Husband-To-Be. Linda Miles
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group of stylishly dressed older people.
Grant’s eyes followed hers. Rachel wondered for a moment whether he would mind being found having dinner tête-à-tête with another woman, but Grant seemed to have other things on his mind.
‘Oh, no,’ he groaned. ‘Did you see what I just saw?’
‘Olivia?’ hazarded Rachel.
‘My fiancée, yes,’ he agreed. ‘And, more to the point, my fiancée in the bosom of her family, and, as if that weren’t bad enough, in the company of her family’s friends. Well, we can’t pretend we haven’t seen them—we might as well get this over with. Come on.’
He stood up and escorted Rachel to the other table, where he performed introductions with an unusually subdued manner. ‘You remember Rachel,’ he told Olivia.
Olivia’s eyes widened. It was clear that she hadn’t recognised the scruffy spider-catcher in the dark-haired, beautifully groomed girl with Grant.
‘Of course,’ she said smoothly. ‘And you remember Rupert, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Grant said. He glowered at the distinguished, silver-haired man to Olivia’s right. ‘Rachel, I’d like you to meet Rupert Matheson, managing director of Glomac. Rupert—my secretary, Rachel.’
Matheson extended a beautifully manicured hand and shook Rachel’s. ‘Delighted,’ he murmured. ‘You’ll join us for a drink, of course.’ He pulled over a chair for Rachel before Grant could demur; Grant drew up a chair for himself and sat down with evident reluctance.
Matheson seemed somewhat amused by Grant’s ill-concealed distaste. ‘How are you getting on with raising funds for the science park?’ he asked.
‘Well enough,’ Grant said curtly.
‘It’s not easy sometimes for a small operation like yours,’ Matheson commented. Rachel stared at him in astonishment, then remembered that Glomac was one of the largest pharmaceuticals companies in the world.
‘I don’t see any problem,’ said Grant. ‘Of course it’s early days. The environmental impact assessment should be pretty straightforward, but obviously we’ve got to deal with a few formalities before we really get going.’
‘Quite, quite,’ agreed the older man. ‘Well, you’ve got a marvellous location. We may be interested ourselves.’
Grant merely raised an eyebrow.
‘And if the investors don’t come as fast as you’d hoped...’ Matheson paused and took a sip of his drink ‘...you might reconsider leasing the rights we spoke of. You know Glomac can develop the product on a much bigger scale; it would be worth our while to make it well worth your while.’
Grant drained his glass and set it down. “Thanks, but I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to leave you; our dinner has come.’
He stood up and stalked back to the other table, Rachel trailing behind him in perplexity.
‘A bigger scale,’ Grant said tightly. ‘Couldn’t they just. My God, he makes me sick.’ His face was black.
‘What was he talking about?’ Rachel asked.
‘I helped an Amazonian tribe to get some land rights a few years back. Now I’ve got an agreement with them to research and develop use of some of the native plants as medicines—there’s one that looks like it might be the next wonder drug.’ He gave her a grim smile. ‘Well, naturally Glomac would love to get its hands on it. More specifically, Matheson would love to be able to chalk up a spectacular money-spinner to himself—the company’s been stagnating since he took charge.’
‘And you don’t trust him?’
Grant shrugged. ‘He can’t afford to deal fairly with the tribe. To make the kind of money he wants, he’d have to get them off the land. They’ve had enough contact with civilisation so that they don’t have the kind of cash-independent existence they once had; Glomac would refuse to pay them a decent price for the product until they were desperate, then offer them an attractive deal to sell the land outright. I’m not saying Matheson would admit in so many words that it was acceptable for the tribe to end up in the slums of Recife, provided Glomac made enough money out of it, but he’d look the other way while it happened.’
He glanced contemptuously across the room. ‘It’s not easy for Olivia,’ he added. ‘He’s a friend of her father, so she can’t really cut the acquaintance.’
‘I see,’ said Rachel noncommittally. She took a sip of wine. It didn’t seem to her that Olivia’s friendliness to the man had been forced, but this was hardly something she could say to Grant.
The sparkle and spontaneity of their conversation seemed to have been quenched by the short visit to the other table. They ate quickly, not saying much; neither felt like lingering over dessert or coffee, and they left by mutual consent after another twenty minutes.
Rachel got into the car the next morning in a gloomy mood. Even Grant’s enthusiastic reunion with the pink suit failed to raise her spirits. If only Bell Conglomerates would listen to reason and take Driscoll instead. But would they?
The drive to London passed largely in silence. Grant seemed preoccupied by the encounter of the previous evening; Rachel was full of foreboding at the prospect of her interview. The more she thought about it, the less she thought Bell Conglomerates was going to take a substitute on her say-so. If she wasn’t careful, they’d suck her back into fieldwork before she could bat an eye—they’d sponsored her graduate work, after all, and might try to make her feel she owed them one.
That was problem number one. The second problem was her hair, or lack thereof. She still hadn’t broken the news to Driscoll—what if the shock put him off his stride? What if it lowered her credibility as a reference with Bell Conglomerates?
Well, she could do nothing about problem number one, but she could spare Driscoll’s sensibilities. She asked Grant to drop her off in Oxford Street, bought a shoulder-length black wig in Selfridges, and had plenty of time to arrange this artfully on her head before setting off to meet Driscoll. It wasn’t exactly her usual style, but Driscoll wasn’t exactly the noticing type.
They met in the lobby of Bell. Driscoll didn’t notice the wig. He did notice, and disapproved of, the pink suit, which he thought had too short a skirt. He explained that he’d confirmed the appointment in her name with the head of the company.
They went to the top floor, and were shown to a reception area outside the director’s office. Driscoll stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking out of the window; Rachel sat leafing through an old copy of Nature. Footsteps came bounding down the corridor.
‘Hawkins!’ exclaimed a familiar voice. ‘This is a real pleasure—I can’t tell you how glad I am to meet you at last. Terrific that you’ll be working for us. Won’t you come into my office?’
Under Rachel’s bemused stare, none other than Grant Mallett advanced on Driscoll and shook him heartily by the hand. A handshake was insufficiently cordial to express the intensity of his delight; he slapped him even more heartily on the back, then steered him through the door of the office. The door closed behind them.
Rachel expected them to bounce out again immediately, but the door remained shut for some time. Presently it opened again. Driscoll’s face was flushed; Grant’s, she was surprised to see, was uncharacteristically grim.
‘I’m afraid that’s not the way I do business,’ he said. ‘But, in any case, I particularly want Hawkins for this job, and as it was one of the conditions of the Bell grant that the recipient be prepared to do something of the kind there’s really nothing to be discussed. If you’ve brought Dr Hawkins with you I’ll have a word now—’ He broke off, and looked blankly about the reception area, then at Rachel, then around the room again, as if a stray zoologist might be hiding under a sofa, and then back, again, at Rachel.