The Baby Claim. CATHERINE GEORGE
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news editor wanted covered, one day Joss was told to dig out information about ancestral homes hired out by their owners for corporate entertaining, and spent time consulting with the Daily Post library and electronic database to discover which aristocratic personalities and properties were likely to be most newsworthy.
‘We’ve got some mail for you,’ said Carrie Holt, when Joss was poring over her findings with a lunchtime sandwich. ‘And a message on the machine when we got home last night.’ She handed over a bundle of junk mail and a slip of paper. ‘How are you settling in at the flat?’
‘Very well,’ said Joss with satisfaction. ‘How about you and Notting Hill?’
‘I love it. I don’t know how you could bear to leave the place, Joss.’ Carrie bit her lip. ‘Sorry. I’m a tactless cow. I suppose it was painful once Peter left.’
The message Carrie gave her was brief. ‘I’m back. Ring me at this number. Adam.’
Joss wanted to. Badly. But if she did ring him, Adam, like any man with blood in his veins, would expect to take up where he’d left off. Half of her wanted that so much it made her shake in her shoes, but the other half wouldn’t hear of it. Peter’s treatment had left her so vulnerable it would be madness to plunge into a new relationship. Her mood had been abnormally emotional with Adam that magical night. But she was back to normal now. And normal didn’t include making mad, passionate love with strangers.
But when her phone rang late that night Joss felt oddly disappointed when she found it was just Anna, checking up on her.
‘Are you pining, Joss?’
‘No way. Too busy.’
‘Is everything spick and span at the new place?’
‘Hardly! I’ve only just got delivery of the new furniture, so the place is a mess. Who do you think I am, Superwoman?’
‘Leave it all where it is and come down to stay with us instead.’
Joss was deeply tempted. ‘I’d just love to, but the place is a shambles, Anna. I really must soldier on,’ she said with regret. ‘I’ll come down as soon as I’m a bit straighter.’
‘I’ll keep on until you do,’ threatened Anna, then went on to talk of wedding plans, and afterwards asked what Joss was up to at work, her interest caught when she heard about the article on ancestral homes.
‘One of Hugh’s old schoolfriends does that. He was at the party. Francis something. I’ll tell Hugh to give him a call.’
Next day Joss spent a morning on the phone, setting up interviews with the owners of various ancestral piles she’d decided on for her article, then settled down to one of the more mundane tasks of the freelance journalist, and began sifting through a pile of regional newspapers looking for stories that could be followed up on a national basis. When her phone rang Joss was heartily glad to be interrupted.
‘Miss Hunter?’ asked a light, attractive male voice. ‘My name’s Francis Legh. Hugh Wakefield rang last night, asked me to get in touch. What can I do for you?’
Hugh’s old schoolfriend, Joss learned, was only too pleased to be part of her story on corporate entertaining.
‘Publicity of the right kind never goes amiss,’ he assured her.
‘Would it be possible for me to see you this week?’ asked Joss hopefully. ‘Where exactly do you live?’
‘Deep in the wilds of Dorset. Do you know the area?’
‘Not very well, but if you give me the address I’ll find you.’
‘I don’t suppose you could possibly come on Sunday, Miss Hunter?’ he asked. ‘We’re having some fancy electronics installed during the week. On the other hand,’ he added suddenly, ‘it’s colossal cheek to ask you to give up your time on a weekend—’
‘Not at all. I’d be glad to,’ said Joss quickly. ‘What time shall I come?’
‘Midday,’ he said promptly. ‘I’ll give you lunch.’
The news editor buttonholed her shortly afterwards, with the news that Charlotte Tracy, who covered all the smart events of the season, had rung in to say she was going home early from Ascot with flu.
‘Flu in June,’ said Jack Ormond bitterly. ‘How the hell did she manage that? Anyway, Joss, it means you’ll have to cover Ladies’ Day at the races tomorrow. Thank goodness you can handle a camera—you know the happy-snappy kind of thing Charlotte turns in.’
‘You bet,’ she said with enthusiasm. But no way was she going to Ascot in her normal working gear of trouser suit and T-shirt. She was due at Harrods later, to interview a movie star at a book signing. Afterwards she would dash along the road to Harvey Nichols, splurge on an outfit for Anna’s wedding and wear it to Ascot first.
After her chat with the actress Joss rang in her brief report to accompany the glamour shot waiting to go with it, then spent an hour on choosing a bronze silk suit and large, flattering hat in creamy translucent straw. It’s for Anna, she reminded herself, wincing as she signed the credit card slip.
For once the British summer turned up trumps and favoured Ladies’ Day with glorious sunshine. Joss found a good place in the crowd at the rail in front of Tattersalls to watch the procession of carriages bearing the Queen and various members of the royal family, and afterwards wandered among the elegant crowds, murmuring discreetly into her little machine, pausing now and then to photograph a particularly adventurous creation. It was the outlandish which made news, and Joss snapped away at towering feathered confections and precarious architectural fantasies, glad for once of her height as she jostled to get a clear shot.
Towards the end of the afternoon Joss had seen quite enough hats to last her for life, and decided to take one last shot of the horses in the starting gate instead, then leave to beat the rush. Before she could get her shot in focus someone jostled her elbow, and instead of a row of snorting horseflesh she found she was looking through the viewfinder at the top half of a man who towered above the crowd. Joss stood rooted to the spot, her heart thumping at the discovery that Adam looked even better by daylight in morning coat and top hat, an opinion obviously shared by the woman gazing up at him raptly from under the brim of a sensational feathered creation. On impulse Joss snapped the striking pair, then pushed her way through the crowd before she was spotted, all her pleasure in the day gone. Seen in daylight, in all the glory of formal Ascot wear, Adam was even more impressive than she remembered. No wonder she’d wanted him to make love to her. But so did his beautiful companion by the look on her face. The pair of them had been obviously engrossed in each other. Joss drove back to London in a black mood, and snarled irritably at the wolf-whistles and lip-smacking which greeted her finery when she plunged back into the usual frenzy at the Post.
For most of the next day Joss found it hard to put Adam and his lady from her mind. How smug she had been, she fumed bitterly, about her virtue in avoiding another meeting. So smug she had no right to such irrational, mortifying jealousy. But because of it Friday seemed interminable, and when it was over at last Joss did her best to put Adam from her mind by spending a couple of lively, unwinding hours over a meal in a wine bar with a bunch of fellow journalists before she finally went home.
‘Joss,’ said Carrie Holt’s indignant voice on the answer-machine. ‘Two messages tonight. One from Peter and another from this mysterious Adam person. For pity’s sake give the men in your life your new number.’
Joss bit her lip. The Holts had every right to be annoyed. She would drop a line to Peter and tell him she’d moved, and not to get in touch again. Adam she would ring right now. She tapped in the number, then sat, tense, on the edge of the bed while she waited for him to answer. But the only response was a terse recorded message stating his number and a request for the caller’s identity. For a moment Joss was so shattered by disappointment she couldn’t speak. Then she pulled herself together and said coldly,
‘This is Eve. I’ve moved from the flat in Notting Hill. To make an entirely new start.