‘I keep hearing the same complaint about your programmes.’

‘What?’ said Declan softly.

‘The viewers don’t see enough of you. We want to feature you much more in the interview, that’s why we’ve designed a terrific set with book shelves and some really good abstracts, and this jade-green sofa.’

‘No,’ interrupted Declan sharply. ‘I only interview people face to face.’

‘Confrontational TV’s kind a dated,’ taunted Cameron.

Simon Harris opened his mouth to protest and shut it again.

‘I’m not using a sofa,’ said Declan firmly.

‘Well, we’ll argue about that later,’ said Cameron.

‘We will not. We’ll decide now. I want two Charles Rennie Mackintosh chairs, facing each other six feet apart on pale steely-blue circular rostra.’

‘Steely blue?’ screeched Cameron.

‘Steely blue,’ said Declan firmly, ‘so they rise like islands from a floor of dark-blue gloss. Then carrying on the dark blue up the bottom of the cyclorama into a limitless white horizon.’

‘This is insane!’ Outraged, Cameron swung round to Tony for help. ‘Well?’

But Tony was calmly doing his expenses.

‘It’s Declan’s programme,’ he said smoothly. ‘He knows by now how to get the best out of people.’

‘How does he know until he’s tried a sofa?’

‘Sofa’s make it look like any other chat show,’ mumbled Simon.

‘No one’s asking you, dumbass,’ hissed Cameron.

She’s like a hawk not a vulture, decided Declan. She prefers her victims alive. He imagined her cruising the hillside, scanning the ground for prey, or darting down a woodland ride, scattering terrified small birds.

Squaring her shoulders, Cameron turned back to Declan. ‘And we’re scrapping the introductory package,’ she said. ‘We want you talking to camera for two or three minutes about the guest, to replace all those dreary stills and clips with a voice over.’

‘The point of those dreary stills and clips with a VO,’ said Declan, dangerously quietly, ‘is that they concentrate the viewers’ minds on the guest and set the tone of the interview. I get uptight enough as it is without having to ponce about making a long spiel on autocue. This way I can concentrate on the first questions.’

‘I must disagree on this one,’ said Tony, putting down his red fountain pen. ‘The point is, Declan, that you have immense presence. It’s you the viewers turn on for. You should open the programme talking to camera in a really decent suit,’ he added, raising a disapproving eyebrow at Declan’s scuffed leather jacket, check shirt and ancient jeans. ‘It’ll be up to Cameron to make you relax and be less uptight.’

Through half-closed eyes Declan looked at Cameron who was now pacing up and down through the rubber plants burning up the calories. No wonder she was so thin.

‘She?’ said Declan incredulously, ‘She make me relax?’

‘We’ve got to be different from the Beeb, ‘snarled Cameron, ‘or they’ll just say we’re serving up the same old garbage.’

‘Anyway we’ve got three weeks to kick the idea around,’ said Tony, ‘and to cheer you up, Declan. I know Cameron’s had a great time dreaming up people for you to interview.’

‘We’ve checked out on all their availability,’ said Cameron.

‘Well, you can just uncheck them again,’ said Declan harshly. ‘I decide who I’m going to interview.’

Cameron stopped in her tracks, glaring at him. ‘They may not be hot enough.’

Declan then stunned the three of them. He was kicking off with Johnny Friedlander on September 21, he announced, followed by Jackie Kennedy the week after.

Frantic now to keep her end up, Cameron snarled that Jackie Kennedy would just rabbit on about her boring publishing job.

‘She may indeed,’ said Declan, ‘but she’s also going to talk about her marriages, and her life as a single woman in New York.’

‘You and she should have much in common, Cameron,’ said Tony bitchily.

Cameron ignored him, but a muscle pounded in her cheek.

‘Isn’t it going to overextend your budget, flying her over?’ she demanded.

Declan suddenly relaxed and gave Cameron the benefit of the wicked gap-toothed schoolboy grin: ‘She’s coming over on a private visit, and she’ll probably stay with us,’ he said.

Fifteen love to Declan, thought Simon Harris joyfully. Then it was game and first set when Declan announced that in subsequent weeks he’d be doing the French Foreign Secretary who was in the middle of a gloriously seamy sex scandal, followed by Mick Jagger, and the most controversial of the royal Princesses.

Desperately fighting a rear-guard action, Cameron said she had lined up a couple of ace researchers, who’d better get started on Johnny Friedlander and Jackie Kennedy at once.

There was a long pause. Very slowly Declan got out a cigarette, lit it, inhaled deeply, and only just avoided blowing smoke in Cameron’s face.

