‘Well, no. Although I can see it might be better from a business point of view,’ said Jillie. ‘Look, why don’t we go and have coffee before you unload? Would you like some orange juice or something? Mrs Hemmings does a big jugful on Sunday mornings.’
Julius said he couldn’t think of anything more wonderful than some of Mrs Hemmings’s orange juice, and while he waited in the morning room for her to return with it, admiring the extraordinarily pretty rug on the polished floor and the small Staffordshire pieces in a cabinet by the fireplace, he reflected on what a perfect environment Jillie had grown up in and wondered where the sadness came from and how on earth he would find out. Because, having seen her again, heard her voice again, watched her move again, he wanted to know every single, small and large thing about her.
‘Now,’ he said when he had eaten a large number of biscuits, drunk two glasses of the orange juice and two cups of coffee, and they had discussed the relative headlines in the Observer and the Sunday Times, ‘I think we should go and unload the dressing table.’
‘Will you be able to manage on your own?’ said Jillie anxiously. ‘No gardener around, it being Sunday, although I’m very strong.’ He assured her the dressing table was not heavy, not very big, and in no way a problem.
‘Then I must move my car out of the garage, and we can put the table in its place, covered up, and maybe a couple of tyres or something in front of it.’
He watched as she emerged at the wheel of her pretty little dark green Austin.
‘That is lovely,’ he said, as she got out of it.
‘Well, thank you. I love old cars, so does Daddy. He has a most beautiful pre-war Mercedes – go and have a look if you like.’ He went in, and gazed almost awestruck at the pale blue creation, with its lovely low lines, swooping running board, and huge array of lamps.
‘It’s glorious,’ he said. ‘Does he drive it?’
‘Oh yes, every week – not Sundays, because he can’t bear Sunday drivers, but one day in the week if he has time he takes it for a run down to the coast. I used to go with him, when I was little, and then in the holidays, but now of course I can’t.’
And Julius said, while knowing he should not, ‘I have a special car, a 1930s Bentley, that likes a run, and I don’t mind Sunday drivers, so if that would make up for the loss of your Mercedes rides, I’d love to take you sometimes.’
And Jillie, also knowing she should not, said carefully that that would be lovely some time, and then rather rushed him into getting the dressing table out of the van and into the garage, lifting the dust sheet he had placed over it to admire it politely.
‘She’s going to love it,’ she said untruthfully.
‘Josh. Sit down. I want to discuss something with you.’
Harry Campbell’s face was unreadable as he looked at Josh across his vast desk.
Josh looked back, wishing his could be the same. It was a bit of a gift as a journalist, as in poker: and actually the qualities that made a good poker player – courage, appearing to know more than you did, keeping steely calm under pressure and of course the blank face – were all enormously helpful in pursuit of a difficult story.
‘Right,’ Josh said.
‘It’s homosexuality. And the attitude of the law. I think we should run a piece about it, possibly make it a cause. We need one, haven’t had a good one for a bit. I like us to be unpredictable, and I think our readers – amongst whom of course there must be many such – are educated enough to take it. Well, some of them.’
‘Ri–ight.’ Presumably he meant in favour, Josh thought, but there was no real telling with him.
‘What’s your view on it, eh? Let’s get that established first.’
‘I think it’s appalling,’ said Josh simply. ‘Really shocking.’
He hoped this wasn’t going to lead back to Ned and Jillie’s wedding. Campbell had been very good about it at the time, not pressed him in any direction, but if he had a bee in his editor’s hat, there was no telling.
‘Well, do you think the readers would cope with it?’
‘I – think it would be pretty brave,’ said Josh honestly. ‘I mean, we do lean to the right. Some of them could agree, but an awful lot wouldn’t. We could lose some of them. If we made it a cause, that is.’
‘Well, let ’em go,’ said Campbell easily. ‘Plenty more where they came from.’
Josh knew that was far from what he really thought; he counted every additional thousand readers as treasure beyond price. He also knew it meant Campbell was serious about it.
‘Anyway, Josh – do some research first. I’m not wild about quite a lot of it, mind you. Cottaging – you know, meeting in public lavatories – for instance, makes me heave. I just don’t like injustice and persecution. Or blackmail, which is where it so often leads. Find a few people you can talk to, then get back to me, all right?’
‘All right,’ said Josh. ‘And thanks.’
Harry laughed. ‘You may not be thanking me in a week or so. This is not an easy one.’
It wasn’t. By the end of ten days, he had a lot of rather dull factual stuff, which would form the bare bones of the piece, but now he wanted gossip – gossip and froth from a completely fresh perspective. And it was proving hard to find.
It was Jillie who had the idea: he had taken her out to dinner at the Trocadero, to thank her for her help with Julius Noble and his fiancée, and found himself, after three Martinis and some excellent lobster thermidor, telling her about the article.
‘It’s brave of the Daily News, or rather Harry Campbell, and I think he’s going to make it a cause for the paper.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Jillie. Her face was carefully blank and Josh knew why; he had always suspected the reason behind the cancelled engagement, although it had never been confirmed by anyone, in or out of the family, and he hoped she didn’t think he was trying to draw her on the subject.
‘Yes. And I think it would be a wonderful thing if he does. The whole thing is so filthily unfair, and as Campbell says, it’s turned into a witch hunt. I hate the labels too: “gross indecency”. Look what happened to Turing. The police had him marked down, and somehow after reporting a breakin, he was charged with it, arrested, and forced to undergo what they called hormone therapy. No wonder he topped himself.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ she said.
‘Oh, I’ve unearthed a lot of similar stories. They’ve all been turned into criminals.’
‘Where is this leading, Josh?’
‘Oh – nothing you can help with. But I’m a bit stuck at the moment for what I’d call gossipy stuff, bit more light hearted, even scurrilous if you like, don’t know where to find that. Your lobster all right?’
‘Lovely, thank you. You should ask someone in the theatrical profession – they seem to get away with it. No?l Coward wears it like a banner.’
‘Well, he’s hardly likely to answer my calls, is he?’
‘What about an interior designer? Or a photographer?’