Rivals (49 page)

‘He wouldn’t feel right with himself. It’s like cheating in exams. To most people it wouldn’t matter, but he’s got such utter integ . . .’ Taggie stumbled over the word.

‘Integrity, and I haven’t, I suppose.’

‘Of course you have, but of a different kind. If you won the franchise because he’d spied on Tony Baddingham, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.’

‘Well, he’s not living with me any longer. D’you think Tony won’t wheel out every trick in the book, once he finds out we’re bidding against him? Your father’s trying to fight a nuclear war with a pop gun.’

‘It’s because he disapproves of Lord Baddingham so much. He couldn’t descend to his level. That’s why he’s bidding against him.’

‘Not with me, he ain’t,’ said Rupert, putting down his mug. ‘I’m out.’

‘Oh please not,’ pleaded Taggie. ‘It’s so lovely for them having you as part of the consortium. You’ve got such c-c-charisma.’

‘Is that your word for the day?’ snapped Rupert.

‘No, it’s my word for always about you,’ said Taggie, blushing crimson. ‘Honestly, they think you’re marvellous.’

‘Funny way of showing it,’ said Rupert, walking towards the door.

Taggie ran after him, her eyes filling with tears.

‘Oh, please. Daddy really needs you. You and Freddie were so wonderful when he was down, I know he seems terribly clever but he’s not street bright like you.’

Gazing at her, Rupert noticed how her tears and the old grey denim shirt of Declan’s she was wearing emphasized the strange silver-grey of her eyes.

‘Darling Taggie,’ he said, his face softening, ‘how can anyone refuse you anything?’

‘Then you’ll stay?’

Rupert shrugged. ‘I suppose so . . . but I’m extremely pissed off.’ He reached into his pocket and rooted out a crimson leather box. ‘I got you an Easter egg in Madrid. I hope you’ll like it better than the present I brought your father.’

Inside the box Taggie found a little gold egg, speckled with rubies and diamonds. She gave a gasp.

‘Look further,’ said Rupert.

Opening the egg, she found a tiny gold bird with ruby eyes.

‘Poor thing’s got conjuctivitis,’ said Rupert.

‘I can’t believe it,’ breathed Taggie. ‘No one brings me presents like that. Oh thank you so so much. I love it.’

Blushing furiously again, she leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. She’s the little sister I never had, Rupert told himself firmly.

‘Your steak and kidney’s burning,’ he said.

‘Are you staying for supper?’

‘No, I’ve got to go back and vote.’

‘What on?’

‘Capital punishment for terrorists.’

Taggie looked horrified.

‘They’re not going to bring it back, are they? Daddy’d leave the country.’

In the library Freddie was tearing a strip off Declan. ‘This is the big league, if you’ll excuse me saying so. Rupert’s a very clever operator, and we can’t afford to lose ’im. You’ve got to learn to argue wivout rancour, Declan. You can’t stick your chest out all the time.’

‘What do you know about it?’ growled Declan.

‘I’ve never ’ad a strike at work,’ said Freddie, ‘because I don’t judge everyone the same. I cultivate their individual skills. You’re always bangin’ on about giving creative people the right atmosphere to work in. Then, when Rupert does somefink really creative, you shit on ’im.’

Watched in awed amazement by Bas and Charles, Freddie calmly retrieved the application from the wastepaper basket.

Declan gazed at him appalled: ‘But, it’s dishonest, for fock’s sake. You wouldn’t have nicked that document, would you?’

‘Wouldn’t ’ave ’ad the nerve,’ said Freddie. ‘But now we’ve got it, I’m certainly goin’ to ’ave a little look. This is war, as Rupert said, not tiddlywinks. You don’t want to be too ’igh-minded, Declan.’

By the time Sydney his driver had dropped Rupert off at Westminster, the yellow stone of the House was softened by floodlighting and Big Ben shone like a great sugar sifter against an inky blue sky.

‘Only one vote,’ Rupert told Sydney. ‘I’m paired after that, but I’ve got a hell of a lot of work still to do. Can you come back about twelve-thirty?’

Nodding good evening to the policeman on the gate, Rupert went through the Member’s entrance, an expression that usually made him laugh. Glancing at the monitor he saw that Owen Davies, the Labour leader, was winding up for the abolitionists. Time for a large drink . . . he was bloody tired, and he’d never had any doubts that stringing up was the answer for terrorists. But as he headed for the bar he thought fleetingly of Taggie’s horror of capital punishment, and Declan’s passionate disapproval, and decided to listen to the debate instead.

