35


Valerie Jones was absolutely furious when nothing about her Opening appeared on ‘Cotswold Round-Up’, but not nearly as angry as Declan when Rupert told him what had happened.

‘What the fock were you doing taking a dog you can’t control to Valerie’s opening?’

‘I control my dogs a bloody sight better than you.’

‘We’re not talking about me. Think of the adverse publicity.’

‘There won’t be any. I refrained from beating Tony to a pulp.’

Declan sighed. ‘And how the hell is Tony going to explain the overnight loss of his mistress and Programme Controller to his staff? Someone’s going to leak the story. Pirated tapes of Beaver’s flatfoot through the gladioli are no doubt circulating the network already, and it won’t be long before they reach the press and the IBA.’

‘It was terribly funny. I wish you’d seen Valerie’s face.’

‘It’s not funny,’ thundered Declan. ‘I suppose you’re used to having your character blackened but it won’t do Venturer any good. The IBA don’t like this kind of thing.’

He couldn’t understand how Rupert could be so unrattled by such a catastrophe. He supposed he’d always lived in the eye of the storm.

‘I don’t know who comes out worse,’ Declan went on, ‘you setting out coldly and deliberately to seduce Cameron so we had a mole on our side, or Tony who beat her up. A lot of people will feel Tony was justified. He was only acting in the heat of the moment.’

‘Oh, come off it,’ snapped Rupert. ‘Talk about making mountains out of moles. The story we leak is that Cameron and I were attracted to each other when we met, when you interviewed me in February. We resisted it because we were on opposing sides for as long as we could, but now she’s moved in with me and Venturer has the best Head of Drama in the country. Christ, we’re both free agents. It’s Tony who’s the adulterer and the mistress-basher. He won’t want to make a big thing of it because of Monica and the IBA.’

A story was duly leaked and appeared in the Mail the next day that Cameron Cook had changed sides, moved in with Rupert and that Tony was devastated to lose his star producer. No reference was made to Cameron being Tony’s mistress, or of her being beaten up by him.

Rumour, however, was rife and by Wednesday Corinium had leaked a counter-story accusing Venturer of poaching and cold-blooded enticement, and putting the blame firmly on Rupert.

‘A lonely, single woman nearing thirty, worried about missing the marital boat, is in a particularly vulnerable position,’ Tony was quoted as saying.

Rupert was furious. ‘All we have to do is give a photograph of Cameron’s bruises to the press.’

‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ said Declan crushingly. ‘You’ve no proof Tony did it and not you. It isn’t as though you’ve exactly got a blameless reputation when it comes to beating up.’

Tony, once he had cooled down, was absolutely shattered by Cameron’s defection. He’d had no idea how much both he and Corinium had come to depend on her, both as an inspiration and a sparring partner.

Discovering through his spies that Rupert would be in London opening a new sports stadium on Thursday, Tony drove over to Penscombe to see her. Surrounded by Rupert’s pack of dogs, with Mrs Bodkin in the kitchen and Mr Bodkin strimming the long grass round the lake, Cameron felt safe to let him in. Dressed in an orange bikini, she still looked as though she’d just done fifteen rounds with Barry McGuigan.

Tony followed her out to the pool, which sparkled brilliant turquoise in the sunshine and was no longer filled with leaves. It killed him to see her in this beautiful opulent setting, stretched out oiled on one of Rupert’s reclining chairs, guarded by Rupert’s lurcher Blue, who lay by her feet panting, but growling every time Tony approached.

Immediately Tony begged her to come back, telling her for the first time how much he loved her and, when that had no effect, offering to leave Monica and marry her. He didn’t even lose his temper when she told him to bugger off.

‘Your job’s open for you to come back whenever you want it, and here are the keys to Hamilton Terrace.’ He threw them on to the table. ‘The house may belong to Corinium, but it’s still yours when you need it. Come and get your clothes whenever you want to. I shouldn’t have beaten you up, but I love you and I just saw red.’

‘Just like you did the last time I came home late after spending the day with Patrick,’ said Cameron. ‘Get out.’

Tony, predictably, couldn’t remain nice for long. ‘You know it’s only a matter of time until Rupert ditches you,’ was his parting shot. ‘Five days, five weeks; he may even keep you five months until Venturer finally don’t get the franchise; then he’ll kick you out like all the rest and you’ll come running back to me.’

