The Goldenacre by Philip Miller

Author:Philip Miller [Miller, Philip]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Birlinn
Published: 2022-06-01T16:00:00+00:00

19

Shona Sandison stared at her phone. Her father was making a racket in the bathroom, and she was wondering what to say to the Civic Gallery in London. Tallis had worked there. She did not really care about his life in London – nor would her paper’s readers. But there was something shadowy about him.

She had to find out what it was.

And she had to make some calls before she spoke to the man himself. Sometimes, she knew, a reporter had to circle around a story – speaking to several sources, talking off the record, researching – before addressing it face on. She could do this with stories she was familiar with: crime, corruption, malfeasance. But Shona did not know about the arts world, how it really worked. And, given she could not bring herself to ask Ned Silver for help, she had decided to call the institution in London and see what happened. She was going to ask them outright why Tallis had left, and whether he had signed a Non-Disclosure Agreement. They may not answer. But it would rattle them, at the least.

Her father dropped something in the bathroom and swore loudly. ‘Nothing broken!’ he yelled through the door.

‘I’m on the phone,’ she shouted back. She was about to be. She called the number. It was still early, but someone in the press office of the Civic Gallery, South Bank, London, would answer. The phone was picked up by a young man with a tremulous voice. Shona introduced herself, and he did the same: his name was Nicolas.

‘Hi, Nicolas, can I speak to your boss? The head of press?’

‘External affairs?’

‘Whatever you want to call it.’

‘I am afraid she is in a meeting right now. Can I help?’

‘Can she call me if I leave a number?’

‘She won’t be able to today.’

‘That’s some meeting she has,’ Shona said. ‘What’s her name?’

‘The head of external affairs, press and marketing?’

‘Yes indeed, Nicolas.’

‘The head of press and marketing is currently unavailable,’ he said, suddenly robotic.

‘What’s her name?’

Someone was whispering on the line. It wasn’t anyone in Shona’s bedroom, and it wasn’t her father. Someone in London was talking to this Nicolas.

‘Erm. Can I ask you the nature of your query? Sorry – can you put the nature of your enquiry into an email and we will respond as soon as possible?’ he said, quivering.

Shona shook her head. Out of the corner of her eye, her sodden dad slumped through the hall with a towel wrapped around him, bubbles still clinging to his hairy back. He was softly singing a Tony Bennett number to himself. Shona smiled.

‘Is that possible?’ the young man said.

‘Are you reading from a cue card, Nicolas?’

‘It’s my second day here,’ he said, almost whispering. ‘I’m the intern.’

‘You sound like a hostage reading a prepared statement. Look, give me your email and I’ll ping you some questions.’

There was an audible sigh, breathed heavily down the line from London to Edinburgh. ‘Thank you very much, Sheena.’

‘One tip for nothing: get people’s names right and you’ll do all right.

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