a whole. At last, ‘Not a problem,’ she said grudgingly, and there was a collective sigh of relief.
‘Is it really necessary for me to go?’ Cally asked later, when she and Kit were momentarily alone.
Kit shrugged. ‘If we manage to talk to Eastern Crest’s big bosses, it would be useful to have an accurate note of what’s said.’
‘Tracy could do that.’
He shook his head. ‘Tracy gets flustered, and she’s too involved to be objective anyway. She’ll hear what she wants to hear. Besides, she’s there for the sympathy vote,’ he added, grimacing slightly. ‘Pretty blonde single mother, whose baby used to be always ailing. That might tug at their hard heartstrings.’
‘Good PR—if slightly callous.’ Cally doodled aimlessly with a pencil. ‘What do you think the chances are?’
‘Of getting them to listen? Pretty good—especially without Leila threatening to kneecap them. Overall?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not hopeful. Major property companies are moneymakers, after all, not social workers.’
‘Yes,’ Cally said quietly. ‘They’re generally not famous for their humanitarian qualities. They tend to have their own agenda.’
‘Therefore,’ Kit went on, ‘we need to present our case in an articulate and reasonable way—and pray like hell.’ He paused. ‘Of course, what we really need is a deus ex machina—another rich philanthropist to make a counter-offer and save us all at the eleventh hour.’ He grinned at her. ‘Got many millionaires in your address book?’
The pencil snapped suddenly in her fingers. ‘No,’ she said, her voice faintly hoarse. ‘Not many.’
‘Nor me,’ he acknowledged ruefully, and was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was hesitant. ‘After the meeting, we could maybe have some dinner—at that Italian place in the High Street. What do you think?’
‘Fine by me,’ Cally agreed. ‘But you’d better warn Tracy to get a babysitter,’ she added disingenuously. ‘It will do her good to get out for the evening.’
Kit’s face fell a little, but he knew better than to argue.
When she was by herself again, Cally wondered whether that would have been a good time to tell him she was leaving—if he hadn’t guessed already. After all, the Hartleys must have him under notice too, although they’d reluctantly agreed to let the Children’s Centre remain open for the time being.
They’re thinking of nasty stories appearing in the local paper, Cally thought. Television cameras filming weeping children in pushchairs. The kind of publicity one’s friendly local department store needs like a hole in the head.
The kids’ parents, of course, were a different matter. Not everyone had the same concern for the disadvantaged as Genevieve Hartley had had, or tried to do anything about it. They’d be counting on that.
And the Gunners Terrace residents, once they were made homeless, would qualify for council housing anyway. That would be their argument, so how many people would really care if a small, struggling would-be community fell by the wayside?
But Cally knew that real pride, real spirit was being engendered in this tiny part of town, where those qualities had long been absent. And that it mattered. But it would soon wane once the families were dispersed, as seemed inevitable.
They deserve to survive, she told herself with sudden angry passion. They don’t need another defeat. If only—only—there was something I could do…
But there could have been—once, a sly voice in her head reminded her. If you’d chosen another kind of life. If you hadn’t run away. You might have made all the difference.
For a moment she was motionless, staring into the distance with eyes that saw nothing but pain.
She said under her breath, ‘But I made the right—the only possible choice. I know that.’ And dropped the broken pencil into the wastepaper basket.
She had no smart clothes, so she opted for another version of her working gear for their visit to the Town Hall.
The exhibition, which included a video presentation as well as a scale model of the development, was being staged in the conference hall—which hadn’t seen many conferences, but was useful for antiques fairs and craft markets. Also for the flower show in its usual inclement weather.
The Mayor and his entourage were clearly preening themselves because the place was living up to its grandiose title at last.
There were a lot of people present, most of them clustered around the tables where the scale model was set up, and the remainder hovering near the lavish buffet.
Waiters were going round with trays of champagne and heavy platters loaded with canapés, presumably all with the compliments of Eastern Crest. How to win friends and influence people, Cally thought cynically as she stood with Kit and Tracy, wondering whom they should approach.
But in the end the decision was made for them when they found themselves caught in a pincer movement by Gordon Hartley and his younger brother Neville, their faces flushed and inimical as they strode across the room.
‘I wasn’t aware anyone had asked you here.’ Gordon addressed Kit, ignoring the two girls completely. ‘I’d like you to leave—now.’
Kit held up three invitation cards. ‘Someone clearly has a different idea,’ he returned coolly. ‘I thought we should see what we’re up against.’
‘You’re up against nothing,’ Neville chimed in. ‘You’ve already lost, so what’s the point in coming here, making fools of yourselves? Our mother may have looked on you all as an act of charity, but we don’t.’
‘All the same.’ Kit was undeterred. ‘We’d like to have a look at the proposed development, and maybe speak to whoever’s in charge at Eastern Crest.’
Cally found herself admiring his calmness. His refusal to be rattled. He had ‘We shall not be moved’ written all over him, in spite of the hostility he was faced with.
Goodness, she thought, if Leila had come she’d have bitten someone in the leg by now.
‘Then you’re really out of luck.’ Gordon was speaking again, his tone curt, pushing his weight forward threateningly. ‘Because the chairman himself is hosting tonight’s presentation, and he plays in the big league. Get out now, before you become a laughing stock or he has you removed.’
The brothers’ raised voices were attracting attention, Cally realised, with embarrassment. Curious glances from all over the room were coming their way, and even some of the crowd round the model were turning their heads to look.
She realised that she wasn’t just uncomfortable, she’d actually begun to tremble inside. Even begun to be afraid in some obscure but compelling way.
We shouldn’t be here, she thought, swallowing. We may have invitations, but there’ll be an official guest list somewhere, and we’re still gatecrashers.
She touched Kit’s sleeve. ‘Listen,’ she began, ‘maybe we should…’
But the sentence
