Rivals

31

At noon the lists closed. The information office at the IBA then had a frantic three and a half hours going through the applications and extracting the names and addresses of those involved for a press release at three-thirty.

Down at Cotchester three of the four Corinium moles made themselves scarce. Charles Fairburn drove to the Forest of Dean to spend two days in an enclosed order, ostensibly interviewing monks. Georgie flew to Manchester to see a big pet-food client. Cameron disappeared to Stow-on-the-Wold on location, leaving strict instructions that she wasn’t to be interrupted. Seb Burrows, being a true journalist and hating to miss the fireworks, hung around the newsroom.

Corinium staff not involved with the Venturer bid were also kept busy. James Vereker slipped home with Sarah Stratton for an extended lunch hour. Daysee Butler, who’d been out in the evenings so much recently she hadn’t watched any television, was reading the soap updates in the Mail, as she soaked up the sun in her bikini in the Cathedral close. Tony Baddingham and Ginger Johnson were having a celebrity board-room lunch with the French co-producers of ‘Stowaway’, having just sold it both to NBS and BBC. What a relief, they all agreed, they hadn’t killed off the handsome pirate villain, as a sequel was already planned.

How nice it was too, thought Tony, to lunch with Europeans who still appreciated a good blow-out and decent claret, compared with the Yanks who seemed totally addicted to rabbit food and Perrier.

By three forty-five Tony was back in his office. In half an hour he would have sobered up and be wondering who to bully. Now he merely felt lecherous. All those pale-green trees and pale half-naked girls stretched out among the buttercups. The first flush and flesh of Spring always got him going. Having spent a weekend without Cameron, he decided to drop in and see her after the Chamber of Commerce dinner that night, an event which had to be endured in a franchise year.

Still feeling randy, he was about to summon Sarah Stratton to discuss her posing with a lamb for a Caring Corinium poster when Miss Madden buzzed. ‘Barney Williams from the Telegraph, Lord B. He wants to talk about the franchise.’

‘Put him on.’ Tony extracted a cigar from the box on his desk and relaxed in his leather chair, preparing to be generous about Mid-West’s pathetic bid.

Barney Williams came straight to the point. ‘Did you know Declan O’Hara put in a rival bid?’

Tony laughed heartily. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘I’m afraid it isn’t.’

‘Who else is involved?’

‘Rupert Campbell-Black, Freddie Jones.’

‘Whaaaat!’

It sounded like a great oak tree crashing to the ground. Even through sound-proofed doors, Miss Madden jumped in the next-door office. Then Tony was leaning on the buzzer.

‘Miss Madden!’ he yelled. ‘Take these names down. Who else?’ he asked Barney.

‘Henry Hampshire, the Bishop of Cotchester, Marti Gluckstein.’

‘He’s never been to Gloucestershire.’

‘Evidently he has a weekend cottage there. Janey Lloyd-Foxe, Dame Enid Spink, Lord Smith.’

‘He can’t join. He’s a union member.’

‘Ex-member — just. Crispin Graystock. Wesley Emerson — he’s the only bit of name-plate engineering. They’re all pretty heavyweight, in fact, and, oh yes, there’s your brother Bas. Bit Jacob and Esau isn’t it?’

Tony gave a low hiss that was almost a sigh.

‘And you had absolutely no idea?’ asked Barney.

‘None.’

‘And they’re all friends of yours?’

‘They were.’

‘They’re calling a press conference in London at four-thirty. Will you be doing the same, or can I have a quote now?’

‘I’ve nothing to say until I’ve talked to my Board!’

Tony slammed down the telephone. Bastards! Traitors! Every single one of them. They’d all eaten his salt, and he’d absolutely no inkling. What kind of fucking newsroom did he have? The maddened bull’s roar could be heard all down the passage.

‘Ginger, Cyril, Georgie, Cameron, Charles! Come in here.’

‘Georgie’s in Manchester,’ said Miss Madden, ‘and Cameron’s on location.’

‘Get them back.’

