‘Great,’ said Freddie Jones, ‘really great. Congratulations.’

The lawyers came up and pumped Tony’s hand. ‘We were shitting bricks at the end, but Johnny came across great, a really nice guy, an attractive guy.’

Valerie Jones was nose to nose with the Prebendary.

‘Disgraceful,’ she was saying. ‘My daughter Sharon is only fourteen and when one thinks. .’

‘Screw the Prebendary,’ said Tony five minutes later, as he came off the telephone in his office. ‘Lady Gosling thought it was terrific.’

‘It was,’ said Miss Madden. ‘Declan wants a word.’

‘That was a terrific programme. Well done,’ said Tony, picking up another telephone.

‘Thanks,’ said Declan. ‘D’you mind if we don’t come up? Johnny doesn’t want to see anyone. He’s reached a stage when he might go right over the top. I’m taking him home for a quiet dinner.’

Through the door Tony could see the press and even the lawyers getting drunk. The Prebendary was still nose to nose with Valerie. Corinium had walked a tightrope that evening and got away with it.

‘Understood,’ said Tony. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow, but congratulations anyway.’

As Cameron went into the board room, everyone cheered. Tony even forgot himself sufficiently to march over and hug her. His eyes were blazing with triumph.

‘Lady Gosling rang to say how much she liked it. She sent special congratulations to you.’

But Cameron felt utterly drained and despairing. Not just because of her lost credit, but because she had produced and directed a programme in which she’d had no part. It had lived and fortunately not died with Declan.


13


Declan’s first programmes for Corinium were a colossal success. The press agreed that Johnny Friedlander was the best interview he’d ever done, that the ones with Jackie Kennedy and the Princess were even better, and the ones with Mick Jagger and Harold Pinter even better than that. The programmes sold everywhere abroad, and there was even talk at the Network meetings of moving the series to seven-thirty on Thursday in an attempt to knock out ‘EastEnders’. Declan sweat shirts, mugs and posters were selling faster than bikinis in June and Schubert must have looked down from heaven and been surprised but delighted to see his Fifth Symphony galloping up the charts.

Once the first programme was over Declan was much less aggressive and uptight and even drank in the bar with the crew, but he was no less intransigent about wanting his own way. Cameron smouldered and bided her time. Tony was besotted with Declan at the moment, but, knowing the nature of the two men, Cameron realized it wouldn’t last.

Meanwhile, although the flood of resignations at Corinium had been arrested by Declan’s arrival, Simon Harris was getting nearer his nervous breakdown and the staff were muttering even more mutinously into their glasses of Sancerre at the Bar Sinister that Cameron was about to be put on the Board.

But, to stop Cameron getting smug, Tony, ever the bubble-pricker, finally invited the ravishing Sarah Stratton to lunch and arranged for James Vereker to interview her in the ‘Behind Every Famous Man’ series early in November. Cameron was livid and vented her rage on the rest of the staff.

The same week Sarah was due to be interviewed, Tony summoned Declan to his office.

‘How’s your cold?’ Declan asked Miss Madden as he walked through the outer office.

‘Much better,’ said Miss Madden, flushing. ‘How amazing of you to remember. Better hurry. Cameron’s in there already.’

Cameron was lounging menacingly by the window, wearing a black polo neck, black leather trousers and spiky high heels. Declan wondered if she walked all over Tony in bed in them. The room was full of cigar smoke. Tony was drinking a brandy, but didn’t offer Declan one.

‘Sit down. Congratulations to both of you,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ve just heard off the record that we got our highest local rating ever for your interview with the Princess.’

Declan sank into one of the low squashy sofas, which, with his long legs, were desperately uncomfortable unless one was lying down.

Tony leant back in his chair: ‘Cameron and I have decided it’s time you spread your wings, Declan.’

Declan looked wary.

‘We’d like you to interview Maurice Wooton this week.’

‘He’s not big enough,’ said Declan flatly. Lord Wooton was a high-profile Cotchester property developer but of little interest nationally. ‘And I’m already doing Graham Greene this week.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Cameron. ‘Do Lord Wooton as a special after the ten o’clock news on Friday night.’

‘Why can’t James do him?’

‘James is already doing Sarah Stratton in the Famous Man slot on “Cotswold Round-Up”. Besides, we want you.’

‘I’m only contracted to do one interview a week.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Tony. ‘We’ll pay you extra. We just want you to get really involved in the station.’

‘I don’t have the time.’ It was so hot in Tony’s office that Declan could feel his shirt drenched in sweat.

