‘He doesn’t do that kind of publicity.’
‘Oh? And how would you know?’
‘She’s the local authority on Henry North,’ Tim said again.
‘Actually, it can’t be an outsider,’ she said quickly as she once again became the centre of attention. ‘It has to be someone on the staff…’
Nooooooo… But even as the words left her lips she knew what was coming and instinctively slumped down in her chair, ducking behind her monitor.
‘Quite right, Claire,’ Jessica said, approvingly. ‘This isn’t a media circus, it’s about community so if you could spare a moment? Mrs Armstrong would like a word.’
Tim, mopping up the sunrise splatter of cold coffee dregs from his shirt, paused long enough to shout an ironic, ‘Goal!’
‘Claire’s been called out of the office,’ she said, from behind her computer. If she was going to be the office joke, she was entitled to the laughs.
‘Chasing down yet another investigative piece for the front page?’
Her trip to London on expenses had not gone unnoticed, or uncommented on.
‘Only if she’s investigating the dust under her desk.’
A ripple of laughter ran around the office and, straightening up, Claire held up a dust-coated finger. ‘Actually, it’s a vital and wide-ranging report on Health and Safety in the workplace.’
‘Shouldn’t that be “elf and safety”?’
‘Who needs a duster when you’ve got a magic wand?’
‘Everyone’s a comedian,’ she said, pushing her seat back and doing her best to put a brave face on things. ‘If Mr North has seen the error of his ways and is prepared to salve his conscience by helping with a project that benefits the town, let’s make it a good one. Something to make his eyes water.’
Toughen up, be ruthless…
Meanwhile, in return for sprinkling the fairy dust of publicity on local suppliers who supported the “Wish”—free promo in the paper in return for their generosity—and hours of extra unpaid work spent drumming up that support, chasing down grants, organising local youth groups, she was about to be working with Hal North. Given the choice, she wouldn’t have done it dressed in a tutu and wings.
She paused just before she reached the door and, having pasted on a broad grin for her colleagues, she turned to face them and was confronted by the display of the week’s front pages.
Mr Mean Targets Teddies leapt out at her.
Oh, well, brave face, Claire…
‘Ladies, gentlemen…’ She waved her ballpoint over them with a flourish before executing a low curtsey. ‘I leave you to fight over the front page while I don my wings and fly away to part Mr Mean from his money.’
She’d anticipated an ironic cheer. At the very least a laugh. What she got was dead silence. She flicked a glance in Tim’s direction. He was always good for a jeer, if nothing else. He’d paused in the act of mopping the coffee off his shirt but didn’t respond with as much as a twitch of an eyebrow and with a sudden sick feeling in the pit of her stomach she turned around.
Behind her, Willow Armstrong, the CEO of the Melchester-based Armstrong Newspaper Group which owned not only the Maybridge Observer, the County Chronicle and dozens of other titles in the region, but the local commercial radio station, was standing in the corridor.
With her, Hal North, a head taller, was looking down his long, not-quite-straight nose; piercing her with eyes that were of a blue so intense, so dark that it sucked the breath right out of her body.
‘Hal…’ Willow Armstrong, ignoring the pregnant silence said, ‘I believe you know Claire Thackeray?’
‘We have met,’ he said. His expression was grave, serious, but a gleam in the depths of those eyes suggested that he was enjoying the moment even if she was not.
No green coveralls today, not a trace of motor oil, but a lightweight grey tweed suit that was exactly right for the well-heeled gentleman about his business in a country town.
‘Claire, Mr North has read about our “Make A Wish for Maybridge” programme and has generously offered to support us this year. Since you’ve shown such a passionate interest in Cranbrook Park,’ she added smoothly, not suggesting by as much as a flicker of an eyelash that she’d seen that ‘Mr Mean’ headline, ‘he has asked to work with you on the flagship project.’
This was her prompt to say something, but clearly not the word that had momentarily threatened to slip from her lips. Fortunately, with his gaze holding her like a moth on a pin and the breathless silence of the editorial office behind her, words—as ridiculous as that seemed—had deserted her.
This was her big chance to get close to him, she told herself. Not in a ditch or over a motorcycle, but a chance to talk to him, find out where he’d been, what he’d been doing all these years.
Why he’d come back.
She could write an in-depth profile of a very successful, very private businessman. Something that mattered. Something bigger than the Observer could handle, but would make a colour spread in the County Chronicle, the group’s glossy lifestyle magazine. Maybe even make a national newspaper. Something that would lift her career a notch or two.
She should be happy…
Jessica’s surreptitious nudge in the back was sufficient to make her blink and the break in eye contact restored a little of her composure. She breathed in, placed her hand in his.
‘Hal…’ she said. ‘How unexpected. You’re always telling me that you never talk to the press.’
‘Is that why you haven’t called recently?’
‘There seemed no point.’
‘Never give up, Claire. Given sufficient incentive—’ his hand closed around hers in what was less a conventional handshake, more a ‘gotcha’ moment as he held it a little too firmly for her to pull away without making it obvious ‘—I’m prepared to talk to anyone.’
‘It was the Victoria sandwich that did it?’
‘I expected you to bring it yourself.’
‘I’ve been a bit busy.’ She swallowed. ‘What kind of support are you offering the Make a Wish project?’ she asked, doing her best to ignore the continuing firm pressure of his cool fingers around her own.
Cold hand, warm heart?
Her own fluttered a little as she recalled the way her cold lips had heated up as he’d kissed her, his long fingers encircling her ankle, sliding between her toes. That moment when he wiped the oil from her cheek.
Her knees buckled.
Her lips burned…
She rested her free hand on the door handle, told herself to get a grip. So, Brian had stuck a vile headline
