Rivals

for the next month.

When he rolled up at Freddie’s house, Declan, looking ten years younger, had already arrived, and he and Freddie were poring over a book called How to Win The Franchise.

‘The first thing we gotta do is appoint a chairman,’ said Freddie.

‘Better be you,’ said Rupert.

‘OK,’ said Freddie, ‘but we’ll need someone respectable like a lord or a bishop or somefing as deputy chairman.’

‘We must also remember,’ said Declan, ‘that the IBA, despite all their pronouncements about quality, are looking for applicants who won’t go broke in the first eighteen months, and who’ll be able to produce programmes that’ll keep the company in the black over the next eight years. That’s why we need a very experienced MD and a very strong Programme Controller.’

‘You’d better be MD, then,’ said Rupert.

‘But I’m terrible with money.’

‘You know about television. I’ll be Financial Director, and I’ll get hold of a shit-hot accountant to keep an eye on you. Sandwiched between him and me and Freddie, you can’t go far wrong.’

‘I’ve got just the man for Programme Controller,’ said Declan: ‘Harold White, ex-ITN and BBC. Currently Director of Programmes at London Weekend. He’s bloody good.’

‘I’ve been doing some sums,’ said Freddie. ‘We’ll need at least fifteen million to keep the station going for the first two years, but before that we’ll need at least two hundred grand up front as burn money to pay for brokers, bankers, running costs and to launch the publicity campaign.’

‘Which we’ll forfeit if the bid fails,’ said Declan.

‘Right,’ said Freddie. ‘Why don’t we put that up ourselves? Give us some control.’

Rupert was about to agree. Then, catching sign of Declan’s twitching face, said, ‘Let’s argue about that later. Now which do we find first, board or backing?’

‘Backing’s easy,’ said Freddie. ‘Let’s get the right people first. Apart from the directors, who are actually going to run the station, we need some local millionaires, and a liberal sprinkling of the great and the good as non- executive directors.’

‘Before we approach anyone, we’d better come up with a name,’ said Rupert.

‘I’ve been thinking. What about Venturer?’ said Declan.

‘Sounds all right,’ said Freddie. ‘What’s it say it means in the dictionary?’

‘Someone who’s daring and willing to take risks, someone who’s prepared to brave dangers, or embark on a possibly hazardous journey.’

In Declan’s deep husky voice it sounded wonderfully romantic.

‘Perfick. What we going to use as a logo?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that too,’ said Declan. ‘You know that bronze I admired in your sitting-room, Rupert?’ He turned back to Freddie. ‘It’s of a boy in an open-necked shirt and knickerbockers with bare legs. He’s shading his forehead with his hand as he gazes into the distance. It’s ravishing and it’s got the right mix of strength and grace and vision.’

‘I’ve seen it, it’s grite,’ said Freddie in excitement. ‘We’ll get someone to draw it; then we can put it on all our stationery and on the front of the application.’

‘We’d better get T-shirts and ties and car stickers printed,’ said Rupert, ‘and posters too. Just imagine a poster of Taggie in a Victory for Venturer T-shirt!’

‘What about a studio?’ said Declan.

‘Well if Tony Baddingham’s prepared to sell the Corinium building, it would be much cheaper to take over that,’ said Rupert. ‘But, in case he turns really nasty, we’d better make contingency plans.’

Valerie Jones was absolutely livid. She never admitted reading the Scorpion, but the weekend fish had arrived in Saturday’s edition, and Valerie couldn’t miss the huge headline announcing that Declan had resigned from Corinium while getting disgustingly drunk with Rupert, and now they were both closeted together in Fred-Fred’s den, and the air was thick with cigar smoke, and she was sure they were up to no good. She’d grumbled so much in the past about Freddie blasting her out with his music that he’d had the room thoroughly sound-proofed. Now she couldn’t hear a word that was going on inside, even when she went outside and pretended to pull non-existent weeds out of the flowerbed under the window. How could they keep the windows closed on such a lovely day?

