where’s the bar?’ asked Rupert.

‘No one’s having anything to drink until we’ve finished,’ Declan said firmly.

Wesley’s face fell. Billy turned pale. ‘What is this, a concentration camp?’

‘Concentration — ’ Declan smiled thinly — ‘is what we’re after tonight. If you’re all swilling booze and getting up to get each other drinks, you won’t take in what I’m saying. There’s Perrier if anyone wants it.’

‘Now I know why it’s called a dry run,’ said Billy sulkily. ‘Come and sit by me,’ he said to Cameron, patting a chair. ‘At least I can cheer myself up gazing at your legs.’

Cameron looked like a cross between Joan Collins and Donald Duck, Billy decided, frightfully glamorous but somewhat high-powered.

‘I’m frightfully hungry. Can we at least ring for some sandwiches?’ said Professor Graystock, deliberately pressing against Cameron’s breasts and having a good look as he leant over to pinch one of Billy’s cigarettes.

‘Later,’ said Declan.

Billy, Harold White, Seb Burrows, Georgie Baines and Sally Maples, the children’s editor Declan had recruited from Yorkshire Television, then jumped out of their skins when an unknown man in spectacles with a crew cut and a purposeful expression walked in.

‘It’s all right,’ said Declan soothingly. ‘This is Hardy Bissett. He used to work for the IBA and knows exactly what sort of questions they’ll ask us at the interview. He’s going to drill us over the next few weeks.’

‘Who’s that turgid old crone in the portrait over the mantelpiece?’ Billy whispered to Cameron.

‘Virginia Woolf,’ whispered Cameron.

‘I’d do anything to keep her from my door!’ said Billy. ‘What did she do for a living — belly dancing?’

‘A fine writer,’ said Professor Graystock reprovingly.

Declan found Hardy a chair beside him on the other side of the table. Then he said, ‘The IBA meeting, as you all know now, is fixed for 29th November. The good thing is that Corinium’s meeting is the afternoon before, so there won’t be any problem for those of you who have to go to both meetings.’

Everyone jumped again as a fat man waddled into the room wearing a stocking over his head, waving a blue plastic toy gun, saying, ‘This is a shoot-out.’

Then he peeled the stocking off with a broad grin and said, ‘Boo!’ It was Charles Fairburn.

‘Oh, for fock’s sake, Charles,’ exploded Declan. ‘This is serious. I was just explaining that ours and Corinium’s meetings are on different days, so you won’t bump into Tony and Ginger Johnson coming out of the IBA as you go in. But please think up excuses to be out of the office on the 29th well in advance. We want as many of you there as possible.’

‘Are you sure no one will see us?’ asked Sally Maples nervously. ‘We’ve all been threatened with the sack again this week.’

‘So have we,’ said Billy.

Declan shook his head. ‘All you have to do is to drive into the underground garage at the back of the IBA — you needn’t go near the front at all — and you’ll be whisked up to the eighth floor.

‘By now,’ he went on, ‘the IBA will have digested our applications and answers to the supplementary questions, and noted our performance at the public meeting. They will obviously have some idea as to whom they want to award the franchise. But have no doubt, the interview on the 29th is key. Just as important as a viva to an undergraduate taking finals.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ murmured Billy.

‘I’m now going to hand you over to Hardy,’ said Declan, sitting down, ‘who’ll take you through the dry run.’

Hardy Bissett, despite his bristly crew cut, had an air of officialdom which unnerved them all. Getting to his feet, he tapped the table with a biro: ‘This is exactly the kind of table you’ll sit along during the interview, except the IBA table is oval-shaped. Facing you will be the twelve members of the Authority, with Lady Gosling in the centre. None of them know anything much about television. They are worthy public figures, academics, business people. One of them, Mrs Scott-Menzies, for example, is the ex-Chairman of the WI. Another used to run the Post Office. Another is an ex-Labour Minister of Education. Yet another, whom I think you’ve come across, Declan, is the Reverend Fergus Penney, a disgusting old goat who was once a Prebendary of the Church of England.

