There was great excitement at Corinium the following Wednesday, when Dame Nellie Finegold, a friend of Lady Evesham, and one of the last surviving suffragettes, who’d agreed to come on Declan’s programme that evening, dropped dead from a heart attack.
Even greater excitement was caused when the Prime Minister, who was in Gloucestershire opening a new hospital and later dining with the Cotchester Regiment, graciously agreed to step into Dame Nellie’s shoes to balance Declan’s extremely favourable interview with the Leader of the Opposition the previous week. The Prime Minister, appreciating the value of preaching to eighteen million viewers, thought she could handle Declan. Her one condition, which Tony leapt at, was that Declan should submit questions first, and make an undertaking not to depart from them.
‘This is our chance to nail him,’ Tony told Cameron gleefully. ‘If he submits questions today, we can insist he does the same for all future interviews. Then we can manipulate him to our own advantage. You’ve seen how lethal he can be with Maurice; just think what havoc he could cause in an election year.’
Declan looked tired and tense as he walked into Tony’s office waving a sheaf of the Prime Minister’s cuttings. Tipping back his chair, Tony stretched his legs and gazed consideringly at him for a moment.
‘This is a big day for you, Declan.’
Declan grunted. ‘I’m very much looking foward to shaking her by – ‘he paused – ‘the neck.’
‘Now, now,’ said Tony, ‘let’s keep it all sweetness and light.’
‘The PM’s only coming on the programme if she knows exactly what you’re going to ask her, and no funny business,’ said Cameron.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Declan. ‘Why should she be treated differently to anyone else?’
‘Because she’s the PM, dumbass, and the IBA is ultimately answerable to her, so she’s got to be kept sweet.’
‘Not by me she hasn’t.’
‘Don’t be so fucking pigheaded,’ screeched Cameron.
An almighty row followed, ending in Declan flatly refusing to do the interview and walking out.
Cameron and Tony exchanged glances of joy and horror – what the hell were they going to do? The Prime Minister was already in the area. She was due at the studios at seven-forty to go on air at eight. The network had been trailing Declan’s dramatic change of guest since lunchtime.
‘James will have to do it,’ said Tony. ‘But we won’t announce the change of plan until just before transmission, or we’ll lose the audience.’
In his office, having just re-written his links for ‘Cotswold Round-Up’, James switched off the wireless because he was fed up with hearing Declan’s signature tune. Turning to his fan mail, he found a letter from Sarah Stratton thanking him for his standard letter thanking her for coming on the programme. Nice bold handwriting, thought James; he was sure those huge loops to the Ls meant something. During their drink at the bar, he’d decided she was very attractive, and wondered by what ruse he could see her again. But a second later, as Cameron burst into his office, his thoughts were only for one woman: the Prime Minister.
‘Deirdre’s working on your questions at the moment,’ said Cameron. ‘We’ve got to rush them over to the PM at Gloucester so she can look at them while she’s changing. We should be able to let you have them about five. If you’ve got any questions to add, let Deirdre know. Here’s a brief of what the PM’s been up to in the last two months, but you’re pretty well briefed anyway, aren’t you?’
James blushed. It was the first compliment Cameron had ever paid him.
‘I thought Declan was doing this interview.’
‘Declan’s sick,’ said Cameron.
‘Seriously?’ said James, trying to look suitably caring.
‘Not nearly seriously enough,’ said Cameron viciously.
As soon as she’d gone, thanking God he’d had his hair streaked last week, James rang Lizzie: ‘I’ll be late. I’ve got to interview the PM.’
‘My God! Ask her when she last got laid.’
‘Don’t be silly, this is for real. I’m sending a driver over for my blue suit, and could you put in my jade-green silk shirt, and the sapphire-blue tie. And could you phone the Strattons and ask them to record the programme.’ He wanted Sarah to witness his hour of glory. ‘I don’t trust our machine one hundred per cent.’
You mean you don’t trust me to remember, thought Lizzie.
Cameron, popping in to the studio later on her way to the control room, was nearly knocked sideways by Aramis.
‘She’s arrived. Tony’ll bring her through in a minute. Are you nervous?’
‘Not yet,’ said James, re-plumping cushions on the pastel-pink sofa.
‘Nice change from Declan,’ said Cameron. ‘Good luck.’
