Tony was quite unrepentant.

‘Poor darling Sarah, she was a bit nervous about interviewing the head of the Chamber of Commerce, in case it influenced the franchise. After all they are an important pressure group. She was asking my advice on her best line of questioning. Her great strength,’ he went on, with a nasty smile, ‘is that she’s not afraid to show a man she’s vulnerable, and she is so deliciously feminine.’

‘And I’m not, I suppose?’

Tony shrugged and ruffled her spiky hair.

‘No one could call you feminine, darling.’

So this morning, in a rage, Cameron, who had never worn baby-doll nighties or anything underneath her clothes other than the briefest bikini pants, rushed out and spent a fortune on matching underwear and nightgowns and negligées.

In other more subtle ways her self-confidence had been eroded recently. Ironically, since Tony had made her Programme Controller, a role she’d coveted for so long, she’d become less secure, because she spent so much time in meetings and was doing less and less of the thing she was really good at — making programmes. All the prizes she was now winning were for work done last year. The new series of ‘Four Men went to Mow’, starting next week, would largely be produced, directed and re-written by other people. Having clawed her way to the top, she realized, as many men had realized before her, that the view from there wasn’t that great; in fact it was bloody scary. Finally, she was aware that by flexing her muscles in the office, in bed and in the gym, she was frightening guys off. In the last three years Patrick and Tony were the only ones who’d fallen in love with her, and Tony was showing every sign of getting bored.

Out on the water meadows and the cathedral close she could see office workers in shirt sleeves and cotton dresses, many of them probably from Corinium, sneaking out to early lunches, wandering arm in arm, carrying bottles to drink under the willows.

She glanced at the status symbols littered in ludicrously expensive confusion over her bed — the Charles Jourdan shoes, the Hermés scarves, the Filofax, the Rayban shades, the huge Rolex watch, the backless kingfisher-blue Jasper Conran for Sunday night’s presentation — what was the point of all these spiralist trappings if there was no one to share them with? Her mood of despair lasted all the way to Madrid.

There, however, the black limo that met her at the airport and the splendour of her magnificent suite in a hotel paid for by the Spanish television authorities, gradually cheered her up.

There were two bedrooms in the suite, each with two beds, a huge living-room stuffed with antiques and lit by huge chandeliers, and an enormous bathroom with soft and hard loo paper, a hair dryer and two beautiful white towelling dressing-gowns. There was a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice and a huge basket of fruit with pomegranates, persimmons and apples as big as grapefruit. Pink carnations floated in the finger bowls; there were flowers in every room to match the pale pink walls, and silver trays of chocolates. And this was just her suite. Tony’s suite next door was identical.

‘Hey diddly dee, a plutocrat’s life for me,’ sang Cameron, demolishing a tray of chocolates. Then she started worrying about spots. She’d better stop.

There were also telephones everywhere, even in the shower. Tony would be circulating at his drinks party now. It brought her up with a nasty jolt that no one else in the world would like to be called by her, except Patrick and she didn’t know where he was.

She strolled out on to the balcony and saw that there was a little garden restaurant below, with a summer house and floodlit lemon trees and a lawn with a fountain. The tables were filled with handsome, hawklike men with sleek black hair, and beautiful women in suits with very padded shoulders, who were all talking their heads off and having a wonderful time.

Going back into the living-room to attack a pomegranate, she noticed an etching of the Judgement of Paris on the wall. Juno and Athene, both fully dressed, were looking furious, as Venus, who was flashing an ankle and a bare boob, was awarded the apple. Venus looked just like Sarah Stratton. Cameron turned the picture to the wall. It must be tiredness that suddenly made her feel so unbelievably down again. She couldn’t be bothered with supper; taking two Mogadon, she crashed out.

She got up early, spent two hours working out camera angles for the first part of ‘Four Men went to Mow’, then spent the rest of the morning working on Corinium’s application. God it was turgid, longer than Gone with the Wind and infinitely less readable: all those Brownie points being notched up with promises to employ independent production companies and set up audio-visual workshops, or subsidize roving repertory companies and youth orchestras. There was also a lot of guff about grass-roots involvement and worker participation schemes. A few figures had been provided, but there was very little talk of profits.

