Wandsworth United on Saturday. This man’s out to bury me.
‘One minute to air, Declan,’ said the Floor Manager.
‘Good luck,’ said Cameron.
‘Stand by tape,’ said Daysee.
The floor manager raised his hand to cue Declan, the red light flashed on, and he was off.
‘My guest tonight needs no introduction. He has been described as the greatest show jumper in the world, the handsomest man in England, the icing on the cake of the Tory party. He is, of course, the Minister for Sport, and the MP for Chalford and Bisley, Rupert Campbell-Black.’
Dispensing with the introductory package, Declan weighed straight in: ‘Do you mind being described as the handsomest man in England?’
‘Why should I?’
‘You’re not frightened of being dismissed just as a pretty face?’
‘No.’
‘Of being dragged into the Tory party just to add an element of much-needed glamour?’
‘No, because it’s not true.’
‘For what other reason could you possibly have been brought in?’ said Declan dismissively.
‘I know more about sport than anyone else in the party,’ said Rupert simply. ‘Having lasted in show jumping for sixteen years on what must be the most gruelling circuits in the world, I can cope with the pressures. One day you’re king of the castle in show jumping, next day you’re bottom of the heap. It’s helped me to be resilient about the ups and downs of politics.’
‘Do you find politics as satisfying as show-jumping?’
‘Of course not, but it has its compensations.’
‘What are they?’
‘The Olympic Fund has just passed four million and we’ve still got eighteen months to go. Soccer violence is down by seventy per cent. Comprehensive schools are gradually upping competitive sport and’ — Rupert grinned nastily — ‘England trounced Ireland at rugger last Saturday.’
Gerald, sipping Perrier in the board room, winced. That was a cheap point. Rupert shouldn’t have made it.
‘The Government makes two hundred million pounds a year from tax on football pools,’ accused Declan, ‘and yet you’re asking the clubs to spend two million this year tightening up their security to reduce football violence. Why don’t you give them some help?’
‘With footballers earning one hundred thousand pounds a year and stars like Garry Lineker changing hands for over a million I think the football clubs can put their own houses in order.’
‘Some people feel you’re taking a strong line on soccer violence because it’s electorally attractive.’
‘Do they?’ said Rupert politely.
Shit, thought Declan, I walked right into that one.
Rupert relented: ‘Just because something is electorally attractive, doesn’t make it wrong. I want to clean up the terraces and make them safe places for fathers to take their families again — or the game’ll be drained of its support and future talent.’
Declan changed tack: ‘I see from the evening paper that you’re backing the British Lions tour of South Africa, thereby giving your blessing to a corrupt and evil regime.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Rupert, wondering if the PM was listening. ‘Sport’s outside politics. Athletes are so briefly at their peak, they should be allowed to compete where and against whom they like. It’s bloody easy to have principles when you’re not making the sacrifices.’
And so the programme went on, with nice bitchy repartee flashing back and forth, but on the whole Rupert deflected Declan’s needling easily.
Then Declan said: ‘You’ve been described as the Prime Minister’s blue-eyed boy.’
‘Boy’s pushing it. I’m thirty-seven,’ said Rupert, ‘but as I’ve got blue eyes, I don’t see how I could be anything else.’
‘She seems to prefer good-looking men.’
‘She’d need her head examined if she didn’t,’ said Rupert coldly. ‘Do you prefer dogs yourself?’
‘You’ve always got on well with women,’ said Declan. ‘Wasn’t it Amanda Hamilton — ’ a large glamorous picture of the Foreign Secretary’s wife appeared on the screen — ‘who drew you into politics?’
‘And her husband Rollo,’ said Rupert quickly. ‘They both encouraged me.’
Despite repeated probing from Declan, Rupert refused to give an inch on the subject of Amanda Hamilton.
‘It was Mrs Hamilton,’ said Declan pointedly, ‘who drove you down to your first meeting with your constituency. Do you find a conflict between your ministerial and constituency duties?’
‘Of course,’ snapped Rupert. ‘I don’t have enough time to devote to my constituency. They come first; they’re the people who voted me in. I’ve lived in the area all my life, and I don’t want a bloody great motorway half a mile from Penscombe any more than they do.’
Gerald put his head in his hands.
Tony, purring with pleasure, was pacing up and down the board-room carpet. ‘Rupert is beginning to lose his temper,’ he said softly.
I can’t help it, thought Sarah, I still love him.
‘Was it merely lust for power that drove you into politics?’ asked Declan dismissively.
‘It certainly wasn’t the money, or the free time,’ snapped Rupert. ‘Most ministers are hopelessly overworked. The civil service want control and pile work on to keep us quiet. Sometimes you get home at three in the morning after a session in the House, then still have to go through your box. That’s when the trouble starts. You’re so zonked you OK a nuclear power station in your constituency and six months later you realize to your horror what you’ve done. I’m very lucky. I have an exceptional private secretary in Gerald Middleton. He does all my donkey work, and wraps my knuckles if I go too far. I’m also lucky,’ went on Rupert, yawning ostentatiously, ‘because on the circuit I learnt to grab sleep at any time.’
‘With anyone?’ said Declan. He was taunting Rupert now.
‘No,’ drawled Rupert. ‘I’ve always been selective.’
‘That’s not what your press cuttings say.’
A still of Samantha Freebody, the starlet who’d told all about sleeping with Rupert while he was married, appeared on the screen, followed by a succession of beauties including Amanda Hamilton’s daughter, Georgina, Beattie Johnson and Nathalie Perrault.
‘Coming to 2. We must catch Rupert’s reaction after this lot,’ said Cameron. ‘Take 2.’
But Rupert’s face was expressionless.
Declan picked up a cutting from the table: ‘One Gloucestershire peer has described you as “rather a nasty virus, that everyone’s wife caught sooner or later”.’
‘If you’d seen his wife, it’s definitely later,’ said Rupert lightly, but there was a muscle going in his cheek.
‘With the advent of AIDS, don’t you feel you should mend your ways?’
‘Sure,’ said Rupert. ‘I’m giving up casual sex for Lent.’
Tony was getting restless, and, picking up a telephone, dialled the control room:
‘Tell Declan to stop farting around and put the boot in.’
‘Tony says put the boot in, Declan,’ Cameron told Declan. ‘Get him on to cruelty.’
Declan squared his shoulders. ‘Over the past two years you’ve expressed sympathy for the football hooligans.’
Rupert stared at his shoes. ‘Most of them probably lead appallingly dull lives during the week. Many are out of work, or just turning lathes in a factory. The terraces are their stage, their chance to vent the frustrations of the week. They generally riot because they’re losing, or there’s been a bad penalty at half-time.’
‘You were a bad loser, weren’t you?’ said Declan gently.
It was the voice of Torquemada, the pale intent face of the Grand Inquisitor.
Rupert looked wary: ‘What’s the point of competing — except to win?’
‘Even to the extent of beating up your horses?’
