Secretary on Demand

by Cathy Williams

  ‘You must be very close to them.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Which is probably why you’re such a natural when it comes to Eleanor. You’ve grown accustomed over the years to sharing your time with other people. What about your father?’

  ‘He died a few years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Kane said quietly.

  He moved back but instead of sitting in the required docile manner on the chair so that she could begin quizzing him on what he was doing in her bedsit at this time of the night, he surveyed the rest of the room, even having the nerve to check the kitchen, before saying with a frown, ‘Where’s the bedroom?’

  ‘Why?’ Shannon immediately asked with sudden, mounting panic. ‘Why do you want to know where the bedroom is?’

  ‘Bedroom I said, not bed.’ He gave the chair in the corner a doubtful look, as if unsure as to whether it would take his weight, and then gingerly sat down.

  ‘There is no bedroom. The sofa is really a single bed. I just fling the sheet on it when I’m ready to go to bed and use the big, square cushions for pillows. It’s very comfy, actually.’

  ‘You sleep on a chair?’

  ‘Sofa,’ she corrected, bristling at the incredulous contempt in his voice at her living arrangements.

  ‘Surely we pay you enough to find somewhere a bit…’ he looked around him and she could see him searching for the least offensive description to apply ‘…bigger?’

  ‘Places are very hard to come by in London,’ Shannon informed him, following his eyes and looking around the poky room herself. ‘It was a bit of luck getting this in the first place, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Yes. A bit of bad luck.’ Kane drank some more of the hot chocolate. ‘How was your evening at the pub?’

  ‘Don’t try to distract me with lots of questions. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was in the area and…’

  ‘You thought you’d drop by for a cup of coffee and a chat?’

  ‘Not exactly, no. I thought I’d take a drive to see how far you have to walk once you get to your underground station here.’

  Shannon gave an exasperated sigh.

  ‘And I wanted to check out the area,’ he expanded, making her feel even more cringingly helpless.

  ‘Is there any chance at all that you might stop acting as though I’m too young or too stupid to take care of myself?’ Realising that she was still standing up, Shannon tucked herself back into the sofa and folded her arms imperiously.

  ‘If that’s the impression I’ve given you, I apologise,’ he said in a voice that didn’t sound very apologetic, ‘but when I think of Eleanor living in a place like this, my skin crawls. And if, for some reason, she found herself forced to, I’d be bloody glad if there was someone around who took an interest.’

  ‘You mean someone like you.’

  Kane shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘In other words, I should be grateful for you nosing around in my private life.’

  ‘Does your mother know about your living conditions?’ he asked shrewdly, and Shannon squirmed a little bit, whilst trying to hang on to the liberated, twenty-first-century veneer she was in the process of creating.

  ‘Of course she does,’ Shannon lied. It was, in fact, such a vast lie, that she amended slightly, ‘Well, she knows I don’t live anywhere grand…’ She had an uncomfortable feeling that her mum thought she was living somewhere small but charming, a bit like a smaller version of her own house, in fact. Somewhere with more than two rooms and an atmosphere of cosy homeliness. She would have an instant heart attack were she to know that the small but charming place in her head was in reality a charmless dump in a borderline part of the city.

  Shannon could imagine her mother swooping down to London on a bedsit inspection tour and she would probably drag her daughter back off to Ireland the minute she clapped eyes on her rented accommodation.

  ‘I take it you’ve been economical with the truth.’

  ‘I had to,’ Shannon grumbled defensively, ‘for her own good.’

  He didn’t say anything for so long that she finally blurted out, ‘Look, I haven’t eaten yet, so would you mind leaving? I’m tired and I’m hungry and I’m not in the mood to argue with you. I’m not your child, you don’t have to look after me and when I can afford something better, I shall naturally move out. I don’t see why you’re complaining. I do a good job for you at work and I don’t complain about travelling back here in the evenings.’

  ‘Why haven’t you eaten?’

  Oh, Lord, here we go again, she thought. More lectures, this time about the importance of nutrition.

