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even wants to have a go at investigative documentary stuff, as if the powers-that-be over there would ever let her do any of that. Chances are they’ll have her fronting
Top of the Pops
in about a fortnight’s time and five minutes after that she’ll be in the tabloids for shagging some poncey boy band member just out of short trousers. I hear there’s soon to be a spot opening up as co-host of
Tomorrow’s World
though. Big money there, gents. University circuit’s crying out for them too.’
    â€˜Well, we can’t lose her, James, you realise that,’ said P.W., the ageing world famous record producer who invested his life savings into this business and lives in constant fear of losing the lot, which is unlikely. ‘She’s about the only big name we have.’
    â€˜There’s Billy Boy Davis,’ said Alan, another investor, old money. He’s almost eighty and it’s well known that he has pancreatic cancer, although he never speaks of it to anyone, not even his closest friends. I did hear a rumour that he was waiting for an offer from Oprah Winfrey, but that’s unconfirmed. ‘We still have The Kid.’
    â€˜No one’s interested in him,’ countered P.W. ‘His heyday was twenty years ago. He’s been put out to pasture here, commentating on second rate sporting events and trying to forget that the entire country knows that he likes to dress up in a nappy and have his bottom spanked by sixth-formers. And why does he still insist on being called “The Kid” anyway? He’s fucking fifty, if he’s a day. He’s a joke, for God’s sake.’
    â€˜He’s still a big name.’
    â€˜I’ve got a name for him,’ said P.W. ‘Wanker.’
    The animosity between P.W. and Alan continues week after week and dates back to a derogatory comment the latter made about the former in an unauthorized biography (which he himself wrote) ten years ago. Although they attempt to keep relations on a strictly professional and polite basis, it is obvious to all that they cannot stand each other. Every week at the meeting one of them waits for the other to make some comment and then jumps in, trying to discredit the other fellow.
    â€˜What Billy Boy is or isn’t doesn’t matter right now, gentlemen,’ I said, placing my hands on the table in an attempt to stop their petty bickering. ‘I imagine what matters is that Ms Morrison wants to leave us for pastures new and we would prefer it if she didn’t go. Isn’t that it, in a nutshell?’ There was a grudging round of head nodding, and Yes, Matthieus. ‘In which case, our question is a simple one: how do we persuade her to stay?’
    â€˜Tart says there’s nothing we can offer her,’ said James, and I leaned back in my chair and shook my head.
    â€˜Tara says a lot of things,’ I countered. ‘Tara’s made a virtual career out of saying things. What Tara is actually saying is that we haven’t made her the
right
offer yet. Believe me, that’s what she’s saying right now, only none of you are listening. You surprise me, James.’
    James, P.W. and Alan looked at each other blankly and only James started to smile. ‘All right then, Mattie,’ he said – a diminutive that always sends a shiver down me in recollection of an old friend, two hundred years dead – ‘what do you suggest?’
    â€˜I suggest I take Ms Morrison out to lunch with me today and find out exactly what it is that she’s after. Then I shall attempt to give it to her. It’s as simple as that.’
    â€˜I know what I’d like to give her, gents,’ said James with a laugh.
    Ms. Morrison – ‘Tara Says:’ – and I had lunch together in a small Italian restaurant in Soho. It’s a pleasant, family run place, and one to which I often take business acquaintances if I’m trying to get something