Secrets Of A Wallflower. Amanda McCabe

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      The offices of Ladies’ Weekly was on the third floor of a rather nondescript but solid building, in a corner tower. She made her way past rows of young women at typewriters and stacks of papers and photos waiting to be made into articles. The click of the typewriters blended with shouts and cries, and the warm air smelled of newsprint and coffee. It was unlike anything Diana had ever seen before, entirely different from the flower-scented hush of her parents’ house, and it was utterly thrilling.

      She was led to a small corner office, where a bewhiskered, harried-looking man sat behind a cluttered desk, dictating to an equally harried-looking lady in spectacles and a pink-striped shirtwaist.

      ‘Ah, so this is the Paris girl!’ the man shouted. ‘Not before time, I’ll say. Come in, come in.’

      ‘I...’ Confused, Diana glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I thought my appointment was at ten?’

      The woman chuckled. ‘You are quite punctual, Miss Martin. He means on time for Paris. Our last correspondent there decided to get married instead of going to the Exposition and has rather left us in the lurch. We need a replacement right away.’

      ‘You’re not engaged, are you?’ he barked.

      ‘I—no,’ Diana murmured, thinking of Lord Thursby. And of Sir William.

      ‘It would mean you would be in charge of the coverage rather than assisting,’ the woman said. ‘We do have such a small staff. I hope that would not be a problem?’

      Diana swallowed hard. She had never written professionally before, but she had wanted this so much for so long. Surely she could do it. ‘Of course not.’

      ‘The Lady and the Mail are already there, curse them,’ the man said, shoving a stack of papers on to the floor. ‘We need to scoop them and soon! You look like a young lady who knows the fashions of Paris.’

      ‘I do have lots of ideas for articles,’ Diana said quickly, digging out her portfolio from her valise. ‘The new sporting clothes, for tennis and bicycling. Worth and Doucet...’

      ‘But do you have connections?’ he demanded. ‘That’s the question. Can you get into all those fancy parties in Paris? Give our readers the inside look?’

      ‘I...’ she began. Of course she could. Couldn’t she? After all, as her mother said, she had gone to the best school, made the best friends. Surely she knew how to get what she wanted, no matter what her parents said.

      ‘What he means is—can you tell our readers things no one else can know? Describe gowns no one else has yet seen, things like that?’ the woman said.

      ‘I do have an invitation to the opening of the new Gordston’s Department Store on the Champs-Élysées,’ Diana said. It was actually Alexandra’s invitation, but her friend had passed it on, too shy to face it. Malcolm Gordston was a dashing celebrity, handsome beyond words they said, a man who had risen from poverty in Scotland to the height of elegant riches because he knew how to give the stylish world what it craved. ‘And I know how to get to the very top level of Monsieur Eiffel’s tower for a moment all alone. Only a very select few are allowed there, you know.’

      The man and woman exchanged a long glance. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You’re hired, Miss Martin. Can you start next week?’

      Diana quickly accepted and floated out of the building on such a glittering cloud she hardly knew how her feet carried her down the street. The crowd on the pavement swirled past, buffeting her on all sides, yet she barely noticed them.

      She was going to Paris. She was going to write. Never mind that she now had to persuade her parents. She had a job.

      She walked a few more steps and glanced around. The crowd was the same as it had been earlier, a hurrying, sombre group in dark suits, not paying her any more attention than the stone lions on the square. She wanted to dance, to twirl, to shout out her excitement. But everyone else had their own work to get to and it was still too early to call on Emily or Alexandra, even though she would have dearly loved their advice. She needed someone to tell, someone to give her sensible words about her situation.

      She suddenly remembered William Blakely. He had asked her to tea! When they first met, his seriousness, his quiet watchfulness, had made her feel uncertain, too girlish, too giggly. But then she had seen that other side to him, that flash of humour, those hidden depths. Maybe someone like that was just what she needed right now?

      And she would get to see him again.

      She turned the corner towards that elegant Georgian mansion, and hurried up the stone steps before she could change her mind and run away. It did seem like a day for bold moves. She had a job now! Surely a cup of tea with William Blakely would be only one more daring step?

      She pushed open the door and found herself in another new world. This one was completely different from the crowded, ever-moving river of the street, or the bustle and dust of the magazine. The hall was all cool marble and hush, portraits of stern old men staring down at her from the azure-painted walls, potted palms looming tall in the corners.

      What was it exactly William did in that place? she wondered. She knew he had something to do with diplomacy and that he had just returned from India. Maybe the building was an outpost of the India Office her father had once worked for?

      She glanced back over her shoulder, uncertain. But he had invited her. And she found she really did want to see him again, tell him her news and hear what he thought about it all. How very odd; he was really a stranger to her, yet she was quite eager to see that smile of his again.

      She nodded resolutely and marched up to the only living being in that silent hall, a young man with pomaded hair and spectacles in an old-fashioned black suit, who sat behind a dark oak desk. He glanced up from the papers he was sorting, a frown on his face.

      ‘May I help you, Miss...?’

      ‘Miss Martin,’ she answered with a smile and far more confidence than she felt. After all, she would have to learn to march in and take what she needed now, or she would never get the articles she wanted for the magazine.

      ‘I am here to see Sir William Blakely,’ she said calmly, adjusting her gloves as if she did this sort of thing every day. ‘He is expecting me for tea.’

      The young man stared at her for a long moment, his face growing redder, but she just kept smiling. Finally, he gulped and nodded. ‘If you will just wait here, Miss—Miss Martin,’ he said and hurried away up a curving staircase.

      Well, Diana thought, that seemed to do the trick. She studied the hall a little closer and saw that between the portraits were decorations that looked like framed medals. Above her head were banners and swords. She wondered what it all meant.

      After her flush of new confidence, she suddenly felt nervous again. What if he had just been being polite to invite her to tea? What if she was interrupting him in something terribly important?

      But she had no time to leave. As she made to move away, she heard William call, ‘Miss Martin. I’m so glad you decided to call on us.’

      She turned to see him coming down the stairs. He had tidied up after their meeting on the street, his dark hair smooth and shining again, СКАЧАТЬ