Miranda's Marriage

by Margery Hilton

  'I wonder.' Idle speculation came into his face. 'Your tem­perament must suffer constantly from that unfortunate handi­cap.'

  'What handicap?'

  'The confliction of that streak of stubbornness in your nature and the odd little quirk of meekness your name has un­doubtedly bestowed on you. I wonder which it is? Did the name invoke the stubbornness in sheer self-defence? Or did the sub­conscious decide that meekness must not win so easy a victory? Meake by name…?'

  'And meek by nature?' Her mouth tightened. 'That is unfair as well as unkind. I could voice an equally unfair surmise con­cerning yourself, Mr. Steele.'

  For a moment she thought the hammers of wrath were about to descend on her defenceless head, then abruptly he leaned back and laughed aloud.

  'Touché!' He indicated the tray. 'Would you like a cup of coffee?'

  'No, thank you. Anyway, there's only one cup.'

  'Ho ho! Defeatist. My secretary is prepared for all emerg­encies—the cupboard under her small filing cabinet in the outer office has nothing whatsoever to do with Carona-Steele.' He gestured lazily. 'Take a look. You'll find spare cups, among the instant coffee and the assortment of patent medicines she hoards in there.'

  Miranda was tempted, but she shook her head. 'I'd better not—I've had my lunch hour and I'll be missed by now.'

  'I don't qualify as a valid excuse for your being missing?' He sounded amused.

  She regarded him steadily. 'No. Because it was really a personal matter.'

  His head inclined to one side as he considered that, his expression unreadable. Rather abruptly he stood up and lounged round the side of the desk. 'Yes, I suppose it is. Very personal.' His eyes mocking, he picked up the banknote between his fingertips. 'A matter of debt and honour and all that. I never expected to hear of it again.'

  'You mean you thought I'd just accept it and not even bother to offer repayment?' She looked shocked.

  'Something like that.'

  'But I couldn't!' She looked even more horrified. 'Especially after what I did… and you didn't even know me.'

  'Does that matter?' He smiled slightly. 'You happened to provide a diversion I needed badly that evening, so it isn't quite as one-sided as you imagine.'

  Her eyes widened. 'I don't understand.'

  'You don't have to, little Miss Meake, just forget to argue.'

  Still she stared at him, an odd little sense of hurt stealing upon puzzlement. A diversion… what did he mean?

  A gleam came into his eyes and the cynical quirk played round his lips. 'I'd forgotten your idealistic sentiments—and it makes me begin to suspect the real cause of the fuss. You fled an orgy that night,' he said in a way that made her feel he thought her a ridiculous young innocent, 'and ended up having a man pay for your bed and board. A lonely, virginal bed that the most ardent moralist could not take exception to. Yes, I agree, a most unsatisfactory state of affairs. I can see you have cause for concern.'

  This unexpected accusation took her by surprise. Before she could frame an adequate retort he moved forward and put his hand on her shoulders. He looked down into her startled face, gave a slight shake of his head.

  'But I dislike having my attempts at chivalry thrown back in my face, and so I'm going to have the last word.'

  Before she realized his intent or could protest he had flicked the note under her nose and then, with an impudent flourish, dropped it down the neck of her neat white blouse.

  He stepped back and glanced at his watch. 'Isn't it time you returned to your work, Miss Meake?' he said coolly.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Miranda felt strangely reluctant to spend, or bank, that some­what tattered fiver. Whenever she thought of the incident and her furtive flight into the ladies' to retrieve the folded note from where it had amused J.S. to deposit it she felt a wave of pink highlight her cheeks, and his dark rakish features persisted in floating about in her mind.

