Rivals

Declan therefore waited a few minutes, admired the framed awards on the wall, which seemed all to have been won by Cameron Cook, then, still finding no one at Reception, took a lift to the fifth floor, where he eventually discovered a coffee machine and an office with his name on it at the end of the passage.

It was a splendid office with a thick blue carpet, a huge bare desk with empty drawers, two empty filing cabinets, a radio cassette, two television sets, a video machine and a large bunch of red roses, which had obviously been arranged by the pink-trousered youth. Out of the window was a marvellous view of the close, and the water meadows still white with dew. But even more marvellous on the virgin sheet of pink blotting paper lay a pile of mail including two fat airmail envelopes. Lighting a cigarette, sitting down at his desk, Declan was soon totally immersed in Johnny Friedlander’s cuttings — most of them highly speculative and fictitious because Johnny never gave interviews.

The great bell of Cotchester Cathedral had tolled the hour three times when suddenly a red-faced middle- aged lady, reeking of Devon Violets, and with tightly permed hair, barged into his office, gave a squawk of amazed relief and shot out again, shrieking down the passage, ‘He’s here, Lord B, he’s here.’

Next minute Tony Baddingham erupted into the room, absolutely purple with rage. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’

Declan sat back in his chair. ‘Sitting here, since about eight o’clock.’

‘Why the hell didn’t you tell anyone?’

‘There was no one here to tell.’

With a colossal effort Tony gained control of himself and shook Declan’s hand. ‘Well, welcome anyway. Look, I’ve got most of the national press outside waiting to witness your arrival. We nearly had the police out.’

‘They said you’d left home at seven-thirty,’ said the lady reeking of Devon Violets, who was Tony’s secretary, Miss Madden. ‘We thought you might have had a car crash.’

‘Or second thoughts,’ said Charles Fairburn, Head of Religious Programmes, shimmying in and giving Declan a great kiss on both cheeks. ‘You’re not to be bloody to him on his first day, Tony. First days in an office are like birthdays. No one’s allowed to be bloody to you.’

‘Fuck off, Charles,’ snarled Tony.

‘See you later, darling,’ said Charles, whisking out again, nearly colliding with an ashen Cyril Peacock.

‘They’re getting awfully fed up, Tony. Where the hell can the stupid fucker have got to?’

‘He’s been here all the time,’ said Tony nastily. ‘You just didn’t look, Cyril. Another classical Peacock-up.’

‘Oh, hello Declan. Welcome to Corinium,’ said Cyril, his false teeth rattling even more violently with nerves. ‘Marvellous to see you. They’re all waiting for you in the car park, getting very hot.’

‘Uh-uh,’ Declan shook his head, looking mutinous. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to them.’

‘Well for a start you might like to refute that piece in the Guardian claiming you joined Corinium merely to clear your overdraft and not as a vocational choice,’ said Tony with a cold smile.

‘I interview people, I don’t give interviews,’ said Declan, not budging. ‘The press made enough fuss when we arrived at Penscombe, staking us out all bloody night.’

Tony tried a different tack. ‘It’ll be such a thrill for all the staff,’ he said suavely. ‘All we want is pictures of you driving into the car park for the first time and having a glass of champagne in the board room afterwards, and then we can all get down to work.’

Declan suddenly decided he needed a drink.

‘All right, I’ll go and get my car.’

‘You can’t do that. They’ll see you,’ said Tony.

‘Give Cyril your keys. He’ll drive it round to the front, then you can drive in again.’

‘It’s a Mini, parked in the far corner,’ said Declan.

As Declan drove his absolutely filthy Mini into the parking slot with his name on, which was between Tony’s maroon Rolls Royce with the silver Corinium ram on the bonnet, and Cameron’s green Lotus, there was absolutely no reaction from the crowd of reporters and cameramen. The next minute, however, there was a furious banging on the roof. Declan wound down the window half an inch. He could see a beaky nose, and a predatory mouth.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘You can’t park here, asshole,’ said an enraged female voice.

