‘Can’t you understand that he’s using you?’ said Declan slowly. ‘The only thing that turns Tony on is acquisition. You’ve just lost us the franchise, and you were going to stand by and let me blame Cameron.’
‘Serve her right — arrogant little bitch,’ cried Maud hysterically.
Outside in the hall Taggie could hear her mother’s screams getting louder and louder. Oh God, her father didn’t need upsetting any more when he had the IBA meeting in the morning. Next moment the drawing-room door burst open.
‘I’m leaving you,’ screamed Maud.
‘Come back,’ roared Declan.
‘Never, and don’t send Ursula looking for me at the Lost Property Office, because I won’t be there.’ She shot past Taggie and out of the front door, banging it so hard the whole hall rattled.
Taggie ran to open it. Outside it was snowing again. She watched Maud drive off in her car, hell for leather, down the drive.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ she said, turning to Declan, who was standing as if blasted white by lightning.
‘She was the mole.’
Taggie gave a gasp. ‘She couldn’t be. She can’t have meant to.’
‘She did,’ said Declan in a voice of utter despair, ‘because I neglected her. It’s all my fault. I blamed Cameron last night and Rupert today, and just now I blamed her. But through my focking obsession and hubris I’ve brought us all down.’
50
For Rupert next morning the press was crucifixion — ranging from highly moralistic pieces about the chronic Tory failure to keep their noses clean to double-page spreads with pictures charting the rise and fall of the Tory party golden boy. The tabloids had dug up several of Rupert’s more bitter exes, who, having done a great deal more than kiss, were now only too happy to tell. The seamiest tabloid of all had a huge frontpage headline: ‘Campbell-Blackguard,’ above an enchanting picture of Tabitha.
‘In the playground of exclusive Bluebell’s school (fees £1,500 a term),’ ran the copy, ‘a little child sobs alone. In a voice hardly above a whisper, Tabitha Campbell-Black told the Scorpion:
‘“I don’t mind my friends not playing with me any more, but I don’t want Daddy to die of AIDS.”’
‘This is the final fucking limit,’ howled Billy Lloyd-Foxe, hurling the Scorpion across the room. ‘I’m coming with you to the IBA.’
‘The Beeb will sack you if they find out,’ said Janey, who was painting her nails because it was less hassle than cleaning them. ‘And as I turned down a hundred grand yesterday to tell all about our life with Rupert, and this suit cost nearly as much, I don’t think you can afford to.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Billy mutinously. ‘Rupert’s my best friend, and anyway since Beattie implied I was gay yesterday, I shall certainly be snapped up by Radio 3.’
At Freddie’s house, the remnants of the Venturer consortium gathered before the meeting. With no Bishop, no Professor, no Cameron and none of the moles, their numbers were utterly depleted and their bid in tatters. The second day of Rupert’s memoirs was even worse, with intimations of underage school girls. Freddie had spent half the night trying to persuade a demented Declan that they’d got to shop Tony, not just for seducing Maud and bugging their houses, but because Seb was working on excellent evidence that Tony had bribed Beattie Johnson to sing to the rooftops, just at a time when it would be most damaging to Venturer.
But like Wellington at Waterloo refusing to turn the guns on the enemy commandant, Declan refused to let anyone condemn Tony. He didn’t want Maud’s name dragged into it. He was clearly still suffering from shock. He looked terrible.
‘A black ram is tupping my white ewe,’ he kept saying over and over again, ‘and it was all my fault.’
Rupert, who arrived with Bas, didn’t look much better, but at least he’d got a grip on himself. The meeting had to be got through. There were people not to be let down, there would be the rest of his life to mourn for Taggie and probably his children as well. Helen had rung this morning, saying she was applying for a court order to deny him access.
Even Henry Hampshire arrived walking wounded, wearing a dark suit with uncharacteristically flared trousers, and with his leg in plaster.
‘Horse put its foot down a rabbit hole,’ was all he would say about it.
‘’Morning.’ He went up to Rupert, who was huddled on the sofa trying to keep down a cup of coffee. ‘Enjoying your memoirs; great stuff.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I had a crack at Mandy Hamilton myself twenty years ago. God, she was pretty. Might have made more progress if I’d known she liked having her bottom smacked.’
Rupert managed a pale smile. ‘At least it kept you out of the papers.’ Then, also lowering his voice, he added, ‘Look, I don’t think there’s any chance now of us getting the franchise. Tony’s now odds on and we’ve gone way out.’
‘Better have a bet then,’ said Henry, limping towards the telephone. ‘Anyway, I’ve had more fun in the last six months than I can ever remember. We’ll have to bid for another area next time.’
Dame Enid arrived next, resplendent in a pinstriped trouser suit with an even wider white stripe than Tony’s, a bright blue tie, and an Al Capone hat.
‘Stick ’em up, it’s a shoot out,’ said Marti Gluckstein, who came with her. He was dressed in a lurid green Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, and sucking on a pipe.
‘Did you get that at Valerie’s boutique?’ said Bas, then hastily shut up in case Freddie overheard.
‘Thought I ought to appear as the country squire,’ said Marti. ‘Where’s the Bishop?’
‘Pulled out, I’m afraid,’ said Freddie, handing him and Dame Enid cups of coffee.
‘Good riddance, pompous old fart,’ said Dame Enid, helping herself to sugar. ‘Can’t you pull a rabbi out of a hat to replace him?’ she added to Marti.
Marti smirked. ‘For you, my dear, anything.’
‘Crispin Graystock’s pulled out too,’ said Freddie.
‘Well, thank God we’ve got rid of the two worst wafflers,’ said Dame Enid philosophically. ‘Graystock’s got complete verbal diarrhoea.’
‘Which reminds me,’ said Henry, hobbling off at great speed towards the lavatory, ‘had the most ghastly trots all night. Sure I’m going to botch my answers.’
The moment he arrived, Lord Smith went straight up to Rupert. ‘Really feel for you, lad,’ he said. ‘But everyone regards the Scorpion as fiction. That Beastly Johnson did me over once. Took down what I said, but twisted it like barley sugar. I’ve got a message from Alf Smithers. Chairman of the FA,’ he added, by way of illumination, when Rupert didn’t react.
‘I know,’ said Rupert flatly. ‘He was my cross.’
‘He’s not cross now. Told me to wish you luck today. Said you were the best Sports Minister they’ve ever ’ad. They all wish you’d come back. What’s up with Declan?’
‘Wife trouble,’ said Rupert.
‘Happens at franchise time,’ said Lord Smith. ‘When we bid for the Midlands eight years ago, the wives got so fed up, they was all at it — even mine.’
‘Only two more to come,’ said Freddie, trying to cheer up his own and everyone’s spirits. ‘And ’ere they are,’ he went on, as Seb and Charles came through the door.
‘We’re going to have a fuller house than you thought,’ said Charles. ‘I’ve just seen Billy, Janey, Harold White and Sally Maples getting out of a taxi.’
Freddie had tears in his eyes as he welcomed them. ‘You shouldn’t have come. It’s totally out of order,’ he said. ‘I know what you’re risking, but I won’t say I’m not bloody pleased to see you.’