Tomorrow, she thought, putting another log on the fire, she’d return to Rupert and reality, or was it unreality, with both of them following their separate careers in that huge house with nothing in common except the franchise, only coming together literally for sex in that huge pink and yellow silk-curtained four-poster.

She wanted to marry Rupert more than anything in the world, to tame and hold such a beautiful man, and have access to all that wealth and privilege. Rupert was her fix, but she was frightened how increasingly she was drawn to Declan. Together they could make an amazing team. He would understand her far better than Rupert, and she would look after him, and sort out his money problems far more efficiently than that parasitic, feckless, hopeless Maud. And what would happen to her and Rupert if they lost the franchise?

Declan looked up and smiled: ‘I’m neglecting you. How’s your drink?’

The barman had wandered off to talk to Mrs Rafferty about some cows, or it might be cars (Cameron had difficulty with the Irish pronunciation), and had left the whisky bottle and a jug of water on the table for them.

Cameron was even learning to like whisky without ice; she’d be saying dustbin and petrol soon.

As Declan filled her glass she said, ‘This time in a month, we’ll know if we’ve won. I was just wondering if there was life after franchise for me and Rupert.’

The dark brooding eyes bored into her. ‘I’d like to think there was. I’ve grown very fond of you both.’

‘Honest?’ stammered Cameron.

‘Honest. Under all that bitching and stridency, you’re as soft as thistledown. The only problem is that you may be too good at your job for Rupert. He needs a wife to come home to, not one to come home with.’

‘A little stately home maker,’ said Cameron bitterly.

‘Partly. He must be the dominant Tom. You’d compete with him, and I’m not sure he could handle you becoming a big star.’

Then, suddenly, out of the blue, never having mentioned it before, he asked: ‘Why were you so focking awful to Patrick?’

Cameron gasped. ‘I guess I liked him too much. I was scared. He was so attractive, so élitist, so certain, yet so magnificently unprepared for the knocks that life was bound one day to give him. And Tony was pathological about any competition. All I cared about then was getting to the top, so I could have the space and freedom I needed. There was no way a penniless student could be part of my future goals. I didn’t figure he had sufficient weight.’

‘Patrick has more weight than anyone,’ said Declan, ‘and he’s more together. I wish you’d read that play.’

‘And I knew how violently you disapproved of me and Patrick,’ said Cameron slyly.

‘Indeed I did,’ Declan grinned. ‘But I know you better now. He’d suit you better than Rupert. And he wouldn’t mess you about.’

But it’s you I want, thought Cameron, resisting a terrible urge to reach out and touch Declan’s hand, and then drag him up the black polished winding stairs to her hard narrow bed.

Wondering if she was crazy to jeopardize what had certainly been their most intimate conversation yet, she said: ‘Maud messes you about enough.’

‘Maud,’ said Declan, topping up his glass, ‘is a dramaholic. That’s why she devours novels, soap operas and newspapers like a junkie. Occasionally her heroine-addiction spreads to real life, and she has to live out one of these romantic plots. It never lasts very long.’

‘Has she got something going at the moment?’

Declan looked out of the window at the moon, peering through the bars of an elder tree like a prisoner. Then he drained half his whisky in one gulp.

‘Yes,’ he said harshly, ‘Bas.’

‘Doesn’t it crucify you?’

Declan shrugged. ‘Adultery isn’t the only kind of infidelity. I’m unfaithful to her each time I get locked into work. I can’t help myself any more than she can. And if you marry someone like Maud you accept the conditions that beautiful people are the blood royal of humanity and not governed by the same rules as ordinary mortals.’

‘She’s not that beautiful,’ protested Cameron, glancing at her own extremely satisfactory reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.

‘She is to me,’ said Declan simply.

Cameron wanted to shake him. ‘How can you be sure one of these men won’t come along one day and walk off with her altogether?’

‘She doesn’t go after other men for sex,’ said Declan arrogantly. ‘She knows she’ll never better what she has with me. She does it for excitement, flattery and the relief from the loneliness anyone who lives with a writer has to endure.’

Cameron got up to examine a horse brass, pulling her big black leather belt forward with her thumbs so he could appreciate the slenderness of her waist.

‘Have you ever cheated on her?’ she muttered into the flames.

‘No.’

‘Have you ever wanted to?’ she whispered to his reflection in the mirror.

‘Yes,’ said Declan simply. ‘All this week.’

