His Personal Agenda. Liz Fielding
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.
He had wondered, looking at her photograph in Parker’s office, if her eyes could really be that impossible shade of blue, or whether, like her hair, the colour had been enhanced for effect.
But there was no need to enhance anything. The effect came from something that lit her from within and he knew what it was. Passion.
And her look, he discovered, as for just a moment their gazes locked and held, had a kick like a mule.
Matt hadn’t been affected in that way by a woman since Lucy Braithwaite had kissed him in the vestry after choir practice, cutting short a promising career as a solo treble.
He was still struggling to recover his breath when Nyssa Blake took a sip of water before finally beginning to speak.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming to Delvering today,’ she began.
Her voice, unexpectedly low and slightly husky, rippled through him, stirring the small hairs at the nape of his neck. Was that how she did it? How she drew supporters to her, twisted cynical newspaper hacks around her dainty fingers, walked past security guards without let or hindrance? Did she just turn on the lamps behind her eyes, murmur in that low voice and turn them into her willing slaves?
He rubbed his hand over his face in an attempt to pull himself together. He hadn’t come to the press conference to join the Nyssa Blake fan club. He simply wanted to get the measure of the girl…woman…
Well, he was doing that all right. But it sure as hell wasn’t what he had expected.
‘I do hope you have all taken advantage of this opportunity to look around Delvering, to talk to local people, to discover for yourselves