by Lucy Keane
‘Yes, you can, you’re with me.’
‘But Dennis—’
He ignored her objections, glancing at the menu. ‘Have you any preferences, or shall I order?’
She would have to have something she could eat quickly. ‘Sandwiches?’
‘They don’t serve sandwiches at lunchtime.’
That was odd, because they were on the menu. Still, if he’d been here before he must know.
‘Salad, then?’
‘The salads are finished by this time.’
‘How do you know? You haven’t even asked!’
‘Do you like steak and kidney pie?’
‘Yes, but—’
She didn’t have a chance to say any more, because he was halfway to the bar.
They were served immediately with huge plates of steaming pie and gravy, with an assortment of vegetables, and Julius brought back a large glass of orange juice for her from the bar.
‘You said you ate anything!’ he challenged her, a halfsmile on his face.
‘I do,’ she assured him. ‘But why are we doing this?’ Maybe she was still dreaming!
‘Because it’s lunchtime, and I’m hungry even if you’re not. And I’m beginning to think you need some looking after. Eat as much as you want—leave the rest if it’s too much.’
‘I thought you said nobody did any “nannying” at Prior’s?’ she queried, unable to resist the temptation to point out his inconsistency.
He smiled at her again. ‘Boss’s privilege.’
But the steak and kidney pie wasn’t too much, and she had a pudding after that—apple pie with cream. She should have been ashamed of herself, but she’d discovered once the food was on the table that she was really too hungry to care.
She caught Julius watching her from time to time, and wondered why he should find the sight of her eating her lunch so fascinating. If it hadn’t all been so unreal, she would have felt very awkward in his company. Because of the dream, she was suddenly aware of him in a way she hadn’t been before. He really was a very attractive man. She was beginning to understand now exactly what Zoe saw in him.
He ordered coffee.
They hadn’t spoken much during the meal, only a few passing comments about the morning’s business, and the office in general. He’d asked her if she liked working for Prior’s and she’d been as diplomatic as she could in her replies. She got the feeling that he knew she was being evasive.
Then the conversation took an unexpected turn. He said, ‘It must have been a great shock to you when your parents were killed—a flying accident, I think you told me?’
Was this why he had asked her to have lunch with him? To find out more about those suspicious gaps in her C.V. so that he could make up his mind whether to keep her on or not after the two months were up? But it wasn’t just that she still found it hard to talk about her parents in any but the most general terms—talking about the accident to Julius could mean she revealed too much about the home problems he’d been so determined she shouldn’t have.
‘They were on holiday in Kenya,’ she said reluctantly. ‘They were staying with friends. One day they chartered a small plane to fly over a game reserve. They had engine trouble. The pilot was killed too.’
‘And the friends?’
‘They weren’t with them.’
She stared into her coffee-cup, avoiding looking at him, but she knew he was looking at her. There was a brief silence, then he said, ‘What happened to your father’s business, Amy?’
After the lunch he’d just bought her, she felt obliged to reply. Maybe he’d been counting on that.
‘It went into liquidation.’
‘Why?’
She sighed impatiently. ‘It’s all rather complicated. I don’t really understand it well enough to explain.’
That wasn’t quite true. It was the subject of her father she felt she couldn’t do justice to.
‘Try.’
She began to fiddle with an empty sugar packet, aware that once Julius was in inquisition mode he couldn’t be fobbed off with easy answers.
‘Matlock and West were in property—they owned the leases on a lot of business premises, and it was Dad who ran the company. Some time before the accident, he’d decided they needed to expand—widen their interests a bit—and he’d tied up a lot of money including his own in a holiday development scheme…’
‘And?’
‘There were a lot of problems—objections to parts of the development when they’d already started building, delays with contractors, a rise in interest rates which meant difficulty with financing the bank loans… When Dad died things had got to a critical stage. The bank wanted more collateral and he’d already put up our house against the loan. He’d gone out to Kenya in the first place to see if he could persuade this friend to go into some other business venture, which might have helped to finance the development scheme in the long run. I don’t know what would have happened if he’d lived — maybe he could have pulled it off. He said all he needed was time…’
‘What happened to you after the accident?’