‘It is essential for you to memorize all their names. All important people in their own field once, they tend to be vain and enjoy recognition. Behind them during the meeting will sit half a dozen officials who work for the Authority, who know all about television. They do not speak during the interview, but they brief before and advise afterwards, and will be watching you all like hawks.’

Billy mopped his brow. ‘It sounds most alarming,’ he sighed.

‘God, that man’s disgusting,’ thought Rupert, as Professor Graystock pinched yet another of Billy’s cigarettes.

As if reading Rupert’s thoughts, Hardy Bissett said, ‘One of the crucial things at the interview is to appear to like and admire each other and prove you are not merely a star-studded bunch after a quick buck, but actually capable of forming a workable and amicable team. As you will be sitting in an almost straight line and will not be able to catch each other’s eyes, it is also crucial to work out in advance who will field what questions. Freddie perhaps should answer any technical questions, the Bishop should deal with religion, Dame Enid with music, Charles the arts, and so on.

‘It is also vital that everyone has their say. One excellent consortium lost the breakfast franchise a few years ago because their chairman, a newspaper editor, answered all the questions quite brilliantly, thereby convincing the IBA that they would be too much of a one-man band.

‘All right.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Enough waffle. To begin with I’ll fire questions directly at individuals. Later on in rehearsals we’ll get to the stage when I can fire a question in the air, and the appropriate person will leap to answer it. Now remember, the interview will last at least an hour.’

‘I won’t if I don’t get a drink,’ grumbled Billy.

‘Shut up,’ snapped Hardy Bissett. He turned to Henry Hampshire. ‘I’m interested to know why as Lord-Lieutenant you decided to join the Venturer consortium?’

For a second, Henry mouthed helplessly like a goldfish. ‘Because Rupert told me I’d make a fortune,’ he said, ‘and that he’d introduce me to Joanna Lumley.’

Everyone screamed with laughter except the Bishop, Declan and Hardy Bissett.

‘Which Rupert hasn’t done yet, what?’ said Henry, delighted at the reaction.

‘This is meant to be a dry run,’ said Hardy icily. He turned to Wesley. ‘How d’you intend to retain the cultural traditions of the ethnic minorities in your area, Mr Emerson?’

Wesley looked blank. ‘Don’t know, man. Declan promised me a fortune too, but he didn’t say anything about Joanna Lumley.’

Billy wiped his eyes. ‘This is wonderful,’ he whispered to Cameron.

Like a terrier, Hardy Bissett caught Billy off guard. ‘As Venturer’s head of sport,’ he asked sharply, ‘how d’you intend to revolutionize Corinium’s sporting coverage?’

‘Er-hum,’ said Billy helplessly. ‘Making programmes is a bit like sex. I do it all the time, but I’m afraid I never talk about it. Programmes are living things, particularly sport,’ he went on apologetically. ‘They seem to materialize as you go along.’

‘Very lucid,’ said Hardy so sarcastically that Billy went crimson. He then turned to Professor Graystock. ‘I wonder, Professor, if you might be able to provide us with a more serious answer to the question I asked Wesley?’

The Professor cleared his throat. ‘At Venturer we would naturally give the ethnic minorities the chance to develop their own programmes in their own way,’ he said in his fulsome drone. ‘This will keep alive the cultures and traditions which would otherwise be neglected as the minorities become fully integrated into the population.’

‘Excellent, Professor,’ said Hardy. ‘That’s more like it, although you could have gone on to specify some of the programmes and had a crack at Corinium’s abysmal record at the same time.’

He turned to Freddie. ‘Have you got a definite policy towards industrial relations?’

Freddie looked somewhat apprehensively at Rupert. ‘I and my Managing Director, Declan, and my Financial Director, Rupert, are all firmly committed believers in industrial democracy.’

