Rivals

37

The weekend left Cameron exhausted and with a numb sense of failure. What sort of monster was she to detest an innocent little girl of nine? Desperate for someone to dump on, she was tempted to ask Seb or even Charles Fairburn out to lunch, but decided it was too risky. Tony might easily have bugged their telephones. She longed to talk to Declan. He was so wise and she craved his approval beyond anything, but she didn’t think this was the way to win it. He’d just assume she’d been treating Tab like a Corinium employee. In the end she rang up Janey Lloyd-Foxe who, stuck at home with a new baby and frantically trying to finish a book, was only too happy for any distraction. They met for lunch in London.

Janey rolled up looking stunning and fantastically brown. ‘It’s typing topless in the garden,’ she explained. ‘My bum and legs are as white as blackboard chalk because they’re hidden under the table. I’ve got to finish this bloody book because we’re desperately broke. Billy’s absolutely fed up with the BBC, too. I do hope Venturer get the franchise. D’you think we will?’

‘Hard to tell,’ said Cameron. ‘We ought to on form, but there are so many wild cards in the pack, and Declan and Rupert really aren’t getting on at the moment.’

‘They’re both so tricky and self-willed,’ grumbled Janey. ‘Hello.’ She beamed up at an Italian waiter who was utterly mesmerized by her brown breasts which seemed to squirm in her low-cut pink dress like day-old puppies. ‘Neither of us wants to work this afternoon, so let’s kick off with duo enormo vodkos et tônicos, then we can get wildly drunk and indiscreet. You are lucky not having to worry about schedules and costings any more,’ Janey added, as the waiter floated back to the bar. ‘It must be bliss being supported by Rupert.’

‘He’s not very pleased with me,’ confessed Cameron, pleating the tablecloth. Then she told Janey about the weekend.

‘Darling,’ said Janey, taking a hefty belt of vodka, ‘get one thing straight. It’s not you. I told Helen yonks ago that she never need worry about Rupert marrying again because no one would take on Tab. She’s adorable until she suspects anyone might take Rupert away from her, then she’s Catherine de Medici crossed with all the Borgias! Mind you,’ Janey went on, plunging a cauliflower floret deep into a bowl of mayonnaise, ‘Tab hasn’t had it easy. Helen tries to be fair, but it’s obvious to anyone that Marcus is the Granny Smith of her eye. She’s never got on with Tab.’

‘Marcus is a really nice kid,’ said Cameron. ‘Why’s Rupert so mean to him?’

‘Jealousy. Rupert and Helen were going through one of their many bad patches when Marcus was born. Helen lavished all her affection on Marcus. Rupert started lavishing all his affection on show jumping and other women. It doesn’t help that Marcus looks just like Helen, and Rupert doesn’t want any reminders of her around him any more.’

‘But Marcus just longs for Rupert’s approval.’

‘I know,’ said Janey. ‘It’s really sad. Just as Rupert used to long for Helen’s approval, but she always dismissed him as a handsome hunk and show jumping as a very second-class occupation.’

As the waiter wheeled up the hors d’oeuvres trolley Janey’s eyes fell lasciviously on Mediterranean prawns, stuffed aubergine and oeuf à la Russe.

‘Go on,’ urged Cameron. ‘It’s my treat.’

‘What are you going to have?’ asked Janey, as the waiter piled up her plate.

‘Just cold salmon and a radicchio salad.’

‘Oh, that sounds nice,’ said Janey. ‘I’ll have that next, and lots of white wine.’

‘What was Helen like?’ said Cameron, trying not to sound too interested as a second besotted waiter helped them to Sancerre.

‘Oh, a sweet old thing really, but very earnest and high-minded, not like us.’ Even grinning with her mouth full of tarragon-flavoured mushrooms, Janey had all the charm in the world, thought Cameron. The ‘like us’ seemed to unite them in a conspiracy of naughtiness and fun.

‘Did she love Rupert?’

‘Ish,’ said Janey. ‘She always disapproved of him. Mind you, he was disgraceful in those days. But underneath all that stunning self-assurance and sex appeal, and lack of introspection, he does need the clapping. He wouldn’t be so competitive if he didn’t. He’s so macho, what he really needs is some very gentle, calm, submissive girl who thinks he’s absolutely marvellous.’

Like Taggie O’Hara, thought Cameron savagely.

‘Goodness, I shouldn’t have eaten all that,’ said Janey later as she put her knife and fork together. ‘But I suppose I can make the excuse that I still haven’t got my figure back after the baby.’