‘Everything was sold—the house, the furniture, everything. We’d had a big house, with quite a lot of land, but it couldn’t possibly meet the debts. The bank decided after that to write off Dad’s personal liabilities, and the company was wound up.’
‘But what about insurance policies?’
Yes, that was the key to the whole thing. How could you explain to someone without sounding critical of the father you’d adored that there were no insurance policies? Anyway, not the sort that would make provision for a family in the event of his death.
Nick Thompson had been one of the most charming men who had ever walked the earth—full of life, humour, and endless schemes; a born risk-taker. As such, he’d have done better to remain single rather than marry at twenty-three a girl four years younger than himself. Amy had been born within the first year of the marriage, and her family’s lifestyle had swung from one extreme to another ever since. Sometimes they had had no money, sometimes they had had lots.
Convinced he’d end up a millionaire, her father had lost one fortune on the Stock Exchange by the age of twenty-six, and then set out to make another. He’d taken hair-raising risks, and cut every corner he could while staying just inside the law. Sometimes it had paid off, sometimes it hadn’t. When she was old enough to realise what sort of a man he was, she’d used to wonder how her mother could remain so calm and happy in the face of the continual crises. It had been like living on a rollercoaster.
But for Joanne Thompson the sun had shone out of Nick, and if she’d seen his faults, as far as she was concerned they were more than outweighed by his virtues. The only thing she’d insisted on was that Amy and her brother should be educated at good schools—what they chose to do with their lives after that was up to them.
But how could she explain any of this to a man like Julius? It was better not to try. The cold facts could never do justice to her father, and like her mother she wouldn’t have wanted him any other way, for all his faults. She still couldn’t talk about her parents without that pain coming into the back of her throat, and the pricking of tears in her eyes.
Julius was studying her, waiting for her answer. She avoided his look.
‘There weren’t any insurance policies,’ she said abruptly. ‘Which is why I need to work for you.’
She glanced pointedly at her watch, and gave him a very mechanical version of her witchy smile, again without meeting his eyes. ‘Thank you for a wonderful lunch. Do you think I could go back to the office now?’ If he was taken aback by her reply, he didn’t show it. He continued to consider her. Then he said, ‘I don’t think we’ve finished this conversation, Amy, but you’re right— I’d better not keep you any later…’ He appeared to hesitate for a moment about something. Then to her astonishment he put his hand over hers where it was lying on the table. ‘Amy, I know I said I wanted to employ people who could give their time to the job, but if you
have any problems you will tell me, won’t you?’
Amy stared at the lean fingers lying over her own. The light, warm touch seemed to be doing strange things to her. It meant comfort, and reassurance, and strength — all the things she was most in need of, and couldn’t afford to seek from this man who so unexpectedly appeared to be offering them to her.
‘Oh, yes,’ she assured him insincerely. ‘It’s very kind of you, but really there aren’t any problems— none at all!’
CHAPTER FOUR
Once Julius had disappeared into his office, Jacquie immediately found an excuse to join her in the cloakroom where she was dragging a comb through her hair. She must have looked a mess in the pub—her hair seemed to have knotted itself into an unruly red tangle. She tried to switch her mind on to the afternoon’s work, but it wasn’t easy to dismiss what had just happened—especially with the inquisitive Jacquie at her elbow.
‘Where were you? Zoe’s still at lunch. We thought something must have happened. Did you meet Julius while you were out?’
‘Sort of. He took me to the Crown—I couldn’t get away before.’
‘Oh, it didn’t matter—things were pretty slack. But I thought Julius was supposed to be seeing Fiona!’
Amy explained briefly, leaving out the bit about the church porch.
‘What did you eat?’ Jacquie asked curiously.
