Liz Fielding - His Personal Agenda

Matt laughed. ‘You’d better stick to bulldozer-bashing, Nyssa, if that’s the best you can do with this story. You’ll certainly never make a journalist.’

‘I have no wish to be a journalist.’

‘You planned to read English at university,’ he pointed out.

‘Yes, well, there’s not much future in that.’ She discarded the teabag and after a tussle with a tub of milk finally managed to open it and pour it into her tea. Then, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, she said, ‘Okay, so tell me, how would a big freelance journalist like you handle the story?’

She said that as if she still didn’t buy the journalist bit, but Matt, leaving the armchair for Nyssa, ignored the disbelief in her voice and stretched out on the bed. ‘Broadsheet or tabloid?’

‘Oh, let’s go for broke. Give me tabloid.’

He grinned and sipped thoughtfully at the brandy for a moment. ‘How about this. “Tonight, before a room packed with journalists, a daring attempt was made to kidnap Nyssa Blake. The dazzling redhead—”’ Nyssa snorted “‘—the dazzling redhead, twenty-two-year-old stepdaughter of millionaire businessman James Lambert, was grabbed on the point of launching her campaign to stop the destruction of the art deco Gaumont Cinema. Opened in Delvering in 1931 by home-grown silent screen star Doris Catchpole—’” Nyssa reprised the snort, except that this time it came closer to a giggle “‘—the Gaumont is due to be demolished by developers and replaced by a supermarket.’” He took another sip of the brandy. “‘The meeting had only just started when, as the lights dimmed for a slide presentation, the projector was overturned and smashed and Miss Blake was grabbed by an unknown assailant. Matt Crosby, thirty-four, freelance journalist, fought off her attacker and in the confusion carried Miss Blake to safety. Later, comforted by her rescuer in the safety of his hotel bedroom—’”

‘Oh, right, I get it—’

“‘—his hotel bedroom,’” Matt continued firmly, “‘Miss Blake bathed Mr Crosby’s injuries and wept, devastated by what had happened—’”

‘Stop it, Matt Crosby, journalist, aged thirty-four. That’s quite enough.’

‘You didn’t like it?’

‘I’d have to give you an E for effort, I suppose—’

‘Only an E?’

‘That’s all you deserve. You used far too many long sentences for the tabloids. But you’re clearly quite twisted enough to be a journalist. It would definitely be a U for accuracy.’

‘A U?’ he queried.

‘Ungraded.’

‘It’s nothing but the unvarnished truth,’ he protested.

‘Really? What about the fictitious Doris Catchpole?’ she demanded. ‘And when did I weep or say I was devastated by what happened this evening?’

‘Oh, that. Just a little poetic licence.’ He grinned. ‘You wouldn’t want me printing what you actually did say, would you? Not that a family newspaper would actually print the words, just the first letter and then some asterisks, but the great reading public would get the general idea…’

‘I’ll bet they would.’ She gave him a thoughtful look. ‘I don’t think I like you very much, Matt Crosby.’

‘It’s just a job, Nyssa. It’s nothing personal.’ He offered her the brandy glass. ‘Changed your mind about that drink?’

‘Yes. And the interview.’ She abandoned her tea and headed for the door. ‘I can’t say that it’s been nice knowing you…it hasn’t.’ She swept into the tiny vestibule and out of sight. He heard her flip the latch. Then, ‘Oh, hell!’

‘What’s up?’ he asked as she retreated back into his room.

‘There’s a crowd of journalists camped outside my bedroom door.’

‘In a hotel of this quality? I’m shocked.’

Nyssa glared at him. He was having considerable difficulty in keeping a straight face, she realised. ‘No, you’re not,’ she said. ‘You think it’s funny.’

He didn’t deny it. ‘But not entirely unexpected. In fact I seem to remember warning you that it was likely. Of course,’ he said, more soberly, ‘there’s always the possibility that not all of them are journalists. Did they see you?’

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