Cameron didn’t believe Tony would leave Monica, particularly during the franchise year, but at least it now meant she could pick up her clothes, her books, and, much more important, her tapes and prizes from Hamilton Terrace. She also felt privately that it was nice to have Tony as a bolthole in case Rupert started playing her up.

Rupert, in fact, couldn’t have been more angelic those first few days, fussing over her, seeing she didn’t get too tired, ensuring Mrs Bodkin made her delicious food (which Cameron privately thought contained far too much seasoning and fats), making love to her with surprising gentleness and subtlety, so he didn’t crush her bruised ribs or her battered face.

The weather was beautiful too — long hot days, followed by short sweet nights. Cameron was happy to sleep and read and sunbathe and explore Rupert’s woods and fields with the dogs. Gradually, as the black eye and the swelling on her lips disappeared, she felt she was healing inside and out.

The only drawback was Mr and Mrs Bodkin, shadowy, polite, running Rupert’s life like clockwork, but always there in the background. Cameron wanted Rupert on her own, she was not used to servants. She wanted to wander round the house naked and make love in the kitchen if she felt like it. She was also inclined to treat Mr and Mrs Bodkin like Corinium minions, rapping out orders, snapping at slowness and even more at ignorance.

Even Rupert, famous for his caprice and short fuse with staff, had to pull her up repeatedly: ‘Taggie O’Hara increases her vocabulary by learning a new word every day. You could start off with: please and thank you.’

Any reference to Taggie sent Cameron through the roof, so, the second week after she moved in, determined to prove to Rupert that she could cook and run a house much better than Taggie, she persuaded Rupert to give Mr and Mrs Bodkin a few days off.

‘I’m better,’ she insisted. ‘I want to look after you. I’m going to cook you some decent food. You’re getting far too much cholesterol.’

‘Do I look as though it’s harming me?’ said Rupert, who was eating white bread and dripping sprinkled with salt as he sat immersed in the Scorpion.

‘No, but it’s futile to abuse a magnificent constitution. It’ll catch up with you. And why don’t you try to read the Guardian occasionally instead of that trash?’

‘Because it uses much too long words and makes snide remarks about my party,’ said Rupert.

‘But objective criticism’s valuable, for Chrissake.’

‘Not to me. I only like people who think I’m perfect. I’d better get Mr and Mrs Bodkin back for the weekend. The children are coming on Saturday. They make a hell of a lot of work.’

‘Oh, don’t,’ said Cameron, suddenly excited. ‘Let’s look after them ourselves. We’ll have picnics and barbecues and all muck in. It’ll be so much fun.’

Like many insecure people, Cameron was much easier to live with when she was down. After she’d been beaten up, it was her intense vulnerability that had appealed to Rupert. Wanting to protect her, he’d asked her to move in. But as she got better, her natural aggression and stridency started to reassert itself.

The day before the children were due, Cameron decided to make a big paella for dinner; the rest could be heated up for them the following day. Discovering in the middle she’d forgotten to get any saffron or squid, she dispatched Rupert to the village shop.

‘I’m sure they won’t stock them,’ grumbled Rupert, who wanted to read Horse and Hound.

The kitchen wireless was blaring out Dame Enid’s latest tone poem; the New Statesman and the Times Literary Supplement lay on the kitchen table all giving Rupert an unpleasant feeling of déjà vu. It was too much like Helen all over again.

‘Well, drive into Stroud then,’ snapped Cameron.

She’d forgotten what a rat race paella was to make, but she was determined to cook better than Taggie.

‘And get some Parmesan as well,’ she shouted after him.

The village shop had recently been converted into a tiny supermarket with shelves all round the walls, and a partition, also with shelves on both sides, running parallel to the counter. If the ubiquitous Mrs Makepiece, who did for Lizzie and Valerie and one morning a week for Maud now, hadn’t been holding forth so noisily and indignantly at the head of the queue, Rupert would never have slid into the shop unobserved. Picking up a red wire basket, he chucked in some Jaffa cakes because the children liked them, and a tin of corned beef because he liked it; he couldn’t find any squid, but he supposed a tin of pilchards in tomato sauce would do as well — a squid pro quo.

As he moved round to the spice shelf, Mrs Makepiece, encouraged by a chorus of clicking tongues, raised her voice. ‘Declan and ‘er ladyship have pushed off on some second honeymoon in the Lake District, leaving her all on her own.’