His Personal Agenda

He had wanted to tell her himself. Before someone else did. That was why he’d come tonight.

He’d never said a word, yet it was obvious that he knew all about the schoolgirl crush she’d had on him. A friend of her father’s, albeit a younger one, he had tried to be kind, walking on tiptoe around her feelings, taking care not to hurt her. It was why he still treated her like a schoolgirl, because he suspected, as Kitty did, that it wasn’t just a schoolgirl crush. Well, it couldn’t be, could it? She wasn’t a schoolgirl any more; she was twenty-two. And kindness was the last thing she wanted from him.

‘I’m very happy for you both,’ Nyssa said, brightly enough. ‘Have you told James and Sophia?’ She hadn’t been able to bear calling her mother anything but Sophia since she had married Kitty’s widowed father—the memory of her own father was still too precious. ‘You’re going down for James’s birthday, I imagine?’ Nyssa asked.

‘We thought we’d tell everyone then. You’ll be there, won’t you?’

‘If I can,’ she hedged. ‘The feeling is that Parker will attempt to demolish the cinema quickly, before we can get it listed.’ She frowned. ‘He’s been very slow off the mark.’

‘Sophia will be terribly disappointed if you don’t come,’ Gil said, distracting her. ‘We could give you a lift down if you don’t want to drive yourself.’

‘No. I’ll try. Really.’ And then she’d discover something desperately important to do. The alternative was to go and smile and hide her feelings, as she had been doing ever since Gil and Kitty’s wedding. Except that if she stayed away Kitty would know why and feel sorry for her. And her mother would know why and worry about her. And Gil would know why and feel guilty. She couldn’t win. But at least she had an excuse to send him away now. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Gil. You should be at home with Kitty.’

‘She wanted me to come. She worries about you, too, Nyssa.’

Did he really think that knowing his wife had sent him would help? ‘The entire Lambert clan appear to have cornered the worry market on my behalf, but it really isn’t necessary. I’m among friends here, Gil. The worst thing that’s going to happen is the slide projector jamming in the middle of my presentation.’

As if to confirm the truth of her words, someone beat a lively tattoo on the door. ‘Nyssa? Are you ready? We’re all down in the bar waiting for you.’

‘I’ll be right with you, Pete. Get me an orange juice, will you?’

‘Who’s that?’ Gil asked. ‘Your boyfriend?’ He sounded hopeful.

‘Boyfriend?’ She laid her hand against her breast and managed a laugh. ‘What a quaint, old-fashioned word. You might still think of me as a schoolgirl wearing pigtails, Gil, but in case you hadn’t noticed I’m all grown up.’

‘Actually I had noticed. In that dress it’s impossible not to,’ he added, dryly. Then, ‘So why don’t you give your mother a treat and bring him home for the weekend?’

Pete, stick-thin and with a stud through his nose, would hardly be her mother’s idea of a treat, she thought. But if she had a man with her it would help to defuse the tension that seemed to be in the air whenever she and Gil were in the same room. ‘I’ll make a deal with you, Gil. I’ll come to the party, and maybe I’ll invite a friend for the weekend, but only if you stop fussing and go home. Right now.’ Please. Before I do something stupid like cry.

Matt was impressed. He’d watched the videos of Nyssa Blake’s previous press conferences, given to him by Charles Parker’s secretary, but they had just been snippets, put together to be distributed to the media and to likely supporters groups: the edited highlights.

He was impressed by the professionalism, but sceptical too. The camera could lie and frequently did; a competent editor could make anyone capable of stringing together a coherent sentence look like Churchill on a good day. He wanted to see the woman in action, see how she looked before all the fluffs and fumbles had been edited out. So he had used his contacts and got himself a press pass and an invitation to the campaign launch at the Assembly Rooms in Delvering.

And he was still impressed. The Assembly Rooms were straight out of a Jane Austen novel. Georgian and decaying grandly in the manner of some great old actress, with charm and elegance. They would look wonderful on television. A picture was worth a thousand words, and this, Nyssa Blake was saying, was the England they were going to save from the Philistines. Not quite true, of course, but the cinema, a masterpiece of art deco design that should have been cherished, had instead fallen into the kind of decrepitude that was unlikely to induce the ‘aaaah’ factor in the average viewer.

It seemed to Matt that there were some very sharp brains handling this organisation. Brains sharp enough to recognise that an idealistic young woman would make a great spokesperson. Maybe, he thought, as his credentials were checked at the entrance, Parker had a point.

‘Thank you, Mr Crosby.’ He clipped the identification label to his ancient denim jacket and took the press pack he was offered by a well-preserved woman wearing a flowing dress, her long hair loose about her shoulders and with a New Age name pinned to her embroidered bodice.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Sky…’

‘Just go through. We’ll be starting in a minute or two. There’ll be drinks and a buffet afterwards.’

