City Cinderella. Catherine George

      ‘Emily.’ She eyed him, frowning. ‘Mr Tennent, do you mind if I touch your forehead?’

      ‘Not at all.’ He submitted to a cool hand laid briefly on his brow, and sat back. ‘Diagnosis?’

      ‘High temperature. You’ve got flu, hopefully.’

      ‘Hopefully?’

      ‘I meant rather than anything worse.’ She hesitated, then bent to search in a backpack on the floor and came up with a packet of paracetamol. ‘Will you take these? Two now and two tonight, and drink plenty of fluids.’

      He stared at her in surprise. ‘That’s very kind of you, Emily, or do you prefer Ms Warner?’

      ‘You pay my wages, Mr Tennent. Your choice.’ She looked at her watch, then stowed her laptop in the backpack. ‘I won’t have any coffee, thank you. Time I was off. I’m taking the twins to the cinema.’

      His eyebrows rose. ‘Twins?’

      ‘The children on half-term. Their father’s my landlord, and I’m taking them off his hands for a couple of hours,’ she explained. ‘I did your shopping on the way in, so there’s plenty of orange juice and fruit. Goodbye, Mr Tennent. I’ll be in on Monday as usual.’ She eyed him with concern. ‘Is there someone who can look after you?’

      ‘I wouldn’t ask my worst enemy to risk this blasted bug. Which you could be doing right now,’ he added suddenly.

      Her shake of the head dislodged another hank of hair. ‘I’ve already had flu this winter.’

      ‘What did you do to get over it?’

      ‘Went home to my parents to be cosseted.’

      ‘My mother’s asthmatic, so that’s out of the question.’ He shrugged. ‘And otherwise I prefer to wallow alone in my misery.’

      She pulled on her jacket and thrust her arms through the straps of her backpack. ‘There’s no point in calling a doctor if it’s flu, of course. Not unless you develop something else, like bronchitis. But please take the pills—eight a day max—and drink lots of water. A good thing it’s Friday, Mr Tennent. You’ll have the weekend to get over it.’

      ‘If I live that long,’ he said morosely, and saw her to the door.

      ‘Mr Tennent,’ she said diffidently as he opened it.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      His bloodshot eyes narrowed to an unsettling gleam. ‘Because I feel like death, or because you were caught in the act?’

      Her chin lifted. ‘Both. Please accept the coffee-making for free by way of recompense,’ she added, and stepped into the lift.

      Her mind occupied with Lucas Tennent, for once Emily Warner had no eyes for the view of the Thames as she crossed Tower Bridge. Up to now, the man she worked for had just been one of her four employers. He left a cheque every week for her wages, and owned a flat she’d give her eye-teeth to live in. But now she could put a face and body to the name the situation was different. He’d given her the shock of her life by catching her redhanded, of course. But her first startled glimpse of Lucas Tennent was rubber-stamped on her brain, partly because he’d looked so ghastly she’d been afraid he was about to pass out on her.

      Oblivious of traffic noise and passers-by, Emily hurried back to Spitalfields, her mind busy with the physical details of the employer she’d never actually met before. There were no photographs of him in his apartment, but because he did something in the banking world she’d visualised brains as well as brawn. In the flesh, Lucas Tennent was well over six feet tall, his windblown hair black as her own, possibly eyes to match, when they weren’t too bloodshot to tell. His intelligence was self-evident, but it came combined with dark, smouldering good looks undiminished by even his current deathly pallor. And his Savile Row suit was no disguise for the musculature she would have expected, since it was part of her job to dust the rowing machine and treadmill up in the gallery. Emily sighed enviously. All that space for just one man. If she lived there she could work on her laptop to her heart’s content under the gallery’s pitched glass roof, which not only boasted sunblinds controlled electronically by temperature, but led on to a roof terrace overlooking the Thames. Perfect. And in total contrast to her solitary room on the second floor of a house owned by one of her brother’s friends.

      But it was a pretty room, and she was lucky to have it, she reminded herself as she reached the familiar cobbled street. Built originally for refugee Huguenot silk weavers in the seventeen hundreds, most of the houses in this part of Spitalfields had been painstakingly restored, including the one owned by her landlord. Nat Sedley was an architect with a London firm and a home in the Cotswolds. Originally he had bought the house in Spitalfields as a city base. But he now lived in it permanently, with only his two tenants for company, while his children remained with his estranged wife in the house in the country.

      When Emily reached the railings which flanked the front door it flew open to reveal two excited six-year-olds lying in wait in the hall, ready and raring to go.

      ‘They’ve been dressed for ages,’ said their father, grinning in apology. ‘I warned them you might want tea first but it fell on deaf ears.’

      ‘I’ll just dump my things and we’re away,’ Emily assured them, rewarded at once by beams from two faces so unalike it was hard to believe that Thomas and Lucy were brother and sister, let alone twins.

      ‘I’ll have supper waiting when you get back,’ said Nat, as he saw them into a taxi. ‘Now be good, you two, and maybe we can coax Emily to share it with us.’

      By the time she’d brought the jubilant twins back to Spitalfields Nat Sedley had the promised supper waiting, and Emily not only enjoyed a family meal, but surrendered to pleas to stay afterwards until the twins were ready for bed.

      ‘Thanks a lot, Em,’ said Nat gratefully, as she made for the stairs later. ‘You’re a life-saver.’

      She chuckled. ‘That’s the second time I’ve heard that today.’

      Nat demanded details, amused when he heard she’d been caught red-handed at her laptop. ‘But I’m sorry you were driven out to find quiet to work. I should have put your room out of bounds to the twins from the first. By way of a peace offering, fancy coming down later this evening for a drink?’

      She smiled. ‘Thanks, I’d like that very much.’

      In the quiet of her room, Emily collapsed into a chair, suddenly weary. The outing with the twins had been great fun, but after a morning spent cleaning two apartments, followed by a couple of hours’ solid slog on her laptop, the confrontation with Lucas Tennent had rather knocked the stuffing out of her. He’d had every right to sack her on the spot, too, which would have done serious damage to her finances. Lucky for her he’d been feeling so rough, otherwise he might not have taken her trespass nearly so well. She’d felt like Goldilocks caught by the bear. Emily chuckled. Wrong hair, wrong fairy tale. There were no fireplaces in Lucas Tennent’s flat, but her role was Cinderella just the same. And she’d done no harm, other than just being there in his kitchen, where she wasn’t supposed to be on a Friday afternoon.

      But from now on her activities in Mr Lucas Tennent’s flat would be restricted to the cleaning duties he paid her for. Emily frowned, wondering how he was feeling. He’d looked so ill she’d been a bit reluctant to leave him to fend for himself. Which was nonsense. If she hadn’t stayed on for an extra hour or two she wouldn’t have met him, nor known about his flu.

      Emily took a reviving shower, dried her hair and treated her hands and face to some extra care, grateful to Nat for asking her down for a drink. Much as she despised herself for it, Friday evenings were still hard to get used to on her own. And to add to her pleasure, when she arrived in Nat’s small, panelled drawing-room her fellow tenant, Mark Cooper, gave her a hug and shepherded her to the sofa to join his girlfriend, Bryony Talbot.

      ‘Hi, Emily.’