“Morning, Jo.” Alec gave her a fatherly pat on the shoulder as she passed his desk. “How are you?”
“Better, thanks.”
“Sorted out the mess at home yet? Your friend that called me said your apartment was a car crash.”
“Yup. They did an excellent job. I’ve got virtually nothing left.”
“Ah, well. At least you weren’t there when it happened, or walked in on them for that matter.”
“Yes.” She gave him a smile. “Thanks for being so good about it.”
“S’all right. I know how frightening it can be.”
Blimey, thought Joanna. He’s human after all. “What do you have for me today?”
“Now then, I thought I’d let you back in gently. You can either have ‘My Rottweiler is a kitty-cat really’—even though the dog took a chunk out of a senior citizen’s leg in the park yesterday—or you can have a nice lunch with Marcus Harrison. He’s starting up some memorial fund in remembrance of his granddad, old Sir James.”
“I’ll take Marcus,” said Joanna.
“I was thinking you might.” He wrote down the details and handed them to her with a sly grin.
“What?” Joanna asked, feeling her face color.
“Put it this way, from what I’ve heard on the grapevine, Marcus Harrison is more likely to chew you up and spit you out than the Rottweiler. Take good care, now.” He waved to her as he briskly walked away.
Joanna went to her desk and dialed Marcus Harrison’s number to arrange where they should meet, pleased at the coincidence. Given this whole thing had begun at James Harrison’s memorial service, perhaps she might find out if his revered grandfather had known a little old lady called Rose.
Surprised by his low, friendly voice on the phone, she agreed to meet him for lunch in a smart restaurant in Notting Hill. Leaning back in her chair, she thought this might be one of the more enjoyable jobs she’d done since arriving on the news desk and wished she’d worn something a little more glamorous than jeans and a sweater.
* * *
Marcus ordered a good bottle of wine from the maître d’. Zoe had already said he could charge all expenses associated with the memorial fund to the trust, and had issued him with a float of £500. He sipped the crisp Burgundy, feeling pleasantly mellow. Things did seem on the up.
Every time he had called Zoe in Norfolk about his plans for the fund, she had been sweetness and light, never once alluding to his appalling behavior of the week before. Something was going on in her life, he just knew it. Whatever it was that had given her that sparkle in her eyes, Marcus was glad of it. It had made his own life so very much easier.
He lit a cigarette and watched the door for Joanna Haslam, the journalist, to arrive.
At three minutes past one, a young woman entered the restaurant. She was wearing a pair of black jeans and a white sweater that clung to her breasts. She was tall and natural looking—hardly any makeup on her clear skin—very unlike the type he normally went for. Her thick, shiny brown hair hung heavy around her face, the curly ends falling beyond her shoulders. She followed the maître d’ to Marcus’s table and he stood up to greet her.
“Joanna Haslam?”
“Yes.” She smiled, and he found himself arrested by expressive brown eyes and dimples in her cheeks. It took him a second to recover.
“I’m Marcus Harrison. Thanks for coming.”
“Not at all.” Joanna sat down opposite him.
He felt momentarily dumbstruck—Joanna Haslam was an absolute knockout. “A glass of Burgundy?”
“Thank you.”
“Here’s to you.” He raised his glass.
“Thanks. Er, here’s to the memorial fund,” she countered.
“Of course.” He laughed nervously. “Now, before we get down to business, why don’t we order? Get it out of the way so we can chat.”
“Absolutely.”
From behind the safety of her menu, Joanna studied Marcus. Her stored mental picture had not been inaccurate. In fact, if anything, it had underplayed his attractiveness. Today, instead of the creased ensemble he’d worn to the memorial service, Marcus was wearing a soft wool royal-blue jacket and a black polo-neck sweater.
“I’ll have the soup and the lamb. How about you?” he prompted.
“I’ll have the same.”
“No baby leaves arranged on a plate and fashionably called a radicchio salad, then? I thought that was all you girls ate these days.”
