Rivals

23

On the third Monday in March Cameron Cook had the sadistic idea of summoning the entire Corinium staff to a power breakfast in Studio I at eight o’clock in the morning. While they blearily consumed croissants and muesli, and orange juice (scrambled egg was considered to contain too much cholesterol), Tony gave them a rousing pep talk on how each one of them could personally help retain the franchise.

‘This is a very exciting time,’ said Tony heartily. ‘“Dorothy Dove” and “Four Men went to Mow” have yet again been nominated for BAFTA Awards. Our new series on the elderly, “Young as You Feel”, starts next week. And we’re delighted to announce that our new presenter is going to be Naomi Hargreaves, who, as you know, climbed Everest last year at the age of sixty-five.

‘Our new networked quiz, “Master Dog”, to find the canine brain of Britain, starts recording on Wednesday. The new series of “Four Men went to Mow” starts at the end of April and a performance of Michael Tippett’s Midsummer Marriage will be recorded in Cotchester Park in early June. James Vereker’s and Sarah Stratton’s new afternoon programme starts on Monday week.’ Tony smiled warmly at Sarah, and received a black look from Cameron. ‘And we all wish them the best of luck.

‘Finally, Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ Tony added with a sigh of relief, ‘is virtually in the can. We anticipate two days re-shooting, tomorrow and Wednesday, leaving Studio I free for “Miss Corinium Television” on Thursday.’

To put Declan down, Tony had deliberately not mentioned his programme, but now, looking round the packed studio, he discovered to his fury that Declan didn’t appear to be present.

Declan, in fact, was at home, having got up at five to wrestle with his Yeats biography. Looking at the pile of scribbled notes and typed pages on his desk, he felt like Vidal Sassoon confronted by the wild woman of the West with fifty years of burrs and tangles in her hair. He wished he had Vidal Sassoon’s skills. He was so tired, he hadn’t had an original thought for weeks. Matters had not been helped by Grace finally walking out at the weekend because Declan had bawled her out for drinking all his whisky. Maud, furious at losing her ally and sparring partner, blamed Declan for the whole thing and was refusing to talk to him.

His black gloom was interrupted by Ursula ringing up to say she had flu.

‘Poor thing. Stay in bed,’ said Declan. ‘Can I bring you anything?’

‘No, but I’m terribly sorry, I forgot to remind you about Cameron’s power breakfast,’ said Ursula.

At Corinium Tony was winding up his peroration: ‘I have no doubt that Corinium will retain the franchise, but I cannot remind you too strongly that this year we are on show. The IBA will not only be monitoring our programmes more closely, and examining our finances and our staff relations, but they will be looking to see how we conduct ourselves both as individuals and as a company. Any complaints from a local body, pressure group or a restaurateur will count as the blackest mark. Seb Burrows’ twenty-first birthday party last week, for example, completely broke up the Beaufort room at the Cotchester Arms. If you ever have another twenty-first birthday, Seb —’ Tony’s big smile flashed on — ‘you’ll be fired.’

Realizing some sort of joke had been made, the staff tittered feebly.

‘Finally I must warn you that that scourge of violence and, particularly, sex, the Reverend Fergus Penney, ex-Prebendary of the Church of England, will be visiting the station tomorrow, so for Christ’s sake behave yourselves and make him feel welcome. And remember above all, appearance does matter.’

Exactly on cue, Declan walked in, deathly pale, hair unbrushed, stubble blacking his jaw, and his jersey inside out.

‘I’m sorry, Tony,’ he said, ‘1 forgot.’

‘We’ve just finished,’ said Tony coolly. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the boat, but that’s nothing unusual.’

‘Where are you going?’ shouted Cameron, as Declan turned towards the exit.

‘Home,’ snapped Declan, ‘I’ve got a lot of lying down to do.’

The next day, 21st March, was the first day of Spring. The Head of News sent a crew off to photograph lambs playing in a field. James wore a new primrose yellow tracksuit to urge viewers to join his new sponsored Slim-for-Spring campaign to raise money for heart research, and Declan came in to interview Guilini. The programme, for once, was being recorded as Guilini was flying to New York for a concert straight afterwards.