Ginger Johnson thought Tony was going to have a coronary. He was magenta in the face, veins bulged like huge snakes on his forehead. He seemed to be popping out of his dark-green collar. Ginger wanted Tony’s job, but not until the franchise was safely in the bag.

‘What on earth’s up?’

Tony was so angry as he paced up and down, fists clenched, froth flecking his mouth, he could hardly get the words out to tell him. Once he lit a cigar from the wrong end, then hurled it out of the window. Without taking the top off, he tried to pour himself a stiff whisky, then banged the bottle down.

‘What have they called themselves?’ asked Cyril Peacock, who was taking down the inevitable notes.

‘Venturer — adventurers more likely — every bloody one of them! God, I’ll crucify them! I’ll take them to the cleaners!’

Ginger went to the drinks cupboard and poured Tony a large brandy. He was equally shocked at the possible loss of a £125 million turnover, but, having no personal vendettas with any of the Venturer team, he didn’t feel Tony’s paranoia or passionate sense of being deliberately ganged up on.

Miss Madden buzzed: ‘It’s the Sun, Lord B, and just hang on a minute. . Beryl says the Mirror are on the other line.’

‘Tell them Lord B’s in conference and to ring back in half an hour,’ said Ginger, taking the initiative. ‘Don’t talk to them now,’ he added to Tony. ‘Get your breath back. The most important thing at this stage is not to show we’re rattled. Leave the mudslinging to Venturer. We’ve got seven months to put the boot in. The only possible approach now is Olympian. These boring little pygmies are yapping at my heels, but I can’t feel it.’

‘Should we call a press conference?’

‘Certainly not. They’re not worth it. Why show them we’re panicking?’

Downstairs in the newsroom Seb Burrows picked up his telephone. It was ITN: ‘Hello, Seb. Christ, what a story!’

‘What story?’ said Seb innocently.

ITN told him. ‘Did you know anything about it?’

‘None of us did. Christ!’

‘Can you interview Tony for us for the five forty-five news?’

‘I’ll try. I don’t imagine he’ll be in carnival mood.’

But, to Seb’s amazement, Tony agreed. By the time the crew got up to Tony’s office, every award Corinium had ever won, including the EMMYs and the BAFT As nicked from Cameron’s office, had been put on the bookshelf or hung on the wall behind Tony’s head.

The earlier storm had subsided; Tony’s rage was ice cold now. He had even extracted a salmon-pink carnation from the vase on the desk to put in his buttonhole.

‘What’s your reaction to Venturer’s bid?’ asked Seb.

Tony gave a big, but slightly dismissive smile: ‘Well, they’re good chaps, all jolly good friends of mine. I’m sure there’s a lot of merit in their application, but frankly I’m more interested in the things Corinium are doing — like announcing plans for a ten-million-pound studio near Southampton, which’ll mean about four hundred extra jobs, and spending two million on new equipment at Cotchester, to enable us to make even better programmes, and meet with every confidence the challenge of cable and satellite. We’ve won a lot of awards over the last few years.’ He waved airily at the trophies glittering behind him. ‘We provide an excellent local news service and make jolly good programmes, and there we rest our case.’

I’m not getting anywhere, thought Seb.

‘People are saying that Declan O’Hara and your brother Basil have been deliberately plotting to oust you since Declan walked out of here last March in a blaze of publicity.’

Tony examined his nails. ‘Are they?’ he said with another big smile.

Ask a silly question, thought Seb, kicking himself.

‘Had you any idea they were engaged in a rival bid?’

‘None. I wish them luck. It would be a dull race if there were no other contenders, but it doesn’t dent my confidence.’

‘Which consortium, Mid-West or Venturer, worries you the most?’

‘Neither. I congratulate Venturer on putting an application together at such short notice and with such secrecy. I’ll be interested to see what’s in it in due course.’

‘And you feel no bitterness towards Freddie Jones and Rupert Campbell-Black and Henry Hampshire, who have all enjoyed your hospitality?’

