Lost in a Good Book (Thursday Next 2)

'Nothing positive,' replied Smith, 'but I'm following all leads.'

'How many in your squad?'

'Including me – one.' Smith grinned. 'Thought you were the most underfunded department in SpecOps? Think again. I've got six months to sort out the hackers, get the Japanese knotweed under control and find an acceptable plural form of narcissus.'

We reached the upstairs corridor.

'I wish you luck.'

He thanked me and I left him to unpack in his small office, which had once been home to the SO-31 Good Taste Education Authority. The division had been disbanded a month earlier when the proposed legislation against stone cladding, pictures of crying clowns and floral-patterned carpets failed in the Upper House.

I was just walking past the office of SO-14 when I heard a shrill voice.

'Thursday! Thursday, yoo-hoo! Over here!'

I sighed. It was Cordelia Flakk. She quickly caught up with me and gave me an affectionate hug.

'The Lush show was a disaster!' I told her 'You said it was no holds barred! I ended up talking about dodos, my car and anything but Jane Eyre!'

'You were terrific!' she enthused. 'I've got you lined up for another set of interviews the day after tomorrow.'

'No more, Cordelia.'

She looked at me in a crestfallen manner.

'I don't understand.'

'What part of no more don't you understand?'

'Don't be like that, Thursday,' she replied, beaming in an attempt to bring me round. 'You're good PR and, believe me, in an institution that routinely leaves the public perforated, confused, old before their time or, if they're lucky, dead, we need every bit of good PR we can muster.'

'Do we do that much damage to the public?' I asked.

Flakk smiled modestly.

'Perhaps my PR is not so bad after all,' she conceded, then added quickly: 'But every Joe that gets trounced in a crossfire is one too many.'

'That's as may be,' I retorted, 'but the fact remains that I'm done with SpecOps PR.'

Flakk seemed flustered, hopped up and down for a bit, pulled pleading expressions, wrung her hands, puffed out her cheeks and stared at the ceiling.

'What?' I asked.

'Well, we ran a competition.'

'What sort of competition?' I asked suspiciously.

'We thought it would be a good idea if you met a few members of the public on a one-to-one basis.'

'Did we. Now listen, Cordelia—'

'Dilly, Thursday, since we're pals.'

She sensed my reticence and added:

'Cords, then. Or Delia. How about Flakky? I used to be called Flik-Flak at school. Can I call you Thurs?'

'Cordelia!' I said in a harsher tone, before she ingratiated herself to death. 'I'm not going to do this! You said the Lush interview would be the last and it is.'