'Look, Mattie, I've picked up the phone a dozen times to call you since last week, but...'
'But what?' she snapped.
'I was afraid I couldn't find the words to stop you biting my head off,' he said softly.
'Then you were right!' But Mattie's voice had changed, growing gentler as she realised how totally she had lost her sense of humour. It wasn't Johnnie's fault, so why take it out on him, just because he was the only man around to kick? He was worth more than that.
Since his wife had died two years earlier, Krajewski had lost much of his self-confidence, both about women and his professional abilities. He had survived in his demanding job on the strength of his undoubted journalistic talents, but his confidence with women was only slowly returning, penetrating and gradually cracking the shell which his pain had built around him. Many women had tried, attracted by his tall frame, dark hair and deep, sad eyes. But he wanted more than their sympathy, and slowly he had begun to realise that he wanted Mattie. At first he had allowed himself to show no special interest in her, just the respect of a professional colleague which had only slowly developed into something more relaxed during their shared moments in the office and over countless cups of machine coffee. The thrill of the chase was at last beginning to return to his empty life, helping him tolerate the lash of Mattie's tongue. And now he sensed the softening in her mood.
'Mattie, let's talk about it. But not here, not in the office. Over dinner where we can get away from all this.' He made an irritated gesture in the direction of the editor's desk.
Is this an excuse for a pick up?' The slightest trace of a smile began to appear at the comers of her mouth.
'Do I need an excuse... ?'
She grabbed her bag and swung it over her shoulder. 'Eight o'clock,' she instructed, trying in vain to look severe as she walked past him and out of the office.
I’ll be there,' he shouted after her. ‘I must be a masochist, but I'll be there.'
And indeed at eight o'clock prompt, he was. They hadn't gone very far, just around the comer from Mattie's flat in Notting Hill to The Ganges, a little Bangladeshi restaurant with a big clay oven and a proprietor who ran an excellent kitchen during the time he allowed himself away from his passionate preoccupation with trying to overthrow the Government back home.
They were waiting for the chicken tikka to arrive when Mattie told him. ‘Johnnie, I've been burning up with anger all afternoon. I think I've made a terrible mistake. With all my heart I want to be a journalist, a good journalist. Deep down I always thought I could be a great journalist, but it will never happen working for a man like that, Grev Preston is not what I left everything behind and came to
London for, and I'm not taking any more of his crap. I'm quitting.'
He looked at her sharply and took his time in responding. She was trying to smile defiantly, but he could see the sense of bitter failure tearing at her inside.
Don't rush it. And don't leave until you have something else to go to. You would regret it if you were out of action right now, just when the political world seems to be falling apart.'
She looked at him quizzically. 'Frankly, Johnnie, you surprise me. That's not the impassioned plea to stay on as part of the team that I was expecting from my deputy editor.'
I'm not speaking as the deputy editor, Mattie. You mean more to me than that.' There was a short, embarrassed, very English silence which he covered by elaborately breaking a large hunk of nan bread in two. 'I understand why you feel like that. I feel exactly the same way.' There was an edge of bitterness in his words.
'You are thinking of leaving, too?' said Mattie with astonishment.
His eyes were dark and sad once more, but with anger rather than self pity.
I've been with the paper over eight years. It used to be a quality paper, one I was proud to work for - before the takeover. But what they have done to you, and what they are doing to everyone there, is not my idea of journalism.' He bit into the warm, spicy bread as he considered carefully what he would say next.
'As deputy editor I bear some responsibility for what appears in the paper. Perhaps I shouldn't tell you the story of what happened the other night, but I'm going to because I can't tolerate any more being stuck with the responsibility for the things that are happening now. Mattie, do you want to know what happened to your story?'
There was no need to answer the question. The chicken tikka and vegetable curry had arrived, with the strongly flavoured dishes crowded onto the tiny table, but neither of them showed any interest in the food.
