His Personal Agenda. Liz Fielding

tiny buttons over breasts lifted and emphasised by a black lace bra, the kind of bra that had caused traffic accidents when the advertising hoardings went up.

      She was well aware that the effect was sexy as well as dramatic. It had been planned that way. Short of World War Three breaking out, that glimpse of cleavage would guarantee her a place on the front page of every tabloid tomorrow morning.

      She’d learned a lot in three years of campaigning. More than how to walk past a security guard and have him hold open the door for her even as she breached his defences. More than how to convince cynical reporters that she was right. More than how to stick it out when she appeared to be the only person in the whole world who cared…

      As she fastened a pair of antique jet drops to her earlobes, there was a tap at the door.

      ‘Nyssa?’

      Her hands trembled as she was seized by nerves and she nearly dropped one of the precious earrings, fielding it with fingers that were suddenly all thumbs. Damn! She hung onto the edge of her dressing table for a moment, taking slow, careful breaths until she recovered. Then she carefully fastened the second drop, painted a smile on her face and opened the door.

      ‘Gil!’ She tried to keep the heartleap out of her voice. Since her group had grown so loud and annoyed so many important people, her brother-in-law had been trying to get her to use one of the specially trained drivers from his security company. So far she had managed to resist him, but on occasion Gil would turn up before a big event to ‘offer her a lift’. And his home was not more than twenty or so miles away from the bustling market town of Delvering. ‘How unexpected,’ she said, managing just a touch of irony. ‘Just passing, were you?’

      ‘Not exactly. But I thought you might welcome a little moral support.’

      Moral support was the last thing she wanted from her brother-in-law. ‘I have the uncomfortable feeling that, roughly translated, that means you still think I’m a little girl who has bitten off a chunk more than she can chew. Right?’

      She longed for him to deny it, but he just laughed. ‘I might think it, but I wouldn’t dare say it. Not the way you’re looking tonight.’

      ‘Really?’ She hated his laughter, but she’d learned not to let her feelings show around Gil; it wasn’t his fault that she was in love with him, so she kept her voice light. ‘Was that a compliment? I couldn’t be quite sure.’

      ‘Don’t fish, brat. You’ll have every man in the country leering over your picture in the papers tomorrow. Isn’t that enough?’

      No. Of course it wasn’t. There was only one man she had ever wanted to leer at her. Unfortunately he was married to her stepsister.

      ‘Only if it encourages them to write to the Department of the Environment and demand a planning enquiry,’ she said briskly. ‘Is Kitty with you?’

      ‘No, Harry’s got the sniffles and you know how she fusses about him, but she sends her love.’ He paused. ‘Actually, she’s a bit tired…’ Nyssa, not exactly panting to hear about his domestic life, smiled politely and made a move towards the door. Gil put his hand on her arm, stopping her. ‘I wanted you to be the first to know, Nyssa. She’s expecting another baby.’

      He had wanted to tell her himself. Before someone else did. That was why he’d come tonight.

      He’d never said a word, yet it was obvious that he knew all about the schoolgirl crush she’d had on him. A friend of her father’s, albeit a younger one, he had tried to be kind, walking on tiptoe around her feelings, taking care not to hurt her. It was why he still treated her like a schoolgirl, because he suspected, as Kitty did, that it wasn’t just a schoolgirl crush. Well, it couldn’t be, could it? She wasn’t a schoolgirl any more; she was twenty-two. And kindness was the last thing she wanted from him.

      ‘I’m very happy for you both,’ Nyssa said, brightly enough. ‘Have you told James and Sophia?’ She hadn’t been able to bear calling her mother anything but Sophia since she had married Kitty’s widowed father—the memory of her own father was still too precious. ‘You’re going down for James’s birthday, I imagine?’ Nyssa asked.

      ‘We thought we’d tell everyone then. You’ll be there, won’t you?’

      ‘If I can,’ she hedged. ‘The feeling is that Parker will attempt to demolish the cinema quickly, before we can get it listed.’ She frowned. ‘He’s been very slow off the mark.’

      ‘Sophia will be terribly disappointed if you don’t come,’ Gil said, distracting her. ‘We could give you a lift down if you don’t want to drive yourself.’

      ‘No. I’ll try. Really.’ And then she’d discover something desperately important to do. The alternative was to go and smile and hide her feelings, as she had been doing ever since Gil and Kitty’s wedding. Except that if she stayed away Kitty would know why and feel sorry for her. And her mother would know why and worry about her. And Gil would know why and feel guilty. She couldn’t win. But at least she had an excuse to send him away now. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Gil. You should be at home with Kitty.’

      ‘She wanted me to come. She worries about you, too, Nyssa.’

      Did he really think that knowing his wife had sent him would help? ‘The entire Lambert clan appear to have cornered the worry market on my behalf, but it really isn’t necessary. I’m among friends here, Gil. The worst thing that’s going to happen is the slide projector jamming in the middle of my presentation.’

      As if to confirm the truth of her words, someone beat a lively tattoo on the door. ‘Nyssa? Are you ready? We’re all down in the bar waiting for you.’

      ‘I’ll be right with you, Pete. Get me an orange juice, will you?’

      ‘Who’s that?’ Gil asked. ‘Your boyfriend?’ He sounded hopeful.

      ‘Boyfriend?’ She laid her hand against her breast and managed a laugh. ‘What a quaint, 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