The Innocent And The Playboy. Sophie Weston
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it, she said, ‘Look, we’ll talk about it this evening...’
‘Because you’ve got to rush off to work, right?’
‘Because I’m late for work,’ Rachel said between her teeth. ‘Because I’m making a strategy presentation. Because the full board will be there and some of the shareholders aren’t happy. Because I have other responsibilities as well as you.’
‘You’re not responsible for me,’ flashed Alexandra.
‘I can make my own decisions.’
Rachel sighed. ‘Not legally. Look, I’ve got to go.’ ‘If my father were alive you wouldn’t treat me like this.’
Rachel winced. Even though these were exactly the circumstances which Brian had envisaged when he’d first begged her to marry him, and they’d both thought she had prepared for them, Rachel had been missing him badly in recent days.
The taxi hooted. Rachel stopped glaring at Alexandra and shot into the kitchen. Late as she was, she still checked the briefcase methodically. It was something her own father had taught her to do and she sometimes thought ruefully that she could do it in her sleep. Everything was there.
She pinned up her hair on top of her head without looking in the mirror. Then she stuffed her handbag under her arm and prepared to go.
Hugh looked up from his breakfast. The pile of toast had diminished noticeably, as it always did. So why did he always look as if he were starving? Rachel thought. He saw her worried look and grinned.
‘Sock it to them, Super Shark.’
Rachel knew this was meant to be both encouraging and complimentary. She responded accordingly.
‘Thank you very much for your support. Hugh...’
He jerked his head at the door. ‘Don’t worry about her. She’ll sort herself out sooner or later.’
‘Just as long as it isn’t too late,’ muttered Rachel, not much comforted.
‘Don’t worry about it. Lexy can look after herself,’ said her sympathetic brother.
‘I hope you’re right.’
The taxi hooted again, longer.
‘Damn. I must go. I’m sorry. I’ll see you both tonight,’ said Rachel, running.
Too fast, of course. It was blowing a gale outside. The leaves flew up, making her blink against the flying dust. The wind caught at her hastily arranged hair and whipped great hanks of red-gold fronding out of its confining hairpins. She cursed but she did not go back to repair the damage. She had told the children she was late for a board meeting. What she had not told them was that it could just turn out to be the most important meeting of her life.
Now, racing into the waiting taxi, she slipped and fell to one knee on the gravel. She felt the run in her tights at once. But it was too late to go back and change. The unfamiliar taxi driver was already impatient and Rachel was hardly less so. She got into the back seat and slammed the door.
‘Bentley’s Investment Bank,’ she said. ‘Old Ship Street.’
All the way to the huge new office block, she could feel the run snaking down her leg. On the sheer dark tights she favoured, it was going to be horribly conspicuous. She would have to keep her legs out of sight under the board table until she could dash out and get another pair. Maybe just before lunch, thought Rachel, running over the timetable in her mind. Then, jumping out of the taxi, she did not duck low enough. Rachel felt her already descending coiffure lurch sideways at the impact. It was the final straw.
As the taxi drove off, she swore before turning to steam in through the silent automatic doors.
‘Morning, Mrs Gray,’ said the security officer, from behind his smart, brass-trimmed desk. He had seen her mishap and could not suppress his grin. ‘Bit windy out there.’
Rachel hefted her briefcase under her arm and thrust her free hand distractedly through her hair. Several pins fell out.
‘Morning, Geoff. Are they here yet?’
The security guards had the best information network in the bank. Geoff did not pretend to misunderstand.
‘The party from the States arrived about ten minutes ago.’
‘Oh, hell.’
‘Mr Jensen is giving them the tour.’
Rachel stopped fluffing up her hair and scattering pins. ‘You mean he knew I hadn’t got here?’
Geoff looked wise. ‘He was looking for you earlier. Mandy told him you were on your way.’
Mandy was her secretary. Philip Jensen was Rachel’s boss—at least on the organisation chart—and he was a panicker.
Rachel sighed. She should have been here an hour ago at least. She had intended to be when she’d put her papers for the meeting into her briefcase last night. But with Alexandra’s bombshell at the breakfast table she had temporarily lost sight of her timetable. The fact that it was her own fault did not help. If anything it made it slightly worse.
‘Hell,’ said Rachel again with feeling.
Geoff grinned and opened the small door at the side of the security guards’ cubby-hole. They had their own lift to all floors which no one else was supposed to use. The theory was that it should be available at all times in case of a security alert. As a result, it was known to be the fastest route between floors. In addition, it had the advantage that she was unlikely to meet the board and their honoured guests in the unadorned steel box which served the security force. It was against bank policy but, on today of all days, the offer was irresistible.
‘Thank you,’ said Rachel with real gratitude, and dived into the prohibited lift.
She made it into her secretary’s office without encountering anyone else. Mandy looked up and took in her situation in a glance. She swung round on her rotating chair and extracted a new packet of tights from the pile in the stationery cupboard behind her.
‘Traffic?’ she said.
Rachel dropped the briefcase thankfully. ‘Only domestic.’
Mandy pushed the tights across the desk and surveyed her thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got mud on your jacket.’
Rachel looked down. It was true. There was a great splash of it like a wizard’s hand across the front.
‘I didn’t realise. It must have happened when I tripped. Damn.’
Mandy held out a hand. ‘Give it to me. I’ll have a go with the clothes-brush. You deal with the extremities.’
Rachel shrugged herself out of the jacket. ‘My one designer suit,’ she said gloomily. ‘Only just back from the cleaners.’
Mandy was surveying the dried mud. ‘The check jacket is in your office. If all else fails you could wear that.’
The check jacket was an old friend. So old that its black velvet collar showed its age. They both knew it. Rachel sighed again.
‘Philip will be furious.’
‘Philip is too terrified to be furious,’ Mandy said frankly. ‘He’ll be so relieved to see you, he won’t care if you turn up in dungarees. Go on.’
Rachel went swiftly into the ladies’ cloakroom, pulling the remaining pins out of her hair as she went. Mandy soon joined her, bearing the check jacket apologetically.
‘Designer clothes need designer cleaning. I brushed the mud off but you could still see the shadow.’
Rachel lobbed the ruined tights into the waste-paper basket and smoothed her skirt.
‘Thank you for trying.’ She straightened up to face her image in the big mirror behind the hand basins and grimaced. ‘It’s not going to make much difference anyway. My hair needs surgery.