Amy was both amused and irritated. ‘What is this interest everybody has in my diet? Honestly, you’re as bad as Julius. He never took his eyes off me—and he never even let me order. I suppose after catching me cutting up that bit of ginger cake with a ruler yesterday he wanted to see if I knew what to do with a knife and fork.’
Jacquie looked at her awkwardly, as though she couldn’t quite make up her mind about something. ‘No— not really. It’s nothing like that…’ She hesitated, and then plunged on, ‘He was just afraid you might be ill. You know—that you might be bulimic or whatever it’s called.’
‘Bulimic!’ They would probably be able to hear her all over the offices, but she didn’t care. The amusement had gone all of a sudden—this gave a whole new meaning to the impromptu lunch date! ‘What on earth gave him that idea?’
‘Shh! He’ll hear you!’ warned Jacquie desperately. ‘I wasn’t supposed to tell you! But you must admit you are very thin and you do seem to buy an awful lot of food at the supermarkets and then you eat three sandwiches for lunch all at once—well, that’s what Julius said anyway…’
It wasn’t just the thought of an office conspiracy going on behind her back that upset her, it was Julius himself— trust him to have an ulterior motive! And she’d thought it might be just because he wanted her company. Well, no, she hadn’t. Secretly it was what she would have liked to think, but he’d made it clear he was interested in finding out about her background. So it wasn’t only the C.V. that concerned him—he wanted to make sure she wouldn’t faint in the middle of taking a vital letter. Very inconvenient. ‘Time is money, Zoe!’ It might cut his profit margins.
‘I suppose you’re in here now to make sure I don’t make myself sick or something!’ she accused.
From Jacquie’s guilty expression she knew she’d got it right. She gave her hair such a furious tug with the comb that it made her eyes smart.
‘I have a very busy life outside this office—not problematic,’ she added quickly, ‘just busy. I have someone to feed at home, lots of social things going on—’ that was deliberately misleading but true ‘—and I don’t have enough time to sit about eating nice little lunches. And some people are naturally skinny!’ It wasn’t really fair to take it out on Jacquie—it was Julius she should be going for.
Jacquie looked quite upset. ‘But Amy, he was very concerned about you!’
‘Well, he doesn’t have to concern himself with me!’ said Amy emphatically. ‘And you can assure him of that!’
By the time she’d caught the bus home she’d simmered down a bit, and spent most of the journey through the cold November darkness analysing just why she’d made such a fuss about it. Jess, knowing the way she could never resist picking at things when she was cooking, would think the idea of her starving herself very funny. Perhaps it was, in the circumstances. Except that it really hurt to be made to see, quite so effectively, that to Julius she was just an employee. It wasn’t Amy the person he was concerned about, but Miss Thompson the secretary who might be ill and let them all down in a crisis. She thought of the dream she’d had in the church porch, and that, for some reason, made her more miserable.
It’s because I’m tired, she told herself dismally. Thank heaven there aren’t any more dinner bookings until the end of next week, even if it doesn’t mean so much money.
Saturday was a blissful oasis after the struggles of the week, and she and Charlie went over to Jess’s for Sunday lunch, which meant that she didn’t have to cook. Nobody thought to mention Charlie’s unexpected trip to Oxford on a school day, and when it occurred to her later she put off asking him about it. So what if he had skipped one morning at school? If it were serious, she’d have heard about it by now.
The following week seemed slightly easier—she didn’t have to keep asking where everything was. She spent most of her time with Dennis, and Julius seemed to be out a lot. She tried to avoid him when he was there, and was glad she always had a legitimate excuse to be busy typing. He did find her once, though, with her hair caught in the printer. She and Zoe were trying to unwind it from the end of the roller without clogging up the works completely. It only served to deepen her conviction that he must consider her the most inept secretary he’d ever employed.
He stood by the desk, arms folded, watching them both. Amy, painfully aware of him, took no obvious notice, but Zoe went into an apologetic dither.