The fair Daysee Butler, keen to do her bit for the franchise, accepted an invitation to lunch from someone almost as grand as Guilini. As it was programme day, she only sipped Perrier and ate one course of chefs salad. Her very distinguished companion, however, departed from his usual Perrier and put away a large whisky before lunch, a whole bottle of claret during, and a large brandy afterwards. He hardly touched his monkfish, but was charmed that Daysee should peel his Mediterranean prawns for him as she told him, admittedly rather monotonously, how she got every programme out on time.

On the drive back from the restaurant, which was several miles outside Cotchester, Daysee’s very distinguished companion, mindful that it was the first day of Spring, pulled into a side road to admire some leaping lambs and leapt on poor Daysee. By the time he had torn half the buttons off her yellow angora jersey with the picture of Donald Duck on the front, and grabbed goatily at her thighs, laddering her stockings, Daysee was so frightened she dashed out of the car and, taking off her high heels, ran sobbing across Cotchester water meadows, across the tarmac of the car park and in through the back door of Corinium Television. Here she collided with Tony, who had lunched not wisely but too well. The sight of poor Daysee with her blonde hair awry, her mascara streaked with tears, her stockings muddy and laddered, and her yellow jersey half torn off her beautiful body, melted even Tony’s stony heart.

‘My dear child, what is the matter?’

‘Someone’s just tried to rape me,’ wailed Daysee.

Next minute she was whisked up in the fast lift to Tony’s office and ensconced on the squashy leather sofa, sobbing her heart out while Tony poured her a vast brandy.

‘There, drink this.’

‘I mustn’t,’ sobbed Daysee. ‘I’ll never be able to count Declan’s programme out on time.’

‘Nonsense! One glass of brandy won’t hurt you. Anyway, it’s only some tinpot conductor.’

Getting out his red silk handkerchief smelling of Paco Rabanne, Tony dried Daysee’s eyes. She was really very, very pretty.

‘Now, tell me who it was.’

‘I c-c-can’t.’

‘Come on, you can trust me.’ He sat down on the sofa beside her.

‘It was such a shock,’ whispered Daysee. ‘I thought he was just interested in our programmes. I wanted to help Corinium win the franchise.’

‘I know you did,’ said Tony warmly. ‘That’s what makes it so reprehensible. Just give me his name.’

‘I’d truly rather not.’

‘Someone connected with work?’

Daysee gulped and nodded.

Better and better, thought Tony, mentally rubbing his hands. How wonderful if it were Declan or even James.

‘If we don’t get him for rape, we’ll clobber him for sexual harassment,’ he said, trying not to sound too eager.

Daysee shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I was convinced he was just interested in my mind.’

Noticing the ten inches of thigh and the glorious depth of cleavage revealed by the torn jersey, Tony sidled down the dark-green squashy sofa and said, ‘Of course he was.’

Daysee looked up, her huge eyes spilling over once more with tears. Tony put an arm round her shoulders.

‘Come on, my dear, we can’t allow animals like him to roam at large. He may strike again and succeed next time. Think of your female colleagues. Don’t worry, I’ll see your name’s kept out of the papers. Now tell me who it was.’ Gently he stroked her silky hair.

‘It was the Prebendary,’ murmured Daysee.

‘What!’ exploded Tony.

‘The Reverend Fergus Penney from the IBA,’ whispered Daysee miserably.

Instantly the solicitous smile was wiped off Tony’s face. His arm jumped off her shoulders as though they were red hot.

‘I don’t want to hear any more about this business,’ he said chillingly. ‘If you value your job, don’t blab about it to anyone. And I hope you’ve learnt your lesson, not to wear such short skirts or tight sweaters to the office in future.’ With that he slammed his door in poor Daysee’s face.

Still trying to be a loyal Corinium employee, Daysee tried to keep her trap shut. But Declan, noticing her reddened eyes and lack of bounce during the afternoon and being infinitely more skilled at getting confidences out of people than Tony, soon had the whole story from her with the help of a few whiskys from his office bottle.

‘Lord Baddingham said the Prebendary was so against sex and violence,’ sobbed Daysee.

‘Only on television,’ said Declan grimly. ‘It’s fine in real life.’

