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Her father, had he known, would have had a good laugh at that, she thought.
She worked steadily through lunch, and it was only when the door was pushed open that she realised with some surprise that it was after four.
‘Hi.’
One word—a monosyllable—and Francesca knew instantly that she wasn’t going to warm to the girl standing by her desk, looking at her with assessing eyes. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Could you give these to your boss for signing? I take it he’s not in.’
‘No. Who shall I say left them?’
‘Helen. I work in the accounts department.’
She looked, Francesca thought, as though she had been wildly miscast. She looked, in fact, as though she should have been working at the cosmetic counter of a large department store. Her hair, dyed jet-black, was carefully styled and hung in a straight bob to her shoulders, and her face was impeccably made up in an assortment of shades which gave her the look of a highly painted doll—she was attractive in a very obvious sort of way, and was clearly in no mood to hurry on, from the way she was standing looking around her.
‘Actually,’ Helen said, dragging a chair to sit opposite Francesca, much to Francesca’s dismay, ‘we’ve been curious about you. One minute Oliver had given his temp the boot and Cathy was filling in, and the next minute here you are. How did you manage to land the job?’
‘Oh, usual way,’ Francesca lied vaguely, but the other girl let that one go past. She was clearly not madly interested in the ins and outs of how Francesca had found herself working for Oliver Kemp. But she wanted something, because she still made no move to depart.
‘We’re all dying of envy, anyway,’ Helen said, narrowing her blue eyes. ‘I’d do anything to work for Oliver, but my typing skills are lousy.’ She picked up a paperweight from the desk and idly turned it over while Francesca wondered what this bizarre conversation was leading to.
‘Well, I’m sure your job must be very interesting,’ Francesca said politely, and Helen laughed—a hard, brittle sound that jarred.
‘Oh, riveting, dear.’ She plonked the paperweight back down and stood up. ‘Well, I’m off; just thought I’d come and see what the competition was like.’
‘The competition?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She opened her eyes wide and failed to look guileless. ‘Thought you might be the brainy type that Oliver goes for, but you’re not. Still, just between the two of us, he can’t be that immune to a pretty face, can he?’
‘And, if he isn’t, you want to make sure that you’re the one in the firing-line?’
‘Got it in one.’ She smiled but without humour. ‘I’d give my right arm to get into the sack with him.’
‘Really?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘No,’ Francesca said coldly. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a lot of work to do.’
‘Sure.’ Helen walked towards the door. ‘He in tomorrow?’ she asked, and Francesca nodded. ‘Tell him I’ll come by to collect that stuff in the morning.’ And she was gone, leaving an unpleasant taste in Francesca’s mouth.
That, she thought acidly, was office politics—something else of which she had no experience.
She was ready to leave by five-thirty, and it was something of a relief to see Rupert at seven—sweet, uncomplicated Rupert, who wouldn’t know the meaning of ‘connive’ if it jumped in front of him waving a sign in neon lettering.
‘You look tired,’ he said as they walked towards his car—a sleek red Jaguar which he had obligingly parked in the very centre of the courtyard. ‘Tired yet extraordinarily gorgeous, considering all we’re doing is going out for a meal. Sure you won’t change your mind about coming out to a nightclub with me? We could dance till dawn and drink until at least midnight.’
Francesca laughed. He was incorrigible. He was also easy company. They drove to the restaurant—a French bistro in the theatre district—and he entertained her with a barrage of fairly trivial chat, which was quite amusing nevertheless. Rupert had always felt uncomfortable with pregnant pauses in conversation, and consequently he was adept at making small talk, which, she thought as they went into the restaurant, was just what she needed.
The restaurant was dimly lit, in accordance with someone’s clever notion that subdued lighting was conducive to a romantic atmosphere.
The proprietor knew them well and showed them to a little table in the corner, much loved by aficionados because it offered an excellent view of the other diners. Rupert liked it. From there he could watch the comings and goings of the largely pre and post theatre crowd who were wealthy enough to afford the exorbitant prices the place charged.
Privileges, Francesca thought suddenly—all those privileges that money could buy.
She had never known what it was like to have her choice of restaurant narrowed down to a hamburger bar because of financial considerations. Of course, she had eaten hamburgers, and she had enjoyed them, but then she had chosen to. She frowned and wondered why she was devoting so much time to these questions when they had never really bothered her before.
She was subdued over the meal, listening to Rupert ramble on in his harmless, amusing fashion. He was typical of all her friends—out for a good time, ever game for harmless, mostly expensive fun. But they all lacked something, didn’t they? she thought. It was as though reality hadn’t quite impinged upon them.
Then she thought of Oliver Kemp, and that irritated her. He was hardly what she would call a role model of a caring man—at least not as far as he had shown her—but still, he was somehow more substantial than anyone else she had ever met, wasn’t he?
