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