As he was intending to take Thursday off to go to the Gold Cup with Rupert, Declan went into the office on Wednesday to wade through a mountain of post. After the row with Maud about the telephone and drink bills which she’d hidden behind the recipe books in the kitchen, Corinium, with all its ructions, seemed the quieter place. The tax man had also called the day before to collect twenty thousand pounds, and, being told Declan was out, said he would call again next day, which was another reason for not hanging around at home. He was beginning to think there was no alternative except to sell Rupert the wood. The only thought that sustained him was that he was due for a two-month break at the end of April, but, as things were going, he’d have to spend the time off doing programmes in America to raise some cash.

He was also aware that his programmes had been very lacklustre recently. The one on Rupert had attracted huge ratings and newspaper coverage, but Declan in retrospect was bitterly ashamed of it, knowing that initially he’d let personal animosity overwhelm his detachment. Since then, the programmes had had the bite of a rubber duck.

God, he was tired. He looked at the mountain of post, a lot of it probably bills. Ursula was still away. He could smell today’s special, boeuf bourguignon, flavoured from a packet no doubt, drifting down from the canteen, as could the contestants of ‘Master Dog’ who were barking hungrily in Studio 2.

He picked up the first memo. ‘The Gay and Lesbian Sub-Committee of the ACTT has been re-named the Sexuality Sub-Committee.’

On cue, Charles Fairburn drifted in, having just collected his expenses.

‘Come and have a drink at the Bar Sinister.’

Declan shook his head. ‘Got to deal with all this.’

‘Never grumble about fan mail,’ chided Charles. ‘Think of poor me going off to Southampton first thing tomorrow to supervise Holy Communion for the Deaf. Have you been asked to Tony’s bash for Badminton? He’s put the little red ram logo on the corner of all the invites so he can offload the whole thing on expenses.’

‘He won’t ask me,’ said Declan grimly.

‘No, you are a bit out of favour, poor dear,’ said Charles sympathetically, ‘and you work harder than any of us. I’m expecting to get the Old Queen’s Award for Lack of Industry any minute. That’s better; at least you’re smiling. And I’ll tell you something else to cheer you up even more. In Studio 2 you’ll find a lot of lovable mongrels rummaging for choc drops which have all melted under the lights, on caring James’s pastel sofa. James is going to be livid when he gets back from another three-hour lunch with Mrs Stratton.’

The telephone rang. ‘Corinium Waifs and Strays,’ said Charles, picking it up. ‘Oh, hi, Madden dear. All right, I’ll send him along. Tony’s leaving for London in twenty minutes, thank God,’ he told Declan, ‘but he wants a word with you first. I’d take the slow lift. He’s in a vile mood.’

Tony, in fact, seemed in an excellent mood, purring away like a great cat about to enjoy an extended game of mouse-taunting.

‘Ah, Declan. Shut the door behind you and sit down.’

As usual the central heating was turned up so high Declan felt he was having a hot flush.

‘I wonder if you’d explain this.’

Tony threw Declan a picture postcard of a huge crocodile with gaping jaws. On the other side was scrawled in huge black writing: ‘Here’s a picture of your boss. Bloody hot here. If I don’t talk to you before, I’ll pick you up at The Priory at eleven o’clock. Rupert.’

There was no address or stamp.

‘Who the fock opened this?’ asked Declan.

‘We open all mail during franchise year,’ said Tony smoothly. ‘Just to check whether any of our staff are being propositioned by other franchise contenders.’

‘This place gets more like the KGB every minute.’ Declan made no attempt to hide his rage.

‘I also see you’ve taken up elitist sports,’ went on Tony, happily handing Declan the Daily Express, which was folded back at a picture of Rupert and Declan out hunting.

‘Burying the hatchet after their recent encounter on “Declan”,’ read the caption.

Tony shook his head. ‘You’re not keeping very good company, Declan.’

‘Then why has Rupert been asked to judge Miss Corinium tomorrow?’

‘That’s a slip-up of Cameron’s. It won’t happen again. There’s also a piece in yesterday’s Standard quoting you as saying you’ve given up hope for Lent. Not a very positive attitude. Be a bit more careful when you talk to the press in future.’

Tony got up and wandered towards the drinks cupboard.

‘Like a drink?’

Declan shook his head.

