His Personal Agenda

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‘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?’