‘Are we?’ said Rupert in amazement.

‘Shut up,’ hissed Cameron. ‘Will you and Billy stop taking the piss.’

Sulkily Rupert got out the Evening Standard and surreptitiously started reading his Scorpio horoscope, which was all about career opportunities and staying cool in the face of provocation. Then, because he read Taggie’s horoscope as automatically as his own these days, his eyes moved up three places to Cancer.

‘As there is a new moon this week,’ wrote Patric Walker, ‘you are probably wondering where the next blow will fall and feel everyone is against you.’

Oh the poor little duck, thought Rupert, suddenly overwhelmed with longing and protectiveness. She’d been so adorable the other day. He never dreamed he’d miss her so much.

‘Rupert,’ snapped Cameron. ‘Hardy wants to know if we’ve got an employment policy.’

‘Yes,’ said Rupert coolly. ‘We’ll employ very good people. We’ll pay them extremely well to work, and if they don’t we’ll tell them to fuck off.’

The Bishop and Professor Graystock exchanged pained glances. Declan’s bitten fingernails drummed on the table.

‘Slightly too simplistic,’ said Hardy Bissett acidly. ‘I hope someone else has something a little bit more illuminating to say on the subject.’

At the end of half an hour Hardy called a halt.

‘That was absolutely appalling,’ he said bluntly. ‘Declan, you’re fielding too many questions — can’t say I blame you with these morons — and getting totally carried away by your own blarney. So are you, Bishop.’ The Bishop turned purple. ‘You’re both far too long-winded. The rest are much too short. You should be answering the questions in a sentence, and then immediately using the subject to dive into another area where you want to make a point. The object is to put across Venturer’s message and make your pitch whatever questions you’re asked.’

‘Christ,’ said Billy to Rupert as the Professor nicked yet another of his cigarettes, ‘it’s like one of those terrible nightmares of being back at school. Who is this fink on my right who talks like a British Telecom technical manual?’

‘Professor Graystock,’ said Rupert. ‘Declan brought him in. He’s a disgrace.’

‘We’ll have another half-hour session,’ said Hardy Bissett. ‘Then we’ll have a drink.’ He turned to Freddie. ‘Mr Jones, how did the idea for Venturer originate?’

Freddie scratched his curls.

‘Well, it was like this, Rupert an’ me ’ad both ’ad an up-and-downer wiv Tony Baddingham over different fings. Declan was having a rough time of it. Tony’s a fug, make no bones abart it, got a board made up of professional accountants, who use profits for anyfing other than making programmes; won’t take risks; that’s why their share of the ratings is dropping. Anyway, Declan ’ad a barney wiv him and walked out. Rupe and I both fink Declan’s terrific; he’s a real man of stature; could become the Lord Reef of ITV, so we decided to pitch for the franchise.

‘We all live in the area,’ he went on. ‘Rupe’s lived there all ’is life. Declan, Cameron and I are comparative newcomers, more like Cafflic converts, so we love it wiv a passion, and we just feel it’s being shabbily represented by Corinium.’

‘Well done,’ said Rupert. But once again the Professor and the Bishop exchanged pained glances.

After that Harold White and Cameron were both excellent on programme plans, Georgie was brilliant on advertising, and Seb marvellously bitchy about the newsroom and ‘Cotswold Round-Up’. But at the end Hardy Bissett was just as scathing.

‘Look at you,’ he said mockingly, ‘cringing on the back of your seats trying to make yourself invisible to an examiner who might ask you the awkward question. You’ve got to sit forward, be eager and positive, bursting with enthusiasm.’

‘Gimme a drink, then,’ murmured Billy.

