tropical plants, plus Tony’s massive empty desk and vast carved chair, made it seem unpleasantly overcrowded. A bowl of flesh-coloured orchids on Tony’s desk and, despite the warmth of the day, central heating turned up like the tropical house at the zoo, increased the jungle atmosphere. Any moment Declan expected a leopard to pad out from behind the filing cabinet. As he’d already downed a couple of glasses of champagne, he wanted to go on drinking. But it was at least half an hour until lunchtime.
‘After lunch, Declan,’ said Tony, ‘I’ll hand you over to Cameron, but I thought I’d like to be in at the kick- off.’
Declan looked at Cameron in her sleeveless orange T-shirt and her short black leather skirt. Her hair was greased back, her eyes fierce. She looks like a vulture who’s spent the morning at Vidal Sassoon, thought Declan. He loathed meetings; he wanted to get back to his Johnny Friedlander cuttings.
Furious at having made an idiot of herself in the car park, Cameron was determined to regain the whip hand and weighed straight in: ‘My goal is to give your programme more pizazz,’ she said. ‘We’ve chosen several possible signature tunes. Once we’ve decided on the right one, we can go ahead and cut a disc, which should go straight to the top of the charts with a nice profit for Corinium. But we ought to get it recorded at once. Could you listen to them this afternoon?’
Declan’s eyes, which never left the face of the person he was listening to, seemed to darken.
‘I know what tune I’m having,’ he said flatly. ‘The opening of the first movement of Schubert’s Fifth Symphony.’
‘Too up-market.’
‘The programme’s up-market. It’s a great tune, and it’s in the public domain, so we won’t have to pay copyright. All we have to do is to record a jazzed-up version and pay the arranger. ‘
‘Am I hearing you right?’ exploded Cameron. ‘This isn’t fucking Radio 3.’
‘No,’ agreed Declan. ‘But it’s what I want, so we’re having it.’
Cameron was spitting, but she particularly didn’t want to lose face in front of Tony and Simon, so she tried another tack which would certainly have worked with James Vereker.
‘I keep hearing the same complaint about your programmes.’
‘What?’ said Declan softly.
‘The viewers don’t see enough of you. We want to feature you much more in the interview, that’s why we’ve designed a terrific set with book shelves and some really good abstracts, and this jade-green sofa.’
‘No,’ interrupted Declan sharply. ‘I only interview people face to face.’
‘Confrontational TV’s kind a dated,’ taunted Cameron.
Simon Harris opened his mouth to protest and shut it again.
‘I’m not using a sofa,’ said Declan firmly.
‘Well, we’ll argue about that later,’ said Cameron.
‘We will not. We’ll decide now. I want two Charles Rennie Mackintosh chairs, facing each other six feet apart on pale steely-blue circular rostra.’
‘Steely blue?’ screeched Cameron.
‘Steely blue,’ said Declan firmly, ‘so they rise like islands from a floor of dark-blue gloss. Then carrying on the dark blue up the bottom of the cyclorama into a limitless white horizon.’
‘This is insane!’ Outraged, Cameron swung round to Tony for help. ‘Well?’
But Tony was calmly doing his expenses.
‘It’s Declan’s programme,’ he said smoothly. ‘He knows by now how to get the best out of people.’
‘How does he know until he’s tried a sofa?’
‘Sofa’s make it look like any other chat show,’ mumbled Simon.
‘No one’s asking you, dumbass,’ hissed Cameron.
She’s like a hawk not a vulture, decided Declan. She prefers her victims alive. He imagined her cruising the hillside, scanning the ground for prey, or darting down a woodland ride, scattering terrified small birds.
Squaring her shoulders, Cameron turned back to Declan. ‘And we’re scrapping the introductory package,’ she said. ‘We want you talking to camera for two or three minutes about the guest, to replace all those dreary stills and clips with a voice over.’
‘The point of those dreary stills and clips with a VO,’ said Declan, dangerously quietly, ‘is that they concentrate the viewers’ minds on the guest and set the tone of the interview. I get uptight enough as it is without having to ponce about making a long spiel on autocue. This way I can concentrate on the first questions.’
‘I
Through half-closed eyes Declan looked at Cameron who was now pacing up and down through the rubber plants burning up the calories. No wonder she was so thin.
‘She?’ said Declan incredulously, ‘
‘We’ve got to be different from the Beeb, ‘snarled Cameron, ‘or they’ll just say we’re serving up the same old garbage.’
‘Anyway we’ve got three weeks to kick the idea around,’ said Tony, ‘and to cheer you up, Declan. I know Cameron’s had a great time dreaming up people for you to interview.’
‘We’ve checked out on all their availability,’ said Cameron.
‘Well, you can just uncheck them again,’ said Declan harshly. ‘I decide who I’m going to interview.’
Cameron stopped in her tracks, glaring at him. ‘They may not be hot enough.’
Declan then stunned the three of them. He was kicking off with Johnny Friedlander on September 21, he announced, followed by Jackie Kennedy the week after.
Frantic now to keep her end up, Cameron snarled that Jackie Kennedy would just rabbit on about her boring publishing job.
‘She may indeed,’ said Declan, ‘but she’s also going to talk about her marriages, and her life as a single woman in New York.’
‘You and she should have much in common, Cameron,’ said Tony bitchily.
Cameron ignored him, but a muscle pounded in her cheek.
‘Isn’t it going to overextend your budget, flying her over?’ she demanded.
Declan suddenly relaxed and gave Cameron the benefit of the wicked gap-toothed schoolboy grin: ‘She’s coming over on a private visit, and she’ll probably stay with us,’ he said.
Fifteen love to Declan, thought Simon Harris joyfully. Then it was game and first set when Declan announced that in subsequent weeks he’d be doing the French Foreign Secretary who was in the middle of a gloriously seamy sex scandal, followed by Mick Jagger, and the most controversial of the royal Princesses.
Desperately fighting a rear-guard action, Cameron said she had lined up a couple of ace researchers, who’d better get started on Johnny Friedlander and Jackie Kennedy at once.
There was a long pause. Very slowly Declan got out a cigarette, lit it, inhaled deeply, and only just avoided blowing smoke in Cameron’s face.
‘I do my own research,’ he said softly.
‘For Chrissake,’ screamed Cameron, ‘you can’t cover subjects like this singled-handed!’
‘I have done for the past ten years. For better or worse, what you’ve bought is not my face, but my vision — what I can get out of people.’
‘It’s a team effort,’ hissed Cameron.
‘Good,’ said Declan amiably. ‘Then I suggest we put your researchers on to finding some decent footage and stills.’
‘We’ve got an excellent library,’ said Simon, tugging his beard.
‘Shut up!’ howled Cameron.
Tony was lasciviously fingering one of the flesh-coloured orchids. Glancing round, Declan tried to analyse the expression on his face. He’s enjoying it, he thought with a shudder, he’s excited by seeing her rip people apart.
Noticing the disapproval on Declan’s face, Tony looked at his watch.
‘That was a very stimulating exchange of views,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘but I, for one, need some lunch.’ Then, deliberately excluding Simon, he added, ‘Cameron and I’ve booked a table at a little French restaurant