‘None at all,’ laughed Tony, as though the idea had never occurred to him. ‘Nor do Corinium have any desire to get involved in mudslinging. Let “Dorothy Dove”, who recently won us a BAFTA award, be a symbol of our company, non-combative but victorious.’

The moment the camera stopped rolling the smile was wiped from Tony’s face. ‘Now bugger off, all of you, but come back the moment “Cotswold Round-Up” is over, Seb, and bring James Vereker with you.’

Cameron ignored Tony’s summons to return at once and insisted on carrying on shooting until the four-thirty tea break. It was vital to be as bolshie as usual, or Tony would suspect something. As she drove through the angelic spring greenness with the roof down, she heard a flash on the five-thirty news that Declan O’Hara, after a mega-bust-up with Corinium in March, was now getting his revenge on Tony by heading a rival bid for Corinium. Rupert, Freddie, Dame Enid, the Bishop, Wesley, Lord Smith and Janey were also mentioned. Cameron waited in terror for her name to be tagged on at the end.

She was still in a state of shock after the weekend. When she’d run out on Rupert on Saturday, she’d gone straight home and rung Tony at home — something he’d told her never to do — and promptly got Monica. Remembering that Tony had the French co-production people over for the weekend, who were probably Mon Dieu-ing over Monica’s fading stretch of daffodils at that moment, she’d hung up. For the next twenty-four hours she crouched shuddering in her bedroom, telephone off the hook, all doors locked, not answering the bell, going through every kind of torture at the prospect of life without Rupert. The craving had got so bad that when, on Sunday afternoon, he’d smashed the pane of her french windows at the back, let himself in, pounded up the stairs, and taken her in his arms, telling her he couldn’t go on without her, the sheer relief of having him back made her agree to anything. She would join Venturer; she would stay at Corinium and spy on Tony.

‘A Ms is not nearly as good as a Mole,’ Rupert had told her as he’d dropped her off at Hamilton Terrace at four o’clock that morning. God knows when either of them would get any sleep.

But at last the crunch had come. All day she’d been snapping at the cast for acting badly. Now she had to give a BAFTA performance herself. At least she’d heard the news bulletin, so she didn’t have to simulate complete surprise when she saw Tony.

But as she drove into her slot in the Corinium car park and read the words ‘Cameron Cook, Controller of Programmes’ she felt she should cross out the last three and put Traitor.

She reached Tony’s office just before the main BBC news. The commercials, with the sound turned down, were airing on ITV. Tony, Ginger and Cyril were all watching. Cameron went straight up to Tony and put her arms round him.

‘I’m so sorry, I heard it on the radio. They’re all traitors, but Freddie and Bas are the worst of all.’

‘Was Bas mentioned on the radio?’ said Cyril, pencil poised. ‘What station?’

‘I don’t remember,’ said Cameron hastily. ‘Some local bulletin, but I was switching about to see what I could find out.’

Christ, that was a near one, she thought, going to the drinks cupboard and pouring herself a stiff vodka and tonic. She’d have to be careful with the liquor too; she was so tired, other indiscretions might slip out. How the hell had Guy Burgess kept his communist affiliations a secret for so long if he was always pissed?

The BBC led on the story. Beautiful weather apart, there wasn’t much news. After some introductory waffle about the contenders now circling in the paddock, they went straight over to the Venturer press conference. Not wanting him to see her face, Cameron took up her position behind Tony, leaning against the wall with her hand on his shoulder. He seemed calm enough, but she could feel the knotted tension of his muscles. A tic was leaping in his jaw and the carnation in his buttonhole had already wilted, as though poisoned by his venom.

The Venturer team looked splendid. Declan had been so hostile last night that she hadn’t noticed how well he was looking, already tanned from gardening and sitting outside writing the application. Half the heavy lines seemed to have been ironed out of his face. And there was Rupert laughing with Janey, who looked amazing, bearing in mind the amount she’d drunk yesterday. Rupert had said she was the one person Cameron need never be jealous of, but she removed her hand from Tony’s shoulder, in case she clutched it convulsively. Rupert looked marvellous, too. Christ, he was beautiful. Any minute, she thought, taking such a large slug of vodka that it spilled down the tall glass all over her face, she’d wake up.

