‘You expecting guests?’
‘Not any more.’
‘So that bouquet you were bombing the masses with was a peace offering from the Oily Baron?’
‘You’re so fucking perceptive,’ said Cameron sulkily. Then rage overcame pride. ‘Madden just called to say he can’t make it. He’s been summoned to dine at Badminton.’
‘Probably has,’ said Rupert. ‘I know there’s a dinner party there tonight and the Princess is going. Let’s have a drink. Your place or mine?’
‘Mine,’ said Cameron. ‘Give me half an hour while I take a bath and dress.’
‘I wouldn’t bother.’ said Rupert. ‘You’re overdressed as it is.’
It was all going too fast for her. What the hell was Rupert doing here? It could hardly be coincidence. He was the biggest rake in the world. No one emerged unscathed. So why was she feeling so wildly elated, washing her ears when she’d washed them that morning, and trimming her bush, and rubbing Fracas into her belly and inner thighs? As she slid into her new peach satin underwear it seemed to be caressing her in anticipation. For once she didn’t need blusher, the glow came from within. Finally, she put on a pale apricot tunic, very demure and clinging with all the buttons done up, but with the hemline six inches above the knee, making her legs seem endless.
All powerful men are attractive. Men who are powerful and kind are irresistible. For once Rupert seemed to have abandoned his flip cracks and his sexual innuendoes. He appeared to be really, really interested in her career, in Corinium’s programme plans and how they were approaching their application for the franchise. He was also incredibly well informed. She’d always thought he was only interested in sport and screwing.
Cameron was enjoying herself so much she didn’t notice she’d drunk almost an entire bottle of champagne and Rupert had hardly touched his glass of whisky. As the boat race is usually won in the first two minutes by one crew surging ahead and taking advantage of smoother water, so the conquest of Cameron was really achieved in that first hour when she was off-guard and feeling bruised and vulnerable because Tony had stood her up. As Rupert got up to fill her glass yet again, he pointed to the mound of paper on her desk.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Working on the final application.’
‘Anyone bidding against you?’ asked Rupert, idly.
‘Tony’s discovered a group of Bristol businessmen calling themselves Mid-West are having a go. They claim we’re too Cotchester-orientated. But I don’t figure they’re much cop.’
That’s three of us pitching, thought Rupert, reflecting that, as Cameron Cook had such wonderful legs, spying on her was no hardship at all.
‘Is Tony worried?’ he asked.
‘No way, but we can’t afford to be complacent. Southern lost their franchises in 1980, and they didn’t appear to have done anything wrong. The IBA have to make some changes to be seen to be doing their job properly.’
‘What about Declan? Tony lost a network slot there. How’s he going to replace him?’
‘I’m not sure. Declan cost Tony so much dough, and he really zapped him out. Tony can’t stand not being able to bully people. He’s much less uptight since Declan walked out, but he needs a replacement. I guess he’ll poach some top front-of-camera person in the next few weeks, just to distract people from Declan’s departure. The media are still sniffing round.’
‘Any idea who it might be?’ said Rupert.
‘No. Tony loves to surround himself in mystery.’
‘How are you enjoying being Programme Controller?’
Cameron shrugged. ‘Not as much as I expected. There’s so much hassle. Admin bores me rigid. Thinking up brilliant ideas, which other people promptly screw up. I had to sack four people last week. You ever done that?’
‘Frequently,’ said Rupert. Christ, he thought, as Cameron rabbited on, her mouth’s like a dumper. I could use her to unblock my drains.
‘You should get out,’ he said when she finally paused for breath. ‘Any of the network companies would snap you up.’
Cameron looked at the bulky application on the desk. ‘I’d like to see Corinium retain the franchise. I’ll probably look around in the Autumn. Although why I hang in with that bastard, I can’t think. Is it usual to be asked to dine with royalty at the last moment?’
‘No,’ said Rupert.
‘So Tony must have known about the dinner party for ages, and didn’t have the guts to tell me he wouldn’t be coming out.’
‘Probably didn’t want you to make other arrangements,’ said Rupert, emptying the bottle into her glass.
He was shrewd enough to realize that, having existed on a diet of Tony for three years, and having been flaunted at work and on the occasional jolly abroad but ruthlessly excluded from anything else, what Cameron was missing was a legitimate social life. He got to his feet.
‘Well, thanks for the drink. I’m going out to dinner.’
Cameron’s happiness drained away. ‘Goodbye,’ she said coldly, gazing at the plane trees in the square which were turning pink in the setting sun. ‘Well, go on then,’ she snapped a few seconds later.
‘Stop sulking,’ said Rupert. ‘You’re invited as well.’
‘To a restaurant?’
‘No, a private house.’
‘They won’t want me.’
‘Yes they will. Nicky and Mary. You’ll adore them. I’m just going to put on a tie.’
Next door he extracted a tape recorder the width and size of half a pencil from his top pocket, removed the tape, and put it in a secret drawer at the back of his brief case. There’d be too much noise at dinner to isolate anything interesting.
Nicky and Mary turned out to be the British Ambassador and his beautiful wife, who’d been a mad success in Madrid. They lived in a ravishing house a few miles from the centre of the town and the dinner party was just as grand as the one Tony and Monica were enjoying in England, but everyone was so friendly and easy-going and knew all about Cameron coming to Madrid to accept an award, that she instantly felt at home.
Mary, who had known Rupert at the height of his show-jumping career, was a good enough friend not to mind his totally upsetting the rigid protocol usually observed in diplomatic circles by bringing an extra guest, though it did mean a last-minute arrangement of the
As Cameron ate the most delicious ravioli filled with scallop and lobster she had ever tasted, the Spanish Duke, who had slicked-back ebony hair, and hooded eyes, talked to her about the national character. ‘As a people we are obsessed with death, but indifferent to it as long as the right attitude is struck. Note the matador’s lack of concern for his own life. Life should be enjoyed now, not devoted to working for some distant fulfilment.’
Cameron looked at Rupert, who was seated on the other side of the table, laughing with his beautiful hostess.
Reading her thoughts, the Duke went on, ‘Rupert in some ways is very Spanish, very brave, very macho, very sad underneath.’
‘Sad?’ said Cameron, amazed. ‘Rupert?’
The Duke nodded. ‘You never saw him in the show ring? It was magnificent. All the grace and courage, and apparent effortlessness of the matador. It must have been terrible for him to give it up. I thought he would drink or womanize himself to death.’
‘He’s made a great success of Minister for Sport,’ said Cameron.
‘It would hurt his pride not to make a success of anything, but he is still not fulfilled, and if the Tories lose the election, as everyone thinks they will, he’ll be out of a job. He needs a great love in his life. I ‘ope you are she.’ He raised his glass to her.
‘What was his wife like?’
The Duke kissed his bunched-up fingers. ‘So beautiful, but quite wrong, nervy and not really interested in him, only what she thought he could become. You can’t change Rupert, only make him more secure.’
With the Cochinillo everyone turned to talk to the person on their left.