‘Just as well,’ said Tony, pouring himself one. ‘I gather you were plastered when you interviewed Guilini yesterday.’ Then, as Declan opened his mouth to protest, he went on, ‘I saw your old boss, Johnny Abrahams, from the BBC last night. He said they’d let you go at just the right time, that you were burnt out.’

‘The bastard,’ said Declan furiously. ‘He’s got a bloody nerve.’

‘I hoped you’d take it like that,’ said Tony softly, ‘because I am very worried about your ratings. Only ten million for the week ending 2nd March. Cameron was at a network meeting yesterday and they’re now considering what was unthinkable a few months ago, shifting your programme from peak time to shallower waters, perhaps a ten-thirty or even an eleven o’clock slot.’

‘That’s insane,’ said Declan. ‘We only got ten million because the BBC have moved “Dallas” against us. We’ll get it back.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Tony brutally. ‘Quite honestly you’ve lost your authority, Declan. There was a time when every interview made the front page of every newspaper. Now even the critics ignore them. You didn’t make a single national last week.’

‘I will next week. Bob Geldof’s coming on.’

‘Bit old hat — all that Aid stuff.’

Tony tipped back his chair, stretched his legs, and gazed at Declan considerately. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I know how depressing it is for stars when they drop down from Number One. I do hope you’re not overdoing things. Why are your hands shaking?’ He looked complacently down at his own beautifully manicured hands. ‘Mine don’t shake.’

Declan stood up. ‘That’s because you don’t have to work with people like you,’ he snarled.

Out of the window he could see a posse of lovable mongrels scampering across the water meadows after an aniseed trail, being pursued by a panting camera crew.

Tony also rose to his feet: ‘I’m trying to be sympathetic,’ he said in a voice that froze even Declan’s blood, ‘and all I get is abuse.’

He pressed a button. Miss Madden appeared so quickly she must have been listening at the door.

‘Declan’s leaving,’ said Tony imperiously.

Back in his office, trembling from head to foot, Declan got a bottle of whisky from the cupboard and, pouring two inches into a paper cup, drained it. The first thing that really registered in his post was a typescript and a letter from Patrick. He had finished his play and sent it to Declan to read:

Dearest Pa,

I’ve been poisonous enough about your stuff in the past, now I’m going to get a taste of my own medication (as Cameron would say). Please read it and tell me the truth. Give my love to Cameron, if you’re still speaking. See you next week.

Love Patrick.

Patrick, Declan reflected, was a bloody sight better at getting down to things than he was. He was about to start reading when there was a knock on the door. It was Miss Madden, puce as a beetroot, bringing him a cup of coffee and two rounds of roast beef sandwiches.

‘You don’t eat enough.’

‘You mean I’m drinking too much. That’s terribly sweet of you, darling. How much do I owe you?’

‘It’s a present,’ said Miss Madden, blushing even more deeply. ‘As Lord B’s gone to town and Ursula’s sick, I thought you might like some help with your mail. I can polish off that lot in no time. I expect it’s mostly from fans.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Don’t take Lord B’s remarks too much to heart. He’s only trying to goad you. Please don’t walk out. We need you here.’

Declan was touched, and dutifully sat down and went through his post. When Miss Madden had taken it away, he felt unable to settle down to Bob Geldof’s cuttings. Wandering down the corridor, he found James and Sarah recording their first afternoon programme in front of a small geriatric audience.

James was interviewing a large woman in a pinstriped suit and a monocle, who looked not unlike Thomas the Tank Engine. Insufficiently briefed, having spent far too long lunching with Sarah, he was frantically leafing through his notes to find out something about her. At last he turned up Deirdre’s list of questions. Christ, she was a fucking composer. James was tone-deaf.

‘A very good afternoon and welcome to Dame Edith Spink,’ he said.

The audience clapped lethargically.

‘May I call you Edith?’

‘You may, but my name’s actually Enid,’ said the lady composer.

Flustered, James consulted his notes. He’d kill Deirdre after the programme.

‘I’d like to say, Enid, how much I personally have enjoyed all your symphonies.’

‘I’ve only written one,’ snapped Dame Enid.

From the darkness by the door, Declan was beginning to enjoy himself. Dame Enid Spink was an extremely distinguished musician who lived on the borders of Wiltshire and Gloucestershire, and was probably only second to Michael Tippett as a composer in Britain. A notorious lesbian and a feminist, she was already furious that Corinium were doing Michael Tippett’s opera this year rather than one of hers.

