After a long, tiring day at work, they often had a quiet drink together in the confines of his own magnificent office, really a suite, and she used to tell him about herself – about her lonely childhood as an only child, and her over-protective mother who had almost made Sheila too shy even to mix with girls of her own age. How she'd conquered a stammer and later her timidness and learned to be independent. Jessop always appeared genuinely interested, he seemed willing enough to talk and was always very friendly to her, although others found him remote. So, encouraged, she had tried to get him to talk about his own background, but this was one area of his life about which he was reticent.
Samuel Jessop was good-looking in a way that wasn't instantly apparent but which grew on acquaintance. He had a justifiable reputation of being shrewd in matters of business and high finance (he'd earned the nickname of 'Mr All-Sorts' from financial newspaper writers because of his uncanny ability to sense when disasters were looming, and to avoid them in time, or diversify into other areas) and was ambitious to climb even higher. Like Sheila, he was an only child, but his mother had died giving birth to him. His father, after having served in the army during the war, had bought a ramshackle boarding house on the coast with the gratuity he received when the war ended. This house he reconstructed into flatlets and then he became an estate agent. He prospered and turned to property development, starting Jessop & Co with his first wife. A year after her death he married again; the profits of his company soared.
Before long, rumours grew that Martin Jessop's beautiful young wife was giving her husband the runaround but, for Jessop senior, divorce was out Of the question. He dreaded the thought of scandal, believing his reputation would be hurt and his business damaged. He could imagine people saying, 'If he can't manage his wife, how can he manage his business?' So he swallowed his pride, hushed up his wife's affaires and poured himself into his company. It prospered and he began to prepare his son to take over the kingdom.
As Samuel grew up, his father began to waste away and soon no one would have recognised the once strong, ruggedly handsome man in the shrivelled, emaciated skeleton he became. If cancer hadn't devoured him, the shame of his second marriage would have. However, he still had his wits about him and in an uncontestable will left enough. for his wife to live on when he died, Samuel at the age of twenty-three, inherited the business and the bulk of his estate.
'Get married soon,' the old man had whispered from cracked lips, his wizened, almost transparent hands scrabbling feverishly on the counterpane. 'Don't make the same mistake as me. Make lots of sons, Samuel... see that the name of Jessop isn't forgotten.'
Sheila had heard the story often, first from gossiping employees and later from Samuel himself. She had wanted to ask him why, in that case, he hadn't married – but hadn't dared. Their relationship was based on comradeship and mutual respect, so Sheila hid what other feelings she had for him, hoping that he would make the first move towards her. She'd been waiting a long time, but hadn't given up hope and learned to contain it under a constant mask of cheerfulness and helpfulness when he was around.
Arousing herself from her reveries she glanced at her watch, a platinum one that Jessop had given her the previous Christmas. It was a quarter past nine and time to stop daydreaming. There were a dozen things to be done, and she had someone coming for an interview, applying for the post of her assistant, in ten minutes.
Connie glanced up at the entrance and tried not to be awed at the impressive reception hall she could see through glass doors; they opened at her approach with a gasp of air and shut as majestically behind her.
It is like the lobby of a luxurious hotel, Connie thought as she stared around, wondering where she was supposed to go. She looked again at the slip of paper she held on which the matron had typed, 'Nine twenty-five, ask for Miss Delaney, Jessop House, Jessop and Company.' Nine twenty-five, Connie mused, what an odd time for an interview. Not nine-fifteen, or half-past, but twenty-five past. Perhaps, she wondered, this Miss Delaney is so busy she has only five minutes for me; the lady probably times everything to the split second. God, I don't know if I could ever work for a precise-sounding woman like her – clocking in and out as if at a factory. She had half a mind to turn tail and run before something awful happened, something she'd regret long after. Connie wondered if she were sufficiently well dressed. Everyone she saw looked so smart and sophisticated, so confident of themselves, she observed enviously. She fought off a mounting sense of insecurity, curbed the impulse to flee. Where would I go? Back to matron admitting I'd failed so soon? She lifted her chin resolutely. I'm as good as them. I may be younger, but take away their smart clothes and we're all the same. She giggled nervously but, clenching her hands so that her nails dug sharply into her palms, Connie walked over to a long desk that stretched almost twenty feet along one wall, behind which was a hive of activity. The carpet across which she strode with such determination was a sunny marigold colour, and its appearance was attractive enough to make her pause in admiration. She was soon startled back to attention when a nasal voice twanged: 'May I help you, Miss?'