  It was all quite ridiculous, she told herself crossly. She had obeyed the honesty of conscience, he had chosen to be derisive about it, so that was the end of the matter. The more she thought about it the plainer it became that she had been an embarrassment to him that evening, and he had been quite frank in his turn; she had been a diversion. Otherwise, it was highly improbable that he would have taken her out to dine, after which the awkwardness had come and he had settled it in his imperious way and forgotten about the matter. But far from forgetting it herself she found the memories of that evening becoming more vivid instead of dimming with time. The three alternatives he had suggested… How naïve she must have seemed in her reaction when he suggested taking her back to his home. And yet what else was she to assume? Other than the obvious from a man of his reputation? For there had to be some truth in what the grapevine said, even if it were only a grain. She would be naïve if she believed that J.S. was a saint where women were concerned. For one thing, he was too attractive; for another he was possessed of all the material trappings wealth and position could supply, and for the third reason, of which Miranda disliked intensely to think, there were a lot of girls to whom those very material trappings mattered more than the actual man who owned them… she only hoped she'd made it quite plain that she wasn't one of them.

  The move to her new flat almost but not quite banished the troublesome shade of J.S. for a little while, and at least kept her spare time fully occupied that week-end and the few days fol­lowing while she arranged things neatly. Conscientious as always, she was careful not to take an inch more than her half share of the cupboard and shelf space, and she purposely left most of it blank in the living-room she would be sharing with Jean. When Jean arrived they would plan things together, decide whose personal possessions would go where and if they should keep the little shelves at the sides of the gas fire for books or dress them with something more trendy. What would Jean be like? Would she be friendly? Quiet and serious, or gay and fun-loving? I hope she likes folk music and ballet, Miranda thought…

  By the Thursday she was beginning to feel quite at home. She had written to everyone she could think of to tell them her new address, and she had organized the bijou kitchen for the optimum of speed in getting breakfast in the morning; there was nothing more she could do until Jean came.

  But there was one thing she had forgotten, and on the Friday afternoon she was reminded of it rather forcibly.

  Rena Harvey herself came into the office to deliver the mess­age and gave Miranda a peculiar look.

  'What have you been up to this time, my girl?'

  'N-nothing,' Miranda gulped.

  'And what do you mean—this time?' Susan put in from across the room, looking at Rena.

  'What's it about?' Miranda asked, getting up from her desk and feeling unexpectedly tremulous at the knees.

  'How should I know?' Rena responded pertly. 'J.S. doesn't inform all and sundry about his business. Now go on, Miranda, for goodness' sake don't keep him waiting.'

  Miranda's palms were quite clammy as she went up in the lift. She brushed nervously at an errant strand of hair and won­dered what lay in store. What had she done that J.S. should summon her to the pinnacle of power? He never sent down for anyone except chief executives. Surely after all this time he wasn't going to… And he couldn't have changed his mind about that five pounds!

  She tried to laugh to herself, but it came out more like a hollow little groan that caused the only other occupant of the lift—a rotund, elderly man—to glance at her sharply. She hadn't meant any sound to escape her, and he was too shy of young females to make any comment, so she gave an embar­rassed shake of her head in response to the look which plainly wondered if she was feeling all right. He got out at the eight­eenth floor, bound no doubt for Records, and Miranda pressed the button with a trembling finger to continue her journey upwards.

  Miss Mayo was in possession. She favoured Miranda with a lacquered smile that told her nothing and nodded towards the white door. 'Go straight through, Miss Meake.'

  Miranda tapped and obeyed
, closing the door soundlessly behind her and staying within reach of its support.

  He was standing by the window and for a moment she thought he hadn't heard her enter. Then without turning his head he said: 'Sit down, Miss Meake.'

  It was an innocuous enough command, but it did nothing to relax her tension. The nearest seat was the deep, white and burgundy tub chair that matched the three-seater, and it seemed a long way across the expanse of heavy grey carpet. 'You sent for me, Mr. Steele,' she said uneasily.

  'Yes.'

  Without haste, he crossed the room and seated himself in his desk chair. He swivelled till he faced her and leaned back coolly.

  'Why have you failed to inform us of your change of address?' he rapped out so sharply she started with alarm.

  'M-my change of address?' she said foolishly. 'I—I—'

  'It's one of the corporation rules that all, I repeat all, our employees must inform Records of any change of address in their place of permanent residence.'