“I hate to break it to you, but us ‘girls’ are not all the same. I was raised in Yorkshire. I’m a meat-and-two-veg woman through and through.”
“Are you now?” He raised an eyebrow at her over his wineglass, enjoying the hint of a Yorkshire accent in her soft, melodic voice.
“I mean”—she blushed, realizing what she had just said—“I enjoy my food.”
“I like that in a woman.”
Joanna’s stomach gave a twitch as she realized he was flirting with her. Trying to concentrate on the job at hand, she reached inside her rucksack and took out her tape recorder, notebook, and pen.
“Do you mind if I record the conversation?”
“Not at all.”
“Right. We’ll turn it off when we eat, otherwise you only pick up the crashing of cutlery.” Joanna put the tape recorder near Marcus and switched it on. “So, you’re launching a memorial fund in memory of your grandfather Sir James Harrison?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward and stared at her intensely. “You know, Joanna, you have the most wonderful, unusual eyes. They’re tawny colored, like an owl’s.”
“Thanks. So, tell me about the memorial fund.”
“Sorry, your beauty is distracting me.”
“Shall I put a napkin over my head for the duration of the interview?” Despite her ego’s being boosted by his compliments, Joanna was getting frustrated.
“All right, I’ll try to contain myself, but hold the napkin at the ready, won’t you?” He grinned at her and took a sip of his wine. “Right, where should I start? Well, Grandpa, dear Sir Jim, or ‘Siam,’ as he was known to his friends in the theater business, left a large amount of money in trust to fund two scholarships a year for talented young actors and actresses without means. You know how few and far between government grants are these days. Even those who do receive a grant often have to work during their time at drama school to fund their living expenses.”
As she tried to concentrate, Joanna could feel her body reacting instinctively to him. He really was incredibly attractive. She thanked God she’d taped the interview and could listen to it later—she’d hardly heard a word he’d said. She cleared her throat. “So, will you be accepting applications from any young actor or actress who has won a place at drama school?”
“Absolutely.”
“Surely you’ll be inundated?”
“I certainly hope so. We’ll be auditioning in May, and the more candidates, the merrier.”
“I see.”
The pea and pancetta soup arrived and Joanna switched the tape recorder off.
“This smells good,” said Marcus, taking a mouthful. “So, Joanna Haslam, tell me a little about you.”
“But I’m the one doing the interview!”
“I’m sure you’re much more interesting than I am,” he encouraged.
“I doubt it. I’m just a straightforward Yorkshire girl. It was always my dream to be a respected journalist.”
“Then what are you doing with the Morning Mail? From the sound of things, the broadsheets would be more your style.”
“I’m earning my stripes and learning all I can. One day I’d love to move to a more upmarket newspaper.” Joanna sipped her wine. “What I need is a great scoop to get me noticed.”
“Oh dear.” Marcus gave a mock sigh. “I don’t think my memorial fund is going to do that.”
“No, but I like the fact that, for a change, I’ll be helping to publicize something worthwhile, that could really make a difference to someone.”
&n
bsp; “A hack with morals.” Marcus’s eyes twinkled. “That is unusual.”
“Well, I’ve doorstepped and hassled celebrities with the rest of the mob, but I don’t like the way British journalism is going these days. It’s intrusive, cynical, and sometimes destructive. I’d welcome the new privacy laws if they were approved, which they won’t be, of course. Too many editors are in bed with those that run the country. How can the public ever hope to receive neutral information and form their own opinions when everything in the media has a political or financial bias?”
“Not just a pretty face, are we, Miss Haslam?”
“Sorry, I’ll get down from my high horse now,” she said with a grin. “Actually, most of the time, I love my job.”
Marcus raised his glass. “Well, here’s to the new breed of young, ethical journalists.”
As the soup dishes were removed and the lamb arrived, Joanna found her normally healthy appetite had deserted her. She picked at her food, while Marcus swept his plate clean.