‘That’s what researchers are for,’ said Cameron, as though she was explaining to a two-year-old. ‘Deirdre Kilpatrick’s been working on Maurice Wooton all week. She’s come up with some terrific stuff. After all,’ she added tauntingly, ‘a guy as great as Henry Moore wasn’t too proud to employ studio assistants.’

Like a dog struggling out of a weed-clogged pond, Declan heaved himself up from the squashy sofa. ‘I do my own research,’ he said coldly, and walked out.

Hooray, thought Cameron, it’s begun to work.

On Thursday morning Cameron rang Declan at home. It was his official day off. He’d stayed up until four in the morning reading Graham Greene. Inspired, he was determined to spend the next two days on his Yeats biography, and here was Cameron’s horrible rasp ordering him to come into a meeting tomorrow at eleven o’clock.

‘So we can kick some ideas around about the line you might take with Maurice Wooton.’

Declan hung up on her. When he hadn’t shown up by eleven-thirty the following morning, Cameron rang The Priory in a fury. She got Maud, who said she was sorry but Declan was in bed.

‘At this hour? Is he ill?’

‘Not at all,’ said Maud. ‘He’s reading.’

‘Put him on.’

Declan told Cameron to go and jump in the River Fleet and that he’d no intention of coming in for any meeting. Tony then rang Declan and ordered him to come in that evening and interview Maurice Wooton. Declan, having just received an eighty-thousand-pound tax bill, which he had no way of ever paying unless he went on working at Corinium, said he’d be in later, but wouldn’t submit questions beforehand.

He slid into Corinium around two o’clock, when he knew Cameron and Tony would still be at lunch, and went down to the newsroom to talk to Sebastian Burrows, the youngest, brightest and therefore most frustrated of the reporters.

‘Deirdre Kilpatrick’s been working like mad on your Maurice Wooton interview,’ said Seb.

‘Deirdre Kill-Programme,’ said Declan.

Seb grinned: ‘You can say that again. Maurice is emerging as a total sweetie.’

‘You got any dirt on him?’ asked Declan.

‘He’s one of Tony’s best friends, isn’t that enough?’

‘Not quite — anything concrete?’

Sebastian’s thin face lit up. ‘I’ve got enough to send him down for ten years, but I daren’t use it.’

‘Give it to me,’ said Declan. ‘I’m going out.’

On the same Friday, Rupert Campbell-Black, having spent all week in meetings with the FA and the Club Managers trying to thrash out some suitable compromise on football hooliganism, decided he felt like a pit pony who needed a day off, and went hunting with Basil Baddingham.

Scent was very bad, however. It rained all day and the foxes sensibly decided to stay in their earths. Having re-boxed their horses, Rupert and Bas got back to Rupert’s dark-blue Aston-Martin to find the windscreen covered with leaves like parking tickets. Removing their drenched red coats and hunting ties, and putting on jerseys, they drove home through the yellow gloom.

‘Who shall we do this evening?’ said Bas, who was feeling randy.

‘No one,’ sighed Rupert. ‘I’ve got my red box to go through, and I’ve got to look in at some fund-raising drinks party.’

‘Pity,’ said Bas slyly, ‘I was going to show you the most amazing girl.’

‘That’s different,’ said Rupert. ‘Where does she live?’

‘Penscombe Priory.’

Thinking Bas meant Maud, Rupert said, ‘Isn’t she a bit long in the tooth for you?’

‘No, I’m talking about the daughter,’ said Bas. ‘She’s absolutely stunning.’

Back at The Priory, Grace, the housekeeper, who was making ridiculously slow progress sorting out the attic, stumbled on a trunk of Maud’s old clothes. Maud, who had just finished her last P. D. James and was suffering from withdrawal symptoms, wandered upstairs and started trying them on. Now she was parading round in a black-and-red-striped mini which fell just below her groin and showed off her still beautiful legs.

‘I remember walking down Grafton Street in 1968 in this,’ she said, ‘and an American clapping his hands over his eyes, and screaming: “Oh my Gard, can they go any higher?” My hair was down like this.’ Maud pulled out the combs so it cascaded down her back. ‘I was only twenty-four.’

‘You don’t look a day more than that now. Amizing,’ said Grace.

‘Oh, I adored this dress too.’ Maud tugged a sapphire-blue mini with a pie-frill collar out of the trunk. ‘I wore it to Patrick’s christening. I wonder if I can still get into it.’