Perhaps he’d maligned Cameron, thought James, as he combed his hair for the hundredth time and removed the shine on his nose with Nouveau Beige creme puff. He used to use Gay Whisper, but had decided the name had rather unfortunate connotations.
The Prime Minister, like most women, had a weakness for charming, handsome men. Seeing her appearing through the black curtain, radiant in dark-blue taffeta, being guided over the cables and uneven surfaces by Tony, James leapt to his feet. For a second Diorella fought with Aramis. Aramis won easily.
‘Welcome to Cotchester, Prime Minister. I can’t tell you how privileged I feel to meet you,’ said James, giving her the benefit of his beautiful aquamarine eyes, now subtly enhanced by the jade-green shirt and the sapphire-blue tie. Then, when she offered him her hand, he bowed his streaked head and kissed it reverently.
‘Silly cunt,’ muttered the Senior Cameraman.
‘Come and sit down,’ said James.
Down came the famous bottom on the pastel-pink sofa.
‘I’ll leave you in good hands, Prime Minister,’ said Tony.
‘Indeed, Lord Baddingham,’ said the PM in her low voice.
The interview was pure Barbara Cartland. Aware no difficult questions would be forthcoming, the PM was at her most relaxed and charming, and unbent to James as she’d never done before on television.
‘Prepared only to see the steely side of your character, Prime Minister, some people make the ridiculous mistake of thinking you don’t care about the unemployed or the old and poverty-stricken.’
‘Mr Vereker – ‘the Prime Minister’s voice dropped an octave – ‘if only you could realize the sleepless nights we spend worrying about hypothermia, particularly with another winter coming on.’
‘How many more times is the stupid asshole going to use the word “caring”,’ snarled Cameron to Tony, who’d stayed with her in the Control Room.
‘Hush, she’s really unbuttoning,’ purred Tony.
During the commercial break, the PM became positively skittish.
‘They’ll be into heavy petting in a minute,’ said Cameron as James leant forward in sycophantic ecstasy.
At the end of the second half the Prime Minister even shed tears as she talked of her worries as a mother.
‘But you are a mother to all of us,’ said James, handing her his Aramis-scented handkerchief.
‘Pass me the motion discomfort bag,’ groaned Cameron.
‘It’s good,’ said Tony. ‘Should win her a lot of votes.’
‘Ten seconds to out, James,’ said Cameron, flicking on the key switch. ‘Close the programme.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister, for showing us your caring face,’ said James, ‘and please come back to Cotchester again soon.’
As the credits went up, they could be seen laughing and joking together.
‘I’m going to frow up,’ said the Senior Cameraman.
‘Come back, Declan,’ muttered the Floor Manager, ‘nothing needed to be forgiven.’
‘I would love a tape of that programme, Mr Vereker,’ said the Prime Minister.
Outside, a second Corinium camera crew filmed her departure, lethargically cheered by a hand-picked crowd of Corinium staff.
‘I hope we get overtime for this,’ said Charles Fairburn, waving a Union Jack, as a jubilant James, Cameron and Tony accompanied the PM down the steps. Settled in her car, ready to depart to a late dinner with the Cotchester Regiment, the PM wound down her window.
‘I hope Mr O’Hara feels better soon,’ she said earnestly. ‘This flu virus can be very pulling down.’
‘About time the mighty Mr O’Hara was pulled down from his seat,’ said Cameron, as soon as she had driven off.
‘What a caring lady,’ sighed James.
He woke next morning to find himself temporarily famous. Both the BBC and ITN picked up the interview, which was fulsomely praised the next day by the Tory press. Only the
Mirror
and the
Guardian
grumbled that James had let the PM get away with murder.
By Friday the story had got out that Declan hadn’t been ill at all, but had simply refused to do the interview with the Prime Minister.
‘
The Rows Begin Again
,’ said a huge headline in the
Sun.
At the BBC and around the network, people smirked knowingly. They’d known the honeymoon wouldn’t last.
RIVALS
15
Declan was having a row about money with Maud in the kitchen when the telephone rang.
‘Yes,’ he snapped.
‘This is Valerie Jones,’ said an ultra-refined, vaguely familiar voice.
‘Yes,’ said Declan, who was no wiser.
‘We met at Lady Monica’s buffet luncheon. I was wearing a cricket jumper.’
‘Oh yes,’ Declan twigged – the extremely silly mid-on.
