that within twenty five
years butterflies could become extinct across much of Europe and North America... "
Another environmental
story, thought Kate, and then wondered what she’d let herself in for.
By the time she came off air at mid-day the
entire office seemed to know that Jesse Gadden had called. Chloe Estevez shook
her head in giggly mock despair. “And you aren’t even a fan! What a waste!”
At the foreign desk Ned Swann was unusually
quiet.
"I shouldn’t really have taken the call
during the show," Kate told him as Chloe went off to a sandwich bar.
"They were probably fuming in the gallery. But this interview is important
to me….and probably to him, too.”
Ned snorted scornfully “You think? So why doesn't
he just do it, instead of all this pratting around?"
"He's a rock star. You know what they're
like."
Ned’s voice rose. "No, I don't know what
they’re like. And neither do you. You're a foreign correspondent….not a …."
He didn’t finish.
Kate was surprised at his sudden irritation. Ned,
a former war correspondent himself, and now in his late fifties, was known to
be hard on some of his reporters and contacts scattered around the world, but
he’d never been anything other than protective of her. "I was a
foreign correspondent," she snapped back. “But not, it appears, any more.”
Then, turning away, she checked her messages and logged off. "No word from
Seb Browne or Beverly in Ireland,
I suppose?" she asked the stand-in secretary, dropping her voice.
The girl shook her head.
"Oh, well, they know where to reach me.” And
throwing a tentative "Have a nice weekend" over her shoulder, she
left the office.
Ned ignored her.
Jeroboam rang while she was ironing her shirts
for the trip, a check call about a lesson they’d planned for the Saturday
afternoon.
“I’m sorry,” she apologised. “Something’s cropped
up. I have to work. I have to go away.”
He didn’t speak. He never did when he was
disappointed.
“We’ll do it next week. Promise. Can we make
another time?”
“All right.”
“By the way how’s the computer going?”
“It’s good. I’m teaching myself to do it. It can
correct the spelling.”
“That’s right. Excellent.”
The boy didn’t add anything further, although she
could hear his husky breath down the phone.
“So, do you want to make another plan? Would one
night next week be all right? Do you want to call me when I get back?”
“Yes,” said Jeroboam. “Bye!” And he hung up.
She returned to her ironing, irritated about
something but not quite sure what. She was on to her third shirt when she
realised. Jeroboam had made her feel guilty. “That boy…” she murmured.
Then smoothing a final silk shirt across the ironing
board, she set to it with a purpose.
Chapter Twelve
She saw the horses first, a dozen or more, lean
and handsome, cantering around the field at the edge of the estate, nervous at
the clatter of the rotor blade. But then, as the helicopter tilted and turned
and began its descent into the wooded valley, came the garden, the maze, the
tennis courts, the orchards and lawn and finally, at the top of an avenue of
fat oak trees, the house. Haverhill.
She couldn’t not smile. It was just so big, a white Palladian palace,
complete with columned portico and elegant side wings. History changed
little. Two hundred and fifty years ago newly rich entrepreneurs from London and Bristol
had commissioned the building of such homes to display their wealth and
sophistication. Today these houses belonged to the latest generation of the
suddenly rich, young men who played guitars.
She’d expected to travel down to Cornwall by car and
years butterflies could become extinct across much of Europe and North America... "
Another environmental
story, thought Kate, and then wondered what she’d let herself in for.
By the time she came off air at mid-day the
entire office seemed to know that Jesse Gadden had called. Chloe Estevez shook
her head in giggly mock despair. “And you aren’t even a fan! What a waste!”
At the foreign desk Ned Swann was unusually
quiet.
"I shouldn’t really have taken the call
during the show," Kate told him as Chloe went off to a sandwich bar.
"They were probably fuming in the gallery. But this interview is important
to me….and probably to him, too.”
Ned snorted scornfully “You think? So why doesn't
he just do it, instead of all this pratting around?"
"He's a rock star. You know what they're
like."
Ned’s voice rose. "No, I don't know what
they’re like. And neither do you. You're a foreign correspondent….not a …."
He didn’t finish.
Kate was surprised at his sudden irritation. Ned,
a former war correspondent himself, and now in his late fifties, was known to
be hard on some of his reporters and contacts scattered around the world, but
he’d never been anything other than protective of her. "I was a
foreign correspondent," she snapped back. “But not, it appears, any more.”
Then, turning away, she checked her messages and logged off. "No word from
Seb Browne or Beverly in Ireland,
I suppose?" she asked the stand-in secretary, dropping her voice.
The girl shook her head.
"Oh, well, they know where to reach me.” And
throwing a tentative "Have a nice weekend" over her shoulder, she
left the office.
Ned ignored her.
Jeroboam rang while she was ironing her shirts
for the trip, a check call about a lesson they’d planned for the Saturday
afternoon.
“I’m sorry,” she apologised. “Something’s cropped
up. I have to work. I have to go away.”
He didn’t speak. He never did when he was
disappointed.
“We’ll do it next week. Promise. Can we make
another time?”
“All right.”
“By the way how’s the computer going?”
“It’s good. I’m teaching myself to do it. It can
correct the spelling.”
“That’s right. Excellent.”
The boy didn’t add anything further, although she
could hear his husky breath down the phone.
“So, do you want to make another plan? Would one
night next week be all right? Do you want to call me when I get back?”
“Yes,” said Jeroboam. “Bye!” And he hung up.
She returned to her ironing, irritated about
something but not quite sure what. She was on to her third shirt when she
realised. Jeroboam had made her feel guilty. “That boy…” she murmured.
Then smoothing a final silk shirt across the ironing
board, she set to it with a purpose.
Chapter Twelve
She saw the horses first, a dozen or more, lean
and handsome, cantering around the field at the edge of the estate, nervous at
the clatter of the rotor blade. But then, as the helicopter tilted and turned
and began its descent into the wooded valley, came the garden, the maze, the
tennis courts, the orchards and lawn and finally, at the top of an avenue of
fat oak trees, the house. Haverhill.
She couldn’t not smile. It was just so big, a white Palladian palace,
complete with columned portico and elegant side wings. History changed
little. Two hundred and fifty years ago newly rich entrepreneurs from London and Bristol
had commissioned the building of such homes to display their wealth and
sophistication. Today these houses belonged to the latest generation of the
suddenly rich, young men who played guitars.
She’d expected to travel down to Cornwall by car and
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