brought in a tray.
‘Ex-offender,’ the Prince explained. ‘One of the youngsters from my charity, aren’t you, Kira? I just find you need to give young people a sense of purpose. Don’t you agree? I’m sure you meet a lot of young people in your line of work. Biscuit? I bake them myself from stone-ground sunflower seeds and raw sugar. People think I’m mad, you know, but what’s mad about a home-baked biscuit? Kira, do pass them over, would you? Don’t worry, she’s not one of the ladies of the toilet! Ha ha ha!’ The Prince roared with laughter. ‘Good to laugh, don’t you think?’ He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief he pulled from his sleeve. ‘Sometimes I think if I didn’t laugh I’d go stark raving bananas. Do you know they try to record my phone calls so they can publish the transcripts? Can you imagine anything more beastly or low? When I was at school that was called eavesdropping.’
Calvin realized he had not spoken once since entering the room. Clearly the Prince was used to filling in the gaps in the conversation.
‘Sir,’ he said.
‘Yes, Mr Cowell?’
‘Umm, Simms actually, sir. Calvin Simms. Cowell’s another bloke. He used to do a show like mine. That’s gone now. We’re bigger.’
‘Really? Extraordinary. Well done.’
‘I wonder if I might explain why I’ve asked to see you, Your Royal Highness.’
The Prince leaned forward attentively. ‘Please, call me sir. Everybody does.’
‘Well, sir, I hope you won’t think me forward if I say that it strikes me you have a PR problem.’
‘Yes. Yes, I rather think I do. I was saying so to my wife only this morning as we de-snailed the herb garden. Sometimes it seems as if every bugger in Britain’s got it in for yours truly .’
‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Let’s face it, you are routinely ridiculed as a pampered dilettante who has a personal bum wiper, consumes 90 per cent of the nation’s tax revenues, eats a raw fox for breakfast, smears the fresh blood on his children and then goes off to deliver a lecture about how all post-nineteenth-century buildings are complete rubbish.’
‘Yes, that’s me. God knows where I’m supposed to find the time.’
‘I think you’re due for a change, sir.’
‘Well certainly. But what, if you’ll forgive me for asking, Mr Simms, has that to do with you?’
‘I can make you popular again. Bigger than your grannie was. I can make you a star.’
The Prince’s gentle manner hardened ever so slightly. He knew all about set-ups. He was still trying to live down the incident when he had received the Dalai Lama at Sandringham, only to discover that it was a Radio One DJ wrapped in a sheet.
‘Is this a joke, Mr Simms? Perhaps I am to be the subject of some hidden camera prank?’
‘Not at all, sir. The simple fact is that I want to see you win the next series of Chart Throb.’
‘Goodness gracious. Whyever would you want that?’
‘Because I’m a monarchist, sir,’ Calvin replied.
‘No! Really?’
‘Yes, sir. I have a deep and abiding loyalty and affection for the great historical institutions of this country and I despair to see how low they have fallen in public esteem.’
‘Gosh, don’t we all!’
‘What is more, I am in a unique position to do something about it. I produce a show that speaks directly to the public. There’s no press or spin involved. I create stars. Real stars. Stars in the truest sense of the word, popular favourites, people with whom the public genuinely identify. I want to turn you into just such a star.’
‘You want me to audition as a singer?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But I am to be head of state, Mr Simms. That is a high and serious office.’
‘What’s serious any more? George Galloway, the nation’s foremost anti-war activist, went on Big Brother! The leader of the Conservative Party was asked on a chat show if as a lad he’d wanked over Mrs Thatcher! Politics isn’t serious any more, it’s showbiz. Nothing but sound bites