Connie stared into the carved face of a peroxide blonde with enormous breasts that jutted impudently under a tight-fitting black jumper. Taken aback, Connie gulped foolishly, then said shyly, 'Er, I've got an appointment.'
'With whom?' the voice droned.
'Miss Delaney.'
'Ah.' The blonde nodded as if the news had some significance.
'I hope I'm not late,' Connie began worriedly, but the receptionist wasn't listening.
'Top floor, dearie, ask for Miss Jacks.' She pointed a silver talon in the direction of the lift.
'But my appointment's with Miss Delaney...'
'You have to check with Miss Jacks first,' the blonde said with heavy weariness.
'I see. Thank you.'
Connie went over to the lift, waited with a dozen other people, and when it arrived, told the chirpy young lift attendant which floor she wanted.
'Top it is, then.' The lad grinned at her approvingly. 'I ain't seen you around here before. You coming to work here then?'
'I don't know yet,' Connie replied doubtfully, and moved aside to let some people out and others in. 'How much higher?'
'Nearly there, Miss.'
She stepped out from the lift and into what appeared to Connie to be a maze. Bewildered by all the noise and bustle, she allowed the press of people who had erupted from the lift with her to carry her past a door. Not knowing what else to do, Connie tapped and waited. Nothing. Swallowing a lump in her throat and trying to give the impression if anyone was watching that she knew what she was about, she knocked louder. Thankfully, she heard a voice inside yell for her to enter.
She entered into a typing pool, and three dozen heads seemed to stare in her direction as she entered. Connie edged her way to the nearest head.
'Excuse me,' she whispered with agonising self-consciousness. The head remained lowered.
'Excuse me!' Connie repeated louder.
'What?' The girl removed earphones and, with her tongue, shifted the gum she was chewing to the other side of her mouth. 'Were you talking to me?'
'Yes. Where can I find Miss Jacks, please?'
'Who? Wot you askin' me for? I only work here!'
Connie began to feel desperate. 'Do you know who I could ask then?'
'Look, go outside, turn right along the main corridor, second left, and try the first door on your right opposite the ladies loo.'
'Thanks,' Connie said, hurrying out and trying to remember the directions.
To her surprise, she arrived at the correct door, bearing a plaque inscribed 'Information'. This time, Connie did not bother to knock but walked straight in. An elderly woman was sitting at a desk and writing in a ledger. She smiled pleasantly as Connie approached.
'Where could I find Miss Jacks, please?'
'You've found her, young lady.'
'Thank goodness, I thought I'd got lost.' Connie looked relieved.
The woman tut-tutted. 'Don't tell me some monkey has removed the indicator again. Anyway, what can I do for you?'
'I have an interview with Miss Delaney,' Connie explained again.
'At what time are you expected?'
'Twenty-five past nine.'
The woman looked up and frowned at the clock on the wall.
'You are ten minutes late.'
'I couldn't help it,' was the humble apology.
'Well, for your sake, I hope Miss Delaney will still have time to see you. She's a very busy woman, you know.'
Connie didn't say anything. There was really no answer she could have made.
'Well, don't look so crestfallen,' the woman went on, a little more kindly.'I'll buzz through to Miss Peabody.'
It's a joke, Connie decided, it must be. A farce. It's like that game we used to play at the Home when it was someone's birthday. We would all sit in a circle and pass a parcel around. When the music stopped, the girl holding it would tear off as much paper as she could. There was always another parcel underneath the wrapping, until the very end. It's like that here. I wonder just how many more people I will have to bother before I get the honour of meeting Miss Delaney?
