Rivals

Press.

‘Corinium prove they’re no longer a Tory poodle,’ wrote the Guardian.

Hardest for Tony to take was an enthusiastic telephone call from the IBA: ‘Splendid stuff, Tony. No one can accuse you of political bias now.’

The following Wednesday there was a Corinium Board meeting. Tony’s temper was not improved when one of the non-executive directors, old Lady Evesham, Vice Chancellor of the local university, arrived on her bicycle in the pouring rain, just as Tony rolled up in the Rolls. Why did the stupid old bag always arrive an hour early and go nosing round the office, talking to staff and stirring up trouble? Hoping she’d go away, Tony cringed behind the Financial Times. Next minute she was tapping on the window. Grudgingly, Tony lowered it a few inches.

‘Congratulations,’ said Lady Evesham, thrusting her wrinkled, whiskery muzzle towards him. ‘That interview with Maurice Wooton’s the sort of thing we should be doing all the time. Routing out injustice. Man’s a rogue. I shall seek out Declan and tell him so in person.’

Tony, however, had other things on his mind. In the same telephone call praising Declan’s interview, the IBA had complained that Corinium still wasn’t giving sufficient attention to the Southampton end of the area.

‘Charles Fairburn has just finished a programme on Isaac Watts,’ Tony had countered swiftly.

‘Who’s he?’ asked the IBA’s Head of Television.

‘Famous philosopher, poet, teacher.’ Tony hastily consulted the advance programme notes. ‘Watts Square in Southampton is named after him. Wrote “Oh God, our help in ages past”.’

‘That’s not much help in ages present,’ said the IBA. ‘People in Southampton will hardly regard one hour on the Sunday Godslot as good enough. We’re talking about news coverage. There was nothing for example about HMS Princess Michael of Kent catching fire at the docks on Friday. The BBC devoted seven minutes to the story.’

‘I’ll look into it,’ said Tony.

As a result of this conversation, Tony summoned his two most valuable executive directors, who usually worked in London but who had come down for the board meeting, into his office beforehand. Known as ‘Beauty and the Beast’, Georgie Baines and Ginger Johnson looked after sales and finance respectively.

Gorgeous Georgie, who had big brown eyes and even bigger expenses, was up to every single fiddle and lived in the big advertising agencies’ pockets, which he lined as effectively as his own. He also made vast sums of money for Corinium. Ginger Johnson, the Beast, was a thug, with carroty hair and a beetroot face, like a particularly unappetizing winter salad. As Financial Director, he saw that the vast sums netted by Georgie were administered as remuneratively as possible. All the most important business on the agenda was always done by the three men before the board meeting.

Going into Tony’s office that Wednesday, Georgie and Ginger found him looking at a map of the area.

‘If we’re going to hang on to the franchise,’ said Tony, ‘we’ve got to be properly represented.’

‘So?’ said Georgie, who’d heard this all before.

‘We’re going to build a studio here.’ Tony jabbed the red dot of Southampton with his finger.

‘Cost a fortune,’ said Ginger, aghast. ‘Even a small studio’ll set us back five million. We don’t need a studio there.’

‘Nor do we want to make any more programmes,’ said Georgie. ‘Programmes cost too much money.’

‘The IBA will love the idea,’ said Tony happily. ‘More programmes, more employment, better coverage. We don’t have to actually build the fucking thing. But if we wave Board sanction and some provisional architect’s plans under the IBA’s nose, it’ll keep them quiet until the franchise is in the bag.’

‘I’m sure the Board won’t wear it, when we’re slashing budgets everywhere else,’ said Ginger.

‘Leave it to me,’ said Tony.

Tony was at his best and his most urbane at board meetings. On his right and left sat Georgie looking beautiful, and Ginger looking ugly. Beyond them sat Simon Harris, who never spoke, and Miss Madden taking the minutes. Beyond these two, down the long elm table, sat members of the Great and the Good, including an MP for Stroud, a winner at Badminton, a famous composer who lived in Oxford, an educationalist from Stratford, a bishop, a famous footballer, and several industrialists who lived in the area, and, of course, Lady Evesham.

As the meeting got under way, everyone expressed great satisfaction at the kudos Declan’s programmes had given Corinium. Resolutions were then passed, budget cuts agreed. Lady Evesham then held up the meeting for at least twenty minutes. First she handed round marmite sandwiches. Having risen at six to write her biography of Emily Pankhurst, she was very hungry. Then she raised a complaint from ‘an unnamed young woman researcher’ — actually Deirdre Kilpatrick — who’d been denied the right to breastfeed in the newsroom.

‘Oh Christ,’ thought Tony, glaring at Simon Harris.

Typically, it was Simon who had given Deirdre the go-ahead to bring her baby in, because he thought bonding was all important. Deirdre had then proceeded to whip out great grey tits all over the building. As the coup de grace, Baby Kilpatrick had regurgitated milk into one of the newsroom word processors just as Charles Fairburn was showing the Bishop of Salisbury round the building. Charles had promptly fainted and Tony had banished the baby.

Now Tony cleared his throat: ‘I told the girl not to bring her baby in any more,’ he said to Lady Evesham. ‘It was quite old enough to go on the bottle, and she’s got a perfectly good nanny at home. It distracted my reporters in the newsroom.’

‘Surely they should be above that kind of distraction?’ said Lady Evesham frostily. ‘This is the twentieth century.’

‘If one girl is allowed to bring her baby in, they all will.’

The famous footballer, who was given to ribaldry, then said it was always the ugly old feminist boots who wanted to breastfeed in public. If the pretty ones wanted to do it, none of the blokes would mind. He received a stony glare from Lady Evesham.

Tony, who thoroughly agreed with the famous footballer, but had to pretend to look disapproving, thought it was high time Lady Evesham resigned, and Cameron, who wouldn’t stand any truck with breastfeeders, took her place on the Board.

Saying he’d look into it, Tony moved briskly on to the subject of cutting costs. He then proceeded to bore the meeting rigid with details of expenditure on stationery and calculators, and whether it was really necessary to supply the sales’ staff with portable computers. Everyone glazed as he compared the merits of endless different models.

It was two minutes to one. Hearing the chink of bottles in the director’s dining-room next door, everyone perked up. A delicious smell of boeuf Wellington drifted under the door.

‘Well, that’s all for the day,’ said Tony. Then, as everyone dived for their bags and briefcases, he added, ‘Except for one item that may not be on everyone’s agenda: the proposed new studio in Southampton. The question of our not giving sufficient attention to the Southampton end of the territory has been raised before.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said the footballer, who’d once played for the Saints.

‘You’ve all agreed the idea of a new studio in principle,’ went on Tony.

The directors scratched their heads. . Had they? They were instantly distracted by another waft of boeuf Wellington.

‘The building of the studios will create a lot of employment in the area,’ said Tony briskly. ‘We’ve got a costing which can be easily accommodated within the budget. Ginger?’ He cocked an eyebrow at Ginger Johnson.

‘Easily,’ said Ginger.

‘And you’re for it, Georgie?’

‘Very much so,’ said Georgie, who was lost in admiration.

‘Simon?’

Simon Harris had been so unnerved by the breastfeeding incident that he nodded even before Tony got his name out.

‘Oh look, it’s snowing,’ said the footballer, distracting people even further.

‘Everyone else in favour?’ Tony smiled down the table.

Lady Evesham’s was the only dissenting hand.