Georgia (65 page)

‘How much did you pay him for that garbage?’

‘I, I –,’ he stammered.

She thought of how much she’d feared these people, thinking they were like gods who couldn’t be beaten. Yet here was a little man in charge who couldn’t even shave himself without making a hash of it.

‘All right, so you don’t want to tell me that,’ she was calm now. She might even enjoy tearing him and his paper to shreds. ‘But I have the truth here,’ she put the envelope on his desk. ‘All you have heard is the outpouring of a bitter man who has misled you.’

She could smell Phillips’ fear. His Adam’s apple was leaping up and down, one eye was beginning to twitch. As his hand reached out for the envelope she remembered Celia.

‘Everything in there can be verified. I want you to find Mrs Anderson in return for that truth.’

He pulled out the six sheets of paper, flicked through them and put them down again.

‘You’ll read it now,’ she commanded. ‘Not tomorrow, next week or when it suits you. Now, while I’m here.’

‘Of course,’ he picked them up again, that Adam’s apple threatening to get caught on his collar.

Outside the window she could see only office windows and blue sky. A pair of pigeons were canoodling on a window-sill, the male spreading his tail and fluffing out his chest. The noise of traffic just a hum, subdued by the thick glass. It was strange to just sit silently while a total stranger read a story she had hardly been able to think about, much less tell.

It was a comfortable office, with a big grey desk and plants in tubs. His desk was covered in papers, two of the other chairs were piled high with cuttings and folded newspapers. There were large glossy photographs lying around, one of her, on a pile of papers, taken as she came back from America.

She could see Phillips was moved by the story. He bent closer to it, reading it slowly and carefully. His lips quivered, his fingers fiddled with his tie nervously, occasionally he glanced up at her, as if trying to fit the star in front of him into the story in his hands.

She heard a faint sigh as he finished it. An expression of profound sadness on his youthful face.

‘You write very well,’ Phillips looked up at her, but he couldn’t hold her steady gaze. ‘Why did you wait so long to contact me?’

Shame poured out of him. He was even honest enough not to try and wriggle out of it by counter-attacking.

‘I watched and waited,’ she said, but to her distress she could feel tears pricking her eyelids. ‘I wanted to watch every last louse crawl out of the woodwork. Have you got any idea how painful it was for me to relive that night? Do you know what you’ve done to me?’

‘I do now,’ Phillips’ eyes caught hers. Sympathy and understanding, mixed with a stronger desire to set things straight. ‘An apology seems futile.’

‘You will apologize, by printing the truth,’ she wasn’t going to let him off the hook just yet. ‘I expect you to use all your connections to find my foster mother too.’

He cleared his throat. Fear of a law suit flickered across his watery eyes.

‘Do you understand our position? It’s our obligation as a newspaper to print news as we are given it.’ His voice was firm, yet there was an undeniable tone of shame in it. ‘Mr Anderson’s story was printed in good faith, he had photographs and evidence to support it.’

‘I’m sure he did,’ she said. ‘He may be many things but he was always plausible. I believed in him myself until he raped me. But didn’t you even think of contacting me first?’

Phillips shrugged his shoulders and waved his hands.

‘That’s what a scoop is all about,’ he said. ‘We get a story, it sells our paper.’

‘Aren’t you wondering why I’ve brought this to you?’ she asked. ‘I could have gone to one of your rivals, dug up dirt about how you got Anderson to sell his soul.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ he croaked. She knew he was expecting news of lawyers. His earlier pink flush was turning a little green. She wanted to play with him, make him suffer as she had.

‘Because I want your whole-hearted commitment.’ She rapped one long nail on her story in front of him. ‘If you succeed in clearing my name, bring that bastard to justice and find my mother, then maybe I’ll just settle for a hefty donation.’

‘How much?’ he looked up quickly.

The sharp expression in his eyes made her think of Max. Funny how money changed people!

‘You misunderstand,’ she smirked. ‘I have all the money I need, the donation can go to charity, one that deals with runaway kids.’

Relief poured out of him. ‘That’s the least I can do.’

‘And you’ll find my mother?’

‘Any idea where she might be?’ There was a glow in his eyes, as if he relished the challenge.