There was also a massive contingent of press there. People were standing on tables, fighting for space.

‘Why have you pitched for the Corinium franchise, Declan?’ asked the BBC.

‘We want to create a company that is genuinely local,’ said Declan. ‘And we want to make some bloody good programmes.’

‘And a fortune into the bargain?’ said the Mirror.

Everyone laughed. Declan grinned. ‘That too. Then we can afford to make even better programmes.’

Soon, however, the vitriol was flowing freely.

‘Corinium have lost touch with the public and their region. They need a good shake-up,’ said Rupert.

‘After eight years in business,’ said Freddie, ‘it seems amazing that Tony B has only just decided to build a studio near Southampton.’

‘I appeared on “Cotswold Round-Up” recently,’ boomed Dame Enid. ‘I was interviewed by some pastel-clad pansy —’ she winked at Declan — ‘who didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. It was the worst programme I’ve ever been on.’

‘What drew you in, Bishop?’ asked the Catholic Herald.

‘Television today is a key factor in the quality of life, in the community, in the establishment of Christian values,’ said the Bishop heartily. ‘I hope to play a part through Venturer in making television more uplifting and more enjoyable.’ He wagged a finger. ‘One doesn’t exclude the other, y’know.’

Realizing the Bishop was all set to deliver a sermon, Rupert cut in, ‘The Bishop feels as I do, that there’s far too much sex and violence on Corinium’s programmes.’

‘Fucking hypocrite,’ thundered Tony.

‘Very much so,’ agreed the Bishop. ‘On “Four Men went to Mow” young people are continually going to bed with other young people and shown not to be taking precautions.’

‘Corinium’s drama record as a whole,’ added Janey, ‘is abysmal.’

‘Bitch,’ hissed Cameron in genuine outrage. ‘How dare she!’

‘There are, of course, good people working at Corinium,’ said Declan, ‘but they’re hamstrung by a greedy and incompetent management.’

Tony puffed on his cigar, the knuckles of his left hand whitening as he made a dagger of the silver paper knife on his desk. Cyril’s doodles became more extravagant.

‘Having worked at Corinium for seven months,’ went on Declan, ‘I know just how bad things are.’

‘Isn’t that actionable?’ said Ginger furiously.

But Tony held up his hand for silence as the Star asked Declan who Venturer were poaching from other companies.

Declan smiled again. ‘We have a string of incredibly talented people who will take over as Heads of the various departments the moment we win the franchise,’ he said, ‘but as they’re all working for ITV or the BBC, we can’t tell you who they are.’

‘What d’you feel about your other rival, Mid-West?’ said the Sun.

Rupert laughed. ‘Well, they were advertising for ideas for programmes in the local paper last week,’ he said, ‘so they must be a bit short on imagination, and as their regional trump card is a geography master who’s never been to London I can’t say we feel very threatened.’

The BBC, obviously feeling they’d given Venturer enough coverage, turned to the wonderful weather.

Tony immediately switched over to ‘Cotswold Round-Up’ who put out an outwardly impartial report about there being two contenders for the Corinium franchise, then ran Tony’s interview with Seb in full. This was immediately followed by a link from James Vereker saying that Declan must have got to know Rupert when he interviewed him for Corinium.

Next the clip was run in from the programme in which Declan quoted the Gloucestershire peer describing Rupert as ‘a nasty virus everyone’s wife caught sooner or later’. And Rupert replying: ‘If you could see his wife, it’d definitely be later.’

Finally came Declan’s questions as to whether Rupert was going to mend his ways because of AIDS, and Rupert cracking back that he was giving up casual sex for Lent. Without any qualifying comment, the programme then switched to a story about playing-fields.

‘That was offensive,’ said Cameron furiously. ‘That clip should never have been taken out of context.’