“Do you mind if we continue?” Joanna asked, once the waiter had removed their dishes.
“Not at all.”
“Right.” Joanna pressed the record button on the tape recorder once more. “In his will, did Sir James specifically ask you to run the memorial fund?”
“It was left to the family—my father, my sister, and myself—to organize the trust. As Sir James’s only grandson, I’m honored to have been handed the job.”
“And of course your sister, Zoe, is so busy with her acting career these days. I was reading the other day she’s playing Tess in a film remake. Are you and your sister close?”
“Yes. Our childhood was—how can I put this?—varied, so we’ve always clung to each other for security and support.”
“And you were obviously close to Sir James?”
“Oh yes”—Marcus nodded without guile—“very.”
“Do you think being part of such an illustrious family has helped or hindered you? I mean, did it put you under pressure to achieve?”
He paused. “On or off the record?”
“Off, if you’d prefer.” Now that she’d drunk two glasses of wine, Joanna’s resolution to keep the interview professional had crumbled somewhat. She paused her tape recorder.
“It’s been a bloody burden, to be honest. I know how others might look at me and think, What a lucky sod. But in reality, having famous relatives is difficult. Currently, it’s feeling pretty impossible to outstrip what my father does, let alone my grandfather.”
Joanna noticed Marcus looked suddenly vulnerable, unsure of himself. “I can imagine,” she said softly.
“Can you?” He met her gaze. “Then you’ll be the first person to do so.”
“I’m sure that’s not true, Marcus.”
“As a matter of fact, it is. I mean, on paper, I’m quite a catch, aren’t I? Famous family, well connected, women presume I’m wealthy . . . It’s entirely possible that no woman has ever really liked me for myself,” he added. “I’ve not exactly had the most high-flying career, you know.”
“What kind of things have you done in the past?”
“Well, production has always been my favorite aspect of the movie business—the behind-the-scenes machinations, working out how all the various parts fit together, that’s what I’m really into. It’s also something that no one in the family has touched before, a niche I can actually call my own . . . not that any of my films have done well.” Marcus was surprised he was telling Joanna this, but her warmth elicited confessions.
“Would I have seen one of them?” she asked, intrigued.
“Erm.” He colored slightly. “Remember No Way Out? I don’t suppose you do, it went straight to VHS.”
“Sorry, I haven’t heard of it. What’s it about?”
“We went to Bolivia, into the Amazon rain forest, to shoot it—the scariest and most amazing time of my life, actually.” He brightened as he talked, his hands gesturing as he warmed to his subject. “It’s a spectacular and untamed place. The film was about two non-indigenous guys from the US who get lost in the depths of the forest as they hunt for a suspected seam of gold. Nature slowly swallows them up as they try to find their way out and they both end up dead. Rather depressing, now that I think about it, but it had a strong moral message about Western greed.”
“Right. So are you working on something now?”
“Yes, my production company, Marc One Films, is just trying to gather the funds for a fantastic new script.” He smiled and Joanna could feel the excitement emanating from him. “It’s the most incredible story. When I was traveling in the Amazon, I was lucky enough to meet some of the Yanomami—they’re a tribe that didn’t make contact with the Brazilian government until the forties. Can you imagine being cut off from modern civilization, and the shock of finding your world is so much bigger than you thought it was?”
“So a bit more extreme than coming to London from Yorkshire then?” Joanna said. She felt stupidly gratified that he laughed at her weak joke, and she kicked herself for being so keen.
“Rather more extreme, yes,” he continued. “They were a very peaceful people—their culture was the ultimate democracy: they didn’t even have chieftains, they made all their decisions by consensus, with everyone getting their say. The plot is about when the Brazilian government—without warning—drove bulldozers through their village to construct a major road.”
“That’s horrendous! Did they actually do it?”
