‘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.’