‘The IBA won’t like it one bit,’ said Ginger, shaking his head.

‘I didn’t authorize it,’ lied Tony quickly. ‘I can’t help it if my newsroom get a little protective and leap to my defence.’

Cameron felt sick. It was going to be much dirtier and more difficult than she’d thought. Things became worse when Seb and James rolled up after ‘Cotswold Round-Up’. Tony, utterly businesslike now, said their chief object should be to dig up as much dirt on Venturer as possible and then get other people to leak the stories.

‘We’ve got to appear whiter than white and above it all. Here’s the list of their consortium.’ Tony handed copies to James and Seb. ‘Declan was desperately pushed for cash when he left Corinium. How’s he managed to be in funds again? Investigate any IRA sympathies. His wife’s a tart. See if there’s any rift there.’

‘Rupert’s a government minister,’ said Ginger. ‘That’s out of order for a start. He could influence the PM to lean on the IBA to give Venturer the franchise.’

‘Excellent,’ said Tony. ‘Ring up Paul Stratton, Ginger. He detests Rupert. Get him to ask a question in the House about it. And find out who Rupert’s sleeping with, Seb. It’s bound to be different from yesterday. If anything moves, or rather stays still, he’ll fuck it. Sarah Stratton used to sleep with him; she may still be. Talk to her.’

Seb didn’t dare look at Cameron. Suddenly, he felt desperately sorry for her.

‘Lord Smith likes the fleshpots far too much for a socialist,’ went on Tony. ‘He’s got his own house with five bedrooms and a very nice car. See if he’s been using union funds. Graystock’s a pinko, too. Investigate any communist sympathies. He’s also divorced, got a second house, and definitely sent his second child to a private school. Hang round the University, Seb, and see if he’s ever fiddled with one of his students, or put one in the club.’

‘Ditto Dame Enid,’ said Ginger with his dry mirthless laugh. ‘She’s probably miffed we’re doing a Michael Tippett opera this year and not one of hers.’

‘That’s possible,’ said Tony. ‘Good story to leak to the gossip columns. And the Bishop of Cotchester must have had a choirboy in his time.’

He ran his finger down the list. ‘Henry Hampshire’s a terrible letch; keep an eye on him. Janey Lloyd-Foxe is a whore. She left Billy for a bit and went off with one of his sponsors, and they’re always broke. There’s bound to be some dirt there. And Wesley Emerson’s a cinch. He’s always stoned or dipping his wick. We’ve just got to pick our moment to leak a really juicy story.’

Ginger shook his head. ‘Got to be careful, there. Wesley’s such a local hero, the public’ll forgive him anything. He took five wickets today, only person who did.’

‘Send Sarah Stratton to interview him,’ said Tony. ‘That should do the trick.’

James’s stomach gave a terrific rumble; his extended lunch with Sarah today had not included food. ‘I think we should be careful about smirching Corinium’s caring face,’ he said palely.

‘I agree,’ said Cameron, who’d also gone very white. ‘Can’t we just, as you said, stand on our record? We’re better than them. It seems so tacky to sink to their level.’

‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ snapped Tony. ‘This is war. I don’t believe Marti Gluckstein lives in Penscombe either. Find out his alleged address and go and bung the neighbours.’

‘I’ll do that story,’ said Seb quickly.

‘Charles is a friend of both Rupert’s and Declan’s,’ said Tony. ‘He can find out what they’re up to. Where the hell is he, anyway?’ He turned furiously on Cyril.

‘Gone to an enclosed order for two days,’ stammered Cyril. ‘They’re not on the telephone.’

‘Well, drive over and fetch him back, sunshine,’ said Tony with exaggerated patience. ‘If you both value your jobs, see that he rings me at home tonight after eleven o’clock.’

He opened his briefcase and took out a clean shirt and a tie. ‘I’ve got to go to the Chamber of Commerce dinner. So bugger off, all of you. I want to talk to Cameron.’

After they’d gone Cameron couldn’t stop shaking. ‘It’s so awful,’ she kept saying.

