It was a relief too that he couldn’t call her, so she didn’t go through the roof with expectation every time the telephone rang. Instead, at grave risk, she’d rung him twice from LA and every day from Cannes.

There was no doubt, too, that she was the flavour of the month at the festival. The third series of ‘Four Men went to Mow’ had already been pre-sold world wide. The Corinium publicity department had taken a full page advertisement in Broadcast that week, with a stunning photograph of Cameron holding a baby lamb, with the caption: ‘Cameron Cook works for Corinium, meet her on stand 329’, then listing all the prizes she’d won in the last year. Everyone wanted to congratulate her and offer her work.

Back at The Priory, Declan was still working on the Venturer application, only pausing occasionally to pick up the binoculars on the window seat to check on some newly-arrived migrant bird; swallows, housemartins, whitethroats were all winging in now. Last night he had even heard the first nightingale in the wood.

‘Our duty,’ wrote Declan, ‘is to tell the truth, to be relevant, entertaining and interesting, to monitor power and expose its abuse, to be nobody’s mouthpiece.’

Christ, it was difficult not to use clichés, to be concise: To bring the balloon of the mind that bellies and drags in the wind, as Yeats had so perfectly put it, into its narrow shed.

‘We will give the area a nationally recognized television identity,’ he wrote. ‘This we feel Corinium has failed to do. In their last application they promised to provide a new studio, a new youth orchestra, a trust fund for the arts and sciences, adequate training schemes and worker participation at board level. This they have failed to do.

‘They also promised that fifty per cent of their profits after tax would go to shareholders, and the rest would be ploughed back into making programmes. This they have also failed to do.’

He was about to tackle Venturer’s programme plans, when Gertrude leapt barking off the sofa, scattering papers, as Rupert and Freddie walked in.

‘Christ, you’re a slut, Declan,’ said Rupert, looking round at the files, tapes, coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays that covered every available inch of space. ‘Why don’t you let Taggie tidy up a bit?’

‘I’m superstitious,’ grumbled Declan. ‘I never tidy up between books in case I throw pages away.’

Rupert threw a copy of Broadcast, open at Cameron’s advertisement, down on Declan’s desk. ‘We must have her for Venturer.’

‘She’s riding far too high to be interested in us,’ said Declan quickly.

‘She’s not. She’s really pissed off,’ said Rupert. ‘She was on to me from Cannes only half an hour ago grumbling that Tony’d blued forty-five grand hiring a boat to promote some crappy mini series not even made by Corinium.’

‘We need some ’eavy-weight ladies,’ said Freddie, moving the binoculars and sitting on the window seat.

‘Think how useful Cameron would be for the rest of the year as a mole in the Corinium camp,’ said Rupert.

‘We’ve got Georgie and Seb and Charles,’ protested Declan.

‘None of them sleep with Tony,’ persisted Rupert. ‘We can use her to manipulate him.’

‘More likely Tony’ll use her to manipulate you.’

‘No one manipulates me,’ said Rupert haughtily. ‘I don’t mean to sound conceited, but I do know when a woman’s absolutely mad about me.’

‘You do sound conceited,’ snapped Declan. ‘She may be mad about you at the moment, but it’s a long, long time from May to December, and if you get bored or start playing her up she’ll bolt straight back to Tony with all our secrets.’

‘Look,’ said Rupert patiently, ‘she’s Tony’s only trump card. If the IBA know from the start she’s with us, it’ll totally discredit him.’

‘It’s a risk wurf taking,’ said Freddie. ‘We needn’t tell her too much.’

‘I’ve got to tell her anyway,’ said Rupert flatly. ‘If she reads that we’re pitching for the franchise in the press on Tuesday morning, she’ll never forgive me and there’ll be no hope of ever getting her.’

Declan shook his head. ‘I want it to go on record,’ he said grimly, ‘that I utterly deplore the idea of using her as a mole. It’s unethical and dangerous. Nor is Cameron going to be very pleased when you tell her what you’ve been up to already.’

Freddie scratched his curls. ‘I ’aven’t told Valerie yet,’ he confessed. ‘Been putting it off. Don’t fink she’ll be very pleased either.’

Valerie, in fact, was absolutely livid. Having studied her very good friend Monica Baddingham’s behaviour, Valerie had decided it was upper class to be keen on gardening and she must therefore channel more of her energy into transforming Green Lawns into an absolute paradise. Wearing new gardening gloves and a tan scarf tied at the back of her very clean neck to keep her curls neat, and kneeling on a new green rubber mat, Valerie was now tackling her favourite spot, the mauve and pink garden. Fat mauve clumps of aubretia fell over the walls, candy-pink double cherries danced in the breeze above serried ranks of mauve and pink tulips. Such a pity, sighed Valerie, that none of them would be out for her Opening in July. And then Freddie had to drop this disgusting bombshell about the franchise.

