Dangerous Male

by Marjorie Lewty

  'I—I—' Gemma swallowed. Everything was moving far too quickly. She felt as if she had walked into a trap. Then, 'Yes,' she said firmly, 'I should be very interested in learning.' Her spirits began to rise. There were electric typewriters at the secretarial college, but nothing more ambitious. But if she could get a training here on a word-processor, if she could start her working life with the most up-to-date qualifications, there would be no limit to the kind of job she could eventually land. Perhaps she could even take over the whole responsibility for the house and free Beth at last to take up her beloved art.

  For this chance she would even brave the prospect of working for the intimidating Harn Durrant for a short time. It would be bound to be very short, she thought wryly, she didn't think she could stand him for long.

  'Then that's arranged,' he said crisply. 'You can start tomorrow—nine o'clock sharp.'

  A couple of minutes later Gemma found herself outside in the street. The premises of Durrants (Fine Paper) Limited were in an old building in a side street of the middle-sized Midlands town, a few minutes' walk from a pleasant park. Gemma made her way here now and sat down on a seat, in the shade of a flowering cherry tree, to recover.

  What had she done? Twenty minutes ago she had entered Durrants' office, smiling her sweetest smile at Ted Baines, who served in the shop downstairs, where stacks of paper reposed on every shelf, and in the tiers of drawers which reached to the ceiling and overflowed into folders on the wide wooden counter.

  Ted had beamed at Gemma; he was always delighted to see her. Ted was knocking sixty now and had worked at Durrants since he was a lad. Ever since Beth had come to work here, and brought her little stepsister into the shop sometimes, he had watched Gemma grow from a pretty toddler, to a long-legged schoolchild, to the lovely young girl she was now—slim and straight, with candid, long-lashed blue eyes in a small, piquante face that could twist suddenly with humour, or soften with compassion.

  ' 'Morning, Miss Gemma. You looking for your sister? She's not in today.'

  'No, I know, Ted, I've left her at home. She's not feeling too good—hasn't really got over that dose of 'flu.'

  Not feeling too good was an understatement. As she smiled at Ted Gemma remembered, with a pang, how Beth had lain on her back with the bedclothes pulled up nearly covering her face. How she had looked frighteningly blank when she had muttered that she wasn't going in to the office today; how she had turned away from Gemma when she asked what was wrong, and should she get the doctor. She had shaken her head and said she wasn't ill. 'I can't go,' she had repeated. 'I can't. I can't.' And she had begun to weep silently, helplessly.

  Nerves, Gemma had thought. She's been working up for this ever since the new man took over. And yesterday there had been some sort of unpleasantness between them. Beth had come in looking terrible, but wouldn't say much about it to Gemma, except that Mr Durrant wanted her to work on a new electronic machine that she hated the very sight of. And, now—this!

  It was more than just nerves, Gemma thought with cold fear trickling down her back. A nervous breakdown? Oh God, what should she do? She had stroked Beth's dark hair and soothed her. 'Never mind, darling, you don't have to go if you don't want to. I'll let them know. Now, you take a couple of aspirins and have a good sleep. And don't worry—I'll look after everything.'

  It was up to her now, she was on her own. All these years Beth had coped and now she'd reached the end. Losing her job had defeated her finally.

  Ted had stroked his thinning fair hair back, looked over his spectacles and said, 'There now, I'm not surprised—she's not looked herself lately. Ever since old Mr Durrant went.' He sighed and clicked his tongue. 'It's made a difference to all of us, that it has. Working for the young one isn't the same at all.'

  'Is he here, Ted?' Gemma had asked, although she knew he was—she had spotted his gleaming dark green Mercedes in the small car-park at the side of the building. 'Can I go up? I want to have a word with him.'

  Ted had lifted the counter partition on its hinges. 'Yes, of course, you go up, Miss Gemma.' And as she walked through the shop and up the creaking wooden staircase he had murmured something that sounded like, 'And don't you take any nonsense from him.'

  Well, she hadn't. Or had she? She sat on the park seat now, wondering, trying to remember exactly how she had got herself into this position, but all she could think of was Harn Durrant's strange grey eyes, with the darker rim round the irises, holding her own as he regarded her across the desk. Those eyes had an almost hypnotic quality about them, she thought, shivering slightly, although the late spring day was warm.