Rupert was saying something and she nodded amiably enough, letting her eyes drift through the crowded restaurant, and she saw him just as he saw her. Their eyes tangled in the dimly lit room, and then, with a feeling of sinking horror, she watched as he and his companion walked towards their table.
At first she hardly noticed the woman with him. The only thing her eyes could focus on was the masculine figure in his dark suit with a cream silk tie around his neck.
‘Oh, God, Rupert,’ she whispered nervously. ‘Here comes my boss.’
They watched until Oliver had approached the table, then Rupert, ever ready with a tactless opening statement, said, smiling broadly, ‘So you’re the slave-driver I’ve been hearing so much about!’ He stood up, unruffled by Oliver’s cool, speculative expression, and said expansively, ‘Why don’t you pull up a couple of pews and join us?’
‘I’m sure Mr Kemp has a table booked,’ Francesca said, mortified, while the woman with him watched the cabaret with a pleasant smile.
‘We’d love to join you,’ she said, still smiling, and for the first time Francesca looked at her fully.
Was this Imogen Sattler—the tall, hard woman she had envisaged from Rupert’s vague description? The self-made woman who had climbed to the top of her career?
She was small, with short, curly fair hair and an intelligently serious face.
‘I take it you’ve just come from a play?’ Rupert asked them both as they sat down, and Oliver nodded, looking at Francesca with amusement, as though the playboy man in her life was just precisely as he had imagined.
‘I’m Rupert Thompson, by the way,’ Rupert said with limitless bonhomie. ‘General wastrel but with a heart of gold.’
The woman laughed and said brightly, ‘What a novel introduction. I’m Imogen Sattler.’ She looked at Francesca. ‘And I’m so glad to meet you. I hope you work out as Oliver’s secretary. He seems to run through them at a rate of knots.’ She glanced at him fondly, and Francesca felt a spurt of confused emotion which she could neither explain nor rationalise.
‘So I understand,’ she said politely, looking at Oliver from under her lashes.
‘Miss Wade is still in the enthusiastic phase,’ Oliver said coolly. ‘She’s trying to prove herself.’
That amused Rupert. He beamed, took a generous sip of port, and said, grinning, ‘That must be new to her. You’ve never had to prove yourself to anyone before, have you, Frankie?’
If he had set out to confirm everything that Oliver suspected of her, he couldn’t have done it better. Oliver gave her a dry, knowing look, and she said defensively, ‘Of course I’m not trying to prove myself. I just feel that if I’m employed to do a job of work then I should do it thoroughly.’
‘Well done!’ Imogen said, laughing. ‘Just don’t let him take advantage of you! He’s notorious for taking advantage of his secretaries. Why do you think they all leave with such alarming regularity?’
‘Now, now,’ Oliver murmured, and his light eyes slid across to his fiancée, ‘you make me sound like an ogre.’
The waiter approached to take their order and Rupert said, speaking for all of them, ‘Just the bill. Our friends here have decided to come to a nightclub with us. Haven’t you?’ He looked at Imogen and murmured breezily, ‘It would be a shame to waste such a glamorous outfit on a badly lit restaurant, don’t you agree?’
She looked delighted at this turn in events, but Oliver’s mouth had thinned and he said abruptly, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’d really like to just get home, Rupert,’ Francesca said, alarmed, but he waved aside both protests as if the thought of their turning down his kind invitation was hardly conceivable.
‘Nonsense, Frankie. Just because you’ve got a job it doesn’t mean that you have to give up all of life’s little pleasures.’
‘It would be fun,’ Imogen said, turning to Oliver, and he looked at her with grudging indulgence.
They might not be all over each other, Francesca thought, but there was a thread of real emotion there between them, evident in the way they looked at one another. Was this love? She abruptly drained her glass of port and felt a little dizzy.
Rupert stood up and held his arm out for Imogen. ‘You don’t mind my escorting your lovely fiancée to the door, do you, old man?’
Oliver was beginning to look mildly irritated, and when he fell into step with Francesca he said in a low, harsh voice, ‘Can’t you keep a rein on your lover?’
‘Rupert is not my lover!’ she said angrily, and he shrugged.
‘Whatever, then. Playmate.’
‘You make us sound like a couple of children.’
They were walking towards the door, and ahead of them Imogen was laughing, highly entertained by whatever Rupert was saying. He could be a superb conversationalist when he chose—witty, warm, direct, and with a boyish charm that could halt a charging rhino at a hundred paces. Francesca had seen it in action often enough before.
‘And it’s hardly my fault that Rupert’s commandeered your fiancée, is it?’ she added tartly.
‘Oh, Imogen is a big girl,’ Oliver drawled lazily. ‘And intelligent enough not to be taken in by your little playmate’s oily charm.’
