cream-hessianed walls of his vast office.
In fact, it irritated the hell out of Tony that, despite his success, his fortune and his immense power, Rupert still refused to take him seriously. He would not have been so upset by Rupert’s sniping if it had not echoed a warning last night from Charles Crawford, the rotund and retiring Chairman of the Independent Broadcasting Authority (or IBA as they were known). The IBA’s job was to grant franchises to the fifteen independent television companies every eight years or so, monitor their programmes and generally beat them with a big stick if they stepped out of line.
After his programme with Rupert and the Home Secretary at Thames Television yesterday, Charles Crawford had gone on to the Garrick to dine with Tony.
‘As an old friend,’ said Charles, greedily pouring the cream Tony had rejected together with his own supply over his strawberries, ‘I don’t see what else we can do but give you a stinking mid-term report. You promised us Corinium would provide at least ten hours’ drama a year for the network, and all you’ve produced is one lousy cops-and-robbers two-parter, totally targeted at the American market. Why can’t you provide some decent programmes, like Patrick Dromgoole does at HTV?’
For a second Tony gritted his teeth. He was fed up with having Patrick Dromgoole and HTV held up to him as models of perfection. Then pulling himself together he filled up Charles Crawford’s glass with priceless Barsac.
‘Things are going to change,’ he said soothingly. ‘I’ve just poached Simon Harris from the BBC as Programme Controller. He’s very hot on drama, and has dreamed up a terrific idea for a thirteen-parter, a cross between James Herriot and “Animal House”.’
‘Well that’s a start,’ grumbled Charles, ‘but your regional programmes are quite awful too. Your territory — which you conveniently seem to have forgotten — stretches from Oxford to Wales, and from Southampton to Stratford. And you’re supposed to cover the whole area. That’s why we gave you the franchise.
‘We also know you’ve been spending Corinium advertising profits, which should have been spent improving your programmes, buying up. .’ Charles ticked the list off with his fat fingers, ‘a film production company, a publishing firm, a travel agency, a cinema chain, a film library, and a safari park, and what’s this I hear about plans to buy an American distribution company? American, for Christ’s sake.’
‘That’s fallen through,’ lied Tony. ‘It was only an idea.’
‘Well, keep it that way. Finally you’ve got to spend more time in your area. Many of your staff have absolutely no idea what you look like. I could understand if you had to live in the middle of Birmingham or even Manchester, but Cotchester must be the most delightfully civilized town in the country. We awarded you the franchise to reflect the region responsibly, and we’ve given you a very easy ride up till now.’
And I’ve given you some bloody good dinners, thought Tony sourly, as Charles sniffed appreciatively at a passing plate of welsh rarebit.
‘But when Lady Gosling takes over from me in the autumn, ’ went on Charles, spooning up the last drop of pink cream, ‘you’re all going to feel the chill cloud of higher education across the industry. Lady G believes in quality programmes and lots of women at the helm. Go on producing your usual crap, and you’ll be out on your ear.’
Having brooded on this conversation and on Rupert Campbell-Black’s contumely the entire flight, the only thing that managed to cheer Tony up was when the limousine that met him at Kennedy turned out to be at least three feet longer than Rupert’s and twice as plush.
2
Tony’s rule, once he got to America, was never to check what time it was in England. To compensate for such an unsatisfactory start to the day, he spent the next few hours in a heady spate of wheeling and dealing, selling the format of two sit-coms and a game show for such a large sum that it wouldn’t matter even if they bombed. It was only when he got back to the Waldorf and found three messages to ring his very demanding mistress, Alicia, and, checking the time, realized that he couldn’t because it was long after midnight and she’d be tucked up in bed with her husband, that he suddenly felt tired.
He kicked himself for agreeing to dine with Ronnie Havegal, Head of Co-Productions at NBS, particularly as Ronnie had asked if he could bring some producer called Cameron Cook.
‘Cameron’s a good friend of mine,’ Ronnie had said in his Harvard drawl. ‘Very bright, just done a documentary on debutantes, up for a Peabody award, real class; they like that sort of thing in England.’
With his royal-blue blazers, butterscotch tan, and streaked hair, Tony had often wondered about Ronnie’s sexual preferences. He didn’t want to spend an evening avoiding buying some lousy programme from one of Ronnie’s fag friends. Yanks always got class wrong anyway.
Christ, he was tired. Unable to master the taps in the shower, he shot boiling lava straight into his eyes. Then, forgetting to put the shower curtain inside the bath, he drenched the floor and his only pair of black shoes.
Tony spent a lot of money on his clothes and ever since he’d seen Marlon Brando in
He was woken by Ronnie ringing up from downstairs. But when Ronnie came through the door, Tony suddenly didn’t feel tired any more, for with him was the sexiest, most truculent-looking girl Tony had ever seen. Around twenty-six, she was wearing a straight linen dress, the colour of a New York taxi, and earrings like mini satellite dishes. She had a lean, wonderfully rapacious body, long legs, very short dark hair sleeked back from her thin face, and a clear olive skin. With her straight black brows, angry, slightly protruding amber eyes, beaky nose and predatory mouth, she reminded him of a bird of prey — beautiful, intensely ferocious and tameable only by the few. She gave out an appalling sexual energy.
She was also so rude to Ronnie, who was very much her senior, that at first Tony assumed they must be sleeping together. He soon realized she was rude to everyone.
‘This is Cameron Cook,’ said Ronnie.
Nodding angrily in Tony’s direction, Cameron set off prowling round the huge suite, looking at the large blue urn in the centre of the living-room holding agapanthus as big as footballs, the leather sofas and arm chairs, the vast double bed next door, and the six telephones (with one even in the shower).
‘Shit!’ Her voice was low and rasping. ‘This place is bigger than Buckingham Palace; no wonder you Brits need American co-production money.’
Tony, who was opening a bottle of Dom Perignon, ignored the jibe, and asked Cameron where she came from.
‘Cincinnati.’
‘City of the seven hills,’ said Tony smoothly. ‘But you must have bought those legs in New York.’
Cameron didn’t smile.
‘You don’t look like a Lord, more like a Mafia hood. What do I call you: Your Grace, Sir, my Lord, Baron, Lord Ant?’
‘You can call me Tony.’ He handed her a glass.
Cameron picked up the presentation booklet of ‘Four Men went to Mow’. Kicking off her flat black shoes, she curled up, looking very tiny on the huge pockmarked red leather sofa.
‘What’s this shit?’
‘Cameron!’ remonstrated Ronnie.
‘Corinium’s latest thirteen-parter,’ explained Tony. ‘We aim to start shooting in October.’
‘If you get American finance,’ said Cameron, sharply.
