a day—the disc jockey for that evening, who was Pete, and one of the typists, a small fair-haired girl named Sue Barker.
The buzz of gossip faded a little when Storm walked in. Pete beckoned her over, brandishing his cup.
‘Got time for one before you go, my lovely?’ he asked Storm. ‘Or is the great man waiting?’
Storm’s eyes sparkled a little at this sarcastic reference to David, but wisely she let it go. It wasn’t possible to keep their personal relationship private in such a compact group and sometimes Storm bitterly resented Pete’s contention that because David was quiet and introverted, he must also be weak and spineless. She loved David’s gentleness, she often told herself, and if at times he seemed to bow down to others, it was because he was innately too considerate to argue. Personally she could not think of anything worse than the type of man who dominated with his personality.
‘I’ve got a few minutes yet,’ she told Pete, guessing from his excited air what had been the topic of conversation before she walked in.
‘What do you think about Jago Marsh joining us?’ Pete asked confirming her thoughts.
He had deep blue eyes and wildly curling fair hair. Under his air of casual bonhomie lurked a keen brain and an acid sense of humour, but Storm refused to let him get under her guard, and a certain sense of mutual respect had grown up between them. Pete was the more popular of their two D.J.s, and at twenty-three a year older than Storm.
She was too angry for caution and answered furiously, ‘That the I.B.A. have a nerve off loading him on us!’
‘Come on, Storm,’ Pete objected. ‘We ought to be down on our knees thanking God that we’ve got him. Face it, David might be a nice guy, but there was no way he was going to make this station work. With Jago Marsh in charge…’
‘In charge! He’s coming in in an advisory capacity, that’s all,’ Storm reminded him. ‘David’s still in charge.’
For a moment there was silence from the others, and then Pete’s eyes crinkled in amusement.
‘That’s our Storm! Faithful to old David until the last. Jago’s going to have to watch himself with you around, honey!’
General laughter greeted this sally, and Pete slipped a friendly arm round Storm’s shoulders, pulling her against him.
‘Don’t go into a sulk on me,’ he teased. ‘Even you can’t deny that our David isn’t exactly the dynamic type. He’s a nice guy, Storm—no one denies that—but you’ve only got to look at our ratings—at the way he refuses to stand up to Sam Townley and tell him outright that we won’t get anywhere until we get some decent equipment, to see that he just isn’t cut out for this game. You need to be tough!’
‘Like Jago Marsh, I suppose you mean?’ Storm interrupted bitterly.
‘Be fair!’ Pete objected. ‘You’ve only got to look at our ratings to see how badly we’re doing. No one knows that better than you.’ Pete was ambitious and his eyes were hard as he looked at her mutinous face. ‘Come on, Storm, you can’t have forgotten what happened when you went to see old man Harmer already.’
Storm had not! John Harmer’s comments had rankled and she was still smarting from her interview with him. Harmer Brothers were the largest local employers. They owned two woollen mills, turning out fine cloth in a small and exclusive range of tweeds, using Cotswold wool. Storm had spent weeks preparing an advertising campaign to put before Mr Harmer, but she had got scant response. Despite the rates she had offered—pared down to the bone—and the fact that she had pointed out their widespread audience and limitless possibilities, John Harmer’s reception had been the opposite of enthusiastic.
‘Waste money advertising on a two-bit outfit that only appeals to kids and housewives?’ he had scoffed. ‘I’m a businessman, my dear, not a philanthropist.’
His words had stung and continued to do so, because his comments held an element of truth. Many, many times Storm had tried to persuade David to adopt a more forward-thinking attitude; to develop their range so that they could include more topical subjects; to promote a weekly disco as the other, more successful stations did, but all her suggestions had been met with a gentle but definite rebuff. However, she chose not to remember her past disappointments now, concentrating fiercely instead on her loyalty to David, ignoring the small voice inside her asking if their ‘adviser’ had been anyone but Jago Marsh she would have reacted more favourably.
She despised the man, she told herself angrily, taking no part in the excited conversation going on around her as the others discussed the changes likely to be made.
‘I can tell you one thing,’ Pete announced confidently. ‘He won’t put up with Sam Townley’s tricks for very long. I mean, just look at this place for a start…’
Their studios were shabby and ill-equipped, Storm was forced to admit.
Initially it had been David’s intention to house the venture in purpose-built offices just outside Wyechester, but Sam Townley had soon put a stop to such ambitious thoughts. As the main investor he claimed that he should have the greatest say in how their capital was spent, and David found himself forced to take up a tenancy of some cramped offices over one of Sam’s supermarkets.
‘What do you think Jago Marsh is going to do?’ Storm asked Pete angrily, infuriated by his contemptuous dismissal of all that David had tried to do. ‘Wave a magic wand and produce a modern, fully equipped radio station?’
‘Well, whatever he does it can’t be worse than David’s efforts.’ Pete fought back. ‘For God’s sake, Storm! You might be in love with the guy, but when are you going to see him how he really is? You feel sorry for him because he’s always the under-dog, but whose fault is that? I don’t know what you see in him…’
They had had this argument before, and as always it put Storm on the defensive. She could not explain to Pete, with all his frank appreciation of the modern approach towards sex, that with David she did not feel threatened, forced to give more of herself than she wished, either emotionally or physically, and that she loved him for his gentle acceptance of this.
As she got up to leave she was frowning unhappily. Just what did they think Jago Marsh was? A magician? Well, they would soon be disillusioned. He was a cold, ruthless man, incapable of understanding the feelings of others, arrogant and overbearing. Without the slightest effort she could remember every line of his hard-boned face, every inflection of his voice as he denounced her sex, and she was almost trembling with anger as she stepped out into the street to meet David.
He was sitting in his car waiting for her, and Storm smiled at him as he opened the passenger door of the homely little Ford. He made no attempt to kiss or touch her despite the fact that the car-park was deserted and he had been away from her all day.
It was just over half an hour’s drive to the village where she lived with her parents, and they normally sat in a companionable silence listening to Radio Wyechester.
Storm’s father was a lecturer at the local university and Storm had grown up in the Cotswolds and loved them very dearly.
It was October, one of Storm’s favourite months. Summer had lingered on this year, and the trees were just beginning to turn, the harvested fields a bright, lush green where the new growth showed through. Opening her window, Storm relaxed in her seat, enjoying the fresh air. It was colder today, with a sharp little breeze that heralded the end of their