‘Shall I take them in afternoon tea?’ said poor fat Sharon, who still cherished a long-range crush on Rupert.

‘No,’ snapped Valerie. ‘You haven’t done your religious study yet. Miss Fidduck said at least an hour a day; nor have you groomed Merrylegs. What is the point of your father buying you an event horse?’

As Sharon waddled upstairs, Valerie could bear it no longer.

‘Afternoon tea,’ she announced ten minutes later, barging into Freddie’s den with a tray.

Declan was striding up and down the room scattering cigarette ash. Freddie was whizzing round excitedly in his revolving chair. Rupert lounged on the sofa, playing with one of Freddie’s executive games, which involved clashing huge ball-bearings against each other. All three of them looked up with ill-concealed irritation.

‘What a fug,’ said Valerie, dumping down the tray and throwing open the window, so all Freddie’s papers blew around.

‘I don’t know how you can stay inside. I hope you won’t be long, Fred-Fred. We’re due at Sir Arthur’s for cocktails at six-thirty and you promised to walk round the grounds with me beforehand.’

She turned to Rupert and Declan: ‘We’re opening Green Lawns to the public in July. All proceeds to the NSPCC. I’m surprised you’re not opening Penscombe Court this year, Rupert,’ she added, raising her voice to cover the increasing clash of ball-bearings.

‘You can hardly expect the public to look at a lot of weeds,’ said Rupert.

‘But you’ve got buckets of time to get it shipshape. It seems so selfish not to raise the money if you can.’ Valerie gave her little laugh.

‘I’m sure the NSPCC would prefer a cheque,’ said Rupert evenly.

‘I don’t expect Maud’ll be interested in opening your garden,’ went on Valerie, turning to Declan. ‘I’ve just read all about your exploits in the Sunday Express. Tony Baddingham is quoted as saying one of the reasons you left Corinium was because you couldn’t face being knocked out by “Dallas”.’

As Freddie gently shooed her out, Rupert and Declan both reflected that not throttling Valerie before December would be infinitely harder than winning the franchise.

The next five weeks were frantic. Many of the bidders for franchises in other territories had spent several years perfecting their applications, raising the cash, and getting their boards together. To speed up the operation, Freddie, Declan and Rupert divided the role of recruiting officer between them.

‘There’s no point enlisting people who won’t contribute anything,’ said Declan. ‘We mustn’t confuse celebrity with attainment, and they must live in the area. Once we land a really big fish, the rest will follow.’

Hubert Brenton, Bishop of Cotchester, whom luckily Declan hadn’t bitched up during his New Year’s Eve interview and who was currently furious with Tony for deciding to televise Easter Communion at Gloucester Cathedral rather then Cotchester, was the first to be signed up. Declan invited him to lunch at The Priory the following week, and, as it was Lent and a Friday, Taggie cooked the most succulent Coquille St Jacques, followed by sole Veronique. Maud, with a cross round her neck and her titian hair drawn back in a bun, gravely asked the Bishop to say Grace, and pointed out the beautiful spring flowers in the centre of the table, which her children had sent her for Mothering Sunday.

Rupert, who, as part of his getting-fit-for-Cameron-Cook campaign, was off the booze, provided the most exquisite white wine. Caitlin, who, unlike poor Sharon Jones, had passed her religious studies O-level, was able to converse with the Bishop at length about St Luke, and particularly the Prodigal Son.

There was a dicey moment when she dropped her bread, butter-side down, and said ‘Shit’, but by then the Bishop was fortunately talking to Maud about his recent trip to the Holy Land. Fortunately, too, he’d been wandering round the Sea of Galilee last weekend and missed the newspaper reports of Declan’s exit from Corinium. Over the lemon sorbet, Declan and the Bishop discussed how thrilling it would be to dramatize Lytton Strachey’s brilliant