His Girl Monday To Friday. Linda Miles

      ‘I really don’t have time to go tiptoeing around some hypersensitive girl who can’t even spell,’ he said. ‘See if you can’t get Barbara Woodward through one of the agencies, will you? Make it worth their while. We’ve certainly sent enough business to pretty much every agency in town—that must give us some clout. Do whatever it takes to get her in.’

      CHAPTER THREE

      BARBARA wanted to take one more temp assignment before leaving for Sardinia. She’d had money saved, but had spent some of it on a multimedia course in Bengali. On Monday she rang Jobs for the Girls, her agency, to ask for an assignment, and was immediately offered a position with the Mallory Corporation.

      ‘It’s a marvellous assignment,’ enthused Sue, her supervisor. ‘Directorial level, open-ended, great rate. Terribly flattering—they asked for you specifically.’

      ‘I’d rather not,’ said Barbara, wishing she’d called Charles a few other names while she’d had the chance. Devious, conniving, unscrupulous...

      There was a little silence. ‘Hmm,’ said Sue. ‘Well, I don’t seem to have anything else on the books just at the moment, but obviously I’ll keep you posted. Let me know if you change your mind.’

      Barbara hung up and dialled Girl Monday-to-Friday. ‘Barbara, I’ve got just the thing for you,’ said Cathy cheerfully. ‘This is a terrific place—Mallory Corporation, central London, taxi home after ten, free dinner, directorial level, top rate, open-ended...’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Barbara, ‘but I’m looking for just a couple of weeks.’

      ‘Well, you could go there for a couple of weeks and see how you go...’

      ‘I’d rather try something else.’

      ‘Hmm,’ said Cathy. ‘Well, the thing is, things are pretty slow right now. I don’t have a lot else to offer, nothing really that would suit your qualifications.’

      ‘I don’t care what level it is,’ said Barbara.

      ‘Yes, well, I really don’t have much of anything, to tell the truth, but I’ll let you know.’

      Barbara hung up and glared at the phone. Devious, conniving, unscrupulous, Machiavellian...

      She rang three or four other agencies, with similar results. Blast the man!

      Of course, if she told her mother, Ruth would call Charles and tell him to call the whole thing off, but he knew Barbara wouldn’t give him away like that—it would hurt Ruth too much. She supposed she should feel flattered—he must have called every agency she’d ever worked for. He’d probably got the information from her mother—Ruth wouldn’t have realised the dastardly use he meant to make of it.

      She could, of course, sign up elsewhere—but there was no guarantee he hadn’t called elsewhere. The problem was, no agency in the world was going to put the interests of a lowly temp, however well qualified, ahead of the Mallory Corporation. Charles wouldn’t have had to threaten to withdraw his patronage. He could have guaranteed to give the successful agency first shot at all his future business, and no agency would have passed that up. So now what? Barbara gritted her teeth, picked up the phone and dialled.

      ‘Good morning. Mr Mallory’s office,’ a voice said softly.

      ‘Good morning. I’d like to speak to Mr Mallory,’ Barbara said crisply.

      ‘I’m afraid Mr Mallory is in a meeting.’

      ‘He always is,’ Barbara said drily. ‘Could you put me through anyway? It’s fairly urgent.’

      ‘He’s asked not to be interrupted. Could I take a message?’

      Barbara mused over a number of unrepeatable comments which she could hardly expect a secretary to transcribe. ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘You can take a message. The message is, “Never in a million years.” He’ll know who it’s from.’

      She hung up with a bang.

      Her first thought was to call some of the firms she’d worked with over the years. Barbara had never worked for anyone who didn’t want her to work for them for ever. You weren’t really supposed to deal with people independently of your agency, but then it wasn’t exactly kosher of her agencies to cold-shoulder her as soon as she turned down an assignment with Charles. She could probably turn up something, but it would take time, and meanwhile she was furious. Instead of thinking of leads, she kept thinking of things to say to Charles.

      At last, with the inspiration of genius, she realised that she could still say them to Charles. She would go to his office, say all the rude things she wanted to Charles and then look for work.

      Half an hour later Barbara strode into the immense marble vestibule of the Mallory Building and took a lift to the twelfth floor. She fenced successfully with the receptionist and strode on, unchecked, down a long carpeted corridor to Charles’s corner office. A girl sat, weeping, by the word processor outside.

      Barbara stalked to the door and flung it open, unchallenged.

      Unfortunately, Charles was not in the office.

      ‘Where is he?’ Barbara asked tightly.

      ‘He’s in a meeting,’ the girl said damply.

      ‘Him and his ego,’ agreed Barbara. ‘Some things never change. Just where is this little tête-à-tête taking place?’

      ‘Sorry?’ sniffed the girl.

      Barbara sighed. She dug a little packet of tissues from her bag and handed it over. ‘The meeting;’ she said patiently. ‘Where is it?’

      The girl gestured at a conference room. Maybe he was in a meeting after all. So much the better; she could embarrass him in front of a roomful of millionaires. She walked to the door and flung it open.

      Twenty men in dark suits stared at the door. Some were fat, some were fit; some were attractive, some were not; some were young and eager-looking, others middle-aged and bored—none was worth a second look. Charles, at the head of the table, was looking ever so slightly harassed, but he still outshone every man in the room, just as he’d always effortlessly put in the shade every man she’d ever known. She’d expected him to look seriously annoyed at the intrusion, but he merely raised an eyebrow.

      ‘Barbara,’ he said suavely. ‘So glad you could join us.’

      She was standing in the doorway, hands on hips, blue eyes blazing, red hair crackling with energy. This was more like it, Charles thought with satisfaction, congratulating himself for getting Personnel on her trail. Just looking at her you knew you could throw anything at her and she’d cope. Maybe he’d send Personnel a dozen roses—women liked that sort of gesture. The morning had been an unmitigated disaster so far, but now that Barbara was here it was bound to pick up.

      He explained to the room, in rather stilted German, that Miss Woodward was his assistant.

      ‘No, I’m not,’ said Barbara.

      There was an irritated murmur of comment from the collected men. She heard Czech, Polish and something that sounded bizarrely like Arabic.

      She’d expected Charles to try to hurry her out of the room but he merely stared at her, a challenge in his eyes. Well, if he wanted to challenge her, so much the worse for him.

      ‘There’s something I want to discuss with you,’ said Barbara. ‘Do you want to join me next door, or would you prefer to discuss it here?‘

      He shrugged, raised an eyebrow and stood up. ‘Will you excuse me, gentlemen? This should only take a moment.’

      He followed Barbara into his own office. ‘I don’t know what the hell this is all about, but couldn’t it wait?’

      ‘No, it could not wait!’ fumed Barbara. ‘How dare you ask all those agencies for me? How dare you make them refuse me