Freddie’s heart sank. He told the detective to keep on tailing Tony and immediately rang Declan, who was utterly shattered. They both decided, however, that if Cameron had spilled any more beans, it was too late to muzzle Tony now. If, as was just possible, she hadn’t, she was still too important a trump card with the IBA to be frightened off.
They decided to wait until Rupert returned from Rome tomorrow before tackling her.
Next morning, after a restless night, Declan woke up to more snow, and, not wishing to risk either car, walked down to the village shop to get the papers. Yesterday at The Priory, they’d had a power cut and frozen pipes. Today the washing machine and the tumble dryer were kaput, and it was warmer out than in. Three-foot icicles hung from the faulty gutters. The evergreens lining the drive were bent double by the snow. Every blade of grass edging the road was rimed with frost and burned with a white heat of its own.
The traffic was crawling so slowly that Declan didn’t bother to put the dogs on leads. Gertrude, a bit lame from the hard ground, still rushed into every cottage front garden and barked at the snowmen. Claudius, encountering his first snow this year, was wild with excitement, plunging into drifts, leaping to catch the snowballs Declan hurled for him. As Declan passed the white church, he sent up a prayer that Venturer might win. On such a beautiful day, one couldn’t fail to be optimistic. But as he walked into the village shop Mr Banks, who was a great newspaper reader, waved The Times.
‘Lord Baddingham’s been blowing his own trumpet again.’
Declan felt his throat go dry, his stomach churned.
‘Page five,’ went on Mr Banks, handing the paper to Declan.
‘Baddingham Set for Victory,’ said the headline. There was a very nice picture, taken from above and at a slight angle to reduce the heavy jowl. Tony was smiling and showing excellent teeth. The interview had been written by a well-known financial journalist.
As he was so confident of retaining the franchise, Tony had told him, he was only too happy to reveal Corinium’s plans for next year. They were very happy to welcome three new directors on to the Board, all production people, including Ailie Bristoe, who’d just spent three years in Hollywood and who would be Director of Programmes. They were also very excited about their new networked thirteen-part series on marriage which, Tony predicted, would turn James and Lizzie Vereker into big stars.
It was safe enough stuff. Declan sat down on the snow-covered window-ledge outside the shop, obscuring the postcard advertisements for lost gerbils, daily women and secondhand carrycots in the window.
Corinium, he read on, had also made arrangements with the Royal Shakespeare to televise special productions of whatever Shakespeare plays children in the area would be taking for O-and A-levels each year. Then they would offer the videos for sale. They’d also be filming Johnny Friedlander’s Hamlet, which had been postponed until the summer.
Shit, thought Declan in horror, those were both Cameron’s ideas. But most exciting of all, he read on, was that Corinium had signed up a new play by Stroud-born playwright, Dermot MacBride, with an option on the second. There followed a lot of guff about MacBride’s towering genius, and how happy Tony was to welcome this lost son of Gloucestershire back into the fold.
‘We paid a lot for MacBride,’ Tony had admitted.
But, as the financial journalist pointed out, the publicity value alone would be worth thousands of pounds to Corinium.
‘Please don’t obscure my advertisement,’ said a shrill voice. ‘I’ll never get a cleaner that way.’
Looking up, Declan discovered an old lady with a red nose glaring at him. Looking down he saw Gertrude and Claudius sitting at his feet, shivering miserably. Slipping and sliding, falling over twice, moaning with rage, Declan ran home to The Priory.
‘Look at fucking that!’ He brandished The Times under Maud’s nose. ‘Tony’s bought Dermot MacBride’s play. Cameron must have leaked it to him.’
‘I always thought she was untrustworthy,’ said Maud, who was plucking her eyebrows.
Declan’s hands were so cold it took him a long time to dial the number of Dermot MacBride’s agent.
‘We had a deal. What the fuck are you playing at?’
‘The contract hadn’t been signed,’ said the agent defensively. ‘My duty is to get the best deal for my authors. Tony offered three times as much as you.’
‘You could have come back to me. I’d have matched his offer.’
‘He said if I talked to you the deal was off.’
‘That’s the last deal I’ll ever do with you,’ roared Declan.
‘Never mind. I’m retiring at Christmas.’
Through the window, Declan watched the Priory robin furiously driving a rival robin away from the bird table.
‘How did Tony know about our deal?’
‘Dunno. He phoned about five yesterday. I spoke to MacBride. We exchanged contracts this morning. It’ll buy a few gold watches for me.’
The moment Declan put down the telephone, Freddie rang.
‘Have you seen the Cotchester News? There’s a bloody great picture of you an’ me, an’ Rupert, an’ Basil, an’ ’Enry — all in our red coats out huntin’ wiv big grins on our faces, wiv a caption: “Do you want these butchers to run your television station?”’
‘That’s libellous,’ howled Declan. ‘Have you seen The Times?’
‘Yes,’ said Freddie grimly. ‘Unfortunately that’s not.’
‘I’m not waiting for Rupert to get back,’ said Declan. ‘I’m going round to have it out with Cameron right now.’
But when he got to Penscombe, Mrs Bodkin told him Cameron had gone out and wasn’t expected back until evening. Guilt, thought Declan in a fury.
Cameron got home around eight that evening. She knew she shouldn’t have played truant, but, having brooded agonizingly about Rupert since the hunt ball, she felt she had to get out of the house. The heavy frost had made the white valley look so beautiful that morning. Why should I give up all this without a fight? she had thought. Rupert was an alpha male, he was exceptionally handsome, funny, very rich, clever in a totally different way to herself, and, now that she’d given him six months’ intensive training on pleasing a woman rather than automatically pleasing himself, spectacular in bed.
A great believer in positive action, she drove into Cheltenham to the branch headquarters of ‘Mind the Step’, a support group for step-parents and step-children, which had just opened. Cameron figured the subject would not only make a good programme, but might help her love Rupert’s children and understand her own tortured relationship with her mother and Mike. She had a long talk with the organizer, who then gave her several names and addresses. Driving round Gloucestershire, Cameron was amazed how many people welcomed her in. At their wits’ end, hemmed in by snow and coping with step-children at home for several days, they were only too happy to talk to someone.
Listening to the shrill invective, to half-hearted attempts at love, to occasional genuine affection, to grown women blaming their own step-mothers for lack of love, which prevented them in turn loving their own husbands and children, Cameron forgot her own miseries. She decided it would make a marvellous programme and was already pre-selecting the people to interview.