‘Looks like the exhibition is a success.’
‘Early days, but yes, people do seem to be engaging with the images.’ She winced at herself. Her words had the charisma of an automated phone message.
‘Well, I’m not surprised,’ said Hall, nodding towards the photo of Dominic Blake and Rosamund Bailey. ‘That’s an amazing shot. Usually these collections are as dry as the Gobi, but that really brings the thing to life, especially as you’ve placed it next to Scott’s letters. I felt a tear come to my eye.’
Abby looked at him, trying to work out if he was mocking her. Typical posh-boy journo, she thought, taking the mickey out of everything. Well, as long as he gives us a good write-up . . .
‘I found that photo buried in the archives. I just thought it was too moving not to be included.’ They moved across to the photograph and Elliot put his finger against the six orange dots.
‘Selling well. Your instincts were right.’
‘T
here’s an amazing story behind it, too,’ said Abby babbling nervously. She took a glass of orange juice from a passing waiter and sipped at it. ‘That was the last time they ever saw each other. He disappeared on the expedition, presumed dead. No one ever found out what happened to him.’
‘The last goodbye,’ said Elliot quietly.
‘That’s exactly what it was,’ said Abby, feeling a swell of admiration for the way he had described it.
There was a moment’s silence, and Abby felt compelled to fill it.
‘Actually, I tracked down the woman in the shot. We didn’t mention it in the notes, as my boss thought we should just concentrate on the explorers, but she is quite interesting too. She was a famous journalist in the seventies and eighties. Rosamund Bailey. Appears to have dropped off the radar lately, though.’
‘Rosamund Bailey?’ repeated Elliot with surprise.
‘Yes, do you know her?’
Hall shrugged. ‘Not really, a little before my time, but her name was mud at home. My dad didn’t get along with her, not surprisingly. She was the star columnist on one of the rival papers, and she seemed to delight in attacking him.’
‘Your dad?’
‘Andrew Shah.’
‘Lord Shah? The press baron? I mean, the media mogul, uh . . .’
Elliot laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve heard much worse. I believe his nickname at the time was “The Butcher of Fleet Street”. Wasn’t exactly a model father, either, but that’s another story.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Abby. ‘I didn’t mean to . . . I should have known.’
‘Seriously, it’s fine,’ said Elliot. He held her gaze for a fraction longer than was necessary, and Abby could feel her cheeks flushing with colour.
‘I took my mother’s name for a nom de plume for that exact reason. Dad tends to polarise opinion, which can be both a blessing and a curse in my business, as you can imagine.’
‘Does that make you a lord too?’ she asked. ‘Or will you be when . . . ?’
What kind of question was that?
Elliot shook his head.
‘Afraid not. It was one of Thatcher’s political peerages, lifetime only. Besides, I have an older brother, so he’s the one who will inherit the estate, the vast debt and the two hidden mistresses.’
‘Really?’
Elliot started to laugh. ‘No, Abby, not really. Not the mistresses, anyway. Dad’s far too busy playing with his Monopoly set to waste time on anything as real as passion.’
‘I invited Rosamund Bailey along tonight,’ said Abby, feeling a spark of conspiracy between them.
‘Is she coming?’ he asked with interest.