  Why had he offered her the job?—that was the question. Gemma pondered this for some time, and two possible answers finally suggested themselves. The first was that she was young and presumably anxious to get ahead and learn all the new technology that had baffled and upset Beth. He would bank on training—or bullying—her into his own ways. The second was that he might, in some part, assuage a bad conscience by employing the sister of the old and trusted employee he had so ruthlessly dismissed. The third possibility, which didn't even occur to her, was that something about her might have impressed him. On the whole she favoured the first answer. Harn Durrant didn't strike her as a man who would be much troubled by conscience. Business first, human being a long way after—that would be his working plan.

  Well, if he was making a convenience of her she would have no qualms about doing the same to him. She would take on the job, draw the very handsome salary he had offered her for one month, learn everything she could in that space of time, and then hand in her notice. If, by then, she had succeeded in making herself useful to him, so much the better. He would be paid back in his own coin. Meanwhile she would put up with his nasty ways for the sake of the business experience and so that they could pay the rates without having to use Beth's redundancy money.

  Having come to this conclusion, Gemma felt slightly better about everything. The worst, however, was yet to come, and she had a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach when she thought of it. She had to go home and face Beth with the news.

  'Gemma love, you can't! You simply can't, I won't let you.' Beth sat back in the old basket chair with the faded cushion and stared at her young stepsister in dismay.

  'I can and I will,' Gemma smiled. She was so relieved to find Beth up, and not lying in bed having a nervous breakdown, that she could almost treat the whole interview with Harn Durrant as a kind of black joke. Beth looked very pale and there were deep rings under her soft brown eyes, but her wavy dark hair was carefully drawn back into its usual knot at the back of her neck and her sensitive mouth was firm and composed. Beth, Gemma realised, had been making a tremendous effort during her absence.

  She leaned forward now and put a hand on Gemma's arm. 'I'm sorry I was so wet this morning, Gem,' she said ruefully. 'I don't know what came over me. Of course I'll go back and work out my notice—I'll go back tomorrow. Meanwhile I'll look for another job. That so-and-so Harn Durrant won't refuse to give me a reference, I shouldn't think, even if it isn't as a word-processor expert. Then you can go on and take your exams and look for a job yourself—a nice job that you'll enjoy. Not working for a man like him. Good gracious, fancy making your entry into the business world in a slave job like that would be—no, I won't allow it.'

  Gemma's blue eyes were dancing. 'You can't stop it, Sis. I'm eighteen now, remember? If I want to sell my freedom for filthy lucre, slaving for a harsh master, then I shall do so.' She squeezed Beth's hand tightly. 'Now don't worry about me, I'm tough, and no Harn Durrant will intimidate me. And you know, I don't mind the idea of learning this technology thing that you hate so much. I was quite good at maths at school. Miss Webster even admitted that I might have a logical mind—think of that! I rather fancy becoming a word-processor wizard and commanding a top job, with salary to match. Now, let's discuss what you're going to do with your redundancy money. I think you should go to art school—you'd get in as a "mature student"— —' she pulled
a face '—that sounds silly, looking at you. You look so young, Sis.'

  She was watching Beth's face closely and she saw the look of longing that passed over it, like the sun coming through dark clouds. Then it was gone again. 'Oh, I couldn't, it's too late.' She shook her head. 'I must get another job, I can't start being a student now, love, it's too absurd.'

  'It isn't absurd at all,' Gemma said stoutly. 'Anyway, think about it, and don't toss the idea out straight away. You might get a grant and that would help, and if I'm earning, we could manage fine.'

  She almost said, 'You and Ian could get married,' but stopped herself in time. She was quite sure that Ian Jackson was in love with Beth—had been for more than two years, but Beth would never admit that he was anything more than a friend. He was an artist, lived in a bedsitter at the bottom end of the town, and he and Beth had met two years ago when he had come into Durrants to enquire about some special water-colour paper he needed. They had struck up a friendship immediately. To Beth it was wonderful to know a real artist, to be able to meet and talk about art—which they did frequently. Ian had formed the habit of coming to supper every Saturday evening, and Gemma couldn't miss the way Beth took on a new sparkle when he was there.

  'I like Ian, I think he's a pet. Why don't you two get married?' Gemma had enquired at the beginning, with the straight-to-the-point ingenuousness of a sixteen-year-old.