  ‘Because I was having such a brilliant time at the pub that I just didn’t give it a moment’s thought!’

  ‘Well, we’d better rectify the situation.’ He stood up and Shannon scrambled to her feet in pursuit.

  “‘We’d” better rectify the situation?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He began rummaging through her cupboards, then he opened the fridge and scanned the contents with a critical eye.

  ‘Not much here, is there?’

  ‘Do you mind?’ Shannon spluttered to his back, finally slipping past him and slamming the fridge door shut.

  The fridge, as she had known, was virtually bare. No cheese, just some butter and some milk, but whoever heard of spaghetti and milk? Or spaghetti and chocolate mousse? With a few mouldy onions thrown in for good measure?

  She closed the fridge door and faced him with quiet dignity.

  ‘I may have forgotten do go shopping recently,’ she agreed loftily, catching his amused eye for a few seconds then looking away. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve never been one of these people who is obsessed with food.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call having more than three items in a fridge being obsessed with food,’ he murmured. ‘Go and get changed, reds, and we’ll go out and have a quick meal. ‘I’ll turn my back while you get dressed, if you like,’ he added gallantly, and she snorted with laughter.

  ‘OK, then, I won’t.’ He looked at her slowly, from her feet upwards, taking his time, arms folded, until every nerve in her body was vibrating with tension.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ll just go away?’

  ‘Now, why would I do that when I can stand here and watch you change?’ He smiled at her blushing outrage as she pulled open the door to the small wardrobe, wretchedly conscious of the man peering curiously over her shoulder. She extracted the first things that came to hand and stormed into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

  ‘No need to lock the door, you know,’ his voice came from very close to the door indeed. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘You’re a man, aren’t you?’ Shannon retorted, struggling out of one set of clothes and into another—this time jeans, a long-sleeved green jumper and a pair of thick socks.

  ‘Now, why do I get the feeling that underneath that liberated, feminist remark is an incurable romantic?’

  ‘Because,’ she said, yanking the door open and, as she’d expected, finding him standing two inches away from it, ‘you don’t know me?’

  Instead of answering, Kane located her coat hanging from a hook behind the door and held it out for her. The brief contact of his fingers brushing against her arms felt strangely like an invasion of her privacy and she stepped away, fumbling with the buttons, aware that in her haste to get dressed she had omitted a bra, so that now her breasts felt heavy and her nipples tingled against the rough grain of the jumper. She had a fleeting reckless thought that he might very well be aware of her bra-less state, and hot on the heels of that came the even more reckless thought of his hands caressing her bare breasts under the jumper, seeking out her sensitive nipples, playing with them with his fingers. Just imagining it, it made her body feel hot and feverish.

  ‘I hope I’m well dressed enough for this little meal you’ve insisted on taking me for.’ She had thought that a sparky comment from her might re-create some vital distance between them but,
instead of rising to her bait, he smiled and raised his eyebrows in an unnervingly knowing way.

  ‘It makes a delightful change to see you out of work clothes,’ he said, opening her door and then politely stepping back so that she could fiddle with her key.

  ‘Delightful? Isn’t that taking courtesy a bit far?’ she asked feverishly.

  ‘Don’t you like being described as delightful?’ His eyes were shuttered. ‘What adjective would you rather I used? How about sexy? Mmm. Yes, sexy might be more apt. Those freckles, that ivory white skin and flaming hair. Not obviously sexy, but discreetly so. Like a woman in jeans and a man’s shirt, not thinking she’s flaunting anything but arousing all sorts of illicit thoughts anyway.’

  His words made her feel limp.

  ‘I don’t arouse illicit thoughts,’ she squeaked.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because…’ she spluttered helplessly.

  ‘Would it turn you on if you thought you did?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘So…should I keep my illicit thoughts to myself, then?’ He dropped his eyes so that she couldn’t see whether he was being serious or not. No, of course he wasn’t being serious, she thought hotly.

