Vintage Babes by Elizabeth Oldfield Page B

nitty-gritty, no interviewing and –’
    ‘You don’t consider it’s the editor’s role? Sorry, but I like to keep my hand in.’
    ‘Look, I received the info,’ I began heatedly, ‘and I know the Giffords, both father and son. I also know the two assistants, old dears who’ve been there since the year dot, so–’
    ‘I’ll cover it,’ he said.
    I glared. Although, like anywhere else, Dursleigh suffers its share of twenty-first century crime, this is mainly in the form of vandalism, car theft or drunken youths brawling. It was unusual for a shop to be attacked and a firearm flourished, which was why I was eager to get the story. A front page and detailed story which would have the entire village buzzing.
    ‘You’re another like Mr P-J, who believes women should know their place?’ I demanded.
    ‘No, I don’t. And there’s no need to be aggressive.’
    I could have killed for a cigarette and I could’ve killed him. Stuck a paper knife into his heart and twisted it. Always supposing he had a heart.
    ‘I’m not,’ I snapped.
    ‘With all due respect, you bloody are,’ he said amicably. Or was it sarcastically? ‘But I want to get to know Dursleigh and to become known in Dursleigh, and this seems an ideal opportunity. However, I promise not to make a habit of stealing your leads. Okay?’
    I scowled at the place on the desk where the ashtray used to be and then I shrugged. ‘Okay,’ I agreed, in who-gives-a-monkey’s tones.
    ‘So if you would visit Mrs Kincaid. Please,’ Steve said, and smiled.
    I gawped. It was the first time I’d seen him smile and the smile which lit up his face was sexy, charming, pure manipulation. His full lips had curved, there were dimples in his cheeks, the grey eyes were warm. Now I understood why old ladies opened up to him. And, yes, when Captain Cool smiled he was handsome. Not male model handsome – his nose was a touch too big for that – but smoulderingly charismatic. Buggeration. But I refused to be cajoled. He had stolen the job I wanted and which I deserved. He was giving me orders. He was the enemy.
    ‘Me, not Melanie? You’re sure?’
    ‘Positive. From what I hear, people are always happy to talk to you.’
    ‘You mean I’m the motherly kind?’ I asked suspiciously.
    I could only be five or six years his senior – well, ten at a pinch – but did he regard me as old? An ageing matron? Another crone to be charmed? He should be so lucky. This gal was made of sterner stuff. It took more than a couple of dimples to reduce me to quivering jelly. A hell of a lot more.
    Steve laughed. ‘God, no! I just meant – well, you’ll be simpatico. Would you go this afternoon?’ He smiled again, another dazzler. ‘I’d be eternally grateful.’
    Up yours, matey, I thought.
    ‘Will do,’ I said, then added as a kick of defiance, ‘as soon as I’ve finished the hospital waiting times write-up.’
    I was damned if I’d be too much of a pushover.
     
    The cars parked along one side of the High Street, combined with a delivery truck unloading on the other, had slowed the traffic to a crawl. Add drivers eyeballing the two police cars stopped outside Gifford’s and the crawl resembled that of an infirm snail. There was no sign of Steve, who was doubtless buried in the depths of the shop charming the female assistants.
    I turned up the radio where Tom Jones was singing ‘Sexbomb’. I like his voice and his dirty laugh. I remember lusting after the young rough trade Tom, belting out songs in his string vest. Though nowadays a string vest seems so tacky. And Sir Tom ain’t so young and handsome.
    ‘Get a move on,’ I instructed the traffic.
    Thirty-odd years ago when I’d sat my driving test, the roads in Dursleigh were empty. Or so it appears in retrospect. But no more. Now at morning and evening peaks, a solid queue can stretch back along the river in one direction and out to the roundabout west of the village in the other. The roundabout with the new lights