‘But it was better than last time,’ went on Hardy. ‘You’ve got just over a month to get your act together, and if we keep going over the same ground night after night — ’ Billy and Rupert exchanged looks of horror; Freddie glanced at his watch — ‘you’re bound to improve. It’s obvious our moles won’t be able to make every evening. But I’m glad to say most of them, not all — ’ Hardy glared pointedly at Billy — ‘acquitted themselves well and are obviously less in need of coaching than the rest of you. I congratulate you, Declan, on your poaching skills. Just don’t get rumbled, any of you, between now and December.’

When they’d all got drinks, Declan gave them a brief progress report. ‘You needn’t be too disheartened by our abysmal showing today. Elsewhere things are looking good. The most dramatic bit of news is that Mid-West have pulled out. They can’t raise the cash evidently, so their Geography master will probably never get to London now.’ He grinned. ‘This means it’s a two-horse race — just us and Corinium.’

Everyone was wildly excited by this information, except Rupert. Two two the rivals now, he thought bitterly. Why did everything remind him of Taggie?

‘I’ve also heard off the record that the IBA have had at least three thousand letters from local organizations pledging their support for Venturer,’ Declan went on. ‘Tony was also supposed to appear on a programme on Radio Cotchester this week, with me and the West of England man from the IBA, but he’s backed off because he claims a programme interspersed with pop records is not the right vehicle for serious discussion, i.e., he’s got cold feet.

‘The story’s been leaked to tomorrow’s papers. Finally Ladbroke’s make us five to four on today, so we’re on our way.’

‘So am I,’ said Freddie, going towards the door.

Rupert followed him. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To a meetin’,’ said Freddie, looking shifty.

‘With Mrs Vereker?’ said Rupert. ‘For Christ’s sake be careful. Sarah Stratton rolled up at my house in hysterics the other day, saying James had been told to back off and concentrate on Lizzie, as they’re going to make this marriage series together.’

‘I know,’ said Freddie. ‘Makes fings very difficult. That’s why Lizzie and me’s meeting up here.’

‘It’s a bloody good story,’ said Rupert. ‘Corinium presenter ordered to give up his presenter mistress and concentrate on his wife in order to win franchise. The Scorpion would adore it.’

‘No!’ said Freddie, appalled. ‘It’d hurt Lizzie, and hurt her kids to have their father’s name plastered all over the papers.’

‘Frederick, dear,’ said Rupert patiently, ‘it’s a good story, I said. It’ll discredit Corinium and make a complete mockery of the marriage programme if everyone knows it’s a sham. D’you want to win this franchise or not?’

Freddie shook his head stubbornly. ‘Not if it ’urts Lizzie. Anyway, you’re barking up the wrong tree, mate. Fact that Tony’s told James to drop his mistress and concentrate on making his marriage work will only score Brownie points with the IBA. Besides, if the papers start sniffin’ round James, they might easily cotton on to Lizzie and me.’

Rupert sighed. ‘If Declan and I can behave ourselves, I can’t think why you can’t.’

As soon as Freddie had gone, the Bishop and the Professor, who was clutching a huge whisky in one hand and a vast plate of smoked salmon sandwiches in the other, closed in on Rupert.

‘Could we have a word?’ said the Bishop.

‘We’re a bit concerned about Freddie Jones,’ said the Professor with his mouth full.

‘Charming chap, of course,’ said the Bishop smoothly. ‘Definitely one of nature’s gentlemen, but a little bit of a rough diamond.’

‘Rough diamonds are a consortium’s best friend,’ said Rupert lightly, but there was a deterrent steeliness about his eyes.

‘Ha, ha,’ said the Bishop heartily. ‘However, as I was saying, Crispin Graystock knows several members of the IBA who we’ll be meeting on the 29th. I myself am not unfamiliar with quite a few of them either. Mrs Menzies-Scott is an old friend, and of course I’ve exchanged views with the Prebendary. We just feel that Freddie Jones is not quite the right vehicle to put Venturer’s message across.’

‘What d’you mean, vehicle?’ snapped Rupert. ‘Freddie’s not a van!’

