Rivals (19 page)

Cameron’s patience was further taxed by her PA getting chicken-pox, and having to be replaced by Daysee Butler, easily the prettiest girl working at Corinium but also the stupidest.

‘Why d’you spell Daisy that ludicrous way?’ snarled Cameron.

‘Because it shows up more on credits,’ said Daysee simply.

Like all PAs that autumn, Daysee wandered round clutching a clipboard and a stopwatch, wearing loose trousers tucked into sawn-off suede boots, and jerseys with pictures knitted on the front.

‘It’s just like the Tit Gallery with all these pictures floating past,’ grumbled Charles Fairburn.

Programme day dawned at The Priory with Declan roaring round the house.

‘Whatever’s the matter?’ asked Taggie in alarm.

‘I have absolutely no socks. No, don’t tell me. I’ve looked behind the tank in the hot cupboard, and in all my drawers, and in the dirty clothes basket. Utterly bloody Patrick and utterly bloody Caitlin swiped all my socks when they went back, so I have none to wear.’

‘I’ll drive into Cotchester and get you some,’ said Taggie soothingly.

‘Indeed you will not,’ said Declan. ‘I’m driving into Cotchester, and I’m buying thirty pairs of socks in such a disgossting colour that none of you will ever wish to pinch them again.’

He was very tired. He hadn’t slept, panicking Johnny might roll up stoned or not at all. And yesterday he and Cameron had been closeted together for twelve hours in the edit suite, putting together the introductory package, rowing constantly over what clips and stills they should use. Daysee Butler’s inanities hadn’t helped either. Nor had Declan’s dismissing as pretentious crap an alternative script Cameron pretended one of the researchers had written, but which she in fact had toiled over all weekend. She couldn’t run to Tony, who was in an all-day meeting in London, but got her revenge while Declan was recording his own beautifully lyrical script, by making him do bits over and over again because of imagined mispronunciations or technical faults or hangings outside. They parted at the end of the day not friends.

Having bought his socks, Declan arrived at the studios around five. A game show was underway in Studio 2; the Floor Manager was flapping his hands above his head like a demented seal as a sign to the audience to applaud.
Midsummer Night’s Dream
had ground to a halt in Studio 1, because Cameron, dissatisfied with the rushes, had tried to impose an ‘out-of-house lighting cameraperson’ on the crew, who had promptly downed tools. The Rude Mechanicals, with no prospect of a line all day, were getting pissed in the bar.

Deferential, glad-to-be-of-use, Deirdre Kilpatrick, the researcher on ‘Cotswold Round-Up’, as dingy as Daysee Butler was radiant, was taking a famous romantic novelist to tea before being interviewed by James Vereker.

‘James will ask you your idea of the perfect romantic hero, Ashley,’ Deirdre was saying earnestly. ‘And it’d be very nice if you could say: “You are, James”, which would bring James in.’

‘I only go on TV because my agent says it sells books,’ said the romantic novelist. ‘Oooh, isn’t that Declan O’Hara? Now, he
is
the perfect romantic hero.’

Declan slid into his dressing-room and locked the door. A pile of good luck cards and telexes awaited him. He was particularly touched by one from his old department at the BBC saying, ‘Sock it to them.’

‘Da-glo yellow sock it to them,’ said Declan, chucking thirty pairs of socks in luminous cat-sick yellow on the bed.

There was a knock on the door. It was Wardrobe.

‘D’you want anything ironed?’

Declan peered gloomily in the mirror: ‘Only my face.’

He gave her his suit, light grey and very lightweight, as he was going to be under the hot lights for an hour. She hung up his shirt and tie, then squealed with horror at the yellow socks.

‘You can’t wear those.’

‘They won’t show,’ said Declan.

In Studio 3 two technicians were sitting in Declan’s and Johnny’s chairs, while the crew sorted out lighting and camera angles. Crispin, the set designer, whisked about in a lavender flying-suit. The set was exactly as Declan had wanted, except the Charles Rennie Mackintosh chairs had been replaced by wooden Celtic ones, with the conic back of Declan’s rising a foot above his head like a wizard’s chair: a symbol of authority and magic.

As a gesture of defiance, on the steel-blue tables which rose like mushrooms at the side of each rostrum, Crispin, the designer, had placed blue-and-red-striped glasses and carafes.

‘I want plain glasses,’ snapped Declan.

