A Professional Marriage. Jessica Steele
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she calmed down enough to say that she had known she would get it. ‘The rest of us had to get married to afford to leave home. But not you, clever girl, you inherited the family brain.’ From Chesnie’s viewpoint it hadn’t been that easy. She had worked hard, but Nerissa was going blithely on, ‘Now to sort you out with a flat. Stephen was having a word with someone last night who may have something—’ She broke off waspishly. ‘He does have his uses.’
From that moment on everything seemed to move at lightning pace. Chesnie was not a partying person, but Nerissa made her promise to return for a party she and Stephen were holding on Saturday evening, and Chesnie returned to Cambridge and packed up her belongings ready for her move.
The party was a success; Nerissa wouldn’t have had it any other way. But, although Chesnie found the function enjoyable, she had other things on her mind—she had only two weeks to work alongside Joel Davenport’s present PA and get up to speed. It wasn’t very long—would she cope?
Chesnie arrived back at her sister’s apartment after her first Monday in her new job with her head spinning—and a sinking feeling that two months, let alone two weeks, wouldn’t be long enough for her to remember all that there was to absorb.
She was ready for bed and didn’t think she had energy enough to eat a meal. Her sister had other plans. ‘How was your first day?’ she asked straight away.
‘I’m on my knees!’ Chesnie confessed.
‘That good, huh? And how was the new boss?’
‘I haven’t seen him. He’s in Scotland until Wednesday.’
‘Right, now, don’t take your jacket off. The flat Stephen told me about has come up. Come on, we’ll go and take a look.’
Somewhere to live was a priority. From somewhere Chesnie conjured up some enthusiasm and, with her sister driving, went to view a small flat on the outskirts of the city.
The flat consisted of a sitting room, bathroom, a tiny kitchen and two bedrooms, though the second bedroom was no bigger than her parents’ broom cupboard. ‘If there’s a chance, I’ll take it,’ Chesnie declared at once. The rent was astronomical—but so too was her salary.
‘You’re sure?’ Nerissa questioned. ‘You’re welcome to stay with me for as long as you like—if you can put up with Tibbetts.’ ‘Tibbetts’ being her husband, Stephen Tibbetts.
‘This will do fine,’ Chesnie assured her, and in no time Nerissa was speaking to her husband on the phone.
‘You can move in any time,’ she said the moment she had ended her call. ‘Let’s celebrate!’
Chesnie was grateful that the celebration was nothing more than a meal out with a glass of wine.
Tuesday proved every bit as busy as the previous day, with Barbara Platt trying to break her in gently but as aware as Chesnie that there was not too much time remaining before Barbara departed a week on Friday.
Joel Davenport had already been at his desk for over an hour when Chesnie arrived at her office on Wednesday. She was not late, was in fact fifteen minutes early. In the short time she’d been there she had heard that he simply ate up work—throughout that day he proved it.
Not that she had much to do with him. Though he did leave his office at one point to speak to Barbara and to pause in passing to ask, pleasantly enough, ‘Settling in?’
She raised her head, maintaining her cool image to politely agree, ‘Yes, thank you,’ and he went on to Barbara’s desk and Chesnie went back to what she had been doing.
By Friday, although she was starting to grow more confident that she was up to the job, she was nevertheless mentally exhausted by the time she arrived at her sister’s home, to be greeted by Nerissa smilingly telling her, ‘Philip Pomeroy rang. He wants to take you out.’
‘You make me sound like a set of dentures! Who’s Philip Pomeroy?’
‘You’re hopeless!’ Nerissa complained. ‘You met him at my party last Saturday. Tallish, wavy brownish hair, very slightly receding, pushing forty. Ring any bells?’
Chesnie did a mental flip back to the party, and placed Philip Pomeroy as a rather amiable man, interested in her, but inoffensive with it. ‘Did you tell him I was busy?’
‘I told him you’d ring him.’
‘Nerissa!’
‘Oh, go on, ring him. He’s nice.’
Out of courtesy to her sister, who had promised a return phone call on her behalf, Chesnie reluctantly phoned Philip Pomeroy, who appeared pleased she had rung and straight away asked her to dine with him.
‘I’m very busy at the moment,’ she replied.
‘You’re too busy to eat?’
‘I’m moving into a new flat tomorrow,’ she explained. ‘It will take me over a week to get everything unpacked.’
‘I could bring champagne and caviar round, and we could snack while you unpack.’
She laughed and decided she liked him. ‘Some other time,’ she said, and rang off.
Chesnie had a change from mental exhaustion on Saturday, when she met the delivery van from Cambridge and set about placing her belongings and hanging up curtains.
On Monday Barbara Platt afforded her the most wonderful, if scary, compliment by telling her that Joel Davenport had a meeting at one of their other businesses and that Barbara was going with him. ‘We won’t be back again today, but I know you’ll cope.’
Chesnie wished she had Barbara’s confidence in that, but, to her delight—though bearing in mind it had gone seven in the evening before she finally switched off her computer—cope she did. She was not complaining—she was starting to really enjoy her job. She went home to her new flat feeling on top of the world.
Friday, Barbara’s last day, arrived all too quickly. Chesnie spent the morning eagerly absorbing all and everything that Barbara was telling her of the more confidential details of their work. She supposed that with Barbara divulging such matters it must mean that she had satisfied herself that the new PA was worthy of such confidences.
Feeling enormously pleased with Barbara’s trust, Chesnie was further delighted when at half past twelve the good-looking Joel Davenport came into their office and, instead of going over to Barbara’s desk, came over to Chesnie.
‘I’m taking my number one PA for an extended lunch. The office is all yours, Chesnie Cosgrove.’
Indeed, so delighted was she at this further show of trust in her abilities that her cool exterior slipped momentarily. She smiled, a natural smile. ‘Bon appétit,’ she replied.
She became aware that Joel Davenport was staring at her as if seeing something new in her for the first time, but before she could change her smile back to her more usual guarded smile he muttered, ‘Those incredibly long eyelashes can’t be real.’
‘I’m afraid they are,’ she replied.
‘Amazing,’ he commented—and took his ‘number one’ PA off for a parting lunch.
Feeling a mite disturbed by Joel Davenport’s personal comment—even if it had sounded more matter-of-fact than personal—Chesnie was soon over any disquiet when she realised that if Barbara was his number one PA today, then on Monday yours truly, Chesnie Cosgrove, would be number one!
She had plenty to do, and was fully involved in her work when at five to three Barbara came back from what it transpired had been a champagne lunch.
‘Joel has gone on to keep his three o’clock appointment,’ Barbara explained. ‘Now, what can I help you with?’
‘I think you’ve filled in as many blanks as you can,’ Chesnie replied.
And guessed