‘You’ve just visited the States, Enid,’ ploughed on James, ‘to conduct your newest opera. Er, what do the Americans think of your work?’

‘Bloody stupid question,’ said Dame Enid. ‘I didn’t ask them all. There are about two-hundred million, you know.’

Bitch, thought James furiously, I’ll fix her.

‘Many critics,’ he read from Deirdre’s notes, ‘say this latest opera of yours isn’t up to standard.’

Crash came Dame Enid’s hands down on her wide-apart pinstriped thighs. ‘Name four,’ she thundered.

‘Pardon?’ stammered James.

‘Name four of those critics,’ persisted Dame Enid.

James couldn’t. Dame Enid stalked off the set.

James mopped his brow, thanking Christ the programme wasn’t live. He was lucky that it was not until ten minutes later that Cameron put in an appearance and therefore entirely missed the encounter.

Now it was Sarah’s turn. Her task was to interview some female rugger players and a group of lady buyers in suits with pussy-cat bows on whether it was still a man’s world, followed by a studio discussion in which James would whizz round the audience with a roving mike.

Although there was already an extremely competent director, Cameron, in her role as Programme Controller, couldn’t resist sticking her oar in, making an already nervous Sarah fluff her introductory patter over and over again. Now Cameron had come down on the studio floor.

‘Thank you so much for spending March with us,’ she told the tittering audience after the tenth take.

Sarah fluffed her patter again.

‘This is really an elaborate way of handing in your notice, Sarah,’ taunted Cameron to more titters. Sarah looked imploringly at James, who, sitting on the yellow sofa, suddenly seemed very interested in his cuticles. Sarah fluffed the patter again.

‘If you don’t pull your finger out,’ Cameron told her, ‘we’ll be going out live.’

Declan had seen enough. ‘Stop being a fucking bitch,’ he yelled, marching up to Cameron.

The crew, grinning broadly, gave him a round of applause. The audience, wildly excited to see such a megastar and thinking it was part of the show, started to clap and cheer too.

‘How dare you lay that number on me?’ screamed Cameron over the din. ‘I’m going home.’

‘Put the kettle on,’ the Floor Manager shouted after her. ‘We’ll all be round for tea in half an hour.’

Down the steps swarmed the audience, crowding round Declan, clamouring for his autograph.

‘You’re very like yourself,’ said one lady.

‘Thank you so much, Declan,’ said Sarah tearfully.

‘Now you can get on with the programme,’ said Declan, beating a hasty retreat.

Utterly dispirited after his outburst, Declan returned to his office and, getting out the whisky bottle, settled down to read Patrick’s play. As he finished it, he was equally consumed with pleasure and despair, because the play was quite simply marvellous: incredibly original, funny, very moving, slightly over the top, but possessing all the vigour and fearlessness of youth. Reading it made Declan realize once again what an utter cock-up he’d made of his own career.

Emptying the bottle, very drunk now, he wandered into the corridor, ending up in the big studio where they were shooting the last re-take of Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Even the cardboard trees seemed to pulsate with midsummer heat and enchantment. Declan stood in the shadows, tears pouring down his face, impossibly moved by the poetry. Would he ever write anything good again?

Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he jumped violently. It was Cameron. Rubbing his eyes frantically, he followed her out into the corridor.

‘I’m sorry I came on strong this afternoon,’ she said. ‘“Four Men went to Mow” starts again next month. I guess I’m uptight.’

‘I guess you are,’ said Declan ungraciously. ‘Pick someone your own weight next time. Sarah could be very good if you don’t frighten her off too soon.’

He stalked into his office, rather laboriously gathered up the pages of Patrick’s play, and chucked the whisky bottle into the wastepaper basket with a clang.

‘As Tony’s opening people’s post, I suppose he’s frisking wastepaper baskets as well,’ he snarled at Cameron. ‘That should really convince him I’m drinking too much. I imagine it was you who told him I was drunk on the programme yesterday.’

Cameron blushed. ‘No way.’

‘Well, I wasn’t.’ He went on gathering papers together.

‘What’s that?’ said Cameron, anxious to change the subject.

‘Patrick’s play.’

‘Any good?’