‘Well, someone who talks about Lord Reef and Cafflic converts and refers to Tony Baddingham as “a fug” — ’ delicately the Professor mimicked Freddie’s accent — ‘and extols the joys of “miking vast sums of money”, will hardly go down very well with the IBA.’

‘To be frank,’ said the Bishop, ‘poor Freddie can hardly string a sentence together.’

‘Freddie is a star,’ said Rupert furiously. ‘He’s far the most genuine person Venturer’s got. He runs one of the most successful companies in the country and he’s got the common touch.’

‘A very common touch,’ said the Professor, stuffing two more sandwiches into his face and gargling them down with a huge slug of whisky.

‘All we’re suggesting,’ said the Bishop soothingly, ‘is that Freddie Jones may be very much at home on the shop floor, with businessmen, even with the press, but not with the clergymen, academics, ladies of the Women’s Institute and senior statesmen he’s going to encounter on the 29th.’

‘We feel very strongly that he should stick to technical specifications, take more of a back seat and perhaps take a few elocution lessons,’ added the Professor.

‘I know an ex-actor who lives in Will-is-den,’ said the Bishop, taking Rupert’s stunned silence as assent, ‘who’s worked absolute miracles with somewhat — er — provincial young curates, who have difficulty taking services and giving sermons.’

‘I’ve never heard such a bloody awful idea in my life,’ exploded Rupert. ‘D’you want to castrate Freddie, to take away all his spontaneity and bounce? And coming from two jumped-up ex-grammar school boys who talk about “Willis-den”, and “substarntial involevement” makes it all the more laughable. Do you want Freddie to talk like a fucking toastmaster?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ thundered the Bishop, turning puce.

‘And for someone who calls himself a Christian and another a practising socialist, you’re both a bloody disgrace,’ added Rupert.

‘I hope you’ll withdraw that remark,’ spluttered the Professor, showering Rupert with whisky-soaked crumbs.

‘Sausage rolls, anyone?’ said Cameron, coming over and shoving a plate between them. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

‘The Bishop and the Professor have just pointed out that Freddie is a social embarrassment to Venturer and should take some elocution lessons,’ said Rupert furiously and stalked out of the room.

It took all Cameron’s and, later, Declan’s tact to calm the Bishop and the Professor down. Both threatened to resign, demanded Rupert’s resignation or at least most humble apologies, and were only placated by a large and very expensive dinner at the Gay Hussar.

It was two-thirty in the morning before Declan got home to Penscombe, but he found Taggie still up laying out apples in an upstairs spare room. With all the bills flooding in, it might be all they had to live on soon.

‘How did it go?’ she asked.

‘Awful, but Hardy Bissett says it’s always ghastly to begin with. He’ll knock them into shape. Billy Lloyd-Foxe turned up.’

‘Is he nice?’ said Taggie.

‘Enchanting,’ said Declan. ‘Exactly the right kind of person to calm everyone down. With the last fence in sight, they’re all getting incredibly twitchy.’

Then he told Taggie about Rupert’s row with the Bishop and the Professor.

‘Rupert was right. Poor Freddie,’ said Taggie indignantly.

‘He was not,’ said Declan. ‘Winding up other members of the consortium at this stage is insane. Keeping the Bishop sweet is absolutely crucial. Rupert was flip and obstructive the whole way through the meeting. I don’t know what’s got into him, or how poor Cameron puts up with him.’

It was poor Cameron now, reflected Taggie grimly.

‘She was fantastic at the meeting,’ Declan went on, with unexpected warmth. ‘The more I see of her, the better I think she is. In fact all the moles distinguished themselves, even Sally Maples, once she got over her nerves. And Charles keeps everyone’s spirits up. And Billy, as I said, just has an enchanting personality, which is bound to endear us to the IBA. I hate to sound over-confident — ’ he reached over and touched the skirting board — ‘but if we don’t do anything bloddy silly between now and December, our chances of getting the franchise must be focking good.’