They stepped outside into the freezing air, and Rupert immediately hailed a taxi while Imogen smiled coaxingly at Oliver over her shoulder. ‘We never go to nightclubs,’ she said persuasively, her eyes bright. ‘It might be fun!’
Francesca thought that going to sleep sounded rather more fun, and her mouth was tight by the time the taxi pulled up to the nightclub and deposited them outside.
Rupert was well-known there, not that it would have mattered. Oliver’s presence commanded such immediate awe that they were ushered in like royalty, and Francesca looked around at the familiar haunt with a sinking heart.
Had she really enjoyed frequenting these places—loud music, beautiful people frenetically talking and looking around them, eyes ever open to spot anyone they knew?
‘I’m awfully sorry about this,’ she murmured to Imogen once they were inside, and the other woman turned to her with wry humour in her eyes.
‘Why? It makes a change for me. My head is normally so full of business that I find it hard to relax.’
Oliver, with an ease which he seemed to accept without question as people made way for him, had gone to the bar for drinks, and Imogen took her arm confidentially.
‘You come here often, I gather?’
‘Oh, all the time,’ Francesca said, airily. ‘My head is so devoid of business that I find it terribly easy to relax.’
‘I wasn’t meaning to be offensive,’ Imogen said with gentle sincerity, and Francesca blushed.
‘No, of course not; it’s just…’
‘That Oliver’s been giving you a hard time because of your background? He told me that your father is terribly well off.’
‘And what else has he told you?’ She pictured them together, talking about her, and winced.
‘He’s a hard man,’ Imogen said, ‘but I expect you’ll get used to that in time. If you stick it out, that is! Must be something of a culture shock, though,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘if you’re used to a man like Rupert.’
‘Rupert,’ Francesca began defensively, ‘is—’
‘A type of person I’ve never met in my life before!’ Imogen laughed, and Francesca felt the beginnings of real warmth towards her. She watched as Rupert took her to the dance floor and reluctantly sat down in a secluded corner with Oliver.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see the attention he was receiving from other women in the room—sidelong glances of interest which he either chose to ignore or else genuinely didn’t notice.
‘I can understand why your father was worried about your lifestyle,’ he said, leaning towards her.
Amidst the noise and push of people there was something disturbingly intimate about his husky voice, and she looked at him and felt a twinge of something uninvited begin to stir inside her. She pushed it aside and said crisply, ‘I never intended to make this kind of thing a permanent feature of my life.’
‘You just spent the past few months allowing yourself to be persuaded into it?’
‘That’s hardly fair! You don’t know me.’
‘I know enough.’ He looked around him and there was a condescending glitter in his pale eyes which made the blood rush to her head angrily.
‘Your fiancée seems to be enjoying it,’ she snapped.
‘The element of novelty has its temptations for a limited period of time.’
‘You sound as though you’ve never had a moment’s fun in your life before.’
‘Is that what you think?’ He refocused his attention on her, and she felt her head begin to swim a little.
‘Well, have you?’
‘I didn’t spend my whole life in front of books before joining the army of people out to earn a living,’ he replied, his deep, low voice cutting through the tinny sound of the music.
‘You just decided somewhere along the line that fun was something you could do without?’ She cradled her glass in her hands, unwilling to drink another drop because she already felt a bit giddy.
‘No, I just decided that this sort of thing was an exercise in stupidity.’
‘Which I suppose is another criticism of me?’
He shrugged. ‘You can suppose anything you like.’
‘You don’t really care one way or the other.’ For some reason that stung.
‘That’s right.’ He leaned back in his chair and looked at his watch.
‘I’ll make sure that I’m at work on time tomorrow,’ Francesca said, abandoning her principles and taking another long gulp of her drink.
‘Of course you will,’ he murmured easily, ‘if only to prove that you can burn the candle at both ends and still function.’
‘I don’t have to prove anything to you,’ Francesca lied, not meeting his eyes.
‘Well, then,’ he said, not bothering to look at her, ‘maybe to yourself.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘I’M LEAVING home.’ Francesca’s father looked at her with anxious consternation, and she knew that it wasn’t because of what she had just announced but the way she had announced it. She knew that her mouth was tight, her words abrupt, her expression hard, but she was just so angry that anything else was quite beyond her.
How could he?
‘I’ve found a flat,’ she carried on, not quite meeting her father’s eyes but not looking away either. ‘It’s small but it’ll do, and I shall move at the weekend. You’re away for a couple of weeks so I won’t get under your feet.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘What’s the matter?’ She stood up and walked across the room to the window, then she turned to face him, her hands on her hips. ‘Dad, how could you?’
Two months, she thought furiously; two months of working for Oliver Kemp and now this. She didn’t quite know how the sudden flare-up had happened. She had got into work the morning before and had known the minute she had clapped eyes on him that he was in a foul temper.