'As it's getting late, Miss Peabody will come and collect you herself to take you through to Miss Delaney directly,' the woman said pleasantly as she replaced a receiver on her desk and returned to her ledgers.
Less than a minute later, Connie was following Miss Peabody down a hallway that led unbelievably to yet another hallway. Eventually they arrived at a door on which Miss Peabody knocked. A charming voice bade them enter. As Connie stepped into the room, Miss Peabody disappeared (without even a curtsey towards the throne, Connie thought wryly) and she was left alone at last with the Great One.
'Won't you please sit down, Miss Sands.'
The woman, or girl Connie decided on seconds thoughts, had a lovely voice. Soft and gentle. It had the effect of putting Connie at her ease. She wasn't to know that Sheila Delaney's voice and charm was one of her most powerful and valuable assets. If it could bewitch clients, it could unruffle a girl like Connie.
'I'll be with you in a moment,' Sheila Delaney told her. She sorted through a stack of files on her desk as Connie sat opposite.
'I'm very sorry I'm late,' Connie began, but Sheila interrupted with a wave of one graceful, white hand.
'Don't apologise, Miss Sands. I know what it is like the first time one comes here, a veritable madhouse.'
Connie smiled gratefully at her consideration. She had taken an instant liking to her. While Sheila was busy, Connie took the opportunity to look around. It was a beautiful office. Bright and airy, modern but cosy. Paintings hung on a wall, skilfully arranged, something sculptured on a stand near the curtains – how splendid it all looked, how well everything merged with the decor.
Connie's eyes returned to the girl opposite and found Sheila looking at her.
'You have your written references with you, I believe.'
'Everything you require is in here,' Connie said, unconsciously imitating the girl's refined way of speaking. She handed Sheila the brown envelope and waited while its contents were rapidly scanned.
Sheila pressed the tips of her fingers together and her smile was warm when she said, 'Now, I need a bright girl that I can train myself. Should you work for me you would have to be prepared to do a little of everything eventually. Shorthand, typing, filing, the usual sort of chores one finds.'
After giving Connie a short test of her typing and shorthand speeds, Sheila announced herself satisfied and proceeded to explain the details of the work to Connie, who listened intently, face concentrated but interested.
'Perhaps you could tell me a little more about property developers, Miss Delaney,' Connie said thoughtfully. 'It might help me to understand better what goes on and what I'm expected to do. I don't know anything about this business and I thought, that is, if you don't mind... you could perhaps run through a routine day of someone like Mr Jessop.' She looked up shyly.
Sheila nodded, pleased that the girl seemed interested enough. 'That's a very intelligent idea, Miss Sands. Let's see... well, Mr Jessop might have an early morning meeting over breakfast with his executives to discuss projects. It could be an office block in Manchester, a shopping centre in Southampton, or even an industrial development in Calais.' Connie looked impressed. '... I'd probably be there taking notes which I'd later expect you to type out. In my absence, you'd be here taking messages and holding the fort. After the meeting, he might fly in his private plane' (she smiled at Connie's expression) 'perhaps up north to visit some sites to see how work is progressing ... how the building construction is getting along,' she added helpfully. Connie seemed absorbed. 'A next move might be that he has a meeting with the local authorities to discuss plans for the next stage of the work, and afterwards he could be expected to fly back to attend a meeting with his bankers... '
'Is it all work?' Connie interrupted.
Sheila laughed. 'Well, he might throw a cocktail party later for his friends. All these things have to be arranged, and that's where you'll come in eventually. You'll have to help me.'
Connie nodded, already feeling quite important.
'You'll have to use the phone a great deal, learn who's who. A firm of chartered surveyors may call to give details of possible new developments, or it may be an accountant to give Mr Jessop an idea about a possible new scheme. Many builders phone also, asking to be included in the tendering ... that is, the building work. You must know when to be courteously firm, and never let on Mr Jessop's movements, take messages. He might be with his financiers, discussing the raising of a huge loan for a number of projects to be carried out in the course of next year, or even involved in the take-over of another property company that might be in financial difficulties, and it's not likely he'd be pleased at being interrupted at any of those meetings.'