Unable to face tinkering with it any more, Cameron lunched at the hotel, wandered round Madrid, which seemed to be packed with Scottish football supporters, then spent two hours restoring her sanity looking at the Goyas and El Grecos in the Prado. The telephone was ringing as she let herself into her suite. It was Joyce Madden.

‘Lord B’s terribly sorry.’ Cameron could tell Madden wasn’t. ‘He’s been trying to get you all afternoon. He’s sorry but he won’t be able to fly out for the awards. Something’s cropped up. The Duke’s asked him to dine at Badminton tonight. He says he can’t refuse, particularly in franchise year. Hullo, hullo. .’ but Cameron had hung up.

She was so angry she ate all the chocolates on the silver tray. How dare he, the bastard! Standing her up for a bloody dinner party. Bloody star-fucker.

Absolutely on cue there was a knock on the door and in came a valet bringing a huge bunch of roses.

‘Sorry I can’t make it, Darling,’ said the card. ‘Good luck tomorrow, All love, Tony.’

Cameron was so furious she went out and hurled the roses over the balcony, watching them whizz round and round until they landed on a mob of cheering fans.

‘Bastard, fucker, asshole,’ screamed Cameron at the top of her voice, then let out an enormous fart, which seemed the only way she could demonstrate her utter contempt for Tony.

‘Hush,’ drawled a voice, ‘you’ll frighten the pigeons.’

Cameron swung round and gave a gasp of appalled embarrassment.

For there, laughing his handsome head off on the next-door balcony, his face as brown as the glass of whisky in his hand, lounged Rupert.

‘What are you doing here?’ muttered Cameron.

‘Watching Hearts win a football match. Never thought I’d get in here, but they had a last-minute cancellation, a Mr Smith.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘What an extraordinary coincidence to find you here. Why are you looking so bad-tempered?’

‘I am bad-tempered. The TV doesn’t speak English.’

‘You expecting guests?’

‘Not any more.’

‘So that bouquet you were bombing the masses with was a peace offering from the Oily Baron?’

‘You’re so fucking perceptive,’ said Cameron sulkily. Then rage overcame pride. ‘Madden just called to say he can’t make it. He’s been summoned to dine at Badminton.’

‘Probably has,’ said Rupert. ‘I know there’s a dinner party there tonight and the Princess is going. Let’s have a drink. Your place or mine?’

‘Mine,’ said Cameron. ‘Give me half an hour while I take a bath and dress.’

‘I wouldn’t bother.’ said Rupert. ‘You’re overdressed as it is.’

It was all going too fast for her. What the hell was Rupert doing here? It could hardly be coincidence. He was the biggest rake in the world. No one emerged unscathed. So why was she feeling so wildly elated, washing her ears when she’d washed them that morning, and trimming her bush, and rubbing Fracas into her belly and inner thighs? As she slid into her new peach satin underwear it seemed to be caressing her in anticipation. For once she didn’t need blusher, the glow came from within. Finally, she put on a pale apricot tunic, very demure and clinging with all the buttons done up, but with the hemline six inches above the knee, making her legs seem endless.

All powerful men are attractive. Men who are powerful and kind are irresistible. For once Rupert seemed to have abandoned his flip cracks and his sexual innuendoes. He appeared to be really, really interested in her career, in Corinium’s programme plans and how they were approaching their application for the franchise. He was also incredibly well informed. She’d always thought he was only interested in sport and screwing.

Cameron was enjoying herself so much she didn’t notice she’d drunk almost an entire bottle of champagne and Rupert had hardly touched his glass of whisky. As the boat race is usually won in the first two minutes by one crew surging ahead and taking advantage of smoother water, so the conquest of Cameron was really achieved in that first hour when she was off-guard and feeling bruised and vulnerable because Tony had stood her up. As Rupert got up to fill her glass yet again, he pointed to the mound of paper on her desk.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Working on the final application.’

‘Anyone bidding against you?’ asked Rupert, idly.

‘Tony’s discovered a group of Bristol businessmen calling themselves Mid-West are having a go. They claim we’re too Cotchester-orientated. But I don’t figure they’re much cop.’

That’s three of us pitching, thought Rupert, reflecting that, as Cameron Cook had such wonderful legs, spying on her was no hardship at all.