A Nine-to-five Affair. Jessica Steele
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jobs had folded had been a strain too. Had she perhaps grown too used to heading for the door when something went wrong, and had it become a habit with her?
But, not without cause, she mused as she drove to the offices of Progress Engineering. She remembered Clive Norris’s attempt to kiss her. The way he’d hemmed her in between the filing cabinet and the wall—was she supposed to put up with that sort of nonsense? No, certainly not!
So what had Cunningham done that had made her so angry? So angry that for emotional seconds at a time she had been ready to forget her oh, so important security and walk out of there. Made him so angry she had thought herself about to be dismissed at any second—thought she had really blown it when she’d more or less called him a rat.
So he was, too. But was it any of her business? She hadn’t liked it when he’d said he thought of her as a mouse. Nor had she liked it when he’d referred to her non-existent love-life. But, and Emmie had to face it, she was employed by Barden Cunningham to work, and only work. She had been the one to bring the personal element into it. True, the whole sorry business could have been avoided if he hadn’t enquired so sharply—in such a direct contrast to his tone when talking to his lady-love, Roberta Short—’ Now what did I do?’
Or could it have been avoided? He’d caught her on the raw with his tone, and negated any chance of her making use of the skills of diplomacy she’d assured him at her interview she possessed, without those sharp words telling her he’d just about had it with her and her arrogance. And, if that hadn’t been enough, he’d insisted on knowing why she was being ‘arrogant’ this time.
Emmie went to her desk, aware by then that she was at fault. Anything that happened in the office that wasn’t business was nothing to do with her. Unless the womanising hound made a pass at her—and she could be part of the furniture for all the notice he took of her; not that she wanted him taking notice of her, thank you very much—perish the thought. But she had no call to be remotely interested in anything else that went on which was unconnected with business.
‘Everything all right?’ she asked Dawn after their initial greeting.
‘As it should be.’ Dawn smiled.
‘How are you feeling today?’
‘Touch wood, so far, and in comparison to Tuesday, quite good.’
Emmie got on with some work, but the row she’d had with Barden Cunningham the previous afternoon came back again and again to haunt her. Somehow, when at around eleven he called her into his office, she knew that she was not going to forget it, or indeed feel any better about it, until she’d apologised.
But he was cool, aloof, as he stated, ‘I have to go to Stratford—be ready at twelve.’
She felt niggled; no please, no thank you, no Could you be ready at twelve; I’d like you to accompany me? The cold war was still on, then? He was charm personified with everyone else.
‘Will you require any file in particular?’ she enquired politely, knowing by then that they had a product and design offshoot in Stratford-upon-Avon, about a hundred and ten miles away.
‘Just a fresh notebook,’ he replied. ‘You’re taking the minutes of what could be a lengthy, involved and very important meeting.’
Emmie returned to her desk, glad she was wearing the same smart charcoal suit she had worn for her interview. She knew she was looking good, and felt it was quite a feather in her cap that she had been appointed to go with the head of the group to take notes for this very important meeting. Although, on thinking about it, she had known from the first that Dawn wasn’t able to go. Barden could easily have found someone else, though. Emmie cheered herself up. Make no mistake, please or offend, he would have found someone else if he thought for a moment that she wasn’t up to it.
They made it to Stratford-upon-Avon in good time, and were greeted by the general manager, Jack Bryant, a pleasant man in his early thirties who, while totally businesslike with her employer, frequently rested his eyes on Emmie.
‘I refuse to believe you’re called Emily,’ he commented, while Barden was having a word with the products manager.
‘Would you believe Emmie?’
He smiled, and when Emmie was starting to wonder if she was going to last the whole afternoon, lunchless, he informed her, ‘A meal’s been laid on for you in the executive dining room.’ He was just adding, ‘I hope you won’t mind if I have lunch with you too, Emmie,’ when she became aware that Barden Cunningham had turned back to them.
He tossed her a sour look, which she took as an indication that he felt she hadn’t wasted any time in giving the general manager leave to call her by the name all but he used. Then he looked from her to remark, a touch sarcastically, she felt, ‘Good of you to wait lunch.’
They did not linger over the meal, and, having been given all of five minutes to wash her hands afterwards, they adjourned to the boardroom and the afternoon flew as fast as her fingers. Emmie had known she was good at her job, but at that meeting her skills were tested to the full. When it came to an end she felt as if she had done a full week’s work in one afternoon.
Jack Bryant came over to her while Barden was shaking hands with a couple of the board members. ‘I’m in London quite often, or could be.’ Jack smiled. ‘You wouldn’t care to let me have your phone number, I suppose?’
‘Your divorce through yet, Jack?’ Barden appeared from nowhere to ask conversationally.
‘Any time now,’ he replied.
Barden smiled. ‘Talk to my PA when it’s absolute—she doesn’t encourage married men.’
Why did she want to hit him? On the one hand she was thrilled to bits that he’d actually called her his PA, but on the other she wanted to land him one. For all it was true, and she didn’t encourage married men, he somehow made it sound as if she really was the ‘prissy little Miss Prim and Proper’ he had called her yesterday. That still stung!
It was around seven-thirty when they arrived back at the Progress Engineering building, and by then the mixed feelings about her employer Emmie had been experiencing had calmed down, to the extent that she was again thinking of the apology she owed him.
Intending to lock her notes away in her desk overnight, Emmie went up to her office in the lift with Barden, and he took a short cut through her office to his own. Placing her bag and pad down on her desk, she heard him at his desk, and, acting on the impulse of the moment—and in a now-or-never attempt to get her apology over and done with—she went and paused in the doorway.
Barden Cunningham looked over to where she stood—and her words wouldn’t come. He waited, his glance taking in her straight and shiny black hair, flicking over her suit, which concealed her slender figure. Unspeaking, his glance came back to her face, to her eyes, down to her mouth, where the words trembled, and then back up to her eyes.
Emmie knew then that if she didn’t push those words out soon she was going to lose all dignity and feel a fool. ‘I—I want to apologise for my—er—behaviour yesterday,’ she forced out jerkily—and wished she hadn’t bothered when, instantly aware of what she was referring to, but not looking at all friendly, he looked coolly back at her.
‘You’re still of the same view today as yesterday?’ he enquired crisply.
The view that he was a rat for playing away with Neville Short’s wife while pretending to be his good friend? Yes, she did still hold the same view. Why couldn’t Cunningham just accept her apology and forget it? But—he was waiting, and Emmie just then discovered that, even though a lie, a simple no would have ended the matter, suddenly, lying was beyond her.
‘Yes,’ she said quietly, weathering the direct look from those no-nonsense steady grey eyes. ‘My views haven’t changed.’
The no-nonsense look went from cool to icy. ‘Then your apology is worthless,’ he stated curtly.
Emmie abruptly turned her back on