  ‘You haven’t got any illicit thoughts, so you can stop playing games!’

  ‘You’re very suspicious of the opposite sex, aren’t you?’ he said, letting her off the hook and allowing her to lead the way down the narrow flight of stairs to the front door, but stepping forward once they were in the hall to open the door for her. ‘Not really surprising, I suppose. One sour relationship can have a knock-on effect that lasts much longer than we expect.’

  ‘Oh, you speak from experience, do you?’ Shannon asked sarcastically, stepping past him, her head held high just in case he got the notion that anything he said might actually be absorbed and stored for inspection at a later date.

  ‘Not really, no,’ he admitted, walking towards the high street, his hands in his pockets and his coat flapping around him, brushing against her legs. They walked with their heads down, instinctively pushing against the bracing wind that had sent the temperatures dropping.

  ‘Was that what Gallway asked you to do? Trust him?’ he quizzed her shrewdly, and Shannon could have kicked herself for her momentary slip of the tongue.

  ‘Isn’t that what all men say when they’re intent on getting a woman into bed?’ Shannon retorted heatedly.

  ‘No, actually.’

  ‘You’re different, I suppose?’

  ‘Very different,’ he murmured. ‘Look. There. A Chinese restaurant. Shall we try it?’

  ‘OK,’ she said grudgingly. ‘I never noticed before, not that I spend much time on the high street.’

  ‘Too dull?’

  ‘Way too dull for someone as sizzling as I am,’ she answered brashly. ‘Not enough…pubs and wine bars and swinging clubs.’

  At which Kane had the insufferable temerity to burst out laughing, and she felt a smile reluctantly tug the corners of her mouth. Like it or not, she was enjoying his company, even though he had dragged her out of the warmth of her room at an ungodly hour, kicking and screaming, more or less.

  ‘London isn’t just about pubs and wine bars and swinging clubs,’ he pointed out. ‘What about the theatres, the operas, the restaurants, the art galleries, the museums?’

  ‘What about them?’ Shannon shot back airily. She decided that she would get some fun out of the remainder of the evening after all and play him at his own game of being patronising. She brushed past him as he held open the door for her to enter the restaurant, which was not quite empty but nearly.

  ‘What do you mean “what about them?”’

  ‘Well…’ She allowed herself to be relieved of her coat and then waited until she had sat down at the small table. ‘Yes, there is the theatre,’ she agreed, ticking off option one on her finger. ‘But if I could afford constant trips to the theatre I would have enough money to move out of that hole I call home away from home, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘So you do admit that it’s a hole.’

  ‘But I never said I didn’t like living in holes. Some people do, you know.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Or do I?’ He grinned and waited for her to continue.

  ‘Then the opera. Well, really. I would have to save three months’ pay to afford a seat at an opera.’

  ‘Not quite three months.’

  ‘Besides, I hate opera.’

  ‘Have you ever been?’

  ‘No. So that’s the opera taken care of. Then the restaurants. I worked in one so actually going to one always felt like a busman’s holiday.’ She ticked off that particular option. ‘Then the art galleries and museums. Very interesting, I’m sure. Very cultured and refined, but—’

  ‘Don’t say it—you’re a wild young thing with no time for culture and refinement…’

  ‘I’m glad you noticed! Perhaps,’ she added wickedly, ‘when I’m older and more mature…’

  ‘Like me…’

  ‘If the cap fits…’ She smiled smugly at him and then proceeded to inspect her menu. A pointless exercise as she allowed him to order the food rather than wade her way through everything on the menu. ‘I mean…’ she leaned towards him with her elbows resting on the table ‘…in between your operas, theatres, museums and art galleries, don’t you sometimes just long for the hectic buzz of a club?’

  He appeared to give that some thought, stroking his chin with one finger, looking at her with a pensive expression that didn’t quite conceal the humour lurking just beneath the surface. ‘Is there a hectic buzz in a club? I thought it was all loud music and drunken youths.’

  ‘See!’ Shannon exclaimed triumphantly.

