A Nine-to-five Affair. Jessica Steele

never bothered, had ignored the plague of her conscience. Her apology was rejected. Huh! The way he talked, he would only accept her apology if it was sincere. He was so sincere! Stabbing his friend Neville in the back—it looked like it!

      Fuming, Emmie tossed her notepad in her drawer and locked it away—only to feel like storming in and punching Barden Cunningham’s head when his voice floated coolly from his office. ‘Leave typing back your notes until the morning, Emily.’

      Was he serious? He actually thought she had it in mind to type up those minutes tonight? There was a full day’s work there! Resisting the temptation to go to his doorway and poke her tongue out at him, Emmie instead picked up her bag and went swiftly to her outer office door.

      Afraid that if she opened her mouth something not very polite would come out, she decided against wishing him goodnight, but, by switching out the light and plunging her office in darkness, she let that be her farewell to him. The swine. He had an assignation with Roberta Short at the theatre that night. He must already be late—she hoped that he wouldn’t be let in.

      Emmie had difficulty in getting to sleep that night. It seemed to her that she only had to close her eyes to start wondering if Cunningham had managed to snatch some private time with his married lover. Perhaps even now, at this very moment, they were alone together. The thought made her feel quite wretched. She moved and thumped her pillow—wishing that it was his head.

      She surfaced on Friday, after a very fractured night, and showered and donned a white silk shirt and her second-best suit of dark navy wool. Satisfied with her appearance, and aware that, since her notes from yesterday needed to be typed up she was in for a hard day, she was about to don her three-quarter-length car coat when her phone rang.

      Aunt Hannah? She didn’t normally ring in the morning on a weekday. Though since she did sometimes get her days mixed up, which was perfectly understandable, Emmie defended, perhaps Aunt Hannah thought today was Saturday.

      Emmie went over to the phone, checking her watch and mentally noting she had five minutes to spare if it was Aunt Hannah.

      The call was from Keswick House, she soon discovered. However, it was not her step-grandmother—but Lisa Browne. Mrs Whitford was not to be found, and enquiries had revealed that one of the other residents had seen her letting herself out an hour ago. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going.

      An hour ago! Aunt Hannah didn’t usually get up this early! Emmie took a quick glance to the window, trying not to panic. It was a grey day; snow was threatening. ‘Was she wearing a coat?’ she asked quickly.

      ‘Apparently, yes.’

      ‘She’s probably gone back to our old apartment.’ Emmie spoke her thoughts out loud, panic mixing with concern that Aunt Hannah might be getting confused again. ‘I’ll go there straight away,’ she told Lisa Browne—and wasted no more time.

      Only when the cold air hit her did it vaguely dawn on her that she had rushed out without actually putting her own coat on. But she had more important matters to worry about than that—she’d soon get warm in the car. She must get the car heated up for Aunt Hannah. Must collect her. Must return her to Keswick House. Must get to work. Oh, heck, all that work she had to do today! Barden Cunningham was just going to love her. She tried not to think about him. This was the last day of her fifth week at Progress—and the first time she’d been late.

      Hoping that her five-week record for being on time, not to mention that she had uncomplainingly worked late when required, would see her employer—womanising toad—forgiving her this one lapse—she couldn’t bear to think that there might be another—Emmie concentrated on her most immediate problem. Her present accommodation was just five miles away from Keswick House; the apartment where they’d used to live was seven miles distant from Aunt Hannah’s new home. For someone so confused that she had in the past believed that she still lived in their old apartment, it was a source of surprise to Emmie that, even in the depths of confusion, Aunt Hannah remembered their previous address and how to get there.

      Thinking she would soon have her step-relative safe in her car, Emmie was delayed by twenty minutes in traffic. When eventually she did make it to the area where she had lived happily with Alec and his mother, Emmie looked about for signs of the dear love.

      With not a glimpse of her, she parked outside her old address and rang the doorbells of their former neighbours. No one answered. For the next hour Emmie scoured the streets, looking for Aunt Hannah. Starting to feel quite desperate, she went back to her present flat, hoping that Aunt Hannah had thought to go there.

      She hadn’t. Emmie rang Lisa Browne, crossing her fingers that her step-relative had made it back to Keswick House. ‘I’m afraid not,’ Lisa Browne answered.

      By then Emmie was getting seriously worried. She thought of ringing the police, then decided she would give it one more try. Aunt Hannah had grown aggressive the last time she’d been in police ‘custody’.

      Emmie did also consider ringing Dawn at Progress Engineering, but, as distracted as Emmie felt, she remembered just in time how Barden Cunningham had specifically asked her at her interview if she had any commitments. She had an idea she was going to be in enough trouble when she did eventually reach her office without now confessing that she had lied at her interview.

      Emmie was back on the road to her old home once more when it came to her that because of her lie about no commitments she would be unable to tell the truth. She suddenly realised she had no excuse to offer for her absence!

      All that, however, went from her mind when, just as she reached their former apartment, she saw Aunt Hannah getting out of a delivery van. The van drove off. Emmie made it to the pavement just as Mrs Whitford was about to climb the steps to the front door.

      ‘Aunt Hannah!’ she called, loud enough for her to hear, but not enough to startle the old lady.

      Aunt Hannah turned and, seeing Emmie, smiled. ‘Hello, dear. Not at work today? I waited ages for a bus, but that driver stopped and—’ She broke off, something of much greater importance occurring to her. ‘Do you know, he used to have a Norton 16H too?’

      Emmie smiled; her relief at having found Hannah was enormous! The dear love was motorbike crazy, and, in her unconventional younger years, had owned several machines. ‘How are you?’ Emmie enquired, as a precursor to getting her in the car and driving her back to Keswick House.

      ‘Oh, very well. Mr Norton,’ she went on, making Emmie smile—the van driver and ex-motorbike owner was obviously Mr Norton!—‘was telling me about the National Motorcycle Museum in Birmingham. It’s open seven days a week,’ she hinted.

      How could you not love her? Emmie smiled fondly. ‘We’ll go,’ she promised. ‘Not today,’ she added quickly, ‘but soon. It must be getting near to your lunchtime. Shall we go back to Keswick House?’

      It was closer to twelve than eleven by the time Emmie had got Aunt Hannah cheerfully settled back at Keswick House, and nearer one than twelve when she made it to her office. She noted that Dawn wasn’t around when she went in, and stowed her bag, glad that the door between her office and the next one was closed.

      It did not stay closed for long. Trust him to have heard her. Barden Cunningham pulled back the door and took a pace into the room, his glance becoming more and more hostile the longer he looked at her. She swallowed. Oh, crumbs, it looked like fire and brimstone time!

      It was. He took a long breath, as if needing control, ‘Since you obviously haven’t been rushed to hospital to have your appendix removed,’ he began, silkily enough—it didn’t last. ‘Would you mind telling me,’ he went on toughly, ‘just where the hell you’ve been?’

      ‘I—er—had a domestic problem.’ Emmie found her voice, hoping he would think her central heating system had malfunctioned.

      ‘Don’t tell me you’ve broken the habit of a lifetime and let some man into your bed!’ he snarled, his idea of domesticity clearly on a very different plane from hers.

      The cheek of it! ‘According