Rivals

hanged him by the neck until he was dead, but his soul goes marching on, transmitting to his descendants, of whom I am proud to be one, the desire to fight against tyranny whenever I come across it. I also love and honour British television. It is the best in the world. That’s why I and so many of my countrymen — Eamonn Andrews, Terry Wogan, Robert Kee, Frank Delaney, Dave Allen, Henry Kelly, Patrick Dromgoole, Gloria Hunniford — are over here, learning from it and, I hope, contributing to it.

‘But we still go on fighting tyranny and oppression whenever we find it. I found it in the few months I worked for Corinium. That’s why I walked out, and why, with my English friends —’ he turned and smiled briefly at the Venturer consortium — ‘I have put in a bid to oust Lord Baddingham.’

He then proceeded to carve up Tony and tear Corinium’s boring sycophantic programmes to shreds. Only at the end did be briefly outline how Venturer would be different, how they would truly both represent the area and foster local talent. ‘I would like all great artists of the future to be able to say they had their first chance at Venturer.’

The audience stood up and cheered him for nearly three minutes. Stony-faced, Tony strode out of the hall. Cameron tried to follow him, but, trapped by the crowd, she watched Rupert, Declan, Taggie and the rest of Venturer, plus their supporters, jubilantly swanning off to the Bar Sinister for drinks on the house. Rupert never gave her a backward glance. Sick with desire, she wondered how much longer she could go on playing a double game.

Although the Cotchester News reported the meeting a rousing success for Corinium and published numerous rigged readers’ letters of support, it was generally agreed that Venturer had won that round.

34

After his humiliation at the public meeting, Tony stepped up his campaign to discredit Venturer. Flipping through a list of their names the following morning, he decided his newsroom had been singularly inept in uncovering any dirt. The Bishop of Cotchester, it seemed, had neither fiddled with the collection nor with any of his more cherubic choir boys; Dame Enid had never straddled anything more exciting than her cello; Professor Graystock was recognized as an old goat, but no more so than the average don. On the other hand, Henry Hampshire was plainly capable of being led astray by Daysee Butler. Perhaps she ought to be sent off to interview him.

Nothing as yet on Rupert, except an alleged walk-out with Taggie O’Hara, which Tony didn’t believe. She was far too gormless. All the same it might be a good idea to allow her to cook for Monica again. Primed with a few late-night brandies, she might become indiscreet about the moles who were joining Venturer from other companies. In addition Monica had been so outraged because Tony’d banished Taggie from the house that she’d refused to give any more dinner parties, and Tony did need to entertain some of those boring but influential local dignitaries who might otherwise drift towards Venturer.

He added Taggie’s name to the list, but that didn’t bring him any nearer Rupert. He made a note to track down Beattie Johnson, who’d been writing Rupert’s memoirs when Rupert booted her out last year. There must be some grievances to fan there.

Freddie Jones, Tony decided blackly, was Venturer’s greatest asset. He was so solid, so dependable, so popular, so hugely successful after such a lowly start, which appealed to a crusading streak in the IBA. Ha! thought Tony, cherchez la femme. He buzzed Miss Madden. ‘Will you tell James Vereker to come up.’

James was not happy. Even through his layers of egotism he realized he’d made a fool of himself at the public meeting. He was still miffed because no one had asked him to join their consortium, and, opening a new edition of Who’s Who in Television that morning, he’d discovered two columns devoted to Declan and not even a reference to himself.

James brushed his hair and put on a tie. He hoped Tony wasn’t still miffed about the public meeting.

Tony, however, was at his most amiable, steering James towards the squashy green sofa, when usually he made male staff perch on hard-backed chairs, telling Madden they didn’t want to be disturbed, offering James a large drink.

James normally only drank Perrier at lunchtime, both for his figure and to keep his wits about him for his programme, but now he felt it fitting to accept a large Bell’s, just to show that he and Tony were both males capable of holding their liquor.

‘I’ve got a very special mission for you, James,’ said Tony.

Half an hour later James returned to his office in a state of euphoria to find Sarah exuding Anais Anais and expectancy.

‘Are we lunching, darling?’

‘Probably,’ said James. ‘I’ve got to make a call.’

When he rang Valerie Jones, she was absolutely ‘delaighted’ to hear from him. ‘Oh, don’t mention that silly franchise. If one can’t talk to one’s friends,’ she said. ‘I was going to phone you and your — er — lovely wife —’ she always forgot Lizzie’s name — ‘to remind you that we’re opening Green Lawns to the public on Saturday, and we hoped you’d both pop in. It is looking really rather lovely at the moment.’

‘What an extraordinary coincidence,’ said James. ‘I was phoning to say of course we’ve got your opening in our diary and we were hoping we might come and film it for “Cotswold Round-Up”. We’re only covering the best gardens. Tony and Monica’s, of course, and the Duchess’s at Badminton. Hullo, hullo, are you still there?’

‘She’s fainted,’ said Sarah.

‘Of course I am,’ shrieked Valerie.

‘Could I come for a recce this afternoon? Will Freddie be there?’

‘He’s away.’

‘Good,’ said James wolfishly. ‘Give me a chance to get you on my own.’

Valerie’s tinkle of laughter showed she was not displeased.

‘What are you playing at?’ asked Sarah as James hung up.

‘Tony wants a spy in the Venturer camp. He’s chosen me because he thinks I’m the one guy who can charm secrets out of Valerie.’

‘The spy who came in from the cold frame,’ giggled Sarah. ‘Are you going to stick poison umbrellas into Valerie’s garden gnomes?’

It was a muggy, still afternoon, French-grey sky on the horizon deepening to forget-me-not blue overhead. The tall seeding grasses in the hayfields were turning gold against the deep summer greens of the trees. At the bottom of the Jones’s drive was a large sign saying: ‘Garden Open on 13th July, to be televised on “Cotswold Round-Up”. Come and meet James Vereker in person — proceeds to the Red Cross.’

Smirking, James drove up a black tarmac drive as wide as the M1. Long before he reached the house he was almost blinded by a blaze of colour. Every flowerbed was packed with serried clashing ranks of French marigolds, yellow calceolaria, royal-blue cineraria, flaming-red geraniums, billiard-ball pink zinnias and mauve asters. As he drew up in front of the house a lorry was unloading plants. Having denuded every garden centre for miles around, Valerie was now hiring four hundred scarlet salvias and three hundred yellow begonias from Rent-a-Garden.

Round the corner came a sweating youth pushing a wheelbarrow crammed with scarlet and mauve petunias. Next moment Valerie came screaming after him, brandishing a small fork.

‘What are you doing, Spicer?’

‘Putting them on the rubbish heap, ma’am.’

‘They’re meant to be planted in the wheelbarrow, you idiot. Can’t you recognize creative gardening when you see it? Take it straight back to the patio.’

Then she saw handsome James getting out of his pale-blue Porsche and her face softened.

‘James,’ she said, holding out both her hands, ‘it’s been too long.’

‘You’re looking lovely, Mousie,’ said James, taking her hands and holding them, also a little too long. ‘And so’s