Jilly Cooper: Rivals

‘They’re all gay,’ said Tony. He peeled a gull’s egg, dipped it in celery salt, and handed it to Cameron.

‘Bullshit,’ she said, accepting it without thanking him. ‘There are loads of heterosexuals in New York. I know at least three. And what makes it worse, with the men being so dire, is that New York is absolutely crawling with prosperous, talented, beautiful women in a state of frenzy about getting laid.’

‘Give me their telephone numbers,’ said Tony lightly.

‘Don’t be fatuous,’ snarled Cameron. ‘Guys are turned off by achieving women; they make them feel inferior. What beats me is why women are so dependent on men. You see them everywhere, with their leather briefcases, and their dressed-for-success business suits, rabbiting on about independence, yet clinging onto a thoroughly destructive relationship rather than be without a guy.’

Furiously she gouged the last of the garlic and parsley butter out of her snail shells. The lady, reflected Tony, is protesting too much.

Ronnie was off table-hopping again. The head waiter was now making a great song and dance about cooking Cameron’s steak Diane at the table, throwing mushrooms and spring onions into the sizzling butter. The champagne having got to Cameron’s tongue, she was also spitting away like the hot fat:

‘TV people have no idea what’s important. Ask them about their kids, they just tell you what private schools they’re enrolled in. That’s a very subtle way of telling you how well they’re doing. What’s the point of having kids? Just as a status symbol.’

‘You’re a bit of a puritan at heart. ’ Tony filled her glass yet again. ‘Your ancestors didn’t come over on the Mayflower by any chance?’

‘No, but my father was British. I’ve got a British passport.’

Better and better, thought Tony.

The head waiter was pouring Napoleon brandy over the steak now and setting fire to it. The orange purple flames flared upwards, charring the ceiling, lighting up Cameron’s hostile, predatory face. Another waiter served Tony’s red snapper, which was surrounded by tiny courgettes, sweetcorn and carrots.

‘They employ one guy here to sharpen the turnips,’ said Cameron, pinching a courgette from Tony’s plate. For a second, she looked at it. ‘Tiny,’ she added dismissively. ‘Like the average New York cock.’ And with one bite she devoured it.

Tony laughed, encouraging her in her scorn.

‘Enjoy your meal,’ said the head waiter, laying the steak in front of Cameron with a flourish.

I wonder if I’m reading her right, thought Tony; anyone that aggressive must either be desperately insecure or impossibly spoilt. Maybe her mother had felt guilty about splitting up from her father, and let Cameron get away with murder.

Ronnie’s sole was cold when he returned to the table, shaking his head. ‘I hear you had a row with Bella Wakefield this afternoon.’

Cameron raised her eyes to the charred ceiling. ‘She’s so fucking useless.’

‘She is the Vice-President’s daughter.’

‘She pisses me off. Every time she’s got a line, which is about once a year, she teeters up on her spike heels, saying, “Cameron, what’s my motivation in this scene?” So finally I flip and say: “Pay day on Friday.” She went kinda mad.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Ronnie disapprovingly.

The head waiter glided up. ‘Everything all right, sir?’

‘Perfect,’ said Ronnie, who hadn’t touched his sole.

‘Steak as madam likes it?’

Cameron tipped back her chair. ‘If you want the honest truth, it tastes like moderately flavoured socks.’

The smile was wiped off the waiter’s face. ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Cameron,’ hissed Ronnie.

‘Like chewing my own laundry. I cannot figure why you waste such expensive ingredients producing something so disgusting. I’d rather drink the brandy straight.’

The head waiter looked as though he was going to cry.

‘Would madam like something else?’

‘I’ll pass,’ said Cameron, ostentatiously putting her knife and fork together. ‘It’s not even worth a doggie bag.’

As they came out of the restaurant, limos for Ronnie and Tony glided up. Cameron paused between the two.

‘I haven’t seen your deb programme yet,’ said Tony. ‘Why don’t we go back to the Waldorf and look at it?’

Ronnie shook his head. ‘You guys go. I’m pooped.’

Back in Tony’s suite, an almost unbearable tension developed between them. Having poured large brandies, Tony removed his coat. Despite the air conditioning, he could feel damp patches of sweat forming under his arms and trickling down his spine. In silence they watched Cameron’s tape. Within five minutes, Tony realized its outstanding quality.

The commentary was cut to a minimum; Cameron had let the debs and their mothers speak for themselves. But you could feel her fierce egalitarian scorn, in the way she had highlighted their silliness and pretension, and the compassion she displayed for the noveau riche who tried to break in, and for the wallflower who sat unfêted through ball after ball.

Despite the fact that Cameron had been vile about ‘Four Men went to Mow’, Tony knew when to be generous.

‘They’ll adore it in England,’ he said at the end. ‘I’ll ring the Film Purchasing Committee tomorrow and insist they look at it.’

‘Thanks.’ Cameron got up to rewind the tape. ‘I’d better go. I got up at six this morning, and you must be reeling from Concorde lag.’

With that sleek Eton crop, thought Tony, it’d be like making love to a boy. Putting out a hand to halt her he encountered a huge shoulder pad.

‘Sit down. I want to talk to you. You got a regular boyfriend?’

‘Until three months ago.’ She sat down on the far end of the leather sofa.

‘What did he do?’

‘He was a threat analyst. Spent all day looking at the Soviets, and saying: “They’re a threat”.’

Tony laughed, edging down the sofa.

‘I don’t need a man to look after me,’ said Cameron defensively. ‘Just someone to make the sparks fly. If I’m not having a good time, I quit. Are you happily married?’

‘Not overwhelmingly.’

‘She a dog?’

‘Not at all. It’s a marriage of extreme public convenience. We get on very well when we don’t see too much of each other. ‘

This girl is exactly what I need to wake them all up at Corinium, he was thinking. She’s superbright, ambitious, aggressive. The IBA would adore the deb programme, it had quality and universal appeal; and being a woman, Cameron would appeal to the incoming chairman, Lady Gosling. Even more important, from the way she had carved up Simon Harris’s treatment, she was capable of seeing what was wrong with a programme and subtly gearing it towards the American market without making it too bland. And finally, as she had a British passport, there wouldn’t be the usual ghastly hassle about work permits.

‘How’d you like to work in England?’

‘How much?’

‘Thirty grand.’

‘You’ve got to be joking. I’m on a hundred thousand dollars here.’

‘It’s cheaper living in England, and we could pick up a few bills.’

‘I’d have to have somewhere to live,’ said Cameron, thinking longingly of the honey-coloured houses she’d seen on the video.

‘We can arrange that.’

‘If I’m stuck in the country, I’ll need a car.’

‘Of course.’

For a minute she glared at him. ‘How soon do I get on the Board?’

‘Cameron,’ said Tony gently, ‘I’m the boss of Corinium. I decide that.’

‘I’ll kick it around,’ she said indifferently. ‘You’d better sleep with me first.’