Whether it had been his mood or a reaction to two months of his stunning indifference to her, which, she had managed to persuade herself, suited her just fine, she didn’t quite know, but she had snapped.
All she could coherently remember was Oliver leaning across her desk with a filthy expression on his face and telling her that the document which she had typed, which she had spent hours typing, would have to be redone because some of the facts were inaccurate, and that she should have known better. As if, she had thought at the time, she were on some uncanny hotline to Divine Company Information.
David Bass had dictated the facts. How could she have known that some of them weren’t on target? She had said as much to Oliver.
‘Oh, I’ve had a few words with David Bass,’ Oliver had said grimly, and then she had snapped.
‘How could I what?’ her father asked now, and she glared at him. The memory of what Oliver had told her was still humiliatingly clear in her head.
‘How could you have blackmailed Oliver Kemp into hiring me?’ she wailed, angry with her father, herself, Oliver and the world at large.
She had spent the last two months working hard, proving herself, foolishly believing that she had got the job on her own merit, and she knew that she would have continued harbouring the illusion if she hadn’t goaded Oliver into revealing the truth.
Her father was looking uncomfortable, clearing his throat and attempting to placate her, but Francesca was in no mood to forgive.
‘I only did it for your own good, my dear,’ he offered.
‘You knew his father very well, didn’t you, Dad?’ she said bitterly. ‘This was no passing acquaintance you bumped into accidentally. You grew up with his father! You both went to the same school, except that when you left to go on to a private school to finish your education he left to support a family of nine!’
‘He was a very clever man,’ her father murmured ruefully, which to her seemed quite beside the point.
‘I don’t care if he was Einstein!’ Francesca shouted, on the point of tears. ‘Oliver said that when his father died you sent them money—money so that Oliver could have the education he deserved. You sent me to him like a mouse to a trap, knowing that he would have no option but to employ me.’
‘You went of your own free will,’ her father pointed out, and Francesca ignored him.
‘You put him in a position of obligation. I was a debt.’ Her voice sank to a whisper. ‘A debt to be paid off.’
‘I knew you could do the job,’ her father said.
‘In that case you should have let me prove myself,’ she retorted immediately, and her father reddened.
‘My dear—’ he began, and she cut him short with a wave of her hand.
‘No,’ she said, gathering herself together. ‘It’s done, but I shall never forgive you for this.’
‘You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. If Oliver had thought you incompetent he would have sacked you, debt or no debt.’
‘The fact is you shouldn’t have blackmailed him.’ She walked towards the door. ‘Please tell Bridie that I’ll be in over the weekend to get my things together.’ She didn’t want to meet her father’s eye. Her anger was so great that it pushed aside everything else. It consumed her.
‘I can’t possibly continue working for you,’ she had told Oliver the day before, shaken and humiliated by his revelation.
And he had said curtly, ‘Don’t be a complete fool. I won’t accept a resignation from you.’
‘Why?’ she had taunted bitterly. ‘Because you’re honour-bound to keep me here?’
‘And stop,’ he had said, unwittingly focusing on the one thing guaranteed to make her feel even worse, ‘acting like a child.’
She felt like a child now, but she couldn’t help herself. Her self-respect had been whipped away and she felt naked and vulnerable, and she certainly wasn’t about to be persuaded by her father to be reasonable.
She didn’t want to be reasonable. She wanted to fling things about, and before she could do that she left, slamming the door behind her and bringing Bridie rushing down the stairs to see what was wrong.
Francesca was still fuming the following morning when she got to work, and as soon as Oliver walked in and saw her face he said tightly, impatiently, ‘For God’s sake, Francesca, drop it.’
‘Drop what?’ She watched as he took off his jacket, then slowly turned around to face her.
‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ he said, moving across to her desk and propping himself on it with his hands. ‘If I hadn’t thought that you could do the job I wouldn’t have hired you.’
‘Sure,’ Francesca muttered under her breath, and he gripped her chin with his fingers, forcing her to look at him.
‘I can’t stand people who feel sorry for themselves,’ he grated, and she met his eyes with an angry glare.
‘Since you can’t stand me anyway,’ she said, ‘I don’t think any further criticisms of my character will have any effect.’
He shook his head and looked as if he could willingly have slapped her, but instead he stood up and strode into his office, slamming the door behind him.
By the time Friday rolled around Francesca’s nerves were jangling from the silently aggressive atmosphere between them.
Her work was as efficient as ever, but her body tensed the minute he came near her, and there was a tension in him too that didn’t help matters. She still hadn’t told him that she was moving house, and she delayed that until she was ready to leave on the Friday evening, when she said coolly, not looking at him, ‘I don’t know whether I mentioned this to you or not, but I’ve decided to leave home.’
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