‘Like Jago Marsh, I suppose you mean?’ Storm interrupted bitterly.
‘Be fair!’ Pete objected. ‘You’ve only got to look at our ratings to see how badly we’re doing. No one knows that better than you.’ Pete was ambitious and his eyes were hard as he looked at her mutinous face. ‘Come on, Storm, you can’t have forgotten what happened when you went to see old man Harmer already.’
Storm had not! John Harmer’s comments had rankled and she was still smarting from her interview with him. Harmer Brothers were the largest local employers. They owned two woollen mills, turning out fine cloth in a small and exclusive range of tweeds, using Cotswold wool. Storm had spent weeks preparing an advertising campaign to put before Mr Harmer, but she had got scant response. Despite the rates she had offered—pared down to the bone—and the fact that she had pointed out their widespread audience and limitless possibilities, John Harmer’s reception had been the opposite of enthusiastic.
‘Waste money advertising on a two-bit outfit that only appeals to kids and housewives?’ he had scoffed. ‘I’m a businessman, my dear, not a philanthropist.’
His words had stung and continued to do so, because his comments held an element of truth. Many, many times Storm had tried to persuade David to adopt a more forward-thinking attitude; to develop their range so that they could include more topical subjects; to promote a weekly disco as the other, more successful stations did, but all her suggestions had been met with a gentle but definite rebuff. However, she chose not to remember her past disappointments now, concentrating fiercely instead on her loyalty to David, ignoring the small voice inside her asking if their ‘adviser’ had been anyone but Jago Marsh she would have reacted more favourably.
She despised the man, she told herself angrily, taking no part in the excited conversation going on around her as the others discussed the changes likely to be made.
‘I can tell you one thing,’ Pete announced confidently. ‘He won’t put up with Sam Townley’s tricks for very long. I mean, just look at this place for a start…’
Their studios were shabby and ill-equipped, Storm was forced to admit.
Initially it had been David’s intention to house the venture in purpose-built offices just outside Wyechester, but Sam Townley had soon put a stop to such ambitious thoughts. As the main investor he claimed that he should have the greatest say in how their capital was spent, and David found himself forced to take up a tenancy of some cramped offices over one of Sam’s supermarkets.
‘What do you think Jago Marsh is going to do?’ Storm asked Pete angrily, infuriated by his contemptuous dismissal of all that David had tried to do. ‘Wave a magic wand and produce a modern, fully equipped radio station?’
‘Well, whatever he does it can’t be worse than David’s efforts.’ Pete fought back. ‘For God’s sake, Storm! You might be in love with the guy, but when are you going to see him how he really is? You feel sorry for him because he’s always the under-dog, but whose fault is that? I don’t know what you see in him…’
They had had this argument before, and as always it put Storm on the defensive. She could not explain to Pete, with all his frank appreciation of the modern approach towards sex, that with David she did not feel threatened, forced to give more of herself than she wished, either emotionally or physically, and that she loved him for his gentle acceptance of this.
As she got up to leave she was frowning unhappily. Just what did they think Jago Marsh was? A magician? Well, they would soon be disillusioned. He was a cold, ruthless man, incapable of understanding the feelings of others, arrogant and overbearing. Without the slightest effort she could remember every line of his hard-boned face, every inflection of his voice as he denounced her sex, and she was almost trembling with anger as she stepped out into the street to meet David.
He was sitting in his car waiting for her, and Storm smiled at him as he opened the passenger door of the homely little Ford. He made no attempt to kiss or touch her despite the fact that the car-park was deserted and he had been away from her all day.
It was just over half an hour’s drive to the village where she lived with her parents, and they normally sat in a companionable silence listening to Radio Wyechester.
Storm’s father was a lecturer at the local university and Storm had grown up in the Cotswolds and loved them very dearly.
It was October, one of Storm’s favourite months. Summer had lingered on this year, and the trees were just beginning to turn, the harvested fields a bright, lush green where the new growth showed through. Opening her window, Storm relaxed in her seat, enjoying the fresh air. It was colder today, with a sharp little breeze that heralded the end of their Indian Summer. She shivered suddenly with a presentiment that the wind of change was blowing into their lives in more ways than one. Jago Marsh! Why did it have to be him of all people?
‘Something wrong, Storm?’ David asked gently.
‘It’s just this business of Jago Marsh,’ she admitted uneasily. ‘I can’t help wishing you’d never met him…’
‘You’ll be more than a match for him,’ David assured her. ‘He isn’t used to women standing up to him.’
‘No, I suppose they’re more likely to fall prone at his feet,’ Storm retorted caustically.
‘Or on his bed,’ David said very dryly.
So she hadn’t been mistaken in her impression that Jago Marsh was a man who considered women were put on earth to serve only one purpose, Storm reflected wrathfully, turning up the volume of the radio as a news broadcast finished.
The next programme was a current affairs discussion, hosted by Mike Varnom, their other D.J. It was a relatively new departure for them and Storm was anxious to hear how it went.
The subject under discussion was the Common Market and the problems of exporting English lamb to France. The discussion, involving a couple of local farmers and their Euro M.P., should have been interesting, but somehow the speakers lacked conviction. Mike was constantly deferring to the politician, and Storm’s brow creased as she listened to the broadcast, the lovely countryside through which they were driving forgotten.
‘Oh no, Mike!’ she protested in dismay at one point, when he cut right across one of the farmer’s angry arguments.
‘The discussion was getting pretty heated, Storm,’ David pointed out mildly when she turned to him.
‘But that’s the whole point,’ she objected. ‘Involvement—that’s what we’re all about.’
David laughed.
‘Such a fierce little thing! I suppose if you were conducting the interview you’d be making mincemeat out of our Euro friend?’
‘Well, we are talking about the farmers’ livelihood. You know how high feeling is running locally against the Common Market subsidies.’
‘Umm—well, nothing can be achieved by attacking him broadside on, Storm. He isn’t a free agent, you know. Governments dictate policy…’
‘And governments are made up of men and women—like you or me. If we make our protests loud enough and long enough…’ she sighed in fond exasperation when David shook his head.
‘I’m not going to argue with you,’ he told her mildly. ‘Sit back and enjoy the scenery. I refuse to have my journey home ruined by a discussion on politics. I’ve got enough of that to contend with during the day.’
Storm was instantly remorseful, remembering his discussions with the Authority, but the ineffectualness of the programme lingered on, niggling, when she tried to relax her mind into other channels.
‘Shall