‘I’d like to give the go-ahead for a second series,’ Tony went on. ‘We’ve got the co-production money again from USBC, but I think it would be a good idea, Cameron, if you introduced perhaps a black unmarried mother into the cottage of the agricultural students to appeal to the IBA.’
Charles Fairburn suppressed a grin. The IBA were crazy about minority groups. Cameron looked outraged.
‘Black unmarried mothers don’t become agricultural students,’ she snarled.
‘There’s always a first time,’ said Tony smoothly. ‘She could be the girlfriend of one of the four boys.’
‘For Chrissake, why not have a gay shepherdess with one leg?’ said Cameron.
‘Why not a deaf, unemployed merry peasant?’ suggested Charles Fairburn with a hiccup. ‘Or a handicapped harvester?’
‘That’s enough,’ snapped Tony.
He then went on to OK plans for an obscure Michael Tippett opera, which Cameron also scowled at, detecting Lady Baddingham’s influence (Tony’s wife was crazy about opera) and a production of
Now it was the turn of James Vereker, who, having finished rewriting his links, helped himself to a glass of Perrier and then suggested Corinium ought to show its ‘caring face, Tony’ and do a series on poverty and the aged.
‘Jesus, how turgid,’ said Cameron, glaring at him through the screen of fading daffodils. ‘Of all the boring. .’
Tony raised his hand for silence, his huge signet ring catching the light.
‘Not a bad idea. We could do a very cheap pilot to impress the IBA. We don’t have to make the series. Perhaps Cyril,’ he smiled malevolently at his PA, ‘could front it. He’s been looking rather old and poverty-stricken lately.’
Cyril Peacock cracked his twitching face, trying to smile back. Thus encouraged, James suggested they should do something ‘very strong, Tony’ on rioting and drug abuse at Cotchester University. Swiftly Cameron swooped, the falcon Tony had trained, tearing into James:
‘What a crappy awful idea,’ she screamed. ‘D’you want to antagonize the entire Tourist Board because everyone’s scared to visit Cotchester any more? No one will want to invest money here. We’re trying to boost the area for Chrissake.’
‘What about a programme on the role of women in Cotchester town hall?’ stammered Simon Harris, tugging at his straggling yellow beard.
‘And have the town halls at Bath, Southampton, Oxford, Winchester, Stratford, et cetera et cetera in an uproar because we haven’t done programmes on them,’ said Cameron crushingly.
‘I thought your idea, Tony, of interviewing the wives of celebrities living in the area looked a winner,’ said Cyril Peacock, desperate to get back into favour.
‘“Behind Every Famous Man”?’ Cameron turned on Cyril furiously. ‘That was my idea.’
‘We could start with one of our director’s wives, or perhaps,’ Cyril lumbered on, ‘even Lady Baddingham.’
Tony looked not unpleased. ‘I think that would be a bit close to home.’
‘Why not do a series on the very very rich?’ said Charles Fairburn, who had not quite sobered up, ‘They’re far more of a minority group than anyone else. We could start with you, Tony.’
He was quelled by an icy glance from Tony, who, aware that the meeting was slightly lacking in carnage, suddenly realized that his Head of Operations, whose role was to tell creative people what they could not do, was missing.
‘Where’s Victor Page?’ he said ominously.
‘Gone to his grandmother’s funeral,’ said Miss Madden, her lips tightening.
‘But he killed off two grandmothers during Wimbledon last year.’
‘This was his step-granny,’ said Miss Madden. ‘His mother married twice.’
‘No doubt his other step-grandmother will pop off during next Wimbledon,’ said Tony, making a note on his memo pad. That would be five people for Cyril to fire on Monday.
Tony then turned to the points made during his talk with Lady Gosling that morning. There was no need to let his production staff get complacent.
‘Several viewers,’ he said, ‘have complained about field mice copulating too long on our “Nature at Night” programme.’
Charles Fairburn, who had a round red face like a Dutch cheese, suppressed another smile. He’d better do his expenses. He hadn’t been anywhere this week, but he needed some cash to buy drinks for his airline-steward friend at the ballet tonight.
‘Cloakroom and gratuities ?5,’ wrote Charles Fairburn. ‘Drinks with the Archdeacon ?15.’ That was pushing it; the Archdeacon was teetotal, but the Accounts Department didn’t know it. They’d be shut if Tony didn’t wrap up this meeting soon.
‘On the kids’ programmes front,’ went on Tony, ‘we’ve also had complaints about too much violence in “Dorothy Dove”.’
‘What kind of violence?’ asked Simon Harris.
‘Pecking Priscilla Pigeon and pulling out all her feathers.’
James was tempted to say his children had absolutely adored that particular episode, but decided not to. The Head of Kids’ Programmes had rejected his advances at the Christmas party; he didn’t owe her any favours.
‘Dorothy Dove is supposed to be a symbol of peace,’ said Tony.
‘Peaceful is the dove that is strongly armed — or beaked in Dorothy’s case,’ murmured Charles Fairburn and regretted it.
‘There have been complaints,’ went on Tony nastily, ‘about insufficient religious content in our religious programmes. I’ll talk to you after the meeting, Charles, and the IBA are very unhappy about “Rags to Riches”.’
Simon Harris turned dark red. It was he who had bought the format for ‘Rags to Riches’ from America and adapted it for the British network.
‘But the ratings are sensational,’ he protested.
‘I know, but the IBA have pointed out that the contestants are far too glamorous and upmarket. We do need a few unemployed frumps to add a touch of reality, and please remember our ethnic minorities.’
‘You can borrow my black unmarried mother,’ said Cameron, shooting Tony a venomous look.
‘The IBA,’ went on Tony, squinting down the polished table, like a daily looking for smears, ‘also feel we should have more women on the Corinium Board. After all, Lady Evesham’s nearly sixty-five, so we must all wrack our brains for some powerful ladies.’
The men in the room exchanged glances of horror. Would Tony use this as an excuse to put the appalling Cameron Cook on the Board?
‘And,’ went on Tony swiftly, ‘they feel we still haven’t enough directors who live in the area.’
That, thought James savagely, also includes Cameron, and her exquisite Regency house on the outskirts of Cotchester.
Now Tony was saying, not without complacency, that Freddie Jones, the electronics multi-millionaire, and Rupert Campbell-Black, the Minister for Sport, who both lived in the area, would be coming in his party to the West Cotchester Hunt Ball that evening, and he would be sounding them out as possible directors.
For a second, outrage overcame the Head of Sport’s terror of Tony: ‘But Rupert Campbell-Black’s been consistently vile about our coverage,’ he spluttered. ‘You’d think it was our fault Cotchester was bottom of the Third Division.’
‘Good name on the writing paper. We’ve got to keep our local MPs sweet, with the franchise coming up,’ said Tony. ‘Anyway he’s far too tied up with football hooligans to come to more than a couple of meetings a year, so he won’t get a chance to make a nuisance of himself. ‘
‘Don’t you be too sure of it,’ spat Cameron. ‘Macho pig.’
Smug in the knowledge that he was the only member of the staff who’d been asked to join Tony’s party at the hunt ball that evening, James Vereker couldn’t resist saying, as the meeting broke up, how much he and Lizzie, his wife, were looking foward to it, and what time would Tony like them for drinks.
‘About eight,’ said Tony, gathering up his papers.
