Page 38 of The Love Letter
‘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 leant forward and stared at her intensely. ‘You know, Joanna, you have the most wonderful, unusual eyes. They’re tawny coloured, 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 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 theatre 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 theMorning 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 publicise something worthwhile, that could really make a difference to someone.’
‘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 broom 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.’