‘It’s all right, Zoe—I’ll give Amy another two minutes to get out of that, and then I’m coming in here with the scissors.’
Zoe took the hint and went back to her desk, but before Julius left Amy to it he leaned over and said almost in her ear, which caused a little shiver to go down her back, ‘Red seaweed, Amy. You know what seaweed’s good for? Forecasting rain! I’m looking forward to hanging a bit outside the office window…’
She found that her hands were shaking so much she had even more of a problem extricating herself. Of course he wouldn’t have cut her hair off, but it wasn’t that that concerned her.
Friday’s dinner booking was now going to be a pleasant contrast to the rest of the week, and she found she was actually looking forward to it. It didn’t worry her that she’d be coping without Jess—she’d done it before.
The address, not far from Wychford, shouldn’t be too difficult to find —assuming Celia had got it right in the first place. She’d confessed she hadn’t had a notebook to hand when the call had come through, and had wandered round repeating the details to herself until she’d found one later.
‘Don’t worry,’ she’d assured her daughter. ‘I have a mnemonic system that never fails—the only thing I can’t remember is the telephone number, which means we can’t ring them to check. Never mind, they’ll surely contact us again in an emergency.’
Bearing in mind that she just could be going to the wrong address, Amy started packing up Jess’s mini-van in good time. There were covered dishes of prepared vegetables, and a casserole of venison that would only need a thorough warming, as well as the ingredients for two other courses. Jess had cooked the pancakes for the crepes Suzette, and stacked them between layers of greaseproof paper—the least she could do, she said, as her contribution to the evening.
Number 27 Market Street was in an attractive row of old Cotswold stone houses, with large square-paned windows. There were two bells outside it, the upper one labelled ‘Newton’, so she pushed the lower hopefully. Half an hour’s ringing of doorbells looking for someone called ‘Abbott’ wasn’t an appealing prospect.
She glanced at her watch. There were lights on in the lower part of the house. She wondered if she should leave it a
nother minute before she pushed the bell again. It was chilly on the doorstep.
She had her hand raised to ring when she heard a woman’s voice saying angrily, ‘I don’t give a damn what you think!’ and seconds later the door was opened. Her hand dropped involuntarily, and her mouth opened in dismay. Jess’s mother had got the wrong address. Fiona Harper-Maxwell was standing on the doorstep.
‘Oh,’ Amy said, startled. ‘I’m so sorry! I was looking for someone called Mr. Abbott.’
The expression on Fiona’s face was one of neutrality achieved with effort—she must have been having the row with someone inside—and the light in her eyes was mutinous until it changed into something like recognition. ‘You’re one of Julius’s secretaries, aren’t you?’
‘Er—yes. But I seem to have come to the wrong house. I’m so sorry to have bothered you.’ Was this where Fiona lived? Didn’t she have a flat in London? Or—
Then a familiar male voice said, ‘Who is it?’
Julius!
Panic seized her. She could hardly ask him about the Mr. Abbott she was supposed to be cooking for, with the Cookery Unlimited van parked so ostentatiously on the other side of the road! She’d have to pretend it had nothing to do with her—-
‘It’s all right!’ she said quickly to Fiona. ‘I’ve remembered where I ought to be. I’m sorry—’
And she was just on the point of flight when Julius said, ‘Amy! What on earth are you doing here?’
For a split-second she was tempted to run away despite the fact that he’d seen her. Then, very reluctantly, she turned back to find him standing just behind Fiona, hands on hips, looking more casual than she’d ever seen him. One of his familiar striped office shirts was loosely tucked into a pair of jeans that hugged his lean hips closely, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to the elbows. He was barefooted.
Amy’s heart gave an uncomfortable jolt, and she stared at him as though she’d never seen him before. She tried to gather her wits.
‘I’ve—er—come to the wrong house!’ she said desperately. ‘Sorry to have bothered you both.’