by Jilly Cooper
‘I came top in the exam on The Mayor of Casterbridge,’ went on Caitlin. Then, seeing Taggie struggling to understand a recipe for potatoes Lyonnaise, her lips moving slowly as she read, she added kindly, ‘but a sixth former who did the same paper last year told me all the answers beforehand. And two girls in the upper sixth are having abortions this holidays.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Taggie absent-mindedly.
‘Taggie, you’re not listening.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m so worried about Daddy.’
‘He’ll be OK. Someone will snap him up.’
‘I don’t know. He’s lost all his confidence. I’ve never known him so down.’
‘That’s hangover,’ said Caitlin.
Her ability to spread mess everywhere was even greater than Maud’s. Her open trunk lay in the hall and lacrosse sticks, tapes, posters, rolled-up art work, wet towels, coloured files, a teddy bear and a squashy bag, overflowing with underwear, were scattered in a trail all the way to the kitchen. She was wearing a very expensive pink T-shirt, pinched from Maud at half-term, over which all her friends had written messages in biro, a puffball skirt, laddered tights and black clumpy stompers, and was now eating muesli out of a cup with a teaspoon.
‘Christ, this house is cold.’
The telephone rang again for the hundredth time. The line was awful.
‘Can I speak to Declan?’ said a male voice.
‘He can’t talk to anyone,’ said Taggie hysterically.
‘Is that Taggie?’
‘Yes,’
‘It’s Rupert. How’s your father?’
‘Not great.’ Taggie felt herself going very red, and turned her back on Caitlin. ‘He walked out, you know.’
‘It was partly my fault. He was in an exocet mood. I should have stopped him storming in to see Tony, but he’s better out of it; it was killing him. Are you all right, sweetheart?’
The sudden gentleness in his voice made her want to burst into tears.
‘I’m fine,’ she mumbled.
‘Well, tell him I’ll be over later.’
Upstairs, Declan turned on the five forty-five news and found Tony Baddingham, with a red carnation in his buttonhole, giving a press conference.
‘The truth of the matter,’ he was saying, ‘is that Declan O’Hara tendered his resignation last night, and we accepted it.’
Stupid word ‘tendered’, thought Declan. There was nothing tender about it at all.
‘Naturally, we’re very sad to lose Declan,’ said Tony, looking absolutely delighted, ‘but, quite frankly, there have been a series of disagreements and there’s a general feeling at Corinium that when people get too big for their boots, we’d prefer them to go off and wear out other people’s carpets.’
Declan switched off and looked down at the floorboards. He hadn’t got any carpets to wear out, and probably now he never would have. The telephone rang again. It was one of the Corinium shop stewards.
‘Fuckin’ idiot,’ he chided Declan, ‘you should’ve hung in and let him fire you.’
‘I know,’ said Declan almost apologetically. ‘I felt I had to retain some shred of integrity.’
‘Wish you’d come to us. Look, the lads want to come out. You’ve only got to ask. We’ll black out the ‘ole network for you, Declan, and get you reinstated.’
Declan was so moved he couldn’t say anything for a minute. Then he said gruffly that there wouldn’t be any point.
‘I can’t work for Tony any more, but thanks very much all the same, and say goodbye and thanks to all the boys for me.’
It was dark outside now, but a robin was singing on the bare honeysuckle outside his window. It had turned up at exactly six-thirty for the last week now, as if to cheer him on.
‘Art thou the bird whom man loves best,’ he murmured to himself, ‘The pious bird with the scarlet breast, Our little English robin?’
Tears filled his eyes. Oh God, what was he going to do?
Taggie knocked on the door and, getting no answer, walked in. She found him looking so haggard and despairing that she ran across the room, stumbling over the piles of papers and books all over the floor, and put her arms round him.
‘Please don’t be so sad. It doesn’t matter if we go back to London. We were all happy there. You’ve just got to get your confidence back. Rupert rang, by the way. He’s coming round.’
Going upstairs to her bedroom, she was horrified by how awful she looked. She’d been so busy she hadn’t had a moment to wash or even clean her teeth all day. She knew she had no chance with Rupert, that it was appallingly presumptuous, but for once she wanted to look her best when she saw him. Caitlin’s welcome-home supper could wait, she decided. She was going to have a bath and wash her hair.
Caitlin wolf-whistled when Taggie came into the kitchen an hour later. She was wearing a red-and-black-striped polo-necked jersey which Patrick had given her for Christmas, tucked into black jeans which were in turn tucked into black boots. As her hair was still damp she’d tied it back with a black ribbon. She wore no make-up except smudged black eyeliner, which made her silver-grey eyes look huge and almost luminous. A hot bath and the hairdryer had given her pale cheeks quite enough colour.
