Rivals

enjoyed the glamour and Rupert’s erratic hours brought him spectacular overtime.

Gerald Middleton, Rupert’s private secretary, sat in the back with the light on, going through Rupert’s red box, streamlining as much as possible, pencilling in little notes on what action to take. Glancing at the sprawled elegant figure in front, with the head fallen sideways, Gerald fought the temptation to stroke the sleek blond hair. Rupert would never know the self-control Gerald had to exert day after day, never to betray his feelings. It must be some death wish that made him pour all his energies into Rupert’s career, ensuring Rupert’s rapid escalation up the political scale to the head of a far grander ministry, away from Gerald — that is, unless Rupert did something silly, like going on Declan’s programme tonight.

Gerald looked at his watch. They were cutting it very fine. Just as well — Rupert wouldn’t have time for too many whiskys in Hospitality beforehand.

Cameron went to the control room early. She liked to have half an hour before the programme to take a deep breath and think about what she had to do. As she closed the door, the Jaws theme belted out from the sound room next door. This joke had been going on ever since she was made Controller of Programmes. She found it very unfunny, but, looking though the glass windows and the vertical blinds at the guffawing sound men on one side and the vision controllers on the other, it obviously creased up everyone else.

Rupert’s cool unsmiling face stared out at her from every single monitor screen, except those that would feed in stills, telecine and video tape to illustrate aspects of Rupert’s life during the programme. On the studio floor they were checking the order of the stills. Up on the monitor came pictures of Rupert winning the World Cup and standing on the Olympic rostrum with his arm in a sling, of his beautiful ex-wife Helen, of Beattie Johnson and Nathalie Perrault and Amanda Hamilton, wife of the Foreign Secretary. There was Jake Lovell, Rupert’s arch-rival on the circuit, and his chef d’equipe, Malise Gordon, who’d ended up with Helen. They looked like characters in some glamorous Hollywood mini-series. Declan was clearly hell bent on carnage.

The rest of the crew drifted into the studio after their dinner break. Daysee Butler, weighed down with stop watches and blue mascara and wearing a new pale-pink jersey with a large grey cat knitted on the front, took up her position on Cameron’s left.

‘Rupert’ll be here in five minutes. Go and meet him, Daysee, and take him straight to Make-up,’ said Cameron.

On the monitor she could already see Declan slumped in his wizard’s chair. Flicking the key switch, she warned him of Rupert’s arrival.

‘Are you going to have a drink with him beforehand?’

‘I am not.’

He looks shattered, thought Cameron. He’d lost so much weight recently. His black hair was even more threaded with grey. The violet shadows under his eyes reminded her of Patrick. But she mustn’t think of Patrick.

‘Just do a Maurice Wooton on him, Dec, and Tony’ll die happy.’

‘As long as he dies,’ growled Declan, ‘I don’t care if he’s happy or not.’

Rupert, Sydney and Gerald waited in Reception, looking at photographs of Declan, Charles Fairburn and James Vereker, who was no longer obscured by the Christmas tree.

‘Fuckin’ ’ell, it’s Farah Fawcett Major,’ said Sydney, as Daysee swayed down the royal-blue steel staircase, giving them the benefit of her bouncing strawberry-blonde hair and undulating figure.

‘Can I take you straight to Make-up, Minister?’ said Daysee.

‘Can’t you and I go to the Cotchester Arms instead?’ said Rupert.

Daysee looked at her watch. ‘I don’t think there’s time,’ she said seriously. ‘You’re on in fifteen minutes.’

‘I don’t want any make-up. All I need is a vast whisky,’ said Rupert.

Gerald handed Daysee some photographs.

‘Here are the pix of the ’76 Olympic Games.’

‘Oh thanks,’ said Daysee. ‘I’ll get Graphics to soft-mount them.’

‘Sounds like a contradiction in terms,’ said Rupert.

‘Soft-mounting means sticking a photograph on a background from which it can easily be peeled off,’ explained Daysee patiently.

‘Definitely Farah Fawcett NCO,’ muttered Rupert to Gerald as they follow Daysee upstairs.

‘You’re lovely and brown,’ said the make-up girl, applying a touch of Nouveau Beige to the shine on Rupert’s nose and forehead.

‘Skiing last weekend,’ said Rupert.

He wondered for the millionth time why the hell he’d agreed to do this interview. Partly, he knew, it was Cameron taunting him about being afraid of Declan. But, in between frantic hard work and cavorting in bed and on the ski slopes with Nathalie Perrault, he had kept remembering Taggie in floods at Patrick’s party over her father’s catastrophic finances.

Daysee brought Rupert a dark mahogany whisky, which Gerald immediately took to the make-up department wash basin and diluted with water.

‘You haven’t eaten all day, Minister.’

‘Yes, Nanny,’ said Rupert.

‘I’d better take you down,’ said Daysee.

Gerald straightened Rupert’s blue spotted tie.

‘For Christ’s sake be careful. If he asks you anything you don’t like, just say you didn’t come on the programme to discuss personal matters. Don’t bitch up other ministers. Try not to lose your temper.’

Rupert grinned. ‘Anyone would think I was off to my first term at prep school.’

Gerald didn’t smile. ‘You behave like it sometimes.’

22

Large orange letters outside the studio said: No Entry When Flashing.

‘I should think not,’ said Rupert, draining his whisky and giving the glass to Daysee. ‘Do they want me to expose myself on air?’

‘Christ, he’s photogenic,’ said Cameron in the gallery, as she watched Rupert sit down opposite a tense, unsmiling Declan. ‘Look at that jawline, and the way his eyes lengthen when he smiles.’

‘Declan’s nervous,’ said the Vision Mixer, as the sound man tested both men for level. ‘Listen to the quiver in his voice.’

In his earpiece, Declan could now hear Daysee discussing a boyfriend who was coming to dinner tomorrow.

‘The recipe says lots of garlic, but I think I’ll leave it out. That Rupert’s dead attractive, isn’t he?’

Declan looked at Rupert, lounging, so relaxed, radiating elitism and privilege with his Red Indian suntan, his beautifully cut suit and his blue silk shirt matching his insolent blue eyes. He thought of Taggie sobbing with humiliation after Valerie Jones’s party, and of Maud sobbing in his arms the night of Patrick’s twenty-first, and his resolve hardened.

‘Either of you need a touch-up?’ asked the make-up girl, whisking on with her steel basket.

‘I’d love to give you one,’ said Rupert.

The make-up girl blushed. Rupert leaned forward and looked at the name-tape on one of Declan’s odd socks. It said Charlotte Webster-Lee.

‘She’s a friend of Caitlin’s,’ snapped Declan.

‘I think I used to know her mother very well,’ said Rupert. ‘Is Charlotte blonde with blue eyes?’

Can’t he let up for a second? thought Declan savagely.

Trouble ahead, decided Rupert, as he chatted idly with the crew about Cotchester’s chances against