The media went berserk as Declan’s car drew up. It had been a long, cold, somewhat boring day. Not admitted inside the IBA for reasons of security, they had spent their time belting the hundred yards between the front of the building and the back, desperate to get a story. Managing Directors of television companies are enormously powerful but not always very well-known men. One camera crew had had the embarrassment of asking their own Chief Executive what television company he worked for. Another crew wasted a lot of film on their own press officer.
But everyone knew Declan. Many of the crews had worked with him, and loved him, and wished he could have won. The Christmas shoppers, battered by the cold and each other, knew him too, and cheered and mobbed him. It took him several minutes to fight his way across Brompton Road and, as he went in through the revolving doors, a fat woman gave him a piece of holly for good luck. Coming the other way was Johnny Abrahams, his old boss at the BBC who’d put in a bid to oust Granada.
‘How did you do?’ asked Declan.
‘They told us to go home,’ said Johnny despondently.
Declan was taken up in the grey steel lift to the eighth floor and ushered into a large office which said ‘Members’ Viewing Room’ on the door. Inside, a lot of maroon chairs were lined up in front of a large screen. The grey telephone in the corner was dead. A smell of turkey drifted down the passage, the aftermath of Lady Gosling’s festive lunch. Out of the window he could see Knightsbridge and the north-east corner of Harrods, strawberry roan against a sullen grey sky with its coloured flags fretted by the icy wind.
He looked down at the piece of holly which still had two red berries. It was nice that all those people had been pleased to see him. Perhaps one day, when he’d got this mockery of a franchise behind him, he might work again. He wondered what Maud was doing; probably celebrating at the Hyde Park Hotel with Tony by now. Directly below him was Lancelot Place. It was ironic that he was the Arthur who’d promised the IBA Camelot, and Tony was the Lancelot who’d stolen his Guinevere. Oh Christ, he groaned, how could he possibly ever do anything in life without her?
‘Mr O’Hara.’
Declan started violently, looking round stupidly. A kind-faced woman in spectacles had walked through the door with a tray full of envelopes and handed a white one and a larger brown one to him.
‘Your envelopes. Best of luck.’
‘Thank you,’ muttered Declan.
He waited politely until she’d gone, then shoved them in his coat pocket. Like bills, he never believed in opening unpleasant things. Out of the window he saw a group of horses and riders jingling back to the stables at Hyde Park, back to oats and a warm straw bed. Christ, how peaceful in life to be a horse. And how beautiful they were. He’d have to put The Priory on the market immediately, but he might get a day or two’s hunting before he left.
‘Mr O’Hara.’
‘I’m sorry. I was just leaving.’
‘Would you come upstairs and have a word with Lady Gosling?’
‘Not much point really. Nice of her to bother, though.’
‘She asked me to collect you,’ said the bespectacled woman firmly.
Lady Gosling sat in her office, behind a huge desk. The Director General and his deputy sat on the sofa. The room was full of smoke. They’d obviously all had a good lunch.
‘Good afternoon, Mr O’Hara.’ Lady Gosling rose slightly, holding out her thin freckled hand.
Declan held out his, realized he was still holding the bit of holly, and blushed.
‘Rather premature to celebrate,’ said Lady Gosling dryly. ‘I should sit down if I were you.’
Declan mumbled he would prefer to stand.
‘Well,’ she began sternly. ‘There were certainly some patchy moments in your bid. Freddie Jones obviously has an exceptional grasp of finance, and Cameron Cook was first class. What a very bright, courageous girl. And, of course, some of your programme plans are extremely interesting.’
What’s she going on about? thought Declan wearily. It was like a condemned man being told that he’s got a really sympathetic hangman.
‘Some of the publicity, on the other hand, has been perfectly frightful,’ went on Lady Gosling fiercely. ‘And your security left a lot to be desired. However, we were impressed by this.’ She handed Declan some sheets of paper.
At the top of the first were three typewritten lines. It was a little time before Declan’s tired eyes could make out what they said.
‘We, the undersigned, wish to state we would like to support Declan O’Hara’s bid for the Corinium franchise. He makes the kind of television we believe in, and in the brief time he was at Corinium we were all impressed by his utter integrity and kindness to staff at all levels. If his consortium were awarded the franchise we would all like to work for him.’
Slowly, slowly, Declan’s eyes travelled down the list of names: Georgie Baines, Cyril Peacock, Daysee Butler, Deirdre Kilpatrick, Mike Meadows, then on to PAs, tea girls, secretaries, production buyers, designers, security men, receptionists, best boys, gaffers, producers, sparks, riggers, researchers, make-up girls, engineers, floor managers, directors, commissionaires, canteen ladies, sound men, vision mixers. He turned the page. The list went on in three columns down to the bottom of the next page, and then down to the bottom of the next and swam before his eyes.
Declan turned towards the window. The horses had all gone in. He pressed his hands to his eyes, his great shoulders shaking.
‘That’s a most impressive document,’ said Lady Gosling gently. ‘I should frame it and look at it if ever you feel low.’
Declan turned to her, frantically rubbing his eyes.
‘I’m sorry to let them down,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘It was good of you to show it to me.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Lady Gosling. ‘You haven’t let them down at all. Why don’t you open those envelopes.’
Still clutching his piece of holly, Declan’s hands were trembling so much, he tore the white envelope and had to piece the letter together.
‘
Declan read the letter three times in silence. Then he opened the brown envelope, which contained contractual details.
‘I wouldn’t bother to try and absorb those at the moment,’ chipped in the Director General, also in a slightly unsteady voice, ‘but it’s all good news. Well done.’
In silence Declan shook hands with them, then presented the piece of holly to Lady Gosling and walked out of the room. Totally forgetting Freddie’s driver waiting in the underground car park, he took a lift to the ground floor. Outside the building the press surged forward.
‘How d’yer do, Declan?’
Then, seeing he was fighting back the tears, they divided and let him through as he walked unsteadily off in the general direction of Holland Park.
Gathered round the radio, because there was no television news till six o’clock, the Venturer consortium pounced on every bit of news. A great cheer went up when the reporter said that Tony Baddingham had been seen driving away from the building looking stony-faced.
‘Perhaps we haven’t come to another wake, after all,’ said Freddie, in amazement. ‘Let’s have a drink anyway.’
‘Maybe the IBA want us to merge in some way with Corinium,’ suggested Cameron.
‘Count me out then,’ said Charles. ‘I’d rather stay on the dole.’
They all jumped as the wireless crackled.
‘The latest news on the franchise front,’ said the commentator, ‘is that Declan O’Hara has just come out of the IBA building in tears, so I’m afraid things look bleak for Venturer. He’s just walked through the crowds and was last seen heading towards South Kensington tube station like a man in deep shock.’
Cameron looked at Patrick. ‘That’s that, then.’
