A Nine-to-five Affair. Jessica Steele

she was out of the office quite a lot—sometimes very unexpectedly.

      ‘Which, as you can appreciate—’ Mr Garratt smiled ‘—is not always so convenient in the running of an extremely busy office. We’ve been able to switch people from other departments, of course, but Mr Cunningham prefers his own team.’

      ‘That’s quite understandable, from a continuity standpoint,’ Emmie put in, having stretched the truth a mile by saying she had taken temporary jobs this past year to gain experience in many branches of industry. She had felt that her interview was going well, but owned to feeling a little let down when, the interview over, Mr Garratt stood up and, shaking her hand, advised her that he had two other candidates to see, but would be in touch very quickly.

      Emmie drove home from her interview feeling very despondent. She hadn’t known that the job was as PA to the head of the whole outfit. Barden Cunningham would want someone older; she was sure of it. Which was unfair, because she was good at her job; she knew she was.

      By the time she reached her flat Emmie was convinced that she hadn’t a hope of being taken on by Barden Cunningham. And though she knew that she should straight away ring Keswick House, and give some kind of reason why Aunt Hannah should not move into a larger room, somehow she could not.

      Mr Garratt had said he would be in touch very quickly, but Emmie saw little point in holding her breath or looking forward to opening tomorrow’s post. She knew how it would read: ‘Thank you very much for attending for interview, but…’

      A few hours later Emmie was again scanning the Situations column when the phone rang. Aunt Hannah had a phone in her room, but it wouldn’t be her because as far as she knew Emmie was out at work. Emmie picked up the phone, ‘Hello?’ she answered pleasantly, trying not to panic that it might be Lisa Browne or one of the care assistants ringing to say Mrs Whitford had gone missing.

      There was a small silence, then, ’emily Lawson?’ queried a rather nice all-male voice.

      ‘Speaking,’ she answered carefully.

      ‘Barden Cunningham,’ he introduced himself—and Emmie only just managed to hold back a gasp of shock.

      ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, and cringed—she’d already said hello once!

      He came straight to the point. ‘I should like to see you Friday afternoon. Are you free?’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ she answered promptly, her heartbeat starting to pick up with excitement. ‘What time would suit you?’

      ‘Four-thirty,’ he replied. ‘Until then,’ he added, and rang off—and Emmie’s face broke out into one huge grin. She had an interview with no less a person than the top man himself!

      She was still grinning ten minutes later. Mr Garratt had said he would be in touch very quickly—indirectly, he had been. He must have reported back to his employer the moment he had concluded all interviews. And, not waiting for mail to reach her, Barden Cunningham had phoned her within a very short space of time.

      Which told her two things. One, that despite there being other candidates she was still in there with a chance. The other, that Progress Engineering were anxious to fill the temporary vacancy with all speed. Though from what Mr Garratt had said she thought she knew that already. Oh, roll on Friday; the suspense was unbearable.

      Adrian Payne asked her to go out with him for a bite to eat on Thursday evening, but Emmie put him off. She wanted to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next day for her interview, and intended to have an early night.

      She was in frequent telephone contact with Aunt Hannah, but had not discussed her aunt’s desire to move into a larger room, nor had she yet answered the letter from Lisa Browne at Keswick House. She knew, however, that she would have to ring Lisa Browne soon; courtesy if nothing else meant she should give some indication of whether or not Aunt Hannah could move. But pride, Emmie supposed, decreed that no one should know how desperately hard up she was but herself.

      She was again early for her interview on Friday, and sat in her car for some minutes composing herself. She had on her best all wool charcoal-grey business suit, her crisp white shirt ironed immaculately.

      She stepped from her car, knowing that she looked the part of a cool, efficient PA in her neat two-and-a-half-inch heels, but felt glad that no one could know of the nervous commotion going on inside her. So much depended on this interview—and its outcome.

      ‘My name’s Emily Lawson. I’ve an appointment with Mr Cunningham at four-thirty,’ she told the smart woman on the reception desk.

      Emmie rode up in the lift, trying to stifle her nerves, desperate to make a good impression and hoping against hope that Mr Cunningham would turn out to be fatherly, like old Mr Denby. He hadn’t sounded particularly fatherly over the phone, though.

      Oh, she did so hope he was not another womaniser! She couldn’t be that unlucky yet again, could she? Emmie pulled her mind away from such thoughts. She must concentrate only on this interview and Aunt Hannah, and the fact that if she was successful this afternoon Aunt Hannah could move into the double room she preferred.

      Emmie made a vow there and then that, for Aunt Hannah’s sake, if her prospective employer was yet another of the Casanova types she would keep a tight rein on her new-found temper. To do so would also mean that she kept her security—always supposing she was lucky enough to get the job. Having spent many years in a financially uncertain household, security was now more important to her than ever. She had to be self-reliant; she had no family but Aunt Hannah. And, having Aunt Hannah to look out for, Emmie knew she must think only of her career and, if all went well, the high salary being offered, which would afford both her and Aunt Hannah that security.

      She was worrying needlessly, Emmie considered bracingly as she stepped out of the lift. This was a very different sort of company from the one she had walked out of on Monday—true, she had been told not to come back. But the very air about this place was vastly more professional.

      Emmie found the door she was looking for, tapped on it lightly and went in. A pale but pretty pregnant woman somewhere in her early thirties looked up. ’emily Lawson?’ she enquired.

      ‘Am I too early?’ Emmie’s hopes suffered a bit of a dent. He’d want someone older; she felt sure of it.

      ‘Not at all,’ Dawn Obrey responded with a smile. And, leaving her chair, she went on, ‘Reception rang to say you were on your way up. Mr Cunningham will see you now.’

      Emmie flicked a hasty glance to the clock on the office wall, saw with relief that there were a few minutes to go before four-thirty and that neither her car clock nor her watch had played her false, and followed the PA over to a door which connected into another office.

      ‘Miss Lawson,’ the PA announced, and as Emmie went forward into the other room Dawn Obrey retreated and closed the door.

      ‘Come in. Take a seat,’ Barden Cunningham invited pleasantly, leaving his seat and shaking hands with her.

      Ten out of ten for manners, Emmie noted with one part of her brain, while with another part she saw that Barden Cunningham was not old or fatherly, but was somewhere in his middle thirties. He was tall, had fairish hair and grey no-nonsense sort of eyes, but—and here was the minus—he was seriously good-looking. In her recent experience good-looking men were apt to think they were God’s gift to women—and Barden Cunningham was more good-looking than most.

      Emmie took a seat on one side of the desk and he resumed his seat on the other. His desk was clear, which indicated to her that he wouldn’t be hanging about to start his weekend once this interview was over. Was she the last candidate?

      She looked across at him and found he was studying her. She met his look, her large brown eyes steady, wishing she could read his mind, know what he was thinking. ‘You’re young,’ he said. Was he accusing? He had obviously scanned the application form she had been asked to complete so knew she was twenty-two.

      ‘I’m good,’ she replied—this was no time to be modest!

      He