  Beth had gone pink and laughed it off with the remark that chance would be a fine thing, but Gemma had realised, as the months went by and she grew in understanding, that Ian was the kind of dedicated artist who wasn't likely to make much money. 'I can only get rich by being a bad artist,' he had grinned ruefully once, in her presence, 'and that doesn't appeal.'

  So Ian had gone on coming to supper on Saturday evenings, and sometimes Beth would visit him in his studio-bedsitter and come back with a funny, depressed look on her lovely face, and Gemma knew that she was wishing there was some way for the two of them to be together. But Ian had very little money and he wouldn't compromise his art. Beth had a house to keep going and a younger sister to put through her training. It all seemed hopeless.

  Beth was sitting very quietly now and her brown eyes were cloudy. 'No,' she said again, 'it's much too late for me to think of going to art school, it wouldn't do at all. Anyway, love, you'll never stick working for that awful Harn Durrant for more than a month.'

  That was Gemma's opinion too, but she didn't admit it. She jumped up and made for the kitchen. 'Let's have some coffee,' she said gaily, 'and you can instruct me in the office work at Durrant's, because I fully intend to turn up there tomorrow morning and confront Mr Harn Durrant with the consequences of his rash decision to employ me.'

  In the small kitchen she spooned instant coffee into two mugs and waited for the kettle to boil. Her announcement had passed off better than she could have expected. She had been able to make a big joke of it and Beth, she was sure, wouldn't object too strongly when she left tomorrow morning. Gemma had seen the relief on her stepsister's face when she realised that she wasn't going to have to make the tremendous effort herself.

  This time the effort would come from Gemma. It was up to her now, and she mustn't fail.

  Confidence, that's all I need, she told herself, But the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach reminded her that what she had undertaken was no joke. No joke at all, she thought, as the dark, hard face of Harn Durrant appeared before her mind's eye and she heard again that smooth, deep, almost menacing voice say, 'I'm not an easy man to work for, Miss Lawson, and I don't tolerate fools gladly.'

  Oh lordy, thought Gemma bleakly, what have I let myself in for?

  Nine o'clock sharp, the man had said, and Gemma was in the office at two minutes to nine, but Harn Durrant was already at his desk when she presented herself, her heart beating very fast.

  His dark head was bent over a sheaf of documents and he didn't lift it as Gemma went in. She stood beside the desk and waited for him to notice her presence, which, eventually, he did. He lifted his head and again she felt the impact of those strange grey eyes under their long black lashes. His lashes were, Gemma remarked, unfairly thick and silky for a man, and they curved outwards at the corners so that they gave the impression of a faint smile. Which, Gemma was to discover, was altogether misleading. Harn Durrant smiled very seldom, and he certainly wasn't smiling now.

  'What do you—' he began irritably, and then, 'Oh lord, yes, you're the new girl. Well, have you fixed things up with Mrs Blake? Insurance cards and so on?'

  Gemma's heart missed a beat. Why hadn't she thought of that? And why hadn't Beth? But of course, she hadn't confessed to Beth that she had misled Harn Durrant about her lack of experience, and now she was going to be found out in a lie on her very first morning.

  'Er—no,' she said, and then, brightly, 'I thought I would come up here to you first, Mr Durrant, to see if there was anything urgent you wanted me to do.'

  He gave her a withering look. 'I can't use your services until you're on the staff. Go along and see Mrs Brown. She knows that your sister's leaving, of course, but I haven't told her anything further. You can do the explaining.'

  'Yes, sir,' said Gemma obediently, turning to the door.

  'And Miss Lawson—' the peremptory voice stopped her, 'I dislike being called sir—by women, that is. You will call me Mr Durrant, and I shall call you—what is your name, by the way?'

  'Gemma,' she told him, and saw him jot the word down on a writing pad. Goodness, she had made an impression on him, hadn't she? He couldn't even be sure of remembering her name.

  'Very well, Gemma, go along now, and then come back here as quickly as you can.' And that's an order, he seemed to be adding silently.

  'Yes, s— Mr Durrant,' said Gemma. She closed the door quietly behind her and pulled a face at it from the outside.

