Page 140 of The Last Love Song
‘This is urgent. Tell her it’s Sorcha Daly. I have to speak to hernow.’
‘Okay, Mrs Daly, hold on and I’ll see what I can do.’
Sorcha waited in an agony of frustration.
‘Sorcha, it’s Helen. Where are you?’
‘I’m at the Post House in Hampstead. Oh, Helen...’ Sorcha swallowed a sob. ‘Did you see theDaily Express?’
‘Yes, I saw it.’
‘I’m sorry to call you, but theDaily Mirrorhave just phoned me. The press know where I am and they’ll be swarming all over the place soon. I...I don’t know what to do.’
‘Okay. First, stop panicking. We’ll get you out of there. Pack your things and I’ll send a car to you now. You can go to my house in Holland Park. No one will find you there. Katie, the maid, will let you in. Stay there until I get home, then we can discuss it further. There must be a back door you can use at the hotel?’
‘I don’t know, I really don’t.’
‘Come on, Sorcha, hold it together. I’m going to put the telephone down now and call the hotel manager. I’ll have him escort you to a rendezvous with the car. Okay?’
‘Yes. Thanks, Helen. Sorry. It’s just all so...sordid.’
‘I know. I’ll call you in an hour. You should have arrived in Holland Park by then. Bye, Sorcha.’
Sorcha put the telephone down and reached for her case, flinging the bits and pieces she’d brought with her back inside. Then she dressed and searched for her sunglasses to hide her pale, drawn face from the possible intrusion of a camera lens.
‘Dammit!’ They were in her car, parked outside. They might as well have been on Mars.
Sorcha closed her case and sat on the bed to wait. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Mr Adams, the hotel manager. I’ve just talked to Miss McCarthy.’
‘Okay.’ Sorcha unlocked the door.
The manager smiled at her. ‘She’s asked me to escort you to your car. I sent it round the back.’
‘Thank you.’
‘If you’d like to follow me.’ He picked up her case and set off down the corridor towards the lift. ‘I’m afraid there’s a pack of newshounds and photographers at the front waiting for you to emerge. There’s only one exit for cars from the back, so the cab will have to run the gauntlet. It’s the best we can do.’
They took the lift to the ground floor and Sorcha followed him through a maze of corridors.
‘Here we are.’ The manager stopped in front of an emergency exit and pushed the mechanism. A car was waiting by the pavement. Sorcha hurried over to it, pulled open the back door and got inside as the manager placed her case in the boot. He tapped on the window and motioned for Sorcha to wind it down.
‘It’s been a pleasure having you, Mrs Daly. I hope you’ll recommend us to your friends. Here’s our bill.’ He handed her a white envelope.
‘Thank you. I’m very grateful for your hel—’
‘Hey! There she is! Sorcha’s round here!’ a voice screamed.
Sorcha wound up the window and the driver pulled forward. As the car turned the corner, an onrush of reporters and photographers came running towards the car.
‘Don’t worry, love. We’ll get through. Won’t take a minute. I’ll run the buggers over if needs be.’ The elderly driver pressed on his horn and continued to drive forward determinedly into the mass of people.
Flashbulbs popped and reporters knocked on the window, mouthing words Sorcha couldn’t hear. She looked straight ahead and willed herself not to cry. Eventually, they reached the car-park exit and Sorcha watched the reporters scatter and head for their vehicles.
‘Now, miss, hold on to your hat and we’ll lose the little rats.’