  'But I didn't…' She bit her lip on the word know and stared at him with dismayed eyes. That wasn't true; she did know, but she had forgotten the vaguely absorbed terms and instructions she had received at the start of her employment with Carona-Steele. And she had racked her brains last week trying to ensure that she'd left nobody off her list of people to inform.

  'I'm sorry, Mr. Steele,' she said guiltily. 'I forgot. I—I'll go straight away now and tell them.'

  She stood up as she spoke, but he raised one hand. 'I haven't finished yet, Miss Meake.'

  She sank back into the chair. Now the racket was going to start. Why did these things always happen to her?

  'When did you move?'

  'Only last Saturday.' She seized eagerly at mitigation. 'I've only been there five and a half days. I'm sure I'd have remem­bered to put the record straight very soon.'

  He gave a gesture of disinterest. 'Where is it?'

  'Syrian Lane—just off Willow Grove. It's a bit farther out, but it's nice,' she volunteered.

  'How many others in the warren?' he asked dryly.

  'None—it belongs to a lady whose family have all grown up and got married. The house is too big for her on her own and when her niece wrote and said she was coming to London to work as soon as she finished school Mrs. Saunders had the idea of making part of the upstairs into a flat for her and getting another girl to share it. So her son-in-law did most of the con­version for her,' Miranda rushed on eagerly, thankful that ap­parently the stormclouds were not to descend after all. 'And it's really super.'

  'Super.' His mouth curved with ironic amusement. 'What a revolting little word that is!'

  'Well, very nice,' she amended.

  'And not likely to cause you to resort to my office for emerg­ency accommodation?'

  She couldn't meet the expression in his eyes and she looked down. 'I don't think so.'

  The intercom on his desk buzzed softly and he flicked down the switch. Miss Mayo's voice came through, faintly metallic, and J.S. said crisply: 'I'll be free in a moment, put him through.' He looked up at Miranda. 'Go to Records now before you forget again.'

  He was coldly impersonal again, and with a murmured assent she got up hastily. As bid, she went straight to the long glass-panelled department that housed the records and in­surance cards of every member of the staff, and somehow wasn't surprised to meet again the rotund man who had shared the lift on the journey upwards. Pedantically, he noted her new address, asked if there was a phone number, and said 'Thank you—that's all,' as she still hesitated.

  'Er—was Mr. Steele very angry?' she asked anxiously.

  'Mr. Steele?' The elderly man frowned. 'Angry?'

  'When he found I hadn't told you?'

  He still looked puzzled. 'What are you talking about, miss? Mr. Steele doesn't have time to bother about things like that.'

  'No, I only wondered if—when he—' She shook her head, decidedly flustered by now, and made her escape before the elderly man had time to become more curious.

  She was thoughtful when she returned to her own desk and so vague that the undisguised curiosity of Susan and the other girls in the department failed to register.

  'But what did he want?' Susan persisted.

  'Nothing.'

  'Nothing? We thought you were up for the chopper at least.'

  'Oh, there was something wrong with my record card,' she mumbled.

  'And J.S. sent for you because of that? Pull the other one!'

  'He did—if you don't believe me go and ask him yourself Miranda retorted.

  No one seemed inclined to follow this suggestion and Mir­anda was allowed to resume her work. It was not until she was home that night that the puzzling piece fell into place.

  If Records hadn't known she'd moved, how had J.S.?

  * * *

  It was a question that seemed doomed to going unanswered. The following Monday held that slight relaxing of pressure Which comes when the top man is missing. The news that he'd left that morning for the postponed American trip filtered down through the building and reached Accounts by ten o'clock. The slackening did not last long as the promotion-seekers near the top of the pyramid flexed their authority and schemed how best the week ahead could be utilized to further personal ambition. But to Miranda there was a curious empti­ness about the place. J.S.'s absence made no difference to her working routine, and while as often as not weeks could go by when he was in the building without her ever seeing him it was rather odd that she should be so conscious of this flatness in the atmosphere, as though something vital were missing…

  She wished she could say casually to Rena: 'When's the Great White Chief coming back?' but knew she dared not. Rena hadn't missed that surprising summons to the summit. Her eyes had been openly speculative and Miranda's vagueness hadn't satisfied her curiosity. She might respond with care­lessness, depending on her mood at the moment, but she was far more likely to round on Miranda and demand the reason for this sudden interest in J.S.'s movements.