  The general office was on the ground floor, behind the shop, and Mrs Brown was in charge here. She was a middle-aged woman with untidy grey hair and a cheerful smile. So far as Gemma knew, from Beth, this lady somehow managed to cope with all the work of the office that wasn't directly in the managing director's province, with the assistance of a young typist and an office girl who took messages, went to the post, and did all the odd jobs, including making several brews of tea in the course of the day. Mrs Brown had worked for old Mr Durrant for many years and had already been a fixture when Beth joined the staff. 'Mrs Brown can't get along without her cup of tea,' Beth had once told Gemma, with a twinkle in her soft brown eyes. 'And she certainly earns it.'

  Mrs Brown looked up from a vast rolltop desk littered with forms and papers and gave Gemma a look that would have been appropriate for a funeral. 'Oh, Gemma, I am so sorry, it's upset me terribly—about Beth, I mean. When Mr Durrant told me she was leaving us I couldn't believe it— the office won't be the same without her. I've thought she hasn't been looking at all well lately, and that last bout of 'flu must have pulled her down terribly. Tell me, how is she? What does the doctor say? Is it something really serious?'

  Gemma felt a sense of relief. At least the Durrant man had had the decency not to broadcast the reason for Beth's dismissal. Mrs Brown evidently thought she had resigned for health reasons. 'Not really serious, so far as we know, but she has to have a long rest and take things very easily.'

  Mrs Brown nodded sympathetically. 'And then she'll be coming back, do you think?'

  Gemma shook her head. 'It's very doubtful,' she said. 'Meanwhile,' she added brightly, 'Mr Durrant has asked me to stand in for her—just on trial, of course, to see how I get on. I've started this morning and he sent me down to you to see about insurance cards and so on, and put me on the staff register.'

  Mrs Brown's brow creased into a frown. 'But I thought—Beth said you hadn't finished your course yet, that you had still to take your exams.'

  'I'll have to put them off,' said Gemma. 'I thought this offer was too good to refuse.' She crossed her fingers behind her back. 'It's all been a bit sudden, Mrs Brown, and you see
I don't know about cards and so on. I was wondering if you'd be good enough to help me.'

  The frown disappeared. 'Of course I will, my dear, and good luck to you.' She hesitated and then pulled a wry face. 'You may find Mr Durrant not too easy to work for. He's very different from his father—full of up-to-date ideas, like most young men. But you may get along very well with him. You're young yourself and I know from Beth that you're very bright.'

  Gemma flushed. 'I just hope I'll be bright enough, Mrs Brown. I'm going to try my best. Er—perhaps I ought to tell you that Mr Durrant got the impression that I'd been in a job before. He didn't seem to want to know anything about it, so I didn't tell him that I hadn't. He—sort of— rushed me, if you know what I mean.'

  Mrs Brown's mouth turned down at the corners. 'Indeed I know what you mean, Gemma. He's a rusher all right, is our Mr Durrant. Don't let that worry you, my dear, so long as you can do the job that's all he's interested in. He's not one to be impressed by bits of paper—although paper's our line, isn't it?' She laughed heartily at her own little joke. 'Now, go along up to him, my dear, and leave all the details to me. Call in and see me at lunch time and I'll have the forms ready for you to sign.'

  Gemma thanked her and breathed a sigh of relief as she hurried up the creaking wooden staircase. That seemed to be the first hurdle crossed, but ahead of her was the real test.

  As she reached the massive door of the managing director's office her mouth was dry and she had a sick, empty feeling inside. Not for the first time in her young life she wished she hadn't been born with this suicidal need to accept a challenge. This time, she thought, her hands clammy as they turned the door-handle, she had almost certainly bitten off more than she could chew.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Harn Durrant wasn't sitting behind his desk as Gemma went in, he was riffling irritably through the drawers of a grey metal filing cabinet. He turned as she opened the door and gave her a long, assessing look, from the top of her smooth fair head to her black patent sandals and back again. Gemma was wearing the suit she had bought a few weeks ago, specially with an eye to interviews for a job, once her exams were over. It was inexpensive but neat, and—she considered—suitable for the purpose. A charcoal grey skirt, flaring slightly from the hips, topped by a silky white blouse with a thin black stripe and a demure collar. A wide patent-leather belt hugged her slim waist. She had brushed her wheat-fair hair until it shone like satin and tied it back with a velvet ribbon. Her skin was clear and soft and needed no make-up except a touch of eye-shadow and a light gloss on her lips.