‘Why not?’

‘Can’t you read, you fucking dumbass? This slot’s reserved for Declan O’Hara.’

‘Is it indeed?’ said Declan softly. ‘Then I’ve come to the right place.’

Winding up the window, he got out, towering over Cameron Cook, who gasped and stepped back as she instantly recognized the tousled black curls, the brooding dark eyes and the familiar face as battered as the Irish coastline. Shock made her even more hostile.

‘Where the fuck have you been? You should have been here at eleven. It’s nearly twenty past.’

‘So I was, crosspatch, in my office. Nobody thought to look.’

There was a shout as the press recognized Declan and surged forward, their cameras clicking away like weaving looms, hugely enjoying the contrast between Declan’s rusty banger and Tony’s gleaming Rolls. From every window female staff, their clean hair flopping, screamed and cheered with excitement. Declan grinned up at them and waved.

In the Gent’s, James lowered the Venetian blind a quarter of an inch and was delighted to see how old Declan was looking and that he was not even wearing a suit or a tie. Tony would not like that at all.

Outside there was almost a punch-up, as the Corinium camera crew battled to get the press out of the way, so they could get their own cameras in and film Declan’s arrival for the lunchtime news bulletin.

Inside the building everyone surged forward to say hullo to Declan. The corridor was swarming with Midsummer Night’s Dream fairies coming back from their mid-morning coffee-break. As Declan fought his way through them, shaking hands, Bottom took off his ass’s head to have a better look. Next minute, Titania struggled to Declan’s side, her crown askew, and kissed him on both cheeks.

‘Darling, marvellous you’ve arrived. We must lunch later in the week. Love to Maud.’

‘Wish we’d never started this fucking production,’ said Tony, punching more fairies out of the way.

Mercifully he kept the press conference short: ‘We are all absolutely delighted Declan’s joined Corinium,’ he said, when everyone had been given a glass of champagne. ‘We feel he has a tremendous contribution to make, and has just the right kind of incandescent talent to revitalize our current affairs schedule.’

Declan suppressed a yawn.

‘Why d’you move, Declan?’ asked the very young girl reporter from the Cotchester Times.

‘Well, to misquote Dr Johnson,’ said Declan, ‘we weren’t tired of life, but we were a bit tired of London.’

‘This Dr Johnson,’ persisted the reporter earnestly, ‘is he a private doctor?’

He’ll crucify her, thought Cameron, waiting for the kill.

But Declan merely laughed. ‘No, definitely National Health,’ he said.

The press conference, in fact, was affability itself, compared with the meeting that followed in Tony’s office.

As Tony, Declan and Cameron trooped past the tiny outer office where Cyril Peacock waited, grey and sweating, for Tony’s reprisals after the disaster of Declan’s arrival, they found Simon Harris, Controller of Programmes, lurking apprehensively in Miss Madden’s office.

‘I’m terribly sorry I wasn’t here when Declan arrived,’ said Simon, following Tony into his office. ‘Fiona’s had to go into hospital, so I had to take the kids to school.’

‘Couldn’t the nanny have done it?’ snapped Tony.

‘She’s had to take the baby to the clinic.’ Simon scratched at his eczema mindlessly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Declan turned to Simon. ‘Is your wife OK?’

‘Multiple sclerosis,’ said Simon helplessly. ‘She’s in for new tests.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Declan again. ‘We met briefly at the Beeb.’ He held out his hand.

The hand that limply gripped his was wet and trembling. Christ, he’s aged, thought Declan, appalled. Simon looked awful. His eyes were unbecomingly frightened, the shoulders of his grey suit were coated in scurf.

‘Well, sit down,’ said Tony irritably, deliberately waving Cameron and Declan towards the squashy dark-green leather sofa which lined two walls of his vast office. Simon Harris had to make do with a hard straight-backed chair right in front of Tony. Despite the room’s size, the plethora of television sets, video machines, and huge shiny-green