‘Oh, they’re so dreary.’ Crispin pouted.

‘I want them – and get rid of those focking flowers.’

‘Cameron ordered them specially.’

Declan picked up the bouquet threateningly.

‘Are you trying to bury me?’

‘All right, no flowers,’ said Crispin sulkily.

At six-thirty there was a very scratchy run-through.

‘Can’t you
ad lib
us through your line of questioning?’ asked Cameron.

‘No.’

‘You must know your first question.’

‘Depends on his mood.’

‘May be looped, you mean. Your bloody fault, asking a junkie on the first programme.’

Declan went off and shook in the men’s lavatory for half an hour. When he returned to the studio the crew were lining up their four cameras before the meal break.

‘Have you heard the latest Irish joke?’ the Senior Cameraman was saying. ‘There was this Paddy who went into a chemist for his heroin fix.’

The crew gathered round, grinning at the prospect of more Hibernian idiocy. Halfway though the story the Senior Cameraman realized he’d lost his audience. Next moment, he was grabbed by the scruff of the neck.

‘You may be the best focking cameraman in ITV,’ roared Declan, ‘but you’ll not work on my programme if you’re going to tell Irish jokes. You don’t dare tell jokes about Jews and blacks or cripples any more; why pick on the poor bloody Irish?’

With a final shake, which threw the Senior Cameraman half-way across the studio, he stalked out.

‘I’ll report you to my shop steward,’ screamed the Senior Cameraman rubbing his neck.

In the bar they were gathering to catch a glimpse of Johnny Friedlander and to support Declan by watching his programme. There was still a latent
esprit de corps
at Corinium. Someone had deliberately changed the colour on the bar television, so James Vereker’s face looked like a Jaffa orange.

‘What’s your idea of a romantic hero, Ashley?’ he was saying.

‘You are, James.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, Ashley.’ James smoothed his streaks. ‘What’s romantic about me?’

‘Well, you’re so caring, James, and you’ve got an inner strength like Leslie Howard.’

‘Turn the sound down,’ screamed a Rude Mechanical, hurling a handful of peanuts at the screen.

‘Anyone seen Declan?’ asked Daysee Butler, putting her top half, which had Goofy appropriately knitted on the bosom, round the door to a chorus of wolf-whistles. It was getting perilously close to transmission time.

‘In the bog,’ said Charles Fairburn. ‘I’m surprised he doesn’t move his dressing-room in there. Can’t even keep down a brandy.’

‘Declan,’ shouted the Senior Cameraman. ‘You can stop worrying. Daysee’s too embarrassed to come in ’ere, but Johnny Friedlander’s people have just phoned to say they’ve come off the M4 and they’ll be wiv us in twenty minutes.’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ groaned Declan.

‘And ’ere’s a letter for you.’ A piece of writing paper appeared under the door.

‘
Dear Declan
, it said. ‘
We’re sorry we was telling Paddy jokes. We won’t any more, you was quite right.
’

All the crew had signed it.

‘
PS. Have you heard the one about the Englishman, the Welshman and the Scotsman?
’

Declan grinned, then he glanced at his watch, and nearly threw up again. He’d be on air in less than an hour.

Johnny Friedlander arrived in a black limo which seemed to stretch the length of Cotchester High Street. He was accompanied by a publicity girl and four security men. In a second limo were four lawyers. Looking at the bulges in the security men’s suits, the press allowed Johnny to be smuggled into the building without too much hassle.

From the start Johnny’s visit to Corinium went off with a bang. Taking one look at the ravishing Daysee, he pulled her into his dressing-room and locked the door. The four security men stood outside with folded arms.

‘Who’s she?’ asked Johnny’s publicity girl in horror.

‘A piece of ass,’ said one of the security men.

‘Are you quite sure she’s not a reporter?’

‘Couldn’t report a burglary,’ said Charles Fairburn, whisking past, thoroughly overexcited by so much security muscle.

In his dressing-room a pretty make-up girl with sheep in a field knitted on her bosom fussed around Declan. He wished he could lie down in her field and go to sleep.

‘At least let me paint out the dark rings and give you a bit of base; you’re so pale,’ she murmured. ‘And we’ll have to do something about the beard area. You really ought to shave.’

‘I’m shaking so much I’ll cut myself.’

‘I’ll shave you.’

