A Nine-to-five Affair. Jessica Steele

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      CHAPTER TWO

      FEBRUARY was on its way out and they were in the throes of some quite dreadful weather. Last week it had seemed to rain non-stop. Today it had gone colder, and snow was threatened. Emmie had not slept well, and got out of bed that Wednesday morning feeling oddly despondent. Oh, buck your ideas up, do. A month ago she had been overjoyed that she’d actually managed to be offered the job of assistant, shortly to be acting, PA to Mr Barden Cunningham. So—what had changed?

      Emmie padded around her flat, trying to pin-point why she felt so—well, not exactly dissatisfied with her lot, but certainly sort of restless, out of sorts about something.

      Which was odd, because she no longer had any worries about her step-grandmother. Aunt Hannah was now cheerfully established in the double room she had so wanted, and was more settled than Emmie could have hoped. Indeed, so content did Aunt Hannah seem that Emmie realised how right she had been to think it was important to the dear soul to feel safe during the long hours while Emmie was away at work. Safely ensconced in Keswick House, gradually, bit by bit, Aunt Hannah’s confidence was returning. Her confidence—and her spirit of independence. Twice in the last month Aunt Hannah had declined to stay with Emmie for the weekend—though she had permitted Emmie to collect her for Sunday tea.

      So it wasn’t on Aunt Hannah’s account that she felt so unsettled, Emmie decided. Her thoughts turned to her job, and how, without bothering to take up references—clearly he was a man confident in his own judgement, and that had been one tremendous worrying hurdle out of the way—Barden Cunningham had appointed her.

      She had been working at the head office of Progress Engineering for four weeks and two days now, and loved the work. Had, in fact, taken to it like a duck to water. Sometimes she worked under pressure but she absorbed it, enjoyed the challenge—and felt that she did well enough that her employer could not have one single solitary complaint about her output.

      She got on exceedingly well with Dawn and was glad to be of help to her whenever she could, because, as well as being a thoroughly nice person, Dawn was not having a very easy pregnancy at all. ‘I thought morning sickness was something that happened early on—not now,’ Dawn had sighed only yesterday, after yet another visit to the ladies’ room.

      ‘Why not go home? There’s nothing here I can’t cope with,’ Emmie had urged.

      ‘I’ll stick it out,’ Dawn had said bravely. ‘I’m having tomorrow afternoon off for an antenatal appointment, as you know. Thanks all the same, Emmie.’

      Dawn had asked her that first Monday if she was called Emily or if there was another name she was known by. ‘I’ve been called Emmie for as long as I can remember,’ she’d answered, and had been Emmie to all at Progress Engineering since then.

      So, Emmie went back to trying to find the root cause of what was making her so restless. She had no worries about Aunt Hannah now, she liked her job and she liked Dawn, and everything else was ticking along nicely. So why did she feel…?

      Her thoughts suddenly faltered. Everybody at Progress Engineering called her Emmie—except him! To him, she was still Emily. She wasn’t terribly sure quite when Barden Cunningham had become him. She had quite liked him during those first few hours of working for him. That was before she had taken the first of his May-I-speak-with-Barden-please-Paula-here-type calls.

      ‘Do I put Paula through?’ she’d whispered to Dawn.

      There had followed, over the next few weeks, Ingrid, Sarah, and a whole host of other females—it was a wonder to Emmie that he ever got any work done. But he did. That was the bitter pill. She couldn’t fault him; given that—wouldn’t you know, another wretched womaniser—he took time out to answer his calls, the amount of work he turned out was staggering.

      ‘He’s not married, then?’ Emmie had asked Dawn, knowing she was going to hate him like the devil if he were.

      Dawn had shaken her head. ‘Why limit yourself to one pudding when you can have the whole dessert trolley?’

      Emmie had managed a smile, but she’d had her fill of womanisers. She’d been sure, however, to keep her feelings well hidden, but happened to be in his office when a female she hadn’t so far come across had telephoned him.

      ‘Claudia!’ he’d exclaimed with pleasure. And, charming the socks off Claudia—Emmie didn’t want to know what else he charmed off her—he’d kept Emmie waiting while he dallied with his new love.

      ‘If you’d just sign these papers for me!’ Emmie had requested crisply, when he’d at last finished his call.

      She’d ignored his raised eyebrow, that look that said, Who the blazes do you think you are? ‘Anything else?’ he’d asked sarcastically, and Emmie had felt sorely inclined to give him a taste of what she’d given Clive Norris.

      ‘No, thank you,’ she’d replied politely, if a shade aloofly, and returned to her desk. Men!

      True, he hadn’t attempted the womanising bit with her. Let him try! Not that she wanted him to. Heaven forbid! It irked, though, in some strange way that he still called her Emily, even though she knew for a fact that to him, Dawn always referred to her as Emmie.

      Realising she was getting all huffy and puffy over nothing, Emmie got ready to face the day and drove herself to work. The morning went well, and Dawn went off at lunchtime to keep her hospital appointment.

      Barden Cunningham was out of the office for the first hour of that afternoon, and Emmie quite enjoyed the challenge of being left in sole charge of the office. Her enjoyment, however, was somewhat dimmed by a telephone call she took around two-thirty.

      ‘Mr Cunningham’s office,’ she said into the mouthpiece, on picking up the phone.

      ‘Roberta Short,’ the caller announced herself. ‘That’s Emmie, isn’t it?’ See—even Cunningham’s friends knew she was called Emmie!

      ‘Yes,’ she answered, a smile in her voice. She liked Roberta Short, a striking woman in her early thirties. Emmie had met her and her husband, a man in his late forties, when they had called in to see her employer one day. ‘I’m afraid Mr Cunningham isn’t in.’

      ‘Oh, drat! I particularly wanted to catch him.’

      ‘May I get him to call you?’ Emmie offered—and felt her blood go cold at Roberta Short’s panicky reply.

      ‘Lord, СКАЧАТЬ