As he entered the chamber the Ministers of Employment and of Health moved slightly apart to make room for him on the green leather front bench.

‘Owen’s in barnstorming form,’ whispered the Minister of Health.

Hearing a din behind him, Rupert glanced round to see Paul Stratton, who was violently pro-hanging for everything, particularly wife-pinching, looking excited for the first time in months.

‘Rubbish,’ Paul yelled. ‘Resign, check your figures. What’s the point of having British soldiers out there if we don’t support them?’

Owen Davies, a brilliant orator on the dullest subject, was on magnificent form tonight. What about all those people who’d been imprisoned for terrorism, he demanded, who’d later been found innocent? How much more terrible if they’d been hanged. What evidence was there in any country that the death penalty curbed terrorism, and, conversely, didn’t hanging make sainted martyrs out of the most vicious thugs?

It was great emotional stuff. But, putting aside the soft cadences, the eloquence, the Welsh voice, Rupert suddenly knew Owen was right. Every moment you could feel the spirits of the Anti-Hanging lobby rising. The Bring-Back brigade looked turned to stone. The Prime Minister, who was almost more pro-hanging than Paul Stratton, looked most bootfaced of all. Owen Davies sat down to a storm of applause.

Scenting blood, the abolitionists roared for the PM to get up. ‘On your feet. Don’t be bashful.’

But the PM wasn’t budging. Instead, she let the Home Secretary, who was decidedly ambivalent about the merits of hanging anyway, wind up. Every time he opened his mouth, he was howled down, but he ploughed on bravely with his prepared speech, careful not to emphasize that terrorism was on the increase, but droning on about deterrents and the need to support the forces of law and order. As ten o’clock approached, the abolitionists worked themselves into the kind of frenzy only seen at Cardiff Arms Park when there’s two minutes to go and the Welsh are just in the lead. Then, as Big Ben tolled ten o’clock, the noise subsided and the house divided.

The Ayes, looking tight-lipped and apprehensive, shuffled to the right. The Noes, looking elated, sauntered to the left. Without a moment’s deliberation, ignoring the outraged looks of the PM, the Chief Whip and most of the Front Bench, Rupert joined the Noes. Owen Davies, turning in delighted amazement, tapped Rupert on the shoulder. ‘I didn’t know you were one of us.’

‘I wasn’t until I heard you,’ said Rupert.

The Minister of Health, a pacific and gentle soul, also joined the Noes.

‘We’ll be on the carpet tomorrow,’ he said.

‘She’ll have to call an election any minute,’ said Rupert.

‘An even tenner on 10th June,’ said the Minister of Health.

‘Done,’ said Rupert.

Feeling suddenly shattered and not wanting a bollocking from the PM, Rupert beat a quick retreat to his office, a small room on the lower Minister’s floor. Inside, the walls were covered with signed photographs of famous athletes: Pat Eddery, Ian Botham, Maradona, John McEnroe, Pat Cash, Gary Lineker, Dino and Fenella Ferranti, to name only a few. Above the filing cabinet was a picture of Wesley Emerson, the local cricketing hero who had joined the Venturer consortium, and who Rupert had saved from getting busted.

‘Thanks, Rupe, Wesley Emerson,’ he had scrawled in black pentel across the blue sky behind him.

I should think so too, reflected Rupert whenever he looked at the photo.

Having taken off his tie, and undone his top button, he poured himself a large whisky and soda. Christ, he was tired. He’d been on the go since five that morning and hadn’t had any real sleep for a week. Making him feel even more tired was the red box full of work, the buff envelope on the blotter full of constituency letters to be signed, and the even bigger pile of mail to be read, which was probably mostly abusive letters about the football riots.

The admirable Gerald had scribbled a note: ‘
Gone to
Madam Butterfly.
Back about one-thirty. Ring if you need me.
’

In the corner of the room was a hard olive-green sofa, where Rupert was supposed to snatch some sleep during late-night sittings. It had never looked more seductive. If he had an hour’s kip, he might work better. He had another six o’clock start in the morning. The telephone ringing made him jump.

‘Rupert, it’s Cameron.’

Christ, he’d completely forgotten to ring her back.

‘Angel! You got home safely?’

