Rupert ignored it. ‘Did she really say she loved me?’
‘Yes, she did, which I find extraordinary, knowing you as I do.’
Rupert shook his head in bewilderment.
‘It’s never, never hit me like this before either. I’m still not going to do anything about it.’
49
Up in London that night the fourteen directors and senior staff of Corinium Television had an extremely successful final dry run before their meeting at the IBA the next afternoon. Tony, in a new dark-blue pin-stripe suit paid for by Corinium, was in coruscating form.
‘They can have one drink,’ he told Ginger Johnson beforehand, ‘and then not one drop until we’ve been round the course — and I’m going to grill them.’
No one at the meeting tomorrow, he said, was to speak until he’d introduced them. There was now, as a result of recent hiring and firing, a most satisfactory preponderance of ex-production people on the Board who would do most of the talking. The money-men, like Ginger and Georgie Baines, who brought in the vast advertising revenue, would keep a low profile. In fact it would be better if the word ‘profit’ were not mentioned at all. All the men had had hair cuts.
‘No doubt,’ muttered Sarah Stratton to James Vereker, ‘there will be a nail inspection in the morning.’
Afterwards they all dined wisely but not too well at the Carlton Tower, where they were staying overnight. No shellfish was allowed, nor liqueurs after dinner. Everyone was very impressed with Ailie Bristoe, the new Programme Controller, who’d flown over from Hollywood for the occasion, and seemed as beautiful as she was bright. James Vereker, in particular, thought she looked very caring.
‘I’m surprised Tony hasn’t put the women in separate hotels,’ grumbled Sarah, as they were all sent up to bed early.
‘Be sure to order a Scorpion for tomorrow,’ was Tony’s parting shot. ‘You’ll all find it very interesting reading.’
Back in Gloucestershire, Declan finally stormed out of The Priory around ten o’clock, having failed to get a confession out of Cameron. Utterly devastated that he and Freddie could possibly think she was the mole, Cameron was slumped on the sofa, still cuddling Blue when the telephone rang. It was some girl, saying Rupert wouldn’t be back until the morning, but he sent his love. There was a terrific din in the background and the girl sounded as though she was ringing from a bar. Bastard, thought Cameron, but she was too proud to ask where he was. As she put the telephone down it rang again.
‘Can I speak to Rupert Campbell-Black?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Is that Cameron Cook?’
‘This is she.’
The voice thickened and became oily as though it was asking for extended credit.
‘This is the Messenger here. Wondered what you feel about Rupert’s memoirs in the Scorpion.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Rupert’s really done it this time. Bloody bad timing on the day before your IBA meeting.’
Cameron had had a long day and was not connecting well but gradually it sank in that Beattie Johnson had finally got her revenge on Rupert by telling all to the Scorpion. Not only, according to the Messenger reporter, had she produced every kind of salacious detail about her two years with Rupert and the unbelievably kinky things they’d got up to, but, even worse, revealed intimate details of his sex life with other women, including Helen.
‘Oh my God!’ whispered Cameron. ‘Does he mention me?’
‘Not yet, sweetheart,’ said the reporter, who’d already seen and admired Cameron’s photograph, ‘but you may be in Saturday’s instalment. They’re trailing the spread that’s going out on Friday, the morning you go to the IBA. It’s all about Rupert’s affair with Amanda Hamilton, wife of the shadow Foreign Secretary. Very pretty lady, evidently she liked being spanked.’
Cameron groaned.
‘And there’s a particularly damaging bit tomorrow,’ said the reporter, who was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘I’ll read it. Beattie writes: “I always felt Rupert was unnaturally close to fellow show jumper Billy Lloyd-Foxe. Rupert admitted that when they were in Kenya, he, Helen and Billy and his journalist wife Janey (who left Billy for nine months soon after they were married) had a naughty foursome. Did Helen (who started an affair with Jake Lovell shortly after this incident) discover the true nature of Rupert’s sexual preference that night?”’
‘I don’t want to hear any more,’ screamed Cameron, slamming down the receiver. It rang again. It was the Sun.
‘Go away,’ she screamed.
Immediately she’d put down the receiver, she dialled out.
‘Fuck off, all of you,’ snarled a voice.
‘Declan, it’s Cameron. Have you heard about Rupert’s memoirs?’
‘Yes,’ said Declan, ‘and I don’t know where the fuck to get hold of him.’
‘Nor do I,’ sobbed Cameron.
The juggernauts rumbling along Cotchester High Street woke Rupert next morning to the worst hangover in recorded history. Moaning, he pulled the blankets over his head. There was a knock on the door.
‘Bugger off. I feel terrible.’
‘You’re not going to feel any better when you read this,’ said Bas, handing him a Fernet Branca and the Scorpion, which Rupert read in silence.
‘The dirty bitch,’ he said softly. ‘She said she’d get me in the end.’
It was as though some terrible monster from his past had put a hand up from a manhole and dragged him down into the mire and slime below. He went straight to the lavatory and threw up.
‘Lend me a toothbrush, and then a telephone,’ he said to Bas. He was put straight through to Freddie.
‘Look, I’ve only just seen the Scorpion. I’m ringing up to resign.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Freddie.
‘I’ve got to. There are two more days to go, and it’s bound to get worse. Unless I pull out, there’s no way you’ll get the franchise.’
‘Don’t be rash, mate. We won’t be much good at running a TV station if we can’t ride out somefink like this. Got to stick togevver. Come over ’ere and we’ll sort out the best plan of action, but you’re not resigning.’
‘Up to me really,’ said Rupert. ‘I must see Cameron, and then I’ll be over.’
Arriving at Penscombe, he found cars parked all the way up his drive, and the gravel in front of the house completely hidden by journalists, photographers and television crews. Corinium had even had the temerity to send a mobile canteen. Stony-faced, greyer than the trampled snow, Rupert got out of his car.
‘Fuck off, the lot of you,’ he snarled as they all surged forward. ‘I’ve got to talk to my lawyer.’
‘What about the franchise?’ asked the Mail on Sunday.
‘Come on, Rupe,’ said the Star. ‘Give us a quote. We’ve waited all fucking night.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say. I’ll put my dogs on you if you don’t beat it.’ Fighting his way into the house, he slammed the door behind him.
‘Well, well, well,’ said Cameron from halfway up the stairs.
She wore no make-up, and her hair was sleeked back from her face which was deathly white.
‘I’m sorry,’ began Rupert.
‘Fuck off,’ screamed Cameron, as a photographer appeared at a side window. Racing downstairs, she drew the curtains.
‘Come upstairs,’ said Rupert.
They went into his bedroom, the set for so much of the action in the first instalment of the memoirs. Almost as though the great four-poster would contaminate her, Cameron gave it a wide berth and went over to the fireplace.