‘I think it might be rather fun,’ said Tony softly. ‘When the right moment comes, I’ll press the destruct button on the lot of them. They’ve no idea what they’ve taken on.’

As he came towards her, his breath was foul, as though all the hatred had churned and rotted inside him. His body stank of stale sweat. Trying not to flinch when he grabbed her, Cameron said, ‘I thought you were dropping by this evening?’

‘I’d like to, but it’s not safe. Press’ll be hanging round. Venturer might even put a private dick on to me.’

He was so mad to get inside her, he broke the elastic of her panties. It was all over in a minute.

‘The bastards,’ he groaned. ‘They’ve all betrayed me.’

Then he took her throat between his hands. ‘If you ever betray me, I’ll kill you.’

Down the High Street at Radio Cotchester the Controller of Programmes received an irate telephone call from the Managing Director who’d never been near the station since Princess Michael opened it five years ago.

‘I’ve just heard a very favourable interview with Bas Baddingham,’ he roared. ‘I don’t want any more crap like that on Radio Cotchester. Tell all our presenters and DJs we’re backing Corinium a hundred per cent throughout this campaign. After all, Tony Baddingham owns twenty per cent of us.’

Up the High Street at the Cotchester News the Editor was reading tomorrow’s leader: ‘Tony Baddingham’s words to Declan O’Hara that people who get too big for their boots should go and wear out other people’s carpets must ring hollow in his ears today when the mega-star Irishman and Penscombe resident headed a bid to oust Tony Baddingham and walk on Corinium’s carpets himself after 15th December. Venturer, as he’s called his consortium, appears to be soundly based financially, rich in talent and determined to grasp the infinite. .’

The Editor had read enough and buzzed for his leader writer. ‘You can’t publish this! We own twenty per cent of Corinium, and Tony Baddingham owns twenty-five per cent of us. Go back and rewrite it.’

‘Corinium may not be perfect,’ the leader writer retyped defiantly. ‘What company is? But it has now reached a level of performance far beyond that which any newcomer could achieve in a few years. Corinium has a massive expansion programme, it has won countless awards, it has all the expertise it needs, and it has Cameron Cook.’

Then he went out and got drunk.

Cameron finally tracked down Rupert at the House after he’d voted.

‘Sweetheart, are you OK?’ he said. ‘How’s Sledge-Hammer House of Horror? Has Tony had a seizure?’

‘I hate you and I hate myself,’ stormed Cameron. ‘How dare Janey Lloyd-Foxe say Corinium’s drama was abysmal, and that bloody Bishop attacking the morals of “Four Men went to Mow”!’

‘That was tactless. I’m sorry, but if we don’t knock you, Tony’ll suspect something. How did he take it?’

‘Fine,’ said Cameron. ‘Very together, very positive.’

‘That’s not what Barney Williams told me. He said it really pulled the Krug from under Tony’s feet, and that he was quite hysterical. All this expansive crip-crap about welcoming competition came much later in the day.’

Cameron wasn’t interested. ‘Look, Rupert, I’m not sure I’m going to be any good as a double agent.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Seb’s got to trail you to find out who you’re sleeping with.’

Rupert laughed. ‘He’s going to have a very boring time then. The only person I’m sleeping or likely to stay awake with is you.’

‘Are you sure?’ Cameron’s voice broke. ‘I’m so confused. It all happened so fast. I need to see you, just to talk.’

‘I need to fuck,’ said Rupert. ‘I want you so badly at this moment, but it’d be madness. The press are still baying round. We’ve got to be careful.’

‘I don’t think I can handle it.’

‘Yes, you can. You’re very brave and strong, that’s what I adore about you. You’re very tired too. Take a couple of Mogadon and sleep in. And sustain yourself with the thought that one day in December we’ll be awarded tickets on the one surviving gravy train.’

‘I thought we were only interested in making good programmes,’ said Cameron disapprovingly.

‘Oh well, that, too,’ said Rupert.