‘Well, I’m not lying in a pile of wreckage at the bottom of the Bay of Biscay.’ All the insecurity and truculence had returned to her voice. It must have cost her a lot to ring.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t ring back. It’s been frantic, and I didn’t want to tread on Tony’s bunions. When am I going to see you?’ He suppressed a yawn.

‘Christ knows,’ snapped Cameron. ‘Tony’s taking me away for the weekend.’

‘To Buckingham Palace?’

Cameron didn’t laugh. ‘To LA, to close a couple of deals over Easter. Then we fly straight to Cannes to meet with our various co-production partners and firm up existing relationships. I won’t be back till Monday week.’

Rupert glanced at the calendar. Monday week was 22nd April. He’d be away until the 26th and the franchises had to be in on the 29th. That would give him hardly any time after she got back to persuade her to join Venturer. He ought to establish interim ascendancy over Tony by seeing her this evening.

‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘At home.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll drive down.’

‘Are you crazy? D’you know what time it is?’ But it was impossible for her to keep the elation out of her voice.

‘I’ve got at least an hour’s work,’ said Rupert. ‘The drive at this time of night should take an hour and a half. I can’t afford to get done for speeding. I’ll be with you about two.’

Thank God, he’d had a shower and changed at Penscombe earlier in the evening; it seemed a thousand years ago. He trusted Sydney, but not entirely, so he dismissed him and took the Ferrari, which was parked outside his Westminster flat. Torrential rain on the motorway gave way to moonlight as he reached the outskirts of Cotchester. The cathedral clock was tolling the hour; the shadow of the spire lay thick and black across the watermeadows. He was so tired he’d never be able to get it up.

Cameron, however, opened the front door with nothing on.

‘I might have been the milkman,’ said Rupert reprovingly.

‘You’re not that late,’ she whispered.

As her warm, oiled and scented body twined round him, she was obviously so delighted to see him that miraculously Rupert woke up.

Bounding upstairs after her, he decided this was one relationship he would have absolutely no difficulty firming up.

RIVALS

Although Cameron was kept ludicrously busy selling herself and Corinium’s programmes, she was shattered by how much she missed Rupert. LA was bad enough, but Cannes seemed so tantalizingly near. Every minute on the Corinium stand or on the front, or at the numerous parties, or in her hotel bedroom, conveniently next to Tony’s, she expected Rupert to appear grinning like a Cheshire cat.

On her second Thursday away from him, however, her black mood was caused by rage rather than longing. One of Tony’s myriad subsidiary companies, Falconry Films Inc., had made a lousy mini-series called ‘Stowaway’, about an aristocratic orphan who disguised herself as a cabin boy on a clipper ship and got off with the pirate captain. And now Tony had actually sailed a real clipper ship, at vast expense, into Cannes Harbour as a publicity stunt and was holding a huge bash on board. Sourly watching all the fatcat international buyers and their bikinied bimbos stuffing their faces with champagne and caviare, Cameron felt they were guzzling all the profits she’d made Corinium from ‘Four Men went to Mow’.

The Mediterranean suited Tony; his olive skin had already turned mahogany. As he purred round the clipper ship in his dark glasses and discreetly coroneted black shirt, clinching deals and pinching bottoms, he looked more like a pirate king than ever.

Cameron had had plenty of time to compare Tony with Rupert while she was away. Both were reputed to be absolute shits. But, while Tony was coldly sensual, utterly venal, eaten up with envy and sadistically dedicated to putting people down, Rupert, Cameron felt, was only sharp-tongued because he was arrogant and easily bored. Apart from the day they went to Toledo, when he’d been reminded too much of Helen (which showed he was capable of deep feeling), he had been angelic and really interested not only in her as a woman, but in her career, and her programmes. She had been so touched that he’d driven all the way down to Cotchester on that last night, and that after he’d made love to her he hadn’t fallen asleep as most men would, but stayed awake pestering her with questions about what she and Tony would be doing and selling in LA and Cannes.

It was a relief too that he couldn’t call her, so she didn’t go through the roof with expectation every time the telephone rang. Instead, at grave risk, she’d rung him twice from LA and every day from Cannes.

There was no doubt, too, that she was the flavour of the month at the festival. The third series of ‘Four Men went to Mow’ had already been pre-sold world wide. The Corinium publicity department had taken a full page advertisement in
Broadcast
that week, with a stunning photograph of Cameron holding a baby lamb, with the caption: ‘
Cameron Cook works for Corinium, meet her on stand
329’, then listing all the prizes she’d won in the last year. Everyone wanted to congratulate her and offer her work.