‘No. I think she must have gone back to nursing. It must be somewhere remote or she would have read all this. I went back to Blackheath when I was sixteen, I tried to find her and Peter, but Peter’s mother sent me away with a flea in my ear and Mum had left.’

He put the end of a pen in his mouth, sucking at it thoughtfully.

There was something troubling him, something in her story which had tripped a wire. She could almost hear and see his brain mulling it over. Had Brian said something more which hadn’t been printed?

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘I can see something’s troubling you.’

He frowned. ‘I don’t know if it’s important,’ he looked down at her story again, then glanced back at her. ‘We had a telephone call just after the story broke. A young man, he wanted your address.’

‘Not another of those fictitious lovers?’ she laughed lightly. ‘What did he have to offer?’

‘To be honest, we thought he was one of those,’ Phillips looked uncomfortable. ‘But the boyfriend, Peter, you mentioned –’

‘It was Peter?’

Phillips heard the catch in her voice, saw her eyes widen and sensed the emotion the name evoked.

‘What’s his surname?’

‘Radcliffe.’

Phillips’ eyes closed for a moment. ‘That’s him. We had dozens of crank calls, so many we hardly listened to the filth they were saying, but –’

‘What did he say?’ Georgia was trembling now, every nerve-ending twitching. ‘Tell me.’

Phillips ran a finger round his collar, beads of perspiration were glistening on his upper lip.

‘Just that he was an old friend. He wanted your address or phone number.’

‘Why didn’t you give it to him then?’

‘We never part with that kind of information.’ Phillips looked shocked at the mere suggestion. ‘The only reason I even remember his name was because he made no startling revelations. The girl who took the call said he was a teacher.’

‘Did you take down his number or address?’

‘Of course,’ Phillips picked up a pen and fiddled with the point. ‘We always log it down. We even tried to ring him back, but there was no reply. I think the girl suggested he could write to you care of this office.’

‘And has he?’ Georgia’s eyes were like glowing coals.

‘I don’t think so, not yet.’

Georgia could feel her heart pounding, her palms sticky. The Peter she remembered wouldn’t sit and read lies without doing something.

‘He’s still special to you?’ Phillips’ voice softened.

‘Yes,’ she dropped her eyes and blushed furiously. ‘I never seem to be able to forget him. He might be married now, he certainly can’t feel the same about me still. But even so.’

‘You’d still like to see him again?’ Phillips raised one eyebrow.

‘Oh yes,’ she sighed.

Phillips could hardly believe what he was seeing and hearing. All through his interview with Anderson he had sensed something wasn’t quite right, he’d had to force himself to forget he was a fan of Georgia’s, give the public the story, putting aside his own qualms.

He knew he had the truth now, even without checking it out. But one thing was plain, he had to make amends for his paper’s part in it, and he hadn’t got to the position of Editor without knowing the value of emotional reunions.

‘Suppose I got him down to London?’ Phillips smiled. ‘Asked for his help. It would be easy for me to discover his circumstances without obligating him in anyway.’

‘Could you do that?’ As much as she wanted to rush down into the office further down the corridor, force them to give her Peter’s address and rush there immediately, she knew that wasn’t practical. The memory of his mother’s chilly face was still in her mind. ‘Peter when I knew him was the sort that hated injustice. That’s probably the only reason he rang here.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Phillips laughed.

‘You don’t know him,’ she said quietly. ‘Look, he’s known who I was all along. If he’d still held a torch for me he would have got in touch. That means he has someone else doesn’t it?’

‘I can hardly believe what I’m hearing,’ Phillips sat back in his chair his lips twitching with amusement. ‘You’ve been portrayed as a cross between Lizzie Borden and Lucrezia Borgia, yet you are apprehensive about causing a few ripples in an old love’s life.’

‘I’ll never forgive you if you turn it into a circus,’ she threatened.

‘I promise you no one will know about this until you say the word,’ he smiled. ‘And that’s one helluva promise for a newspaper man!’

Georgia stood up and held out her hand. ‘Ring me at nine tonight. I’ll put the phone back on specially.’

He took her hand and shook it.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he said warmly. ‘I’ll get this story ready for tomorrow’s paper and start the hunt for your mother. By the way,’ he blushed bright pink. ‘In all this I forgot to ask you. What are you going to do about Mr Anderson?’

