His Girl Monday To Friday. Linda Miles

realised that he was speaking carefully, trying to smooth over the animosity which he knew would distress her mother. He hadn’t wanted to bring the subject up here, she knew. He’d tried to arrange a meeting in town, and she’d said she was too busy. The result was that he couldn’t browbeat her into doing what he wanted. It was to his credit that he was trying not to hurt her mother—that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have bullied her shamelessly if he could have got her on neutral ground.

      A shaft of late afternoon sunlight slanted in the window, bathing the faded furniture, the ancient carpet, the half-finished jumpers and cushion covers in golden light. She’d seen it from just that angle so many times. The window-seat had been her favourite refuge, and she’d sat there, reading voraciously, throughout her childhood.

      For a year she’d sat there every evening while Charles had watched television and done his homework—on the rare occasions he could be bothered to do it. He’d been very bright, and very lazy, and had done very badly at school in those days, doing only what could be done in commercial breaks.

      Barbara had been very bright and very hard-working, but she’d done very badly at school because she got bored easily. She’d hated to do anything twice, and as she’d read ahead of the class in her books she could never be bothered to do homework by the time the class had reached the subject. It had also bored her to revise for exams.

      She would pester Charles to talk about what he was doing and sometimes, if the TV programme was bad enough, he would answer her questions. Sometimes he would tell her to shut up, and if she persisted he’d hand her the book with a malicious smile—except that she loved reading his books, loved holding something that was his, loved understanding an actual A-level text because she thought he’d be impressed.

      On the nights when there was something good on TV she’d sit, looking at the homework he should be doing or looking across the room to where he sprawled on the sofa, his eyes narrowed, half-hidden by the shock of black hair that fell in his face. In those days she couldn’t watch him enough, couldn’t know enough about him—but she’d thought he’d paid no attention to her.

      Just for a moment, ridiculously, she felt a piercing sweetness at the thought that he’d noticed her. Not just noticed—thought about her. It wasn’t just that he remembered what she’d done, though that was a surprise in itself. He’d thought about the sort of person she was, about what she could and couldn’t do.

      Just that little hint of awareness was enough to release a flood of longing—a terrible, impossible wish that he might think about her as much as she thought about him, that he might look at her the way she looked at him. He was standing now in the golden light, waiting for her to name a figure. Her eyes were drawn to him, the way they always were when he was in the room, and it hurt to look away when she forced herself to.

      He was impossible to work for. He was selfish, arrogant, she hated long-term engagements and she’d done something to him that he would never forgive. He would never have come to her now if he hadn’t been forced into it by his business. It would be agony to be with him every day—and the prospect was terribly, terribly tempting.

      ‘I’m sorry, Charles,’ she said abruptly. ‘It’s not a question of money—I just can’t do it.’

      Her mother looked disappointed. ‘Well, naturally Charles doesn’t want to force you to do something you don’t want to do, darling,’ she said, sublimely oblivious to his impatient look. ‘It did seem such a wonderful opportunity, but if you’re sure, we won’t talk about it any more. I do hope you’re staying for dinner, Charles.’

      ‘I’d love to,’ he replied. ‘And of course I won’t press Barbara, but I trust she’ll change her mind.’

      ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Barbara, and she lowered her eyes to gaze, for the sixth time, at the account of the compound perfect in Colloquial Romanian.

      ‘Neither would I,’ said Charles, and he added, in a low voice that only she could hear, ‘I never bet on a sure thing.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHARLES MALLORY took the folder of letters for signing out of his in-tray, opened it, pulled out the first letter and glared. Where did they find these people? he thought in exasperation. An impatient finger jabbed the button of his intercom.

      ‘Temsa,’ he said.

      ‘Yes, Mr Mallory,’ said an almost inaudible voice.

      ‘Have you ever thought of using the spell-check facility before printing out a document?’ he asked.

      ‘Is there a spelling mistake?’ whispered the voice. Charles fipped through the rest of the pile, scowling. ‘Falicitate‘ for ‘facilitate‘, ‘mofidy‘ for ‘modify’, ‘myrtptidr’ for God only knew what. Where did they find them?

      ‘It’s also quite helpful to proofread a document before bringing it in to be signed,’ he added silkily. ‘I’ve signed the one that’s fit to be seen,’ he added, suiting action to the words. ‘The rest will have to be done again. I’ll bring them out to you.’

      He closed the folder, stood up and stalked to the door. He emerged just in time to see the rapidly retreating back of the latest temp disappear through a door clearly marked ‘EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. ALARM WILL SOUND IF OPENED.’

      The howl of a fire alarm filled the building. Where did they find them? he thought bitterly, punching the buttons of the alarm disenable with the ease of long practice. He stalked back to his desk and punched the extension of Personnel with the ease of equally long practice.

      ‘Good morning, Mr Mallory,’ said the resigned voice of Personnel. ‘I heard the alarm. Such a shame. I felt sure she’d last till lunch-time.’

      Charles drummed his fingers on his desk. ‘I don’t know what the problem was,’ he said. ‘I simply reminded her of the existence of the spell-check and suggested she proofread her work. She should know that without being told. If she doesn’t know without being told she should at least be able to take a little constructive criticism.’

      Personnel sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Mallory, but she was the only one the agency had available. All the other temps had been here before and refused to come back.’

      ‘Well, try another agency,’ said Charles.

      ‘None of the other agencies had anyone who hadn’t been here before.’

      ‘What’s the matter with them, anyway?’ said Charles. ‘I’m not asking for Wonderwoman. I just want an experienced secretary with the usual skills and the maturity to deal with a high-pressune environment.’

      ‘Yes. Mr Mallory,’ Personnel said doubtfully. ‘It’s just—’

      ‘It’s just what?’ snapped Charles.

      ‘The really experienced, highly qualified people can pick and choose. We’re offering a competitive package, of course, but the crème de la crème can get the same money and benefits elsewhere, and they don’t like to be shouted at.’

      ‘Shout!’ Charles exclaimed indignantly. ‘I never shout. Obviously, if a whole project has to be redone because someone hasn’t shown the intelligence of a child of two I might get a little impatient...’

      ‘Apparently, you use a tone of voice that has been perceived as shouting,’ Personnel said diplomatically.

      ‘Ridiculous,’ scoffed Charles. Why couldn’t they find someone like Barbara? Someone who didn’t dissolve in tears if you asked a simple question? Someone who’d catch your mistakes and oversights in a report, instead of adding fifty of her own? Her agency had given her an assignment with him one day a couple of years ago. He’d never had such a dream of a secretary before or since.

      His fingers drummed on the desk again. He needed a decent permanent secretary if he was going to take on Eastern Europe. He’d been planning to go to Barbara’s flat and talk her round. With Ruth out of the way it should