  Not for the first time Miranda wondered about Rena. Were the rumours true about her and 'Money' Travers, as the chief accountant was disrespectfully known? He was a dry-looking man, with one of those soft voices you had to strain to hear or you didn't catch what he was saying. He was quite oldish too. Older than Rena, who guarded her age jealously. She was a tall, flamboyant woman with gipsy-dark hair and eyes, and a wide mouth she emphasized rather than played down with vivid scarlet lipstick. But she could wear exciting clothes with a pan­ache many of the younger girls secretly envied, despite their tendency to giggle behind her back. Somehow, Miranda mused, one imagined her with a more exciting man, and after all, Money Travers was very much married. His wife always at­tended the company functions, and every Tuesday she had some engagement or other in town, after which she met him at the office and they went home together. Those were the only times when Rena tended to merge with the background. Miranda sighed: it was none of her business…

  By midweek she hadn't time to think about J.S., let alone the rest of the office intrigues.

  One of those unpleasant bugs vaguely classified as gastric 'flu hit the Carona-Steele staff.

  Rena was one of the first to succumb, and with several others had to be sent home at lunchtime. By Wednesday there were more blank desks than occupied, and by the end of the week only a skeleton of the staff remained unstricken. The lucky escapers tended to doubt their luck as they coped with their own work and tried to spread the burden of the victims.

  Miranda and Susan both volunteered to stay late again on the Friday night, but at eight o'clock Susan suddenly com­plained of feeling sick. Ray Desdon, a pleasant boy who had joined the firm only a few weeks before, offered to run her home. Susan protested wanly because it would leave Miranda alone in the department, whereupon Ray extended the offer to include Miranda.

  She shook her head, knowing that Ray was attracted to Susan but too shy to risk a snub. This could be his chance to start the friendship he desired.

 
; 'I'll come back for you,' he said awkwardly. 'I don't like to pack in and leave you.'

  'No, just look after Susan,' she said firmly. 'I'm just going to get this lot into the post and then I'm off.'

  She worked on alone after they'd gone and heaved a tired sigh of relief when the last sheet rattled out of the machine. She flexed her weary shoulders and glanced at the clock. Nearly nine! Heavens! Quickly she got her coat, not bothering to make hasty make-up repairs, and grabbed the big pile of stuff for the post.

  Most of the floors were in darkness by now, but here and there lights showed where others still strove to complete the week's schedule. The cleaning staff had long since gone, and the night guard was standing by the lift entrance when Miranda descended to ground level. He was talking to a grey-headed man whom Miranda knew by sight, and the dog was there, sitting quietly yet watchful. The men nodded, with a rueful 'Late again tonight, miss,' and she felt the dog's gaze follow her as she crossed to the big glass doors. She was sure it remem­bered her from 'that' night and knew that it had been an oc­casion of infinitely nefarious presence! Well, its sagacious reasoning would be tested to the full this week, she smiled to herself, as she heard voices from unseen persons somewhere to her left along the forecourt and a car door slamming in the darkness on the right.

  She hurried across and out into the road. There was a pillar box at the corner where she would get rid of the mail and then she could go home. How was Susan…? It wasn't very serious, the bug, unpleasant and uncomfortable the three or four days it knocked you, but it didn't leave the ghastly aftermath that 'flu did. Or so they said. She'd have to go shopping for new shoes tomorrow and a few things, but on Sunday she'd go over and visit Susan…

  The pillar box was almost full. Several other departments of Carona-Steele had got there first. Miranda stuffed her load in and swore as she dropped several of them. The big ones should have gone along the post office, but that would be shut now…

  The sweeping brilliance of headlights outlined her as she stooped to gather up the fallen packets. She caught the glare in her eyes as she straightened and muttered as she blinked hastily and turned away. Brakes and tyres made the rushing swish of a car pulling up suddenly as she manoeuvred the last large en­velope into the box, and a voice said: