Page 22 of The Last Kiss Goodbye

Dominic took a long drag on his cigarette.

‘Until he died six years ago, my father was the manager of a grocery shop in Oxford. I was lucky enough to go to a decent boarding school in Kent, but that’s a world away from Eton, believe me. My political views are fluid, but in most people’s eyes quite central, and I launched Capital because I recognised that we are living in changing times and I wanted a talking shop to represent the excitement and change that is going on in London.’

The tinny chants of the Direct Action Group, huddled outside, floated through an open window, and Ros knew she could not stay here another moment.

‘Hmm,’ she said, trying to retain some dignity.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

She didn’t reply.

‘You don’t care for Capital magazine, but what is it you do care about, Rosamund Bailey?’

He looked at her directly, and for a moment he caught her off guard. Cursing herself for getting distracted by his eyelashes, she regained her poise.

‘I care about equality, fairness. I believe that everyone should have a chance regardless of who they are or where they were born.’

‘I think most people, on either side of the political fence, want that. Conservatism is rooted in meritocracy, liberalism in equality, but aren’t they just different ways of saying fairness?’

Ros snorted. She didn’t like feeling caught out. She liked being able to run people around in argumentative circles, but something was stopping her from taking Dominic Blake on.

‘Come on. Be more specific,’ challenged Blake. ‘What issues do you really care about? When you read the paper, what makes you boil with anger?’

‘I care that nuclear arms development is carrying on unchecked. I care that women’s rights are still not even nearly equal to men’s . . .’

?

?So write about it. For me. For Capital. Tell me what’s wrong, and why.’

‘Write for you? For Capital? You must be joking.’

‘I don’t joke about who I want to contribute to my magazine.’

‘I don’t want to write for Capital,’ she spluttered, not believing he had just suggested it.

‘Why not?’ he challenged.

‘You might not think it’s a right-wing mouthpiece but I certainly do.’

‘Miss Bailey, rallies in the street, even in Hyde Park, are all well and good, but more and more I think that politics is going to be fought in the papers, in radio debates and on the television news. I don’t doubt that you want your views to be heard, but what better way to do that than to have them printed in a serious magazine with clout that reaches people who can effect change?’

‘As if your readers are going to like my views,’ she scoffed.

‘Precisely,’ said Dominic bluntly. ‘Half of them probably don’t ever hear opinions like yours. They have friends just like them, who think just like them. How can you change how people think if you don’t give them something to think about? To make waves, Miss Bailey, you have to throw the pebble in the pond.’

Rosamund looked at him with resentful new eyes. A voice in her head told her that what he was saying made sense, but there was no way she was going to admit that to herself, let alone to him.

‘I should go,’ she said, glancing away.

‘That’s a shame.’ He picked up her hastily copied handbill again and shrugged. ‘Someone gave me one of these before you came in. I read it and thought it was good. For an overheated, one-sided argument, anyway. You have talent. Cut out the hectoring tone, and I do believe that people would enjoy reading your stuff.’

He stubbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray and opened his desk drawer.

‘The offer’s there, anyway,’ he said, pushing a business card across to her. ‘Perhaps you can ring me next time, instead of shouting outside my window.’

Chapter Seven

It was an ordinary street. So ordinary, in fact, that to Ros it almost felt like a parody. The trees, the neatly parked family cars, the low red-brick walls marking the edge of well-tended gardens trimmed with hedges and flower beds; it was as if someone had painted a picture entitled English Suburban Idyll and blown it up to full size. The strange thing was how distant, how detached from it Ros felt. Acacia Avenue, Teddington, had been the street she had played in as a child, running in and out of other families’ little gardens, riding her scooter then her bicycle along the pavement, chalking hopscotch squares on the flagstones. But now it was as if she was watching a movie of someone else’s life. It was familiar, yes, but at the same time somehow nothing to do with her, even though it was her home.