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'Opinion Research Survey
No. 40, 6 October - secret',
emblazoned across the top.
She rubbed her eyes to open them properly. They've surely not started giving them away with the Mirror, she thought. Mattie knew the Party conducted weekly surveys to track the nationwide movement of public opinion on political issues, but these had a highly restricted distribution to Cabinet Ministers and only a handful of top Party officials. She had been shown copies rarely and only when they had good news to convey which the Party wished to publicise; otherwise they were kept under strictest security. She wondered what good news could possibly have been found in the latest survey, and why it had been delivered wrapped up like fried fish and chips.
The contents of the note made her rub her eyes once more. The Party, which had won the election with 41 per cent of the vote, now had only 31 per cent support, 14 per cent behind the main Opposition Party. Even more damaging were the figures on the Prime Minister's popularity. Less than one in four now preferred him while the new Leader of the Opposition stood at well over 50 per cent. It made Collingridge more disliked than any Prime Minister she could remember.
Mattie squatted on her bed. She no longer needed to ask why she had been sent the information. It was dynamite, and she felt the paper almost burning in her hand. 'Government crashes in opinion polls', it seemed to say as she composed her own introduction. And someone wanted her to throw this explosive news right into the middle of the party conference. It was a deliberate act of sabotage which would be an excellent story-her story, as long as she got it in first.
She grabbed for the telephone. 'Hello, Mrs Preston? It's Mattie Storin. Is Grev there, please?'
There was a short pause before her editor came on the phone, and his husky tones announced that he had just been woken up.
'Who's died?' 'What?'
'Who's bloody died? Why else would you call me at such a bloody stupid time?'
'Oh, nobody. I mean... I'm sorry. I forgot what time it was.'
'Shit.'
'Sorry, Grev.'
'Well, something must have happened, for pity's sake.'
'Yes, it came with my morning newspapers.' 'Well, that's a relief. We're now only a day behind the rest.'
'No, Grev. Listen will you? I've got hold of the Party's latest polling figures. They're sensational!'
'How did you get them?'
They were left outside my door.'
'Gift wrapped, were they?' The editor was clearly having great difficulty controlling his sarcasm.
'But they're really sensational, Grev.'
'And who left them outside the door, Santa Claus?'
'Er, I don't know.' For the first time a hint of doubt crept into the young journalist's voice. She was waking up very rapidly now.
'Well, I don't suppose Henry Collingridge left them there. So who do you think wanted to leak them to you?'
Mattie's silence could not hide her confusion.
'Were you out on the town with any of your colleagues last night?'
'Grev, what the hell's that got to do with it?'
'Have you never heard of being set up by your so-called friends?' The editor sounded almost despairing.
'But how do you know?'
'I don't bloody know. But the point is, Wonder Girl, neither do bloody you!' There was another embarrassed silence from Mattie before she decided to have a last, despairing attempt to restore her confidence and persuade her editor. 'Don't you even want to know what they say?'
'No. Not if you don't know where they come from or can't be certain they are not a stupid hoax. And remember, the more sensational they look, the more certain it is that you're being set up.'
The crash of the telephone being slammed down exploded in her ear. It would have hurt even had she not been hung over. What a mug. As her headline dissolved back into the grey morning mists of her mind, her headache returned, more insistent and painful than ever. She needed a cup of black coffee badly.
Twenty minutes later Mattie eased gently down the broad stairs of the hotel and slipped into the breakfast room. It was still early and there was only a handful of early morning enthusiasts yet about. She sat down at a table on her own and prayed she would not be disturbed. She hid herself in a copy of the Express and hoped people would conclude that she was working rather than fixing a hangover.
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