“Yes!” Marcus threw his hands in the air. “It’s just disgusting. The film’s also about how, in the past few decades, a huge part of their population has been wiped out by diseases, and about the consequences of deforestation, murderous gold miners . . . It’s also got a beautiful love story, with a tragic but moving end, of course, and . . .” He trailed off and looked at her sheepishly. “Sorry, I know I get really worked up. Zoe always gets bored when I talk to her about it.”
“Not at all.” Joanna had been so swept up listening to him that she had almost forgotten her brief. “It sounds like an amazing and worthwhile project. I really wish you luck with it. Now, I’d better get some statistics on the memorial fund, or my editor will have my head on a plate. Can you give me the date the applications have to be in by, the address to write to, and that sort of thing?”
Marcus talked for ten minutes, telling Joanna all she needed to know. She rather wished she could interview him about his film project instead, as the memorial material felt stale in comparison.
“Right. Thanks, Marcus, that was great,” she said, gathering her notes. “Great. Oh, one last thing: we will be needing a photograph of you and Zoe together.”
“Zoe’s in Norfolk on location. She’s there for ages.” Marcus’s eyes glinted. “I know I’m not as famous or pretty as my sister, but you’ll just have to make do with me.”
“That’s fine,” she said quickly. “If they want Zoe, they can always use a still from her file.” She reached to turn the tape recorder off, but Marcus stopped her by putting his hand around her forearm. A burst of electricity shot across her skin at his touch. Marcus put his mouth close to the tiny microphone and whispered something into it.
He lifted his head and smiled at her. “You can turn it off now. Brandy for you maybe?”
Joanna glanced at her watch and shook her head. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid I have to get back to the office.”
“Okay.” Marcus looked deflated as he signaled for the bill.
“The picture desk will be in touch about the photographs, and really, thanks for lunch.” Standing up, she stuck out her hand, expecting him to shake it. Instead, he gently lifted it to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
“Goodbye, Miss Haslam. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Bye.” She left the restaurant on wobbly legs and returned to the office in a haze of wine and lust.
She sat down at her desk, rewound the tape recorder a little, then pressed play.
“Joanna Haslam. You are gorg
eous. I want to take you out to dinner. Please ring me on 0171 932 4841 to arrange this as a matter of urgency.”
She giggled. Alice, the reporter who sat at the next desk, glanced over at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You went to lunch with old ‘Hands-on Harrison,’ didn’t you?”
“Yes. So what?” Joanna knew she was blushing.
“Leave well alone, Jo. I had a friend who dated him for a bit. He’s a total cad without an ounce of moral fiber in his body.”
“But he’s—”
“Handsome, charismatic . . . yeah, tell me about it.” Alice took a bite of her egg sandwich. “My mate spent a year getting over him.”
“I have no intention of getting involved with Marcus. I’ll probably never see him again.”
“Oh? So he didn’t ask you out to dinner then? Or give you his telephone number?”
Despite herself, Joanna’s blush became deeper.
“Of course he did!” Alice smirked. “Just watch yourself, Jo. You’ve had enough heartbreak recently.”
“Thanks for reminding me. Excuse me, I’ve got to get this typed up.” Irritated by both Alice’s patronizing manner and her probably accurate assessment of Marcus—despite his ethical streak—she stuck on her headphones, plugged them into her tape recorder, and began the transcription of the interview.
Five minutes later, the color had drained from Joanna’s face. She sat staring at the screen, her fingers pressing rewind on the tape recorder and returning repeatedly to the same words Marcus had spoken.
She’d been so busy drooling over him that she’d missed the moment he’d said it. Siam . . . Apparently it was Sir James Harrison’s nickname. Joanna took off her headphones and drew the by-now-creased photocopy of the love letter out of her rucksack. She studied the name on the letter. Could it be . . . ?
She needed a magnifying glass. She left her chair and wandered round the office in search of one. Having eventually purloined one from Archie, the sports reporter, Joanna returned to her seat and trained the glass on the first line.
The Royal Secret Page 11