‘Has Tab truly fought with all Rupert’s girlfriends?’ asked Cameron.

‘Well, he turns them over so fast it’s hard to remember,’ said Janey. Then, catching sight of Cameron’s face, she added quickly, ‘But I’m sure it’ll be different now he’s met you. They liked Beattie Johnson, I think, but she was such a slut, she never imposed any régime on them, and never minded if they were frightened of the dark and wanted to get into Rupert’s bed. The more the merrier as far as Beattie was concerned. I’m amazed they got any sleep with her drunken snoring.’

Knowing both Janey and Beattie Johnson had pages on national newspapers, Cameron suspected an element of professional jealousy.

‘What d’you figure I should do about Tab?’ she asked despairingly. ‘Rupert’s planning to have her over every weekend this summer.’

‘He won’t,’ said Janey soothingly. ‘He’ll get distracted. But actually I think you ought to go back to work. You’re far too bright to hang about all summer brooding about Tab and being Rupert’s concubine.’

‘It’s so hard,’ said Cameron. ‘I’ve had plenty of offers, but all from companies in other parts of the country, and I don’t want to leave Rupert. I’ve been offered loads of freelance work too, but nothing that grabs me. I guess you’re right, I must do something.’

‘You probably miss the bustle at Corinium, and Tony Baddingham too. I’ve always thought he was very attractive in a dark satanic way.’

‘We were together for three years,’ admitted Cameron. ‘He had his moments, but he was a devil.’

‘That forked tongue must have made him very good at oral sex,’ said Janey wickedly.

Cameron laughed.

Having hardly touched her lunch, she put her knife and fork together. Leaning over, Janey forked up Cameron’s salmon and, wrapping it in a paper napkin, put it in her bag.

‘D’you mind if I take it home for my cat, Harold Evans? He’s fourteen tomorrow and he loves salmon as much as he hates London.’

While Cameron was in London with Janey, Rupert went over to The Priory in an attempt to melt the dangerous froideur that seemed to have developed between him and Declan.

Declan, however, seemed enchanted to see him. Switching off Brahms’ Fourth, and making a heavily gin-laced jug of Pimm’s — ‘Just the kind of focking English upper-class drink you would like!’ — he took Rupert out into the garden.

‘Is that the new puppy’s work?’ said Rupert, noticing a shredded bedroom slipper on the lawn and the flattened flower beds.

‘I’m afraid so. He’s been re-christened High Claudius, as he rolled on onspeakable fox’s crap yesterday, and, roshing in, leapt all over Professor Graystock who’d dropped in to drool over Taggie! At least he got rid of the Professor double quick — so he does have his advantages! It’s all right,’ he added hastily, misreading the sudden bootfaced expression on Rupert’s face, ‘he’s a dear little dog — we all love him. Caitlin’s taken him and Gertrude for a walk.’

He poured the Pimm’s into two pint mugs, then put the jug in the shade under a nearby chestnut tree. It was another glorious afternoon. Grasshoppers scraped like toy violins in the long grass, a marbled white butterfly basked on a cushion of thyme. Through the silver trunks of the beech trees they could just see Rupert’s cornfields turning gold. Even the birds were silent, worn out with feeding their young.

Declan stretched out. ‘It’s days like this that make that terrible long winter seem worthwhile. D’you know we’ve been here for nearly a year?’

‘Here’s to many more,’ said Rupert, noticing how tired Declan was looking again. ‘How’s the book going?’

‘All right, except that I’m constantly disturbed by my wife and daughter screaming at each other.’

‘Taggie screaming?’ said Rupert in surprise.

‘Never Taggie. Maud and Caitlin. Maud’s menopause appears to be coinciding with Caitlin’s adolescence. I’m thinking of calling in the International Peacekeeping Force.’

‘I could have done with them this weekend,’ said Rupert, swotting an ant. ‘My children were staying. Tab and Cameron were like weasels at each other’s jugulars. Why can’t women get on with each other? Men never fight.’

Declan laughed. ‘I’d never have cast Cameron as Mary Poppins.’

Idly they discussed the franchise. Declan had recruited a very good girl from Yorkshire Television as Head of Children’s Programmes. Then, heavily prompted by Rupert, he confessed he was desperately pushed again for money.

‘Have you spent all that thirty-five thousand already?’ said Rupert disapprovingly. ‘You shouldn’t keep sloping off to grope Maud in the Lakes.’

