Wife in the Making. Lindsay Armstrong

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СКАЧАТЬ opened her mouth, closed it, then said simply, ‘Takes all kinds, doll! Don’t you worry about the dishes!’ and departed for the washing-up area round the back of the restaurant.

      Fleur hesitated with the feeling she’d had a door closed in her face, then neatly stacked the salt and pepper shakers on the rack, shook out the tablecloth—and went to her office.

      “Office” was a misnomer.

      She had a small room also off the back of the restaurant with one table, one chair, a computer, yes, but no drawers, no filing cabinets—none of the normal office furniture in fact. Bryn’s preferred system of filing had been nails in the wall onto which he affixed his paperwork, but by no means all of it. The rest of it had overflowed across every available inch of table surface. And the computer had obviously just come out of the box but not even been connected yet.

      She’d drawn a deep breath on being introduced to her office, had turned to Bryn Wallis to protest that no one could be expected to work like this—but had changed her mind suddenly. Because he’d been watching her with the obvious and cynical expectation of her making a fuss and more than that, a certain relish at being able to point out to her she was unequal to this particular job.

      An extremely unladylike piece of advice for him had crossed her mind but she’d managed not to say it. She’d merely shrugged and turned back to the computer.

      ‘Good enough for you, Ms Millar?’ he’d enquired.

      ‘More than good enough.’ She’d paged through the literature. ‘You have enough memory here to store the workings of a worldwide chain of restaurants but I always say better to have too much than too little—memory, that is. I’ll need a screwdriver, Mr Wallis. Do you intend to get an e-mail address for the restaurant, incidentally?’

      ‘That was the idea. Can you handle the setting up of it, Miss Millar?’ he’d replied, stressing the AR at the end of her surname.

      ‘I can; I see you have an internal modem but I need a phone line in here.’ She’d looked around.

      ‘Voilà—I’m not quite as useless about all this as you imagine,’ he’d drawled and picked up a stack of papers to reveal a phone. ‘Not only did I get this phone installed but it is also on a separate line.’

      ‘Good thinking,’ she’d murmured coolly. ‘Uh—would there be anything resembling stationery?’

      He’d subjected her to a lengthy aren’t-you-a-clever-little-miss? gaze then strolled across the room and hefted a cardboard box onto the tables. ‘Pads, pens, paper for the printer, envelopes—I even got stamps.’

      ‘How thoughtful,’ she’d commented.

      Their gazes had clashed then he’d smiled sweetly. ‘Thank you—well, I’ll leave you to it, Fleur.’ And he’d walked out.

      She’d gritted her teeth and restrained herself from throwing something at him. But she’d reminded herself that she’d almost always known this would be a challenge and now was not the time to get faint-hearted. By that evening, with Eric’s help—he’d provided her with some boxes she could use as file boxes and rustled up another table—she’d been more or less up and running, even able to play computer games with Tom.

      It was Tom who’d, at the same time, told her that Bryn had a laptop computer in their bungalow but never seemed to have the time to play computer games with him.

      ‘So—what does he do on it?’ she’d asked, taken by surprise because she’d formed the impression her boss was computer illiterate.

      ‘He just writes things, that’s all. Oh, wow! We’ve got that new computer game, Fleur. Let’s play that!’

      But, she reflected, coming back to the present as she looked around her ‘office’, three and a half weeks of utter professionalism and making the best of things without one murmur of discontent had obviously not changed Bryn Wallis’s view, whatever it was, of her.

      She pulled her chair out and sat down but, for perhaps a good five minutes, stared unseeingly at the wall with a frown in her eyes. Then she shrugged and switched on the computer.

      At five o’clock that same evening the day was starting to assume catastrophic proportions. Julene took to her bed with a migraine. Lobster, a great favourite on the Clam Cove menu, had to be struck off because the outboard motor on the dinghy, the only dinghy used to catch the lobster fresh every day from the waters around the island, seized up and required a part to be sent from the mainland, something that could take a day. Tom came home from school feeling feverish and uncomfortable, and with the news that his best friend had chickenpox.

      Fortunately the reservation list for dinner was small; on the other hand only one waitress from Bryn’s list of casual local staff had been rostered on and she called in late afternoon to report that she’d just sprained her ankle. Frantic telephoning around had not produced a replacement for her although Bryn had enlisted the aid of the community nurse to sit with Tom.

      It was when he’d exhausted all possibilities of getting anyone to replace Julene or the waitress that Bryn slammed the phone down and said savagely to Fleur, ‘Let’s see how you cope with this, Miss Competence Personified!’

      ‘Just you and me?’ she hazarded.

      ‘Eric can help wait tables,’ he said shortly and eyed her sardonically. ‘Are you on?’

      ‘Of course,’ she replied calmly.

      Five hours later, the last guests had departed, the candles were guttering in their glasses and the cooking area was a scene of colourful chaos.

      Fleur looked around at the tables that needed to be cleared, at the huge, decorative bowl of fruit on the counter. Her gaze drifted on over the dirty sauce pots in which fragrant, pastel and delicious sauces had been prepared, the lined-up empty bottles of wine, and paused as she spotted one that was not empty—a half-full bottle of Chianti in fact.

      Whereupon she ceremoniously removed her apron, reached for a glass and poured some of the wine, then turned to her boss, who was looking at her quizzically, and threw the Chianti into his face.

      ‘Take that,’ she spat at him. ‘I have never in my life witnessed such an exhibition of boorish behaviour or been treated so shockingly when all I was trying to do was help! Not only trying, incidentally, but it’s only thanks to me that they didn’t all get up and walk out!’

      Bryn blinked several times and wiped his eyes. ‘I was under a bit of pressure,’ he started to say, ‘which I’m the first to admit can affect me adversely—’

      ‘Rubbish!’ she yelled at him. ‘You deliberately set out to make this evening as difficult as possible for me with your cutting little remarks, your dreadful impatience, your insolent looks and all the rest. You deliberately set out to get me as flustered as possible—just as you have been ever since we set eyes on one another. Well, here’s what I think of you, Bryn Wallis!’ This time it was a bowl of unwhipped cream she poured over him.

      And when he started to laugh, she upended another bowl down the front of his clothes—a bowl of raspberries. But as she turned to find something else to pour over him, he simply picked her up and carried her, kicking and fighting, down the stairs to the beach, where he walked straight into the sea with her.

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