‘I do my own research,’ he said softly.

‘For Chrissake,’ screamed Cameron, ‘you can’t cover subjects like this singled-handed!’

‘I have done for the past ten years. For better or worse, what you’ve bought is not my face, but my vision — what I can get out of people.’

‘It’s a team effort,’ hissed Cameron.

‘Good,’ said Declan amiably. ‘Then I suggest we put your researchers on to finding some decent footage and stills.’

‘We’ve got an excellent library,’ said Simon, tugging his beard.

‘Shut up!’ howled Cameron.

Tony was lasciviously fingering one of the flesh-coloured orchids. Glancing round, Declan tried to analyse the expression on his face. He’s enjoying it, he thought with a shudder, he’s excited by seeing her rip people apart.

Noticing the disapproval on Declan’s face, Tony looked at his watch.

‘That was a very stimulating exchange of views,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘but I, for one, need some lunch.’ Then, deliberately excluding Simon, he added, ‘Cameron and I’ve booked a table at a little French restaurant a couple of miles outside Cotchester. We hope you’ll join us, Declan, and we can carry on the — er — discussion.’ He smiled expansively.

Declan didn’t smile back. ‘Thanks, but I’m lunching with Charles Fairburn. We worked together at the Beeb,’ he added, by way of slight mitigation.

Tony was about to order Declan to cancel, then decided there would be oodles of time later to get heavy. Besides, the clash of wills had turned him on so much he had a sudden craving to take Cameron back to Hamilton Terrace for a quickie.

‘What are your plans for the afternoon?’ Cameron asked Declan sulkily.

‘I’m going home,’ said Declan. ‘I’ve got Johnny’s cuttings and all my reference books are there.’

‘I trust you’ll do most of your research in the building and report regularly to me and Tony,’ she said. ‘This is a group effort. OK? We want to be fully briefed at all times. Cock-ups occur at Corinium when no one knows what anyone else is doing.’

As she flopped down again on the green leather sofa, Declan immediately got up, as if he couldn’t bear to share the same seating. From the depths of the sofa, he seemed to Cameron almost to touch the ceiling, his massive rugger player’s shoulders blocking out the light, his face bleak and uncompromising. She never dreamed he’d be so dauntingly self-confident.

‘I have to be left alone,’ he said, speaking only to her. ‘It’s the only way I can operate.’

‘I’m producing this programme,’ she said furiously.

‘Yes, but it’s my programme you’re producing.’

For a second they glared at each other, then a knock on the door made them start. Round it, like the rising sun, came Charles Fairburn’s red beaming face.

‘Are you through, sweeties?’ he said blithely. ‘Because I’ve come to take Declan to din-dins.’

They lunched at a very pretty pink and white restaurant off the High Street. Pretty waiters in pink jerseys and pink-and-white striped bow-ties converged on Charles.

‘We’ve got your usual table,’ they said, sweeping him and Declan off into a dark corner.

‘Good boys,’ said Charles. ‘You know how I detest windows, they show up my red veins. Now get your little asses into gear and bring me a colossal dry Martini, and my friend here would like? Whisky is it still, Declan?’

‘Bad as that, is it?’ asked Declan three minutes later, as Charles drained his dry Martini and asked the waiter for another one.

‘Well, I don’t want to slag off the company on your first day, dear boy, but things are a shade tense.’

‘Cameron Cook,’ said Declan, tearing his roll savagely apart.

‘Got it in one.’

‘What’s her position in the company?’

‘Usually prostrate. She’s Tony’s bit of crumpet. Officially she’s Head of Drama — particularly appropriate in the circs as she’s always making scenes, but she’s also got a finger up to the elbow in every other pie. That’s how she talked Tony into letting her produce your programme.’

‘Simon Harris has aged twenty years. He used to be such a whizz-kid.’

‘Well, he’s a was-kid now, and totally castrated. He’s been threatening to have a nervous breakdown since Cameron arrived. Unfortunately he can’t walk out, because he’s got a second mortgage on his house, an invalid wife, three young children, and two to support from his first marriage.’

‘Quite a burden.’

‘Makes one feel like Midas by comparison, doesn’t it?’

‘Not quite,’ said Declan, thinking of his tax bill.

‘Well, Cameron, as you no doubt observed, jackboots all over Simon and every time he or anyone else queries her behaviour she bolts straight to Tony. The food is utterly wonderful here,’ Charles went on, smiling at the prettiest waiter. ‘I’ll have liver and marmalade and radicchio salad. Ta, duckie.’