‘That’s very generous,’ he said, inclined to linger. He wasn’t interested in propaganda; he wanted gossip. ‘Who’s paying for all this?’

‘Our supporters are very generous.’ She gave him a warm, earth-mother smile. ‘Of course we hope you’ll make a donation towards your supper.’

He’d walked right into that one, but he found himself smiling back, even as he stuffed twenty pounds of Charles Parker’s money into the tin she offered. ‘Is there any chance of an interview with Miss Blake? After the press conference?’

She consulted her list. ‘You’re a freelance, aren’t you?’

‘I am, but I have a commission to write a piece on Miss Blake.’ Well, he did. Of course whether the results ever saw print rather depended on what he unearthed in his investigations.

‘It’s always difficult to arrange private meetings at this kind of occasion, Mr Crosby…’

‘Matt,’ he said.

‘Matt.’ Her smile took on a new depth and he realised he had her undivided attention. Which could be useful. ‘Nyssa will be mingling afterwards; maybe you could catch her then? I’m afraid that’s the best I can do today. Shall I ask her to call you and arrange a time when you’ll be able to talk undisturbed?’

‘I’ll leave my number.’ He produced a card that simply bore his name, and on the back he wrote the number of a new mobile phone acquired for the investigation. She stapled it to a folder, along with half a dozen similar offerings, then turned to a new arrival. ‘Can I catch you later?’ he suggested. ‘For a drink? Maybe you could fill me in on the background?’

‘Ten o’clock in the Delvering Arms?’ she offered, rather too eagerly.

He really needed to look for a new career, Matt thought as he moved on into the foyer, glancing at the press pack he was holding, complete with glossy colour photographs and ‘sound-bite’ notes.

The whole thing was well organised and very well attended, he realised as he looked about him. Nyssa Blake was news. It took more than a free glass of wine and a sausage roll to tempt the press pack out of London on a summer’s evening.

Even if they had no intention of joining her, their readers were eager to know how this young woman intended to set about stopping the developers in their tracks. Youth and innocence against entrenched power always made a good story.

But apart from the local radio and television crews, who were too busy checking equipment and recording their lead-ins to socialise, the newsmen had gathered in small groups, more interested in the latest media gossip than the blown-up photographs of the cinema in its heyday.

Only three or four latecomers were, like him, looking at the photographs and apparently totally absorbed by the notes pinned alongside them. Except the latecomers weren’t totally absorbed. They were giving the appearance of deep interest in the exhibition, but their eyes were everywhere as they checked out the gathering crowd. He recognised the type. Minders. Nothing, it seemed, had been overlooked.

Matt watched them for a few moments and then turned as the inner doors were opened. There were chairs put out in rows, a slide projector in the centre with a screen at the front, and a small lectern with a lamp on a slightly raised dais to the side.

Nyssa Blake clearly wasn’t relying on the photographs to get her message across. She had a captive audience and they were going to listen and learn before they got to the free food. Sky began to usher people towards the seats.

Two of the men with the restless eyes took seats on either side of the projector. Another sat in front of the lectern. A fourth leaned against the wall, near the entrance. They were covering all the vantage points.

Matt settled himself in the end seat of the back row and, out of habit, looked about him to check for an alternative exit. If trouble was expected he had no intention of being caught up in it.

Nyssa waited in the corridor behind the main hall, her throat dry, her pulse beating too fast. She was always nervous before a presentation, afraid she wouldn’t be good enough…

‘Ready?’ Sky asked, joining her. ‘It’s showtime.’

‘How many…?’

‘It’s a good turnout. You’re big news these days.’

‘Right.’ She took a deep breath, opened the door, walked up to the lectern, set to the side of a projection screen, and spread out her notes. For a moment the burble of noise continued and then, as she waited, looking around, acknowledging people she recognised, the room gradually grew quiet. That was when she saw him.

He was sitting right at the back, almost as if he didn’t want to be there. She knew most of the journalists who covered this kind of story but, wearing antique 501s, and with a mop of thick dark hair that looked as if it had been combed with his fingers, he didn’t look like any kind of small-town newspaper man she’d ever met. He looked like a man made for a much bigger stage. Casual he might be, but he made the elegant main hall of the Assembly Rooms look small.

She was smaller than he had imagined from her photographs, and reed-slim, but the neat burnished cap of bright hair, the pale delicate skin, the elegant black dress were pure drama, and every eye in the room was fixed on her, waiting for her to speak.

Matt was not easily impressed, nor, he suspected, were the journalists who had gathered there, and yet he felt a quickening in the air, a stir of anticipation as she looked around the room, acknowledging acquaintances with the briefest of smiles.

Then her gaze came to rest on him, lingering in a look that seemed to single him out, to hold his attention, and just for a second he had the disconcerting sensation that she could see right through him, recognise him for what he was.