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Mattie's original intention had been to take the whole week off recovering from the after-effects of the media circus which had spent the best part of six weeks travelling around some of the country's less splendid bars and boarding houses following the various political parties' annual conferences. It was an exhausting schedule, and most of the following weekend she had intended to devote to sampling some exotic Chilean wines and soaking in the bath. But the relaxation she sought proved to be elusive. Her indignation at the way Preston had not only trampled on her story but also abused her sense of journalistic pride seemed to make the wine taste acidic and the bathwater turn cold.
So she tried burning off her anger with strenuous physical work, but after three days of taking it out on the woodwork of her Victorian apartment with sandpaper and paint, she could stand hex frustration no longer. On Tuesday morning at 9.30, Mattie was planted firmly in the leather armchair in front of the editor's desk, determined not to move until she had confronted Preston. He would not be able to put me phone down on her this time.
She had been there nearly an hour before his secretary peered apologetically round the door. 'Sorry, Mattie. He's just called in to say he's got an outside appointment. He won't be in until after lunch.'
Mattie felt as if the world was conspiring against her. She wanted to scream or smash something or put chewing gum in his hair brush - anything to get her own back. It was therefore unfortunate timing that John Krajewski decided at that moment to see whether the editor was in his office, only to discover an incandescent Mattie.
'I didn't know you were in!'
I'm not,' she said between clenched teeth. 'At least, not for much longer.' She stood up to go.
Krajewski was ill at ease and awkward, glancing around the room to make sure they were alone.
'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
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