Next moment Cameron stormed in.

‘Johnny Friedlander’s barricaded himself into his dressing-room with Daysee.’

‘Best place for him,’ said Declan. ‘At least if he’s having a bang, he’s not snorting coke.’

In his fifth-floor office, Tony Baddingham, even more nervous than Declan, was dispensing Krug to his special guests, who included several big advertising clients, the Mayor and Mayoress of Cotchester and Freddie and Valerie Jones. By a ghastly mischance, they had also been joined by the Reverend Fergus Penney, a former Prebendary of the Church of England. A fearful old prude constantly inveighing against sex on television, he had recently become a member of the IBA board, and was currently on a tour of the Independent television companies. Now, primly sipping Perrier, he kept peering across the corridor to the board room, where the press, assembled to watch Declan’s first programme on a big screen pulled down against the far wall, were getting drunk and stuffing their faces with quiche and chicken drumsticks.

In a corner of the board room, as disapproving as the ex-Prebendary, sat Johnny’s four lawyers, also sipping Perrier and fingering calculators at the prospect of litigation.

‘Why the fuck d’you ask so many press?’ Tony hissed to Cyril Peacock, who knew he’d have been equally roasted if only a handful had turned up.

Nor did the fact that Tony had been entirely responsible for hiring Declan stop him now blaming everything on Simon Harris. ‘You ought to be able to control Declan, Simon. That’s what you’re here for. He hasn’t even given Cameron a running order.’

‘All she needs now is a prayer sheet,’ said Charles.

‘Declan’s my favourite telly star,’ the Lady Mayoress was saying excitedly to Valerie. ‘I can’t wait to meet him later.’

‘Oh, we know him quaite well,’ said Valerie Jones, on the strength of last Sunday’s lunch party. ‘He always singles me out – because Ay tell him the truth. Ay think famous folk get so bored with flattery.’

A curious tension was building up through the building.

‘Declan’s just cut me dead,’ complained James Vereker, going into the bar. ‘Awfully uncool to get so uptight.’

Daysee came out of Johnny’s dressing-room, looking as though she’d found the Holy Grail.

‘He’s having a quick shower,’ she said. ‘Then he wants Make-up.’

‘Well, send in a boot,’ said Cameron. ‘We don’t want him banging her as well.’

It was five minutes to blast off. The four security men had taken up their positions in the studio. In the control room the production team sat at a desk like a vast dashboard, gazing at two rows of monitor screens. On four of the monitors which came direct from the studio, Cameron could see Johnny Friedlander’s carved, beautiful, degenerate face with its hollow cheek bones and Californian suntan. His fair hair was the red-gold of willows in winter, the irises of the deep-set Oxford-blue eyes were almost as dark as the pupils. Thin almost to the point of emaciation, he lounged easily in his three-thousand-dollar suit, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. But the air of relaxation was false.

‘Why the hell did I agree to do this shit?’ he drawled.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Declan, meaning it.

‘Aw that’s OK. I just don’t feel I’ve got proper lines when they’re my own. Rupert called, by the way. He said: “You can trust this guy, he’s one of us.”’

In his earpiece Declan could hear Daysee saying: ‘The pink strapless is more dressy, but my holiday tan’s nearly gone.’

‘Can we have some level?’ asked the Floor Manager. ‘What did you have for breakfast, Johnny?’

Johnny laughed. ‘You want to get me arrested?’

On Cameron’s left, Daysee was checking different stopwatches. The moment they were on air she would forget pink strapless dresses and become as cool as a computer, timing the programme to the second.

On the right sat the vision-mixer in a red T-shirt, hands at the ready over regiments of square buttons, lit up like spangles, ready to punch up the correct picture when Cameron demanded it.

‘Good luck, everyone,’ said Cameron, crossing her fingers. ‘Stand by Studio, stand by Opening Titles, stand by Music.’

‘One minute to air,’ said Daysee, clenching her stop-watch and glaring at the leaping red number of the clock. ‘Twenty seconds, ten, five, four, three, two, one and in.’

Schubert’s Fifth Symphony started on its jolly jazzed-up course. On the screen a rocket exploded in coloured stars above a night-lit Cotchester, and then cascaded down to form the word Declan. A great cheer went up in the bar. Tony puffed on his cigar.

‘I want another gin and tonic,’ said an already drunk reporter from the
Mail on Sunday.