  ‘What am I supposed to have seen? Oh, I know. That I’m an old fuddy-duddy? A stick-in-the-mud? I do manage to get out now and again to the old club, actually. Sorry to disappoint you.’ He sat back to allow the waiter to pour them both a glass of wine while Shannon digested the image of Kane Lindley flinging himself around on a dance floor in hip-gripping snakeskin trousers and garish top. It was almost easier to imagine him in a black frock and dog collar preaching from a pulpit.

  ‘You go to clubs?’ she asked, guzzling her wine like water and giving him a patronising, incredulous smirk.

  ‘Admittedly not the kind of clubs you probably have in mind.’

  ‘Oh, you mean dreary gentlemen’s clubs where you all sit around little table sipping glasses of sherry and discussing politics…’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Then what kind of clubs are you talking about?’ The cold white wine tasted glorious, although with nothing in her stomach Shannon could feel the alcohol racing through her bloodstream and shooting straight to her brain.

  ‘Jazz clubs, for the most part.’

  ‘Oh, jazz.’

  ‘Another piece of culture you find you have no time for, by any chance?’ He refilled her now empty glass and sat back to look at her. How was it possible for anyone still dressed in their working garb to look so cool and unflappable at this time of evening? Not to mention bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?

  ‘Not really exciting, are they? All slow music and sensible conversation…’

  ‘Depends who you go with.’ He raised his glass to his lips and looked at her with amusement over the rim while she went a delicate shade of pink.

  ‘I doubt that very much,’ Shannon declared robustly, uncomfortably aware that the image of Kane dancing very slowly, cheek to cheek, with a woman at a jazz club made her feel more bothered than she would have admitted in a million years. There had been no evidence of any women in his life, at least not since she’d been around, working for him, and he’d been increasingly at the house whenever she’d been there in the evenings during the week. But what did that say? His weekends could be spent anywhere. He could have a woman for every weekend for all she knew.

  ‘Do you? Why? Don’t you think that listening to good music and dancing to it can be a very erotic experience?’

  ‘I
prefer dancing to quicker numbers myself,’ Shannon told him quickly, relieved that their food had now arrived, conveniently marking an end to this particular line of conversation, even though she knew that she had generated it in the first place. She watched him surreptitiously as she helped herself to food, ravenously hungry all of a sudden.

  ‘Have you ever been to a jazz club?’ he asked, once they had begun eating.

  ‘Not really.’ She manoeuvred her chopsticks around a mouthful of cashew chicken and noodles and hoped that the food would soak up some of the wine which had made her feel pleasantly but unreliably light-headed.

  ‘What does “not really” mean?’

  ‘It means no, actually.’

  ‘Oh, dear. No jazz clubs, no opera, nothing that smacks of culture.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I would love to go to jazz clubs and theatres and I might even be persuaded to try the opera…’ Unlikely, that last one, she thought, but who could tell? ‘But these things cost money which I haven’t got at my ready disposal. Unfortunately.’ She could feel herself warming to her theme of misplaced cultured person, just in case he imagined that she was a bimbo whose only interest was to go somewhere where the maximum amount of sweat could be worked up in the minimum amount of time. In fact, the few nightclubs she had frequented in her lifetime had left a lot to be desired. That, however, was a little titbit she would not be sharing with him.

  ‘I can’t think of anything more exciting,’ she ventured, realising with some surprise that she had drunk three glasses of wine and eaten enough food to keep her going for a month, ‘than going to…the Tate Gallery, followed by an evening at a quiet, refined club. Just grabbing an exquisite meal somewhere along the way, of course! It would be wonderful to…’ Her mind was beginning to feel decidedly fuzzy.

  ‘To…?’ Kane prompted silkily.

  Where was she? Oh, yes. She was in the middle of conjuring up an alternative lifestyle as befitted someone whose proclivities were more in tune with culture, and not culture of the youth variety. ‘To really wear something fancy to go out…a little black number…or maybe something elegant…and backless…in dark green…’