That night a few of us were standing around in the news room shortly before the first edition deadline. It was a quiet night, not much late breaking news. Then Grev's secretary shouted across the floor that there was a phone call for him and he disappeared to take it in his own office. Ten minutes later he reappeared, very flustered. Someone had really lit a fire under him. 'Hold everything," he shouted. "We're going to change the front page." I thought, Jesus, they must have shot the President. He was in a real state, very nervous. Then he asked for your story to be put up on one of the screens. He announced we were going to lead with it, but first we had to beef it up.'
'But the reason he spiked it in the first place was because he said it was too strong!'she protested.
'Of course. But wait, it gets better. So there he was, looking over the shoulder of one of our general reporters who was sitting at the screen, dictating changes directly to him. Twisting it, hyping it, turning everything into a personal attack on the Prime Minister. And you remember the quotations from senior Cabinet sources on which the whole rewrite was based? He made them up, on the spot. Every single one of them. It was fiction from beginning to end. You should have been delighted that your name wasn't on it.'
'But why? Why on earth invent a story like that? Changing the whole editorial stance of the newspaper by dumping Collingridge. What made him change his mind in such a hurry?' She paused for a second, biting her lip with impatience. 'Wait a minute. Who was he talking to on the phone? Who was this so-called source in Bournemouth?' she demanded. 'Of course, I see it now.' She let out a low sigh of understanding. 'Mr Benny Bunter Landless.'
He nodded confirmation.
'So that's why Grev was jumping through the hoops and screwing around with my story. I should have realised it earlier. The ringmaster was cracking the whip’
'And that's why I feel I can't go on either, Mattie. We are -no longer a newspaper, we're beginning to act as the proprietor's own personal edition of Pravda’
But Mattie's curiosity had already begun to overhaul her own anger and disappointment. There was a story lurking somewhere, and the excitement of the chase began to take a hold on her. 'So Landless has suddenly turned against Collingridge. All his newspapers were craven sycophants during the election, yet now we are running a lynch party. Why, Johnnie, why?'
'That's an excellent question, Mattie, but I don't know the answer. It can't be politics, Landless has never given a damn about that. He has politicians of every party in his pocket. I can only think it's personal in some way’
If it's personal it must be business. That's the only thing which really rattles his cage.'
'But I can't figure out why he should have fallen out with Collingridge over business.'
'And I would love to know who he's got on the inside.'
'What do you mean?' asked Krajewski.
'Grev couldn't have concocted that article without the material on the opinion poll. Without my copy on which to work he had nothing, and without the leaked statistics I had nothing either. And at the same time as this occurs, Landless decides to ditch Collingridge. It's too much of a coincidence for that all to have come together by chance’. She banged her hand on the table with a renewed passion. 'But it can't be Landless on his own. There's somebody on the inside of the Party leaking polls and pulling strings.'
The same person who's supposed to have been leaking all the material since the election?'
'The one the Chief Whip was trying to sort out? That's a fascinating thought. He found nothing definite and before tonight I was never convinced that it was a deliberate campaign of leaks rather than a series of cock-ups ...'
'But now...?'
'Now I've got just two questions, Johnnie - who, and why?'
The adrenalin was pouring into her veins, replacing her earlier despondency with electric urges which tingled throughout her body and brain. She felt exhilarated. Something had touched her deep down, an almost animal lust to pursue her prey until she had found and trapped it. This is what she had come south for. This made it all worthwhile.
‘Johnnie, you sweet man. How wise you are! Something smells and I want to find out what -’I knew it when I saw Landless prowling around at Bournemouth. You're right. Now is definitely not the time to throw in the towel and resign. I'm going to get to the bottom of this even if I have to kill someone. Will you help me?'
If that's what you want - of course.'
'There's another thing I want, Johnnie.' She felt alive, charged with excitement and a feeling burning deep inside her which she thought she had long ago forgotten. Xet's pass on the bloody biryani and go back to my place. I've got a bottle of vintage Sauteme in the fridge, and I need some company tonight. All night. Would you mind?'