Rivals

taken from above and at a slight angle to reduce the heavy jowl. Tony was smiling and showing excellent teeth. The interview had been written by a well-known financial journalist.

As he was so confident of retaining the franchise, Tony had told him, he was only too happy to reveal Corinium’s plans for next year. They were very happy to welcome three new directors on to the Board, all production people, including Ailie Bristoe, who’d just spent three years in Hollywood and who would be Director of Programmes. They were also very excited about their new networked thirteen-part series on marriage which, Tony predicted, would turn James and Lizzie Vereker into big stars.

It was safe enough stuff. Declan sat down on the snow-covered window-ledge outside the shop, obscuring the postcard advertisements for lost gerbils, daily women and secondhand carrycots in the window.

Corinium, he read on, had also made arrangements with the Royal Shakespeare to televise special productions of whatever Shakespeare plays children in the area would be taking for O-and A-levels each year. Then they would offer the videos for sale. They’d also be filming Johnny Friedlander’s Hamlet, which had been postponed until the summer.

Shit, thought Declan in horror, those were both Cameron’s ideas. But most exciting of all, he read on, was that Corinium had signed up a new play by Stroud-born playwright, Dermot MacBride, with an option on the second. There followed a lot of guff about MacBride’s towering genius, and how happy Tony was to welcome this lost son of Gloucestershire back into the fold.

‘We paid a lot for MacBride,’ Tony had admitted.

But, as the financial journalist pointed out, the publicity value alone would be worth thousands of pounds to Corinium.

‘Please don’t obscure my advertisement,’ said a shrill voice. ‘I’ll never get a cleaner that way.’

Looking up, Declan discovered an old lady with a red nose glaring at him. Looking down he saw Gertrude and Claudius sitting at his feet, shivering miserably. Slipping and sliding, falling over twice, moaning with rage, Declan ran home to The Priory.

‘Look at fucking that!’ He brandished The Times under Maud’s nose. ‘Tony’s bought Dermot MacBride’s play. Cameron must have leaked it to him.’

‘I always thought she was untrustworthy,’ said Maud, who was plucking her eyebrows.

Declan’s hands were so cold it took him a long time to dial the number of Dermot MacBride’s agent.

‘We had a deal. What the fuck are you playing at?’

‘The contract hadn’t been signed,’ said the agent defensively. ‘My duty is to get the best deal for my authors. Tony offered three times as much as you.’

‘You could have come back to me. I’d have matched his offer.’

‘He said if I talked to you the deal was off.’

‘That’s the last deal I’ll ever do with you,’ roared Declan.

‘Never mind. I’m retiring at Christmas.’

Through the window, Declan watched the Priory robin furiously driving a rival robin away from the bird table.

‘How did Tony know about our deal?’

‘Dunno. He phoned about five yesterday. I spoke to MacBride. We exchanged contracts this morning. It’ll buy a few gold watches for me.’

The moment Declan put down the telephone, Freddie rang.

‘Have you seen the Cotchester News? There’s a bloody great picture of you an’ me, an’ Rupert, an’ Basil, an’ ’Enry — all in our red coats out huntin’ wiv big grins on our faces, wiv a caption: “Do you want these butchers to run your television station?”’

‘That’s libellous,’ howled Declan. ‘Have you seen The Times?’

‘Yes,’ said Freddie grimly. ‘Unfortunately that’s not.’

‘I’m not waiting for Rupert to get back,’ said Declan. ‘I’m going round to have it out with Cameron right now.’

But when he got to Penscombe, Mrs Bodkin told him Cameron had gone out and wasn’t expected back until evening. Guilt, thought Declan in a fury.

Cameron got home around eight that evening. She knew she shouldn’t have played truant, but, having brooded agonizingly about Rupert since the hunt ball, she felt she had to get out of the house. The heavy frost had made the white valley look so beautiful that morning. Why should I give up all this without a fight? she had thought. Rupert was an alpha male, he was exceptionally handsome, funny, very rich, clever in a totally different way to herself, and, now that she’d given him six months’ intensive training on pleasing a woman rather than automatically pleasing himself, spectacular in bed.

A great believer in positive action, she drove into Cheltenham to the branch headquarters of ‘Mind the Step’, a support group for step-parents and step-children, which had just opened. Cameron figured the subject would not only make a good programme, but might help her love Rupert’s children and understand her own tortured relationship with her mother and Mike. She had a long talk with the organizer, who then gave her several names and addresses. Driving round Gloucestershire, Cameron was amazed how many people welcomed her in. At their wits’ end, hemmed in by snow and coping with step-children at home for several days, they were only too happy to talk to someone.

Listening to the shrill invective, to half-hearted attempts at love, to occasional genuine affection, to grown women blaming their own step-mothers for lack of love, which prevented them in turn loving their own husbands and children, Cameron forgot her own miseries. She decided it would make a marvellous programme and was already pre-selecting the people to interview.

Like Declan on his way to the village shop that morning, she returned to Penscombe with a feeling of optimism. She found messages from Mrs Bodkin that Rupert had rung twice, Freddie three times and Declan four.

Going into the kitchen, she poured herself a large vodka and tonic and decided to scribble down some ideas for the ‘Step’ programme while it was still in her head. Searching for a biro on the kitchen shelf, she found the yellow sachet that had been included with the flowers that Tony had sent her after he beat her up, which you were supposed to add to the water to make the flowers last longer. Stabbed with sudden misery, she wished she could sprinkle the sachet on Rupert to prolong their relationship.

With a lurch of apprehension, she heard the dogs barking in the hall. Not Rupert, the welcome wasn’t clamorous enough, but it was obviously someone they knew. She went into the hall.

‘Declan!’ Her face lit up. ‘Sorry I didn’t call back. I’ve had a great idea for a programme.’

‘On treachery?’ asked Declan bleakly. ‘You’re an expert on that subject.’

‘What are you talking about? Do you want a drink?’

‘No thanks.’ He followed her into the drawing-room. ‘You seen The Times?’

‘Haven’t seen any papers. I’ve been playing hookey.’

Declan picked up The Times from the table. It took him ages to find the right page.

‘Here.’ He thrust it at her.

‘What a crazy photo of Tony,’ she said, settling down on the sofa for a good read. ‘They’ve made him look almost benign. Oh my God,’ she whispered a minute later, the laughter vanishing from her face. ‘I don’t believe it. How the fuck did he find out?’

‘You tell me.’

Something chilling in his tone made her look up in alarm. He had moved close and seemed to tower above her, his legs in the grey trousers rising like two trunks of beech trees, the massive shoulders blocking out the light, and, in his deathly pale face, the implacable ever-watchful eyes of the Inquisitor.

Cameron shivered. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘I saw you plotting with Tony on Friday night.’

‘He was waiting for me when I came out of the John, for Chrissake.’

‘So Freddie and I had him followed.’

Cameron’s eyes flickered.

‘You’re not going to tell me you and Tony were talking just about cucumber sandwiches for an hour and a half in the Royal Garden yesterday afternoon,’ said Declan.