‘We can’t do that to Monica and Tony,’ she shrieked. ‘It’s so unsupportive. Ay’ll never hold my head up high on the Distressed Gentlefolk’s Committee. Who else is behaind it?’

Freddie took a deep breath: ‘Declan O’Hara.’

Valerie was so cross she weeded up a purple tulip. ‘That drunk — he’s practically IRA, and Sharon nearly got raped at their New Year’s Eve party.’

‘And Rupert,’ said Freddie, quailing.

‘Rupert,’ screamed Valerie, as purple now as the tulip she was trying to force back into the earth. ‘He’s a bounder. No female is safe. The evil way I saw him looking at Sharon’s legs when she was wearing her tennis shorts the other day. Even worse, I found a snap-shot of him in her brassière drawer yesterday. And both Declan and Rupert are enemies of poor Tony,’ said Valerie. ‘Monica will be outraged.’

Like a small boy plunging into icy water, Freddie battled on: ‘And Marti Gluckstein and Bas.’

‘Both crooks.’

‘And Arfur Smiff.’

‘Common little man and a leftie,’ sniffed Valerie.

‘Professor Graystock and Wesley Emerson.’

‘A black man,’ said Valerie, incensed. ‘His wife’s black too. She might start poppin’ into the boutique.’

‘And Dame Enid.’

Valerie stamped her foot. ‘That disgusting old lezzie, with Sharon in her teens. Frederick Jones, have you taken leave of your senses! You must have been plottin’ this for weeks. Ay insist you drop out.’

‘And Henry Hampshire and Hubert Brenton,’ said Freddie.

‘And what’s more. .’ screamed Valerie, then stopped in her tracks as the names registered.

‘Who did you say?’

Freddie repeated the last two names.

‘Not the Lord-Lieutenant, and the Bishop of Cotchester?’

‘Yup,’ said Freddie grinning.

Dropping her trowel, Valerie leapt to her feet.

‘Well, that does put a different laight on things. If anyone can keep Rupert in order, they can. I haven’t met the Bishop’s waife, but Hermione Hampshire is charming. When can I tell everyone?’

‘Any time after Monday lunchtime.’

Back from Cannes, Cameron plunged into the first five days of shooting ‘Four Men went to Mow’. Rupert was abroad, smoothing the path for the next World Cup in South America and playing in a Pro-Am tennis tournament to raise money for the Olympic fund, so he and Cameron didn’t meet up until late on Friday.

Cameron always drove too fast. Fortunately there was little traffic on the road that Friday night as she scorched round corners and shot crossroads in her frenzy to reach Rupert. Hardly a light was on in Penscombe village, but huge, quivering stars and a full moon lit her path. The chestnuts lining Rupert’s drive had reached a perfect pitch of pale greenness to welcome her. And as she screeched to a halt in front of the house, her headlights flood-lit a big white magnolia in full flower on the edge of the lawn — a thing of such unearthly incandescent beauty Cameron just gazed and gazed. I want to marry Rupert, she thought, and be as beautiful a bride as that tree.

The next moment the front door opened and the pack of dogs swarmed round the car, wagging and barking. She didn’t even mind their paws scrabbling the paintwork. Rupert followed them, blond hair silver in the moonlight. Wearing a clean pink-and-white-striped shirt, reeking of expensive cologne, he had obviously just bathed and cleaned his teeth. Holding his arms out he swept her off the ground above the tidal wave of dogs.

‘But they’re lovely,’ she cried as he put her down in the hall, and, kneeling, she hugged the dogs as they surged forward, shoving, nudging and licking her bare arms and legs in welcome.

‘How strange and how nice,’ said Rupert, leading her into the drawing-room. ‘I never imagined you’d like dogs.’

There was a bottle of Dom Perignon on ice, which Rupert immediately opened, and a huge plate of smoked salmon and some buttered wholemeal rolls on the table.

‘After a long hard day, I don’t believe in screwing on an empty stomach,’ said Rupert, ‘and I’m certainly going to give you a long hard night.’

Cameron moved up behind him, fingering the powerful shoulders, feeling the thrust of the muscular buttocks against her belly, melting against him with lust.

‘How are things at Fort Knocks-off?’ asked Rupert.

Cameron shook her head. ‘I feel like a mole.’