are going to gobble us all
up. Well, perhaps not before time.” Then, glaring unhappily at himself in the
mirror, he added more quietly: "Perhaps a little bit more around the eyes,
d'you think, Della? Late night, last night."
Della, notionally deaf to any conversation
between presenters in which she had not been invited to contribute, did as she
was asked. She was a statuesque, black girl, whose own make-up was always
flawlessly applied.
At that moment Kate spotted what was really upsetting
Broomfield.
Pictured in the Guardian's screen devoted to WSN was a large flattering photograph
of herself reporting from Mombasa.
That would have irritated. Robin saw himself as the face of WSN.
Still grumbling he stood up as Della finished with
him. "Anyway, your turn. See you inside.” And pulling on his jacket, he
strode off to the studio.
Kate winked at Della. He wouldn’t be trying to
make her laugh this morning. But it was only as Della was putting a gown around
her shoulders and she glanced again at the newspaper that she noticed the story
on the facing page. It was about rock music and the internet. The photograph
illustrating it was of Jesse Gadden.
"Della," she said as the make-up artist
went to work. "Supposing you were going to interview Jesse Gadden, what
would you want to know?"
Della's concentration on her work never faltered.
"I'd like to know if he looks into a mirror when he says his prayers at
night," she said.
He telephoned during one of the mid-morning
breaks for sports news. Normally callers were told to ring back after the show,
but no one refused Jesse Gadden.
"Just to let you know I'm watching
you," he said quietly down the phone.
Surprised, she swivelled her chair away from Broomfield, who was
contemplating the racing pages in the Daily
Telegraph. She wasunsure of what
to say: "Sorry it's such a thin news morning." She wished he’d called
her mobile.
"Don't be. I like items on the weather in Antarctica. It broadens the mind. We get it over in Ireland,
too. Only we call it autumn."
Kate smiled. Environmental stories were regulars on WSN. They were cheap and offered
great visuals.
Gadden was still talking. "Anyway, I’ve been
thinking...what about the weekend?"
"The weekend? Didn’t they say ‘fine and
sunny’? Anyway, you won't be able to blame me. I'm off after today."
"So we could spend the weekend
together."
She was so taken aback she didn't answer.
"I have a house. In Cornwall…Haverhill."
"Er, yes, I know..."
"You'd like it. We could have a nice, quiet,
normal weekend. It would give us chance to sort a few things out...map out
areas…for the interview..."
" Twenty seconds, Kate ," the
warning came into her earpiece from the gallery. Everyone there would be watching
her, even though they wouldn't be able to hear what Gadden was saying. This was
a hell of a public way to be asked away for the weekend. Perhaps he’d intended
that.
She glanced at the clock. "I have to
go."
"I need an answer. Yes or no?"
"I can't talk now. We'll speak later."
"Yes or no?"
"I'm sorry, I..."
She was about to decline on the grounds that as
she was soon to interview him it would be unprofessional to accept his
hospitality, when he suddenly said: "Just say yes. Please." The plea
came like a murmur from one of his records.
She glanced at the camera.
" Ten seconds. "
"Yes, all right."
"Thank you," Gadden breathed.
Immediately his tone became business-like. "We'll pick you up at four this
afternoon then. See you later." And the line went dead.
Kate still held the phone.
"Well, Kate?" Broomfield was watching her. "Are you
with us?"
"Sorry." She put the phone down.
The red light came on. Staring into the camera,
and now pasting on his concerned expression, Broomfield began to read the next item from
the Autocue. "A report published today predicts
up. Well, perhaps not before time.” Then, glaring unhappily at himself in the
mirror, he added more quietly: "Perhaps a little bit more around the eyes,
d'you think, Della? Late night, last night."
Della, notionally deaf to any conversation
between presenters in which she had not been invited to contribute, did as she
was asked. She was a statuesque, black girl, whose own make-up was always
flawlessly applied.
At that moment Kate spotted what was really upsetting
Broomfield.
Pictured in the Guardian's screen devoted to WSN was a large flattering photograph
of herself reporting from Mombasa.
That would have irritated. Robin saw himself as the face of WSN.
Still grumbling he stood up as Della finished with
him. "Anyway, your turn. See you inside.” And pulling on his jacket, he
strode off to the studio.
Kate winked at Della. He wouldn’t be trying to
make her laugh this morning. But it was only as Della was putting a gown around
her shoulders and she glanced again at the newspaper that she noticed the story
on the facing page. It was about rock music and the internet. The photograph
illustrating it was of Jesse Gadden.
"Della," she said as the make-up artist
went to work. "Supposing you were going to interview Jesse Gadden, what
would you want to know?"
Della's concentration on her work never faltered.
"I'd like to know if he looks into a mirror when he says his prayers at
night," she said.
He telephoned during one of the mid-morning
breaks for sports news. Normally callers were told to ring back after the show,
but no one refused Jesse Gadden.
"Just to let you know I'm watching
you," he said quietly down the phone.
Surprised, she swivelled her chair away from Broomfield, who was
contemplating the racing pages in the Daily
Telegraph. She wasunsure of what
to say: "Sorry it's such a thin news morning." She wished he’d called
her mobile.
"Don't be. I like items on the weather in Antarctica. It broadens the mind. We get it over in Ireland,
too. Only we call it autumn."
Kate smiled. Environmental stories were regulars on WSN. They were cheap and offered
great visuals.
Gadden was still talking. "Anyway, I’ve been
thinking...what about the weekend?"
"The weekend? Didn’t they say ‘fine and
sunny’? Anyway, you won't be able to blame me. I'm off after today."
"So we could spend the weekend
together."
She was so taken aback she didn't answer.
"I have a house. In Cornwall…Haverhill."
"Er, yes, I know..."
"You'd like it. We could have a nice, quiet,
normal weekend. It would give us chance to sort a few things out...map out
areas…for the interview..."
" Twenty seconds, Kate ," the
warning came into her earpiece from the gallery. Everyone there would be watching
her, even though they wouldn't be able to hear what Gadden was saying. This was
a hell of a public way to be asked away for the weekend. Perhaps he’d intended
that.
She glanced at the clock. "I have to
go."
"I need an answer. Yes or no?"
"I can't talk now. We'll speak later."
"Yes or no?"
"I'm sorry, I..."
She was about to decline on the grounds that as
she was soon to interview him it would be unprofessional to accept his
hospitality, when he suddenly said: "Just say yes. Please." The plea
came like a murmur from one of his records.
She glanced at the camera.
" Ten seconds. "
"Yes, all right."
"Thank you," Gadden breathed.
Immediately his tone became business-like. "We'll pick you up at four this
afternoon then. See you later." And the line went dead.
Kate still held the phone.
"Well, Kate?" Broomfield was watching her. "Are you
with us?"
"Sorry." She put the phone down.
The red light came on. Staring into the camera,
and now pasting on his concerned expression, Broomfield began to read the next item from
the Autocue. "A report published today predicts
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