Escape Me Never. Sara Craven

optimistically. And Roger would let her leave early. In the general euphoria, Barney might not even notice her absence. In his way, he was a male Miss Willard, also prepared to make no concessions, as he’d warned Cass when he hired her.

      ‘Women with small children are generally bad news,’ he’d told her brusquely. ‘Here,—er Ms Linton—the job comes first.’ He gave her a faint glare. ‘Not measles, or half term, or whatever. I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding. There’ll be no special favours.’

      Well, there hadn’t been, nor had she ever asked for any. But in spite of Mrs Barrett’s unfailing willingness to be her substitute, Cass had not always found it easy.

      And being late, as she was bound to be today of all days, wouldn’t do her cause any particular good.

      But her lateness wasn’t actually noticed. The agency was buzzing, nobody in their offices and studios. Sylvie, with whom Cass shared an office, was on the ’phone talking agitatedly as Cass came in, and she waved a hand at her, rolling her eyes to heaven as she did so.

      ‘Phew.’ She almost slung the receiver back on its rest, and leaned back in her chair. ‘Which do you want first—the bad news or the bad news?’

      ‘Oh, God.’ Cass sat down at her desk. ‘Don’t tell me—they’re not coming.’

      ‘They’re coming all right, but they’ll be delayed.’

      Cass’s heart sank. ‘But why?’

      ‘They’re waiting for the new chairman to fly in from Paris. It seems he likes to be in on every act, and they don’t know what’s hit them.’ Sylvie paused. ‘And Roger’s wife’s been on the ’phone. He’s in bed with ‘flu—temperature up in the hundreds, and the doctor’s forbidden him to move.’

      ‘Oh, I don’t believe it,’ Cass said limply. ‘He was complaining of a headache last night, but I thought—well, you know what I thought …’

      Sylvie nodded. Apart from his job and his family, Roger’s other prevailing interest was his health. He enjoyed a mild but persistent hypochondria which his colleagues either tolerated or fumed over, according to temperament.

      ‘One of his little Wednesday moans,’ she agreed. ‘But this time it’s for real. And Barney’s bellowing like a wounded bull,’ she added grimly. ‘And that’s nothing to the way he’ll react when he sees what you’re wearing. Hell, Cassie, you know how he feels about women wearing trousers to work.’

      Cass flushed. ‘And you know how I feel about his stupid chauvinist prejudices about clothes,’ she retorted with energy. ‘Besides what does it matter. I’m the backroom girl.’

      ‘Not today, sweetie,’ Sylvie reminded her acidly. ‘Roger’s demolishing the nation’s stock of soluble aspirin—remember? So you’ll have to do the presentation.’

      ‘What?’ Cass’s face was appalled. ‘Sylvie—I can’t.’

      ‘You’re going to have to,’ Sylvie said unsympathetically. ‘For heaven’s sake, ninety per cent of the ideas in the campaign are yours, anyway. And you’ve heard Roger do presentations dozens of times. Just sock it to them, like he does.’

      Cass said flatly, ‘It’s impossible. I’m not Roger, and you know it.’

      ‘You’re certainly healthier,’ Sylvie agreed cheerfully. ‘But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t speak up for yourself for once. Old Roger may have the gift of the gab, but you do most of the work, and everyone knows it. You carry him, Cass.’

      Cass’s lips parted in further protest, but before she could utter another word, the door of the office burst open and Barney erupted into the room, calling something to someone over his shoulder as he came.

      His glance flashed to Cass. ‘So you finally got here,’ he said.

      ‘Yes,’ Cass said non-committally, reflecting bitterly that there wasn’t a lot that ever got past Barney.

      ‘Damn Roger,’ he went on forcefully. ‘Three hundred and sixty four other days he could have had ‘flu, but he has to pick this one. The presentation—you can cope.’ It was a statement rather than a question. ‘Well, you’ll have to. I’ll back you up, of course, but the thing’s your pigeon.’ He gave her a long assessing look, and sighed. ‘And for God’s sake do something to yourself before they get here.’

      Cass straightened, and her eyes flashed fire. ‘What’s the matter with the way I look?’

      ‘Nothing—if sludge and leaf-mould are your favourite colours,’ Barney said disagreeably. ‘And you’re trying to sell a cosmetics campaign, not promote the well-scrubbed look. Don’t you think it might have been tactful to have worn some of their stuff?’

      Sylvie said, ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ and slid out of the room. Neither of them saw her go.

      Cass almost bounced out of her chair. ‘I thought you’d hired me for my brains. If you wanted a glamour girl, you should have gone elsewhere,’ she flared.

      ‘I would have—no danger,’ Barney threw back at her. He discovered a new bone of contention. ‘Trousers,’ he howled. ‘Christ, today of all days couldn’t you have sacrificed your bloody feminist principles and worn a skirt?’

      It had nothing to do with feminist principles, but was the result of laddering her last pair of tights during that maddening early rush, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of telling him so.

      ‘I’ll wear what I want, and if you don’t like it you can fire me,’ she hurled at him recklessly. ‘You took me on for what was inside my head, not for any half inch of muck plastered on my face.’ She banged a fist on the table. ‘This is how I am, and you can take it or leave it.’

      There was a silence, then slowly she saw his face crinkle into a reluctant smile, like the sun emerging from behind a thunder-cloud. ‘I’ll take you, Cass,’ he said. ‘Warts and all. You’re the best ideas girl this agency’s had in years. If we get this account, it will be down to you basically, and I won’t forget it. It’s just …’ He paused. ‘Hell, the clients expect an image from you, as well as the campaign. Usually, you have Roger to hide behind, but you won’t today and—well, it is important.’

      Cass looked back at him with the beginnings of ruefulness. ‘I know it,’ she acknowledged quietly. ‘And—I promise I’ll do my best, but I can’t change the kind of person I am.’

      ‘No-one’s asking you to,’ Barney assured her. ‘But—look, Cass, they’re going to be late as it is, waiting for their latest big shot to join them You’ve got time to pop out—get yourself something else to wear. The agency will pay, naturally.’

      Cass sighed. ‘What do you suggest?’ she asked bitterly. ‘Something short and see-through? I’m sorry, Barney, but I just can’t. It would be false to everything I’ve come to believe in.’ She bit her lip. ‘After all, if I was Roger, you wouldn’t be in here criticising the tie I’d chosen, or my aftershave. Why should it be different, just because I happen to be a woman?’

      Barney gave her one of his deliberately disarming looks, usually saved for clients with grievances. ‘That’s the million dollar question, Cass, but there is a difference, and it will take a few more generations of women’s liberation to remove it. Well, have it your own way,’ he added briskly. ‘And at least your hair looks better for once,’ he added as he headed for the door again. ‘What have you done to it.’

      Cass said without rancour, ‘I got it caught in the rain.’

      When she was alone, she sat down slowly, resting her elbows on the desk, and cupping her chin reflectively in her hands. What Barney and everyone else at the agency didn’t know was that there’d once been a Cass Linton who’d been as fashion conscious as anyone else, who’d enjoyed enhancing her natural attractions with make-up and scent. But that girl was long since dead, and the new personality which