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'Let me talk to Grev.'
'Sorry. I think he's busy on the phone.'
'I'll hold!'
In fact' said the deputy editor in a voice heaped with embarrassment, 'I know he's going to be busy for a long time and insisted that I had to be the one to explain it to you. I know he wants to talk to you, Mattie - but tomorrow. There's no point in trying to scream him into submission tonight.'
'So he's not running the story, he hasn't got the balls to tell me why, and he's told you to do his dirty work for him!' Mattie spat out her contempt. 'What sort of newspaper are we running, Johnnie?'
She could hear the deputy editor clearing his throat, unable to find suitable words to respond. Krajewski appreciated just how tearingly frustrated Mattie felt, not only with the story but with Preston's decision to use him as a buffer. He wondered if he should have made more of a fight of it on her behalf, but in recent weeks he had become increasingly distracted by Mattie's obvious if unpromoted sexuality and he was no longer certain just how professionally objective he was.
'Sorry, Mattie.'
'And screw you, Johnnie!' was all she was able to hiss down the line before slamming the phone back into its cradle.
She was consumed with anger, not only with Preston and politics but also with herself for being unable to find a more convincing argument to fight her cause or a more coherent way of expressing it.
Ignoring the tart look flashed at her by the conference steward on the next phone, she stalked across the foyer. 'I need a drink' she explained loudly to herself and everyone else within earshot, and made straight for the bar.
The-steward was just raising the grille over the counter when Mattie arrived and slapped her bag and a five-pound note down on the bar. As she did so she knocked the arm of another patron who was already lined up at the varnished counter and clearly intent on being served with the first drink of the night.
'Sorry' apologised Mattie huffily, without sounding entirely as if she meant it. The other drinker turned to face her.
'Young lady, you look as if you need a drink. My doctor tells me there is no such thing as needing a drink, but what does he know? Would you mind if a man old enough to be your father joins you? By the way, the name's Collingridge, Charles Collingridge.'
'So long as we don't talk politics, Mr Collingridge, it will be my pleasure. Allow my editor to buy you a large one!'
The room was spacious, but it had a low ceiling and it was packed with people. The heat from the mass of bodies had combined with the central heating to make the atmosphere distinctly muggy, and many of the guests were quietly cursing the insulation and double glaring which the architects had so carefully installed throughout 'Overtime Alley'. As a consequence the chilled champagne being dispensed by Urquhart's constituency secretary was in great demand, and it was already on its way to being one of his more relaxed conference receptions.
Urquhart, however, was not in a position to circulate and accept his guests' thanks. He was effectively pinned in one comer by the enormous bulk of Benjamin Landless. The newspaper magnate was sweating heavily and he had his jacket off and collar undone, displaying his thick green braces like parachute webbing which were holding up his vast, flowing trousers. Landless refused to take any notice of his discomfort, for his full attention was concentrated on his trapped prey.
'But that's all bloody Horlicks, Frankie, and you know it. I put my whole newspaper chain behind your lot at the last election and I've moved my entire worldwide headquarters to London. I've invested millions in the country. And if you lot don't pull your fingers out, the whole bloody performance is going down the drain at the next election. Those buggers in the Opposition will crucify me if they get in because I've been so good to you, but you lot seem to be falling over yourselves to open the damned door for them.'
He paused to produce a large silk handkerchief from within the folds of his trousers and wipe his brow, while Urquhart goaded him on.
'Surely it's not as bad as that, Ben. All Governments go through sticky patches. We've been through this all before - we'll pull out of it!'
'Horlicks, Horlicks, bloody Horlicks. That's complacent crap, and you know it, Frankie. Haven't you seen your own latest poll? They phoned it through to me earlier this afternoon. You're down another 3 per cent, that's 10 per cent since the election. If you held it today, you'd get thrashed. Bloody annihilated!'
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