‘Exceptional. You’ll be sorry one day you passed him up.’

‘I’m sure you won’t be,’ snapped Cameron.

‘No.’ Declan’s brooding eyes looked at her contemptuously. ‘I can’t imagine anything that would have filled me with more horror. He sent his love by the way.’

Cameron tried again: ‘Look, I know it’s screwing you up working here.’

‘I’m surprised you talk in the present tense,’ growled Declan, going towards the door.

‘Don’t forget you’re judging “Miss Corinium Television” tomorrow. We want you and Rupert here by seven,’ said Cameron.

‘About all I’m fit for,’ said Declan wearily, and walked out.

Declan was not a vain man, but if anything could have boosted his self-confidence it was that day at Cheltenham. Whenever he put his nose out of Freddie’s tent to have a bet, he was mobbed, and the combination of him and Rupert together among that horse-loving, strongly Irish crowd, caused almost as much excitement as the returning winner of the Gold Cup. To add to everyone’s high spirits, Freddie’s horse danced home an effortless winner in the second race. Nor was it anyone’s fault that, as a result of a freak snowstorm, the Gold Cup was postponed for an hour, or that Rupert had a monkey each way on the winner. Consequently Rupert and Declan got unbelievably drunk and didn’t reach Cotchester until seven forty-five.

‘Is this the Forest of Hard-On?’ said Rupert, as he tripped over a lot of stacked-up cardboard trees outside Studio 1.

‘Wrong play,’ said Declan. ‘They were supposed to represent Greece.’

Cameron, Tony and James, who was compèring the programme in a midnight-blue dinner jacket with a dinky rose-pink bow-tie, were all absolutely livid they were so late.

‘It’s a bloody disgrace,’ stormed Cameron. ‘There’s no time to brief you. Go into my office and you’ll have a chance to meet the other judges and the fifteen finalists before transmission.’

The other judges were a male pop star called Big Lil, the Mayor of Cotchester, the head of the local tourist board and a naval officer called Ron, who’d just returned from sailing round the world single-handed.

‘After a girl-less ten months,’ whispered Rupert, ‘he’ll have to be lashed to his chair.’

‘We’re now selecting the last seven,’ Cameron told the judges. ‘You should look for the kind of girl you can take anywhere.’

‘In the broom cupboard, under the mulberry tree,’ said Rupert.

As each girl sidled in, Tony and Cameron fired questions at them. Miss Bisley came from Cotchester. Miss Painswick from Bisley. Miss Chipping Sodbury was so well stacked she could have won a National Front award.

When Miss Wotton-under-Edge said her ambition was to run a home for homeless pussies, Rupert and Declan got serious giggles. Fortunately the room was ill-lit.

‘They all talk like Valerie Jones,’ said Rupert.

Having selected the last seven, they all adjourned to Studio 1, which was now organized with tables, at which sat the so-called invited audience, and the contest was on air.

The fifteen contestants then teetered on in bathing dresses and four-inch heels. Although the judges had already preselected their last seven, as far as the audience, the contestants and the viewers were concerned they were picking them now. Seeing the girls in bathing dresses for the first time, however, Declan and Rupert realized some of the ones they hadn’t chosen had much better figures and legs and noisily tried to change their minds.

‘You’re supposed to be picking the first three now,’ hissed Cameron. ‘And stop making that bloody awful row.’

As Declan and Rupert rushed out to have a pee in the commercial break, Rupert grabbed a bottle of champagne from one of the tables, shoving it under his coat. Cameron, waiting in the corridor as they came out of the lavatory, shoved them into an empty dressing-room. ‘Big Lil’s going to sing his new single while the last seven change and you two can bloody well stay in here and behave yourselves.’

Rupert put on Bottom’s head, which was hanging on a hook, and read out a notice on the wall: ‘We apologize to all artistes for any inconvenience caused by accommodating them in a temporary dressing-room.’

‘I am a Pees Arteeste,’ said Declan, taking a swig from Rupert’s bottle. Totally forgetting they were miked up, they starting discussing the contest.

‘Why’s James Vereker wearing red shoes?’ asked Rupert.

‘Must be the blood running down from all the people sticking knives in his back,’ said Declan.

‘What d’you think of Miss Bisley’s bottom?’ said Rupert from the furry depths of his ass’s head.