‘Because you so seldom bother,’ said Caitlin critically, ‘one forgets how beautiful you are: much more so than anyone else I know.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ muttered Taggie in embarrassment, putting the chicken into the top-right oven of the Aga.
‘How soon will it be ready?’
‘About nine.’
‘Good, I can watch “Dynasty”. Who are you going out with?’
‘No one.’ Taggie busied herself with draining the parsnips. ‘You like parsnip purée, don’t you?’
‘Adore it. You haven’t answered my question.’
‘No one.’
‘Then why are you done up like Gertrude’s dinner?’
‘I just felt awful,’ muttered Taggie apologetically, as she threw the parsnips into the blender. ‘I didn’t have time to wash all day.’
‘Hum,’ said Caitlin beadily, as she watched Taggie add curry powder, then butter, then cream to the parsnips.
‘As I just got up into yesterday’s clothes, I felt I must change,’ went on Taggie, even more embarrassed.
‘Fee, fi, fo fumble,’ said Caitlin, ‘I smell the blood of Rupert Campbell.’
‘Oh shut up,’ said Taggie, turning on the blender.
Caitlin waited until she had turned it off.
‘I am Campbell-Black but comely,’ said Caitlin giggling. ‘Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away, For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the turtle-necked sweater is worn in our land.’
‘Oh shut up,’ screamed Taggie. Picking up Gertrude’s rubber ring, she hurled it at Caitlin, missed and nearly hit Rupert, who, finding the door open, had let himself in, followed by Freddie Jones. Taggie stood rooted to the spot with horror. Gertrude went into a frenzy of outraged barking that someone had entered the house without her knowing.
‘Hello, Gertrude,’ said Rupert. ‘How extraordinarily good you look today. Nice dog, Gertrude, well done, hurrah, what a beautiful curly tail you’ve got.’ Bending down, he stroked the bemused Gertrude over and over again.
Taggie giggled.
‘That’s better,’ said Rupert. He looked a bit pale after yesterday’s excesses, but seemed in excellent spirits.
‘Hullo,’ he said to Caitlin. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine.’ Caitlin beamed. ‘I was just quoting the Bible to my sister to keep her on the straight and narrow.’
‘Caitlin,’ pleaded Taggie in despair, frantically concentrating on spooning the purée out of the blender to hide her blushes.
Rupert went over to Taggie and, putting a hand on the back of her neck, drew her towards him. With most women, he would have dropped a kiss on the tops of their heads, but Taggie was so tall, he was abl
e to rest his lips for a second against her temple.
‘There, angel, you mustn’t worry about your papa. Frederico, the whizz kid, and I will sort him out.’
‘I’ll get you a drink,’ stammered Taggie. ‘What would you like? Daddy’s in the library.’
‘I’d like a Bacardi and Coke, love,’ said Freddie, ‘and if Rupe ’ere can keep it down, he’d like a whisky and soda.’
‘If there isn’t any Malibu, I’ll have a Vod and Ton, Tag,’ added Caitlin.
Fleeing into the larder, Taggie paused before she got down the bottles. Unbelievingly she touched her left temple where Rupert had kissed it, then, moving her fingers to her lips, kissed them in ecstasy. What was happening to her? She wondered if Caitlin’s welcome-home chicken would stretch to six.
‘’Ullo, Declan,’ said Freddie, as they went into the library and found him slumped at his desk. ‘I’ve just seen that fucker Tony on the news. You’re well shot of the smarmy bastard.’
Sitting down on the window seat, Rupert waited until Taggie had brought in the drinks. Then he shut the door behind her and said, ‘Look, Frederico and I have been talking about you for some time. To put it bluntly, both being hard-nosed businessmen, we hate to see a hot property like you being wasted.’
‘We’ve decided to form our own independent production company,’ said Freddie, ‘an’ employ you to make programmes for the network, Channel 4 and the overseas market.’
It took a lot of tough talking to persuade Declan they weren’t just being kind. He looked at his untouched glass for a second; then a real gleam of excitement came into his eyes. ‘I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we pitch for the Corinium franchise, and boot out Tony.’
Freddie and Rupert looked at each other. ‘Aren’t we too late?’
‘Not at all,’ said Declan. ‘If we step on it. The applications don’t have to be in until the beginning of May.’
‘We know all the right people,’ said Rupert. ‘So there won’t be any problems getting our Board together.’
‘And we won’t have any trouble getting the backing,’ said Freddie, jumping up and down with excitement. ‘An’ I can provide you wiv all the technical know-how.’
‘And I know the Corinium Programmes backwards,’ said Declan, ‘so we can submit better programme plans standing on our heads.’
Taggie popped her head round the door: ‘Anyone want more drinks?’
