‘Is that how you like your men?’ said Tony, getting up to put the video into the machine.

‘Shit no, I’m just talking about the viewers. You’ve got one of the guys ironing the girl’s ball gown for her; yuk!’

Tony filled up her glass yet again.

‘Have a look at this.’

Up on the screen came a honey-coloured Cotswold village, an ancient church, golden cornfields, then a particularly ravishing Queen Anne house.

‘We plan to use this as Will’s father’s house,’ said Tony.

‘Bit arty-farty,’ snapped Cameron, as the camera roved lasciviously over a lime-tree avenue, waterfalls of old roses, and a lake surrounded by yellow irises.

‘Beautiful place,’ said Ronnie in awe.

‘Mine,’ said Tony smugly.

‘Don’t you have a wife who owns it as well?’ said Cameron, feminist hackles rising.

‘Of course; she’s a very good gardener.’

‘Looks like fucking Disneyland,’ said Cameron.

Switching off the video machine, Tony emptied the bottle into Cameron’s glass and said, ‘Corinium did make more than twelve million pounds last year selling programmes to America, so we’re not quite amateurs. Some of the points you made are interesting, but we do have to appeal to a slightly more sophisticated audience at home.’

‘We ought to eat soon,’ said Ronnie. ‘You must be exhausted.’

‘Not at all,’ said Tony, who was looking at Cameron, ‘must just have a pee.’

Alone in the bathroom, he whipped out his red fountain pen and in the memo page of his diary listed every criticism Cameron had made. Then he brushed his hair and, smiling at his reflection, hastily removed a honey-roast peanut from between his teeth. Fortunately he hadn’t been smiling much at that bitch.