Cameron stayed motionless by the fire until the heat from the flames became too strong. ‘Then it wasn’t just me?’

‘It’s going on location,’ said Declan flatly. ‘When you create something you both know is special, it seems natural to have some kind of consummation.’

‘One devoutly to be wished,’ said Cameron fiercely.

‘And ludicrously prevalent in television,’ said Declan. ‘It happens on shoots all the time.’

‘Not like this,’ pleaded Cameron. Turning, she went up to him. Idly he reached out and fingered the huge low-slung silver buckle of her belt.

‘It’d complicate things,’ he said roughly. ‘At a time we don’t need complications. Maud would disintegrate; I can’t afford to fall out with Rupert. I can’t afford anything at the moment.’

‘Don’t joke. It’s too important,’ hissed Cameron, moving her legs between his, pressing her groin forward against the palm of his hand. She felt Declan tremble.

‘We’d be so good together, let’s go upstairs now,’ she urged. They both jumped as the barman returned.

‘Not much wind tonight,’ he said blithely, ‘but what there is is blowing terrible hard.’

‘You look frozen,’ said Declan. ‘Sit down and have a drink.’

Fuck fuck fuck, or rather no fuck, Cameron screamed inwardly, as the barman collected a glass and sat down between them.

‘You’ll be being a bit of a writer, Declan,’ he said. ‘Did ye know there’s another of your kind living not ten minutes from here? Anglo-Irish, name’s MacBride.’

Declan froze, like a dog hearing a rabbit in the undergrowth. ‘Dermot MacBride, he lives here?’

‘Came in the other night. Said he’d just finished a play, but he didn’t think anyone’d be interested. Thought they’d all forgotten him.’

‘Him!’ said Declan incredulously. ‘Do you forget Ibsen or Miller? Have you got his address?’

‘I’ve his number,’ said the barman. ‘He wanted some manure for his garden.’

‘Name’s familiar,’ said Cameron.

‘The angriest of all the angry young men,’ said Declan, ‘and easily the most unpleasant, and the most talented. He made a bomb from his first play, then the second was so venomous and obscene no one would touch it. He took umbrage and vowed never to write another word. Christ, it’s like a new novel from Salinger. Give me the number,’ he said to the barman, ‘I’m going to ring him.’

‘But it’s half past eleven,’ protested Cameron.

Declan was back, ecstatic, ten minutes later. ‘He’d gone to Dublin. I rang him there. I’m going to see him at eleven tomorrow morning.’

‘Cutting it a bit fine,’ said Cameron. ‘The flight’s at one. Maud,’ she added bitterly, ‘would totally disintegrate if you missed it.’

‘I’ll see him alone,’ said Declan. ‘He’s not keen on women. I’ll keep a taxi waiting and meet you at the airport.’

He put his hand on her head, briefly stroking her hair: ‘We’d better go to bed, we’ve got an early start in the morning.’

As Saturday wore on, Maud was increasingly in need of Declan. To fill in time, she went to the hairdressers, and even had a manicure, but her hand shook so much the manicurist had trouble getting the polish on. She also bought good luck cards for the rest of the cast, and some champagne in case by some miracle anyone came backstage to see her afterwards.

Arriving at the theatre, she gave a gasp of terror at the huge lights on metal stands trained on the main entrance, ready to film the arriving celebrities, and huge cables running from these and from the cameras inside the theatre to a variety of OB vans. She felt even sicker at the sight of a make-up caravan, a mobile dressing-room for James, and a double-decker catering bus for the technicians.

Even though the town hall was less than 300 yards from the Corinium Television building, union rules required all these facilities.

Going into her dressing-room, Maud gasped again, but this time with delight, because she’d never seen so many flowers — from the family, and Rupert and Cameron, and the Verekers, and the Joneses and the Baddinghams, and so many of her friends in London. There were also scores of good luck cards, and a telex from darling Patrick in Brisbane. But so much good will made her feel even more nervous. What happened if she let them all down?

She looked at her watch: five o’clock. She needed twenty minutes alone with the script to absorb the notes Barton had given her yesterday. Then her make-up would take an hour, by which time Declan would be here, and he could do up her dress and her jewellery and they could have a quiet hour together. But, as she tried to concentrate on the script, she was interrupted by the arrival of more and more flowers, and by Monica popping in to see if she were all right, and by Bas who’d brought her a fluffy stuffed black cat which miaowed good luck when you pressed it. Maud was enchanted.