Specialist In Love. Sharon Kendrick

den? She didn’t want him accusing her of misplacing all his books, but clearly she couldn’t set up an efficient workplace if she had to keep stepping over haphazardly sited piles.

      In the centre of the room was an enormous, old-fashioned fireplace, with a large recess on either side. The two spaces were just crying out for bookshelves. She scrabbled around on his desk and eventually found an unused notepad and Biro, and began to make a list.

      In her rather rounded script, she wrote:

      1. Have bookshelves erected ASAP!!!

      2. Phone library re. most effective way of classifying books.

      3. Buy a plant!

      The hospital telephonist gave her the number of the maintenance department, and Poppy had to bite back a giggle when she remembered how she’d mistaken the illustrious Dr Browne for one of them. Thank goodness she hadn’t blurted that out!

      A bored voice answered the phone and informed her that there was no one in the department who could help at that time, but if she left her number then they would get back to her later that afternoon, and with that Poppy had to be content.

      Next she rang the local library and spoke to a very helpful girl there who explained that, as most large libraries were computerised, their systems would be inappropriate for a small, private collection of books. She suggested that alphabetical filing by author would be best, with a cross-reference file for subject matter. She also advised a marker system, in case any of the books were lent out.

      While she waited for the maintenance department to ring her back, Poppy sorted all the books out into alphabetical order and placed them in neat groups around the room. It took her over an hour to do this, and by the end of it her mouth felt dry and her clothes were covered in a fine layer of dust. She had long since removed her mohair sweater, and her pink T-shirt proved plenty warm enough. She brushed her hands down the side of her leggings and glanced around. Some order had been restored, at least. She hunted around for something to drink, but found nothing, and since she didn’t want to risk missing the telephone call regarding the bookshelves she did without, but added, ‘Buy a kettle!’ to her list.

      At five minutes to five they rang back and she explained her predicament, but not even all her charm could sway the dour-sounding man at the other end, who seemed the worst kind of petty bureaucrat, and obviously relished refusing her request.

      ‘If we put shelves up for you, then everyone would want them,’ he droned.

      ‘But we’re not everyone!’ wailed Poppy. ‘And if you don’t tell anyone, we won’t.’

      He was now not only impervious to pleading, he was disapproving.

      ‘We have to work within the system, miss,’ he said sternly. ‘And as for not letting anyone know—I have to complete my work sheets in triplicate, so everyone would know.’

      ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ said Poppy crossly. ‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life! Talk about a spirit of co-operation! Thanks for nothing!’

      She put the phone down. Now what was she going to do? She had almost barricaded her desk in with the wretched things, and she could just see Dr Fergus Browne storming in tomorrow and accusing her of mucking around with his precious books—he was just the kind of contrary person to do that!

      But wait a minute—he wasn’t going to be in tomorrow, and neither, officially, was she. Tomorrow was Saturday and the day after was Sunday. Which gave her two clear days to get the shelves up!

      She gave a small smile as she mentally applauded her brilliant brainwave, and at five-thirty she set off home, to tell Ella all about what had happened.

      Ella slammed her way into the flat at just gone seven to find it strangely silent. Poppy usually had music blaring out from the sitting-room.

      ‘Poppy?’ she called hesitantly.

      ‘In here! I’m in the bathroom.’

      Ella hung up her jacket and left her basket on the table and, picking up an apple which she began crunching into, walked into the bathroom, where she found Poppy, clad only in a black lace bra and knickers, bending down and peering at herself in the badly placed mirror.

      Without turning round she spoke in a gloomy voice.

      ‘Do I remind you of a marshmallow?’

      Ella swallowed a pip by mistake. ‘What? I knew this would happen. I always said it—one day Poppy Henderson will finally flip!’

      ‘Shut up—I’m serious. Do I or do I not remind you of a marshmallow?’

      ‘Of course you don’t. You remind me of Marilyn Monroe—everyone says so.’

      ‘Marilyn Monroe was fat.’

      ‘She wasn’t fat, she was curvaceous. Nice bust, small waist, good legs—just like you.’

      ‘Fat,’ muttered Poppy dejectedly. ‘Do you think I wear too much make-up?’

      Ella shifted uncomfortably. ‘It is a bit much, sometimes—especially by day.’ She saw Poppy’s face and hurriedly changed her tack. ‘I mean, it was different when you were working at Maxwells—that whole look was part of your job. But you’ve got such lovely skin and eyes that it seems rather a shame to cover them up. And if I had hair as shiny as yours I certainly wouldn’t dye it blonde.’

      ‘You would if it was mousy,’ Poppy pointed out, the harsh light falling on her finely-boned face to cast deep shadows under her cheekbones.

      ‘It’s golden-brown, not mousy—and what the hell has got into you tonight, Poppy? I’ve never known you to be so negative. Do I take it that you’re one of the many unemployed, and that this is responsible for a face as long as your arm?’

      Poppy shook her head, so that the pale curls flew like angry snakes around her face.

      ‘Not at all—I’ve got a job, and that’s the problem.’

      Ella’s face broke into a huge grin. ‘What are you talking about? You’ve got a job, that’s fabulous! You should be jumping up and down for joy and offering me a large glass of wine to celebrate.’

      Poppy sighed. ‘Wait till you hear! I’ve got a job working for the most bad-tempered doctor you could ever imagine.’

      ‘A doctor? But you can’t. . . I mean, you don’t. . .’

      ‘Exactly,’ agreed Poppy grimly. ‘I know nothing about medicine. I don’t understand what he does, and I certainly haven’t got a clue how to spell the words.’

      ‘Then how come. . .?’

      ‘I’m the agency’s last hope. He’s driven away countless others. And that’s the second bad thing—he hates secretaries. From what he’s said I can imagine that a slug eating his prize cabbage would get more respect and affection!’

      ‘He sounds ghastly.’

      ‘Believe me, he is. Then there’s the third awful thing,’ added Poppy.

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘Someone jokingly told me that he was a professor, and so that’s what I called him—after, I might add, I mistook him for one of the maintenance men.’

      Ella stifled a giggle. ‘Oh, Poppy!’

      ‘How was I to know that “Professor” was the nickname he hated which he’s had since medical school?’

      ‘You’re making all this up!’

      ‘Oh, that I were! And now I’ve got to try and get some shelves up in his room before Monday, or else he’ll hit the roof when he sees how I’ve rearranged his blessed books. Do you have Mick Douglas’s number?’

      ‘It’s in the book,’ replied her friend with a fond but sinking heart. Why had Poppy insisted on rocking the boat in order to do a job that she clearly