Too excited to be deflected, Declan shook his head. So did Freddie, who’d hardly touched his glass. Only Rupert handed out his. ‘Please, angel,’ he said with a grin, ‘and could I have soda this time?’
‘Oh goodness, did I give you Coke? I’m really sorry, and poor Mr Jones must have had Bacardi and soda.’
‘I don’t think he’s noticed,’ said Rupert.
As Freddie and Declan got more and more excited over their plans, Rupert thought about Taggie, how she’d trembled when he kissed her, and how adorable she’d looked with her long legs in those black boots, and her hair tied back like a boy soldier. But he mustn’t think about her, he told himself grimly. She was Declan’s kid daughter, totally out of bounds. Wrenching his mind back, he heard Declan saying: ‘In fact Tony’s only trump card with the IBA is Cameron Cook, and the staff are in a state of uproar about her as it is.’
‘How would it be if I seduced her on to our side?’ said Rupert idly.
‘We don’t want her!’ Declan exploded. ‘She’s a treacherous evil bitch.’
‘Not once I’ve sorted her out,’ said Rupert. ‘I was always good with difficult horses. I guarantee to have her eating out of my hand in a few weeks.’
RIVALS
25
Overwhelmed by the day’s vicissitudes, Declan went to bed and didn’t emerge for thirty-six hours, waking on Saturday morning to thank God he wouldn’t ever have to work for Tony again, before falling back to sleep. On Sunday he woke to a glorious day and apologized to his darling Maud for being such a bear. She apologized for being such a bitch and, after he had explained about bidding for the franchise and selling the wood to Rupert to raise some cash, they vowed that things would be better between them and made passionate, ecstatic love. Replete, tranquillized, Maud wondered why she had ever wanted to look at anyone else. Taggie, as she cooked lunch later, listened to her mother singing and playing Schubert lieder. She found these staggering volte-faces bewildering, but felt only relief that the row was over.
Rupert, having spent Saturday hunting and on constituency business, rose early on Sunday and tried out each of a new intake of horses that had arrived from Ireland earlier in the week. One dark bay mare was really exceptional, incredibly quick off the mark with a huge wild jump. In a couple of years he could have made a world-class horse out of her. He felt, as always, that reluctance to sell her on, that temptation to have one more crack at show-jumping, then put the thought sternly behind him. An election was in the offing this summer and there was the franchise to be won. He was seeing Declan and Freddie that afternoon to work out a plan of campaign. They had arranged to meet at Freddie’s house because they wanted to keep their bid secret until the applications went in, and because the press were still hanging around Penscombe Court and The Priory hoping to get some juicy story about Declan’s exit from Corinium.
Handing the mare back to one of the grooms, Rupert mounted his old Olympic gold medal horse, Rocky, for a ride round the estate, as he always did if he was at home on a Sunday. The pack of dogs raced ahead putting up pheasants, chasing rabbits, snuffling down badger sets and foxes’ earths. Rocky loved these outings, and to prove they were both still great, Rupert put the old horse over the occasional wall and any streams or fallen logs in their path. Rupert’s eagle eye missed nothing, a loose wire here, a tree blown across a fence there, which would have to be repaired before sheep were moved in, how poor or good the grass was in each field, and how the winter barley was spreading in an emerald-green haze over the rich brown earth.
In the distance he could hear Penscombe church bells ringing, and the rattle of a clay shoot. Across the valley The Priory was in shadow with the sun behind it. The beech trees in front were a crimson blur as the buds thickened. Soon the leaves would be out and he wouldn’t be able to see the house any more. Taking the muddy track that wound high above the Frogsmore, he noticed the first primroses blooming happily and safely under wild rose and bramble bushes, the spiky branches keeping the predatory grazing horses and cattle away.
In their sweet pale trusting innocence, the primroses reminded him of Taggie, who, he felt, could only blossom in life if she were fiercely protected. He suddenly wished he could be those spiky powerful branches keeping away anyone who threatened her. He imagined putting her on his gentlest horse, showing her all over his land, pointing out his favourite places, then making love to her among the wild flowers, as he had done to so many other women before – but with Taggie it would be different. Christ, he must get a grip on himself and get stuck into someone else very quickly. Thank goodness Nathalie Perrault was arriving this evening for a few days, and there was still the conquest of Cameron Cook to be orchestrated.
Back at Penscombe, stripped for a bath, Rupert got on to the scales and winced. Twelve and a half stone: at six feet two, no one could call him fat, but it was a far cry from the honed muscular leanness, the eleven stone, produced by eight hours in the saddle, which he’d trained down to before the Olympic Games and the World Championship. Too many dinners, too much booze, not enough exercise, he was hopelessly unfit. If he was going to seduce Cameron, he’d have to knock off a stone first – that meant no alcohol, and just meat, fish and vegetables 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 respec
table 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.’