‘Fred-Fred and I were wondering if you could come and dayne on December 7th, that’s tomorrow week, just a few close friends. Tony and Monica Baddingham. . . .’
Declan had heard enough. He was sorry, he said, but they had a previous engagement.
Maud was absolutely furious. ‘We never go out,’ she stormed. ‘How dare you refuse for me? I might have wanted to go.’
‘It was that horrendous dwarf we met at the Baddinghams; bound to have been hell.’
‘There might have been other amusing people there. How can we ever meet anyone, if you turn down everything?’
Maud’s sulk lasted all day. Declan was trying to get to grips with the volatile, volcanic personality of John McEnroe, who was coming on the programme on Wednesday. Maud’s black mood permeated the whole house and totally sabotaged his concentration. At dusk, unable to bear it any longer, he went downstairs and apologized.
‘I’m sorry; it was selfish of me. I must work, but you go on your own. I hate it, but I’ve got to get used to it. Are you lonely?’ he went on as Maud clung to him. ‘D’you want to go back to London?’
She shook her head violently. ‘I just miss my friends. I was wondering if we could give a tiny party for Patrick’s birthday on New Year’s Eve.’
Declan’s heart sank. ‘Not really, not this Christmas. We simply can’t afford it.’
‘It’s his twenty-first,’ pleaded Maud. ‘He’s always had such lousy birthdays, having them so near Christmas. Just the tiniest party, half a dozen couples. Taggie can do the food; it’ll be good training for her. She’s not getting any response from those cards.’
Declan was about to say they still hadn’t paid for the Fulham Farewell when the telephone rang again. Taggie picked it up in the kitchen. Five minutes later she rushed, pink-faced with excitement, into the drawing-room.
‘The most p-p-prodigious —’ her word for the day – ‘thing has happened. Valerie Jones got one of my cards and she’s asked me to do her dinner party next Friday. Isn’t it prodigious?’
‘It is, indeed,’ said Declan, disentangling himself from Maud and hugging her.
‘She asked us,’ said Maud fretfully. ‘What are you going to cook for her that we won’t get?’
‘I’ve got to go over tomorrow and discuss menus,’ said Taggie.
Maud seized her chance. ‘Daddy’s agreed we can have a little party for Patrick on New Year’s Eve,’ said Maud, ignoring Declan’s look of horror, ‘so you can start thinking up some nice food for that.’
Taggie’s already euphoric face lit up even further: ‘What a prodigious idea.’
Upstairs in her turret bedroom, she clutched herself, pressing her boiling face against one of the thin, cool ecclesiastical windows. If Patrick was having a party, how could Patrick’s best friend not be there? She was going to see Ralphie again.
Cooking for Valerie’s dinner party was Taggie’s first big job, but her nerves were nothing to Valerie’s. Valerie was livid with Freddie for asking Rupert, who was coming down to Gloucestershire for a constituency meeting and to present the cup at the Cotchester–Bristol football Derby. Originally he was supposed to be bringing some French actress, but she’d got stuck on location in Scotland. So Valerie’d had to find a spare woman at the last moment. She settled for Cameron Cook who had just won an American award for a documentary about arranged marriages which she’d produced last Spring. Having talked to her briefly at Declan’s first programme, Valerie had no idea she was Tony’s mistress.
And now Valerie wouldn’t stop flapping round the kitchen tasting and criticizing everything Taggie was making – ‘A soupçon more cayenne in the cucumber sauce, Agatha —’ or fretting whether they should have cheese before pudding, or who should sit next to whom.
‘It says,’ she announced, poring over the etiquette book, ‘that the most important man should sit on my right.’
‘That’s me,’ said Freddie, roaring with laughter.
‘Don’t be silly, Fred-Fred,’ snapped Valerie, ‘and don’t pick.’
‘That fish pâté’s champion,’ said Freddie, who’d only been allowed a small salad at lunch.
‘Are you going to be all day with that dessert, Agatha?’ said Valerie, beadily looking at the huge ice cream and meringue castle, around which Taggie was curling whipped cream to simulate pounding waves. ‘The place is a fraightful mess.’
‘I promise I’ll clear up in time. Everything’s done but this.’
People were due at eight to eight-thirty to dine at nine. The pheasants, simmered with cranberries and ginger, had to go in at six forty-five.