‘Terrific,’ said Declan. ‘What d’you think of Miss Chipping Sodbury’s tits?’

‘Wonderful, but not as good as Miss Wotton-under-Edge’s crotch.’

‘Which one d’you think Tony Baddingham’s fucking?’ said Declan.

‘The whole lot,’ said Rupert, collapsing on the bed with laughter.

Declan leant against the wall, shaking. ‘And Daysee Butler will get it out to the second.’

Next minute a chalk-white sound man erupted through the door to tell them they were being overheard by everyone in the control room, including Cameron and Tony. After that Declan found events became slightly hazy. Miss Bisley was crowned Miss Corinium Television and even wept a few tears, but not enough to streak her waterproof mascara.

‘I’ll see you in my office in half an hour,’ hissed Tony to Declan, as he ushered the Mayor and a lot of visiting VIPs upstairs.

‘I won’t be long,’ Declan told Rupert. ‘Wait in the car.’

He got his contract out of the filing cabinet in his office and took the lift to the fifth floor. He felt curiously elated.

As he stood in the doorway of the board room he heard Miss Bisley saying to Miss Painswick that Miss Cotchester’s trouble was that she had an unphotogenic crotch.

Tony was talking to his VIPs, who included the Prebendary and who were all ogling the girls. Declan went up and tapped Tony on the shoulder.

‘I’d like a word now.’

‘Piss off.’

‘Now — in your office,’ said Declan, ‘unless you want me to tell these creeps exactly what I think of you.’

‘Do be careful,’ said Miss Madden, who was sitting at her typewriter in a mauve satin dress.

Sauntering after Tony, Declan blew her a kiss.

‘You look beautiful,’ he told her.

‘How dare you?’ thundered Tony, as Declan slammed the door behind them.

‘Because you’re rotten,’ said Declan. ‘So rotten, even maggots throw you up.’

Tony went purple. ‘You’ve flouted my authority at every opportunity,’ he spluttered.

Slowly Declan walked towards him, huge, cavernous-eyed and menacing. ‘Violence isn’t the answer,’ he said softly, ‘but it’s a bloody good start.’

Tony backed up against the wall, licking his lips, eyes darting, hand edging towards the intercom button.

‘Don’t touch me,’ he croaked. ‘I’ll get you for GBH.’

‘The H would be so fucking G,’ said Declan, ‘that you’d never open your big mouth again, you bastard.’

As he raised his hand, Tony cringed away until his head crashed against the framed photograph of himself and the Queen. Then he realized that Declan was holding a folded-up piece of paper.

‘This is my contract,’ said Declan grimly. Slowly and with great relish he tore it into tiny pieces and sprinkled it over Tony’s head. Then he turned towards the door.

For a second Tony was struck dumb, but, as Declan’s hand touched the door handle, he said, ‘Can I take it you’ve resigned?’

‘Indeed you can,’ said Declan. ‘I’ve prostituted myself for —’ he counted up on his fingers — ‘seven months too long, and tonight I’m going to have the first night’s sleep since I started working for you.’

‘Has it occurred to you that you’re breaking your contract?’

‘I don’t give a fuck,’ said Declan, opening the door. ‘I’m not staying here till you break me, like you broke Cyril, and Simon and half the poor mentally crippled sods in this building.’

The moment he’d gone Tony pressed the re-wind button on the tape recorder and poured himself a huge glass of brandy.

‘Miss Madden,’ he shouted, extracting the tape from the cassette, ‘can you transcribe this at once? Make a dozen copies. Then sweep up these bits of paper and put them in an envelope marked Declan O’Hara’s contract. What the fuck are you crying for?’

‘He was a nice man,’ sobbed Miss Madden. ‘He always asked me about my life as though it mattered to him.’

Outside in the car park the wind had dropped and the moon was shining dimly through the clouds like a ten-watt bulb.

Rupert, still wearing Bottom’s head, had finished the bottle of champagne.

‘Sorry to keep you,’ said Declan, getting into the car.

‘How did it go?’

‘I’m out.’

‘Christ!’ Rupert pulled off the ass’s head. ‘I thought you had a water-tight contract?’

‘Unfortunately it wasn’t whisky-tight,’ said Declan. ‘Let’s go and get seriously drunk.’