‘I’d like to kill him,’ she smiled sweetly. ‘But please don’t quote me on that!’

Chapter 25

Georgia walked up the steps of the President Hotel, through the double glass doors and paused in the foyer.

She had butterflies in her stomach, her pulse was racing and she was no longer certain she was doing the right thing.

‘He’s at the President, in Bloomsbury,’ Phillips said on the phone at nine. ‘He wasn’t keen to stay overnight. I had to twist his arm by pretending I needed more information tomorrow.’

Why hadn’t she asked questions? Why hadn’t she stopped to think? If Sam hadn’t already left for a gig in the West End, he would have stopped her. The President wasn’t even a cosy little boarding house as she’d imagined, but instead a huge, red brick Gothic hotel, the sort she hated.

She had grown accustomed to the grandeur of places like the Savoy and Claridges. The staff so well trained that they treated everyone with the same courtesy whether they were rich and famous or just stepping in to make an enquiry. But this was one that catered for international business men. The heavy red velvet drapes with ornate gold tassles, the rich red and gold carpet, the dark flocked wallpaper and the padded leather reception desk gave an impression of illicit encounters, deals and intrigue. The sort of place where the staff wouldn’t balk at calling up a few journalists just to get their name in the paper.

‘I should have phoned and arranged to meet him somewhere,’ she thought as she approached the reception desk.

It was almost ten at night. She was attracting speculative glances from a group of middle-aged Americans in the lounge to her right, and a swarthy porter lounging by the lift. Down some stairs to her right came the sound of male laughter and clink of glasses.

Why hadn’t she asked Phillips how Peter reacted to his call? An hour ago it had been enough to know he’d got the first plane out of Manchester. But lack of hesitation on his part might only mean he had a day free.

‘I’d like to see Mr Radcliffe, please.’

The two women manning the reception desk were formidable fashion plates, in dark suits and candy-striped shirts. One peered at her suspiciously, glancing over the leather and wood counter at Georgia’s jeans and white sweater and sniffed in disapproval.

The younger of the two opened the register, and slid one red talon down the page. Her hair was cut in geometric Mary Quant style, it swung forward over one eye, sleek and dark.

‘He’s in 309,’ she said in a bored voice. ‘Would you like me to try his room?’

‘Yes please,’ Georgia could see the second woman studying her closely. It was that same expression people often had when confronted with her. Her face looked familiar, but they couldn’t quite place it.

‘No reply,’ the dark haired woman put the phone down and flicked back her hair. ‘Would you like to leave a message?’

On the fast drive across town Georgia hadn’t considered for one moment Peter might go out. She had merely visualized knocking on a door and Peter opening it. Now what should she do?

‘Is his key there?’ she asked. She could feel herself blushing and she knew the porter was now giving her bottom his undivided attention. Worse still, a man in a flashy checked suit had paused to consult a display of tourist information just to her left, and she sensed he was listening, about to offer her the kind of attention she didn’t want.

The woman turned to examine the board behind the desk.

‘No,’ she said curtly over her shoulder. ‘But that doesn’t mean anything, they always forget to hand them in.’

Georgia turned away in disappointment.

‘Excuse me!’

Georgia looked round. The second receptionist who had been studying her was leaning on the counter.

‘Is Mr Radcliffe young, tall, with blond hair?’

‘Yes,’ Georgia’s heart leapt, bringing a wide smile to her lips. In one bound she was back to reception, leaning on the desk. ‘Do you know where he went?’

‘In the bar,’ the woman smiled now, revealing a warmth that hadn’t been there moments before. ‘I’d forgotten until you looked so disappointed. He asked me earlier if he could borrow a street map, he took it in there with him to look at it. I could page him for you?’

‘I’ll just go in there,’ Georgia beamed at her. ‘Thank you.’

As she made her way down the thickly-carpeted stairs to the bar, men’s voices grew louder. A smell of cigar smoke wafted up to her and her knees were turning to jelly.

The stairs turned. In front of her she could see her reflection in yet another mirror framed by two tall imitation palms. Taller, more rounded than the night she ran with Peter across the heath, but her eyes were gleaming with excitement just as they had that night.