Free Spirit. PENNY JORDAN
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studying their contents.
‘If you’d like to come this way, please,’ she said a little breathlessly to Hannah, more than half her attention still focused on the relaxed back of the other occupant of the room. Irritated by the way the girl couldn’t take her attention off him and focus it on her, Hannah gave her a cool smile and swept towards the door, only just restraining herself from making some acid remark to her opponent.
The receptionist escorted her to a lift, discreetly hidden in the rear of the hallway.
‘It will take you directly to the executive suite,’ she told Hannah, ‘and when you get there Mr Giles’ secretary will be waiting for you.’
Gordon Giles was Silas Jeffreys’ secondin-command, a man whose reputation was almost as formidable as that of Silas Jeffreys himself. Hannah felt a tremor of nervousness start in the tip of her stomach as she got into the lift. It was silly to let herself be unnerved by that wholly unexpected and wholly unwanted second encounter with the tax official.
How had he heard about this job? she wondered acidly, as the lift slowed smoothly to a halt and the door opened automatically.
Gordon Giles’ secretary was about her own age, a pleasant, intelligent-looking brunette, who smiled warmly at her as she escorted her to Gordon Giles’ office.
Gordon Giles himself was not as intimidating as Hannah had expected. A tall, thin, slightly stooping man in his early fifties, he greeted her with a warm smile and a firm handshake, offering her a seat with a faintly old-world air of courtesy that had nothing sexist in it and was merely an expression of what her mother would term ‘good manners’.
He started the interview without any preamble, remarking, as Hannah herself already knew, that her qualifications were excellent.
‘Your work experience is a little more limited than that of most of the other applicants,’ he told her quite freely, ‘but that needn’t necessarily count against you.’
He went on to discuss various aspects of the job, should Hannah actually get it, making the odd note as she answered his questions.
‘Now,’ he said firmly, pushing aside his papers and studying her thoughtfully, ‘please don’t take this amiss, but your personal life…just how free are you to travel? Silas wants an assistant whose personal life and responsibilities are fluid enough to enable him or her to travel with him. He has recently bought a house in the country and he spends two, sometimes three days a week working from there. As his personal assistant you would be required to stay overnight there and so be available to work with him. Would that cause you any problems?’ he asked her directly.
Hannah shook her head, knowing from the tone of his voice that she had nothing to fear or resent in telling him the truth, and that it was not prurient curiosity or any sexist attitude that motivated his questions.
‘I live alone,’ she told him calmly, ‘and I’m completely free to adapt to whatever arrangements Mr Jeffreys wishes to make.’
‘And the thought of spending two, possibly three, out of every five working days out of London doesn’t worry you?’ he persisted.
‘Not at all,’ Hannah told him honestly. ‘I was brought up in the country and miss it. To work in London and in the country would be like having the best of both worlds.’
‘Good. There is one other point I feel I should mention, and that is something you may or may not know.’
Hannah waited, not quite sure of what was to come, a little perturbed by the faint frown that touched his forehead, his almost fatherly note of concern in his voice, when he told her, ‘Silas isn’t married, and while of course I can totally and completely vouch for him both as an employer and as a man, you might feel that I had been less than honest with you, if at a future date we were to offer you the job. I’m simply saying this now to avoid wasting both your time and ours.’
He glanced down at the files that lay on his desk and said simply, ‘I see from your CV that your father is a vicar.’ Hannah immediately caught on. She suppressed the tiny flash of irritation that burned through her. How many times in the past had people on discovering her father’s career made incorrect judgements about her—and yet, to be fair, she had to admit that Gordon Giles had said nothing that was either offensive or unrealistic.
‘I’m not someone who is given to overimaginative flights of fancy,’ she told him swiftly. ‘The knowledge that Mr Jeffreys isn’t married and that I should be spending a couple of nights a week under his roof causes me no concern whatsoever. In fact,’ she added in a slightly more wry tone, ‘I should imagine the apprehension, if there is any, would be all on his side.’
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