'Sounds like he goes to a great many,' Connie said innocently. Sheila grinned. 'He does. The excitement comes in the climax, when a project is completed and he returns to open, say, an office block, and there would be a function at which the city's Lord Mayor, for instance, would be invited, along with a great many other important bodies. It was only last month that Mr Jessop decided to diversify his interests by taking over a company with a group of shops because they had a lot of freehold assets, then had some of these shops redeveloped . . . at the moment, we're involved in a yachting marina on the south coast.'
'How does it work, I mean, how does it happen?'
'I'll try to explain in simple terms. The first phase is to build the harbour, sinking cement into the sea, almost, to create it. Then the second phase might be that he'd build maybe two new hotels overlooking this harbour. This one's an immense scheme, with a conference centre, entertainment facilities and squash courts to be provided. Actually, at the moment, Mr Jessop is away visiting a casino which he developed and, being a far-sighted individual, he's obtained part-ownership, which is even more profitable than it sounds since it's linked to a chain of betting shops ... but I think that's enough details for now, I don't want to frighten you off. Do you have any more questions?'
'When could I start?' came the instant response.
Sheila laughed at her eagerness. 'No reason why you shouldn't begin right now. We can get all the odds and ends tidied up later. Does that suit you?'
Then she stated a salary that made the girl gasp. '... OK, but it's not for nothing, as you may have gathered. I expect you to work hard for it.'
'Where would I work?' Connie asked, thinking of the typing pool and dreading the idea.
'There's an intercommunicating door through here to another, smaller room which will be your office, but you'll work in here with me at the beginning.' She stood and held out her hand.
'We'll seal it formally then by my welcoming you to the fold.'
That evening, Connie lay on her bed going over the day's events. She'd even transcribed Sheila's notes without making any mistakes. They had sto
pped for coffee and biscuits around mid-morning, then Sheila had had to go out, leaving Connie to her own devices. It seemed as if theirs was going to be a very flexible arrangement.
Connie had eaten lunch in the cafeteria for the staff in the basement of the building and spoken to a few of the girls at the table. They seemed a friendly bunch and Connie received more than one offer of help should she need it. She swapped names with them and even got a wink from one of the messenger boys as they passed in the corridor of the fifteenth floor.
Back in the office, Connie had spent about an hour answering phone calls and taking messages, when she heard the outer office door being opened. She went through into Sheila Delaney's room, thinking it was her, and found herself confronted by a tall man who stared back with equal surprise.
'Hello.'
She returned the word automatically before it occurred to her to think that he had somehow gained admittance to hallowed grounds. Collecting her wits, she inquired politely, 'May I help you?'
'Do you want to?'
'If I'm able,' she said, unnerved by his reply.. 'Er, were you looking for Miss Delaney?'
'She's out?'
'Yes, but she'll be back soon. Look, maybe I could give her a message... '
'Who are you?' the man asked curiously, ignoring her last statement.
'Constance Sands. I work for Miss Delaney ... '
'Oh? Since when?'
'Since today, actually. I'm her, er, secretary.'
'I see. Good idea.' With that, the stranger started to walk across the office. Alarmed, Connie ran after him.
'You really can't go in there, that's Mr Jessop's office! I do think you ought to wait in reception ... '
He turned on his heel and she almost collided with him.
'I am Samuel Jessop, Miss Sands. Do you think I may enter now?'
Connie looked flustered. 'Oh, I didn't know ... I'm sorry, sir, nobody told me you'd be coming in this afternoon.'
Jessop went through into his own office and Connie followed uncertainly. There was a heavy, oak table at the far end of the room and striding around its expanse, he sat down on the armchair behind it. Then he noticed Connie standing there.
Capital Sins Page 2