‘I know, but I’d been working flat out and she’s so restless. And I’ve just paid a massive tax bill and Patrick’s fare to Australia and Caitlin’s school fees for last term. And I’ve never seen anything like the electricity bill. Talk about electric shock treatment. Poor Tag’s the only breadwinner. She’s over at Monica’s at the moment, filling up her deep freeze.’

‘Can’t she shove Tony in as well?’ said Rupert, fishing a piece of cucumber out of his mug. ‘I expect he’ll force the poor darling to taste everything first in case she’s poisoning them.’

Declan wasn’t listening. His Mini, which was a 1976 model welded together by dog hair, rust and mud, which had only passed its MOT for the last few years as a result of prayer and huge sums of money changing hands, had finally given up the ghost, he told Rupert.

‘You can borrow one of my cars for the moment,’ said Rupert. ‘In actual fact, what you need is a massive cash injection. D’you want an advance from the Venturer kitty?’

‘We’ll need all of that. I’ve got to earn it. I’ve spent the last week writing a script for a fifty-minute dramatized documentary on Yeats.’

‘Who?’

‘The Irish poet. The man I’m writing the book about,’ said Declan impatiently.

‘Ah,’ said Rupert. Then, regaining the ascendancy, ‘Doesn’t sound like a money-spinner to me.’

‘Will be — if it’s good enough. I’ve sold the idea to Channel Four. And the IBA will be in raptures. Lady Gosling’s half-Irish.’

Lying on his back, listening to the hum of insects and the idle cooing of the wood pigeons, gazing up at Taggie’s bedroom window, Rupert suddenly had a brainwave. ‘If Freddie and I put up some more money, you can afford to have Cameron produce and direct it, so we can keep it in the family.’

‘Indeed you will not,’ said Declan mutinously. ‘Cameron and I don’t get on.’

Rupert turned towards Declan, eyes squinting against the sun: ‘Time you bloody learned. She really thinks you’re great. She just has a communication problem. And it’ll give her something to do. She’s like a sheep dog, she needs work.’

‘To stop her getting in your hair?’ snapped Declan.

Rupert, who hadn’t had any lunch, had now finished all the fruit in his Pimms and was reduced to eating the mint. ‘I’m thinking of Venturer, not myself,’ he said sanctimoniously, as Declan filled up both their mugs. ‘We just don’t want her getting restless and running back to Tony.’

‘It’d mean several weeks in Ireland,’ said Declan. ‘We’ll have to go on a recce fairly soon, and once we’ve cast it and fixed up the people to interview, I want to start shooting in early September. Then we’ll need another week at the end of November to do the Coole woods in Autumn.’

‘Perfect,’ said Rupert. ‘I’ll be popping over to Ireland all the time from now on for the Autumn sales, so Cameron won’t suffer too badly from withdrawal symptoms.’

‘It’s a terrible gamble,’ said Declan broodingly. ‘She and I never got on at Corinium; why should we get on now?’

‘Because Tony won’t be there putting the boot in. I promise you, Cameron really, really admires your work.’

Declan blushed slightly. ‘Well, she’s got to read the script before committing herself. I’m not having her working on something she doesn’t like one hundred per cent.’

Cameron rang Declan later that evening, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. ‘I’ve just got back from London and read your script. I just love it. The characters are terrific and all the ideas for interviews are just great. The text reads so beautifully; it’s superb.’

Declan was utterly disarmed by such uncharacteristic enthusiasm. For any writer, waiting for the first reaction is a nail-biting experience. Ursula, who’d typed the script out, had said she’d loved it, but then she was paid to.

‘I’d just adore to do it,’ went on Cameron, ‘if you really figure I’m the right person?’

‘Sure you are,’ said Declan. ‘I’ve just been talking to Jeremy at Channel Four and told him you might be interested. He’s mad about the idea.’

‘You look as though you’re floating on Eire,’ said Rupert as Cameron put down the telephone.

‘You won’t mind my being away so much?’

‘Yes,’ said Rupert, taking her in his arms, ‘of course I will, but you’ve got to have your freedom. I did when I was show jumping. It was the one thing that fuelled me.’

Cameron blushed. ‘Do you swear it was Declan’s idea I should direct it?’

‘Would I lie to you?’ said Rupert blandly. ‘He asked me to ask you. He really admires your work. He just has a communication problem.’

‘Oh, wow!’ sighed Cameron. ‘I feel like the first woman on the moon.’