The Valentine Affair. Mary Lyons
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was strange, she reflected, how the past three years seemed to have sped by in a flash. In fact, ever since Mr Hamilton had joined the bank—originally founded by a distant ancestor and now headed by his uncle, Lord Hamilton—it seemed as if the old building had been hit by a typhoon. Because while the outside world might regard her boss as a mere social dilettante and fun-loving playboy, those long-serving members of staff, such as herself, definitely knew better.
As she’d told her husband, after reading about Mr Hamilton’s engagement in the paper at breakfast that morning. ‘Well, all I can say is—he might play hard, but he works even harder.’
‘Tell me about it!’ her long-suffering partner had muttered. ‘Maybe, now the bloke’s getting married, you won’t have to stay so late at the office.’
However, as she returned now to the mountain of paperwork in her own room, Dora had severe doubts on that score. She definitely knew a workaholic when she saw one. And, despite the recent addition of more secretarial staff to cope with the ever-increasing workload, Mr Hamilton continued to carve his way through a formidable amount of business.
‘Maybe you can tell me what the hell’s going on!’ Leo ground out in exasperation, after summoning her back to his office a few minutes later. ‘I’ve just had a weird phone conversation with my mother. Quite honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that the old girl had been suddenly struck down with senile dementia!’
He brushed long, tanned fingers roughly through his dark hair. ‘From what I could make out—and it wasn’t easy—she seemed very excited about some engagement of mine. But, after looking through my diary, I can’t find anything out of the ordinary. Can you throw any light on the subject?’
Dora gazed at him in astonishment for a moment, before giving a short gurgle of laughter.
‘Oh, come on, Mr Hamilton! I know you like a good joke. But, since the news was in the paper this morning, I don’t think there’s much point in trying to keep it a secret, do you?’
‘Keep what a secret...?’
‘Why, your engagement, of course.’ She beamed down at him. ‘In fact, I’m sure that I speak for everyone here in the bank when I say that I wish you and the young lady every happiness in your forthcoming marriage, and...’
Her voice died away as her employer slowly removed his dark glasses to reveal glittering emerald-green eyes, now regarding her with a cold, stern expression from beneath their heavy lids.
‘My “forthcoming marriage”...? Well, I must say that sounds very interesting,’ he drawled in a dangerously soft voice. ‘However, since we both know that I’m suffering from a monumental hangover, I wonder if you would be kind enough to tell me just who I’m apparently supposed to be marrying.’
‘Well, I thought...the report in the paper clearly stated that... I mean, I wouldn’t normally have dreamed of saying anything, but there it was in black and white, and...’
‘Hold it!’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Why don’t you sit down, and let’s take it from the top, hmm?
‘Thank you, Dora,’ Leo said a few minutes later. ‘I think that I’ve now got the picture.’ With a stony expression on his face, he waited for his assistant to leave the room before picking up the telephone on his desk.
‘Ah, Fiona...?’ he drawled as his call was answered. ‘I’ve just heard some interesting news about our “forthcoming marriage”. I don’t suppose you’d happen to know how such an item found its way into the newspapers...?’ he enquired with hard irony, leaning back in his chair and gazing up at the ornate plaster ceiling.
‘Oh, yes...you’re absolutely right,’ Leo murmured some moments later. ‘I definitely think we should have a meeting to discuss our engagement—and as soon as possible!’
Feeling like death warmed up, Alex Pemberton gazed around the large room, relieved to note that she wasn’t the only one present at this Monday morning editorial conference who was looking somewhat the worse for wear. Thanks to the flu epidemic—which had swept through the newspaper office like one of the plagues of Egypt—she’d done virtually no work for the past ten days, and wasn’t looking forward to being cross-examined by her editor, Mike Tanner.
While she waited for Mike to bring the meeting to order, Alex was still wondering why she’d been asked to join the editorial conference. Such meetings were normally only attended by the Chronicle’s most senior journalists—not small-fry, junior members of the staff, such as herself.
However, Mike Tanner was clearly a law unto himself. His appointment as editor of the London Chronicle just over six months ago had brought about a completely new, dynamic wind of change in the newsroom.
Head-hunted by the paper’s owners, Mike had obviously been appointed to rescue the falling circulation of what had once been a quality newspaper but which, over the years, had become both old-fashioned and outmoded. So far Mike seemed to have been achieving brilliant results, and was clearly determined to give the other tabloids a run for their money.
Having only joined the paper a few months before the new editor, Alex knew that she was incredibly lucky to have survived the brutally ruthless purge which had swiftly followed Mike Tanner’s arrival. Since her only previous experience had been working for local, suburban weekly newspapers, she’d been quite certain that she was going to be sacked—just another minor casualty amongst so many of the older, well-known journalists.
But, when called to his office, she’d been surprised to find that she still had a job. And even more amazed to discover that Mike had found time, amidst the hectic schedule of his first week in charge of the paper, to check up on her work to date.
‘I liked the angle you took on the trials and tribulations of being a pop star’s wife. And that piece on the reclusive millionaire wasn’t at all bad, either,’ he’d told her, before adding with a grim smile, ‘A pity you missed the fact that he was getting married for the fifth time only two days after the article was printed.’
‘I know,’ she’d admitted with a sigh. ‘I felt such a fool!’
However, Mike had merely barked, ‘We’ve all slipped up once or twice at the start of our careers. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.’
‘I will,’ she’d promised fervently, not only overjoyed at finding herself still in gainful employment, but thrilled to be appointed as a regular feature writer for the paper’s magazine supplement. In fact, the only fly in the ointment was having to work with ghastly Imogen Hall-Knightly. If only...
‘Right. Let’s get this show on the road.’ Mike’s harsh, grating voice brought her abruptly back to the present.
Removing a large, fat cigar from between his lips, he blew a thick cloud of grey, evil-smelling smoke down the long table. ‘I’ve called you all here today because I’m not happy with our circulation figures. Yes, they’re rising,’ he added over a muttered protest, ‘but not as fast as I’d like. And, as I’ve already told Miz Imogen “all-nightly”, here, I’m definitely not at all happy with our Saturday magazine.’
Alex struggled to keep her face straight as the older woman’s lips tightened into an angry line.
Recently appointed as a deputy editor in charge of the weekend magazine—a glossy supplement entitled, The Chronicle on Saturday—Imogen was already a highly unpopular member of staff. Despite having gained a reputation as a first-class journalist, she’d managed to rub just about everyone up the wrong way. And Mike Tanner—fiercely proud of his poor, working-class back-ground—seemed to take a delight in mispronouncing the surname of a woman he considered a raving snob.
‘And just what, in your opinion, is wrong with the magazine?’ Imogen demanded angrily.
‘Just about everything,’ Mike snapped. ‘But mostly it’s become loo damn boring! It needs some zing and pizzazz...plus a lot more human interest articles. It certainly doesn’t need reviews