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His Girl Monday to Friday Page 3
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‘I can’t remember. Something colourful, I expect.’ A pencil snapped between his long, clever fingers. ‘For God’s sake, take that look off your face. Do you have any idea how much time and money went into setting this meeting up? She said she knew French and German, and then turned out to be totally incompetent. What do you expect me to do—give her an A for effort?’
‘I expect you to be abominably rude,’ said Barbara. ‘When are you ever anything else?’
‘Oh, I can be quite nice when I choose.’
‘Yes, when you want to seduce someone,’ Barbara said scathingly.
‘If that’s what you think, I’d better be very rude to you. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea,’ he remarked, throwing his papers into his briefcase and closing it.
‘I certainly wouldn’t think anything as ridiculous as that,’ she retorted.
The speed of her reply made the slight pause which followed all the more noticeable. ‘What’s ridiculous about it?’ He looked at her inscrutably. ‘You’re very beautiful. You must have seen they couldn’t take their eyes off you.’
Barbara was suddenly short of breath. ‘I thought you didn’t want to get involved with your secretary,’ she pointed out
‘I thought you weren’t going to be my secretary. Looks like I can seduce you after all.’ He’d looked weary at the end of the meeting, as well he might, with the prospect of the whole thing to do again the next day—but now a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
‘No, you can’t,’ she said curtly. ‘You can call my agency and tell them you don’t need me any more so they’ll find me another job.’
‘But I do need you.’ He scowled. ‘If you don’t type up those notes no one else is going to be able to, and God only knows what the meeting is going to be like when we pick up the threads. Finish the week, anyway—at least you’ll be quids in.’
Barbara was silent. She hardly knew which was worse—his infuriating, foul temper or the careless, easy charm which found its mark so surely.
‘Look, what on earth is the matter with the idea?’ Charles asked impatiently. ‘You won’t be stuck in London the whole time. We’ll be travelling to Prague and Warsaw. You’ll meet interesting people, have a chance to accomplish something. You’ll do a terrific job, and at the end of it you’ll be able to walk into something better if you want to. I don’t know why you’re so damned suspicious. All you’ve got going for you now is a record of Ds and the odd C, plus years of temping, which frankly isn’t the best passport into the higher echelons of the business world—’
‘I don’t want to be in the higher echelons of the business world,’ said Barbara. ‘I get bored too easily.’
‘I don’t think this will bore you,’ he retorted. ‘And you’d be ideal for the job. Stop playing hard to get.’
Barbara gritted her teeth. ‘I’m not playing hard to get, Charles,’ she snapped. ‘I am hard to get. But if it means that much to you, fine. How much are you expecting to make out of this? I don’t mean income, but net profit?’
‘If it works, a couple of hundred million…’
‘All right,’ said Barbara. ‘I want a salary of £25,000.’
‘Done.’
‘Plus overtime.’
‘Done.’
‘Plus five per cent of the shares of the company.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me,’ said Barbara.
‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘No,’ said Barbara, ‘I am not out of my mind. You’re out of your mind, Charles. If the right assistant is so crucial to the deal, you could take £100,000 and get people who are experts in these languages. You could get someone with terrific skills—you could even get someone who could cope with a dead fax machine in Vladivostok. And you’d still be quids in. If you have that much money to throw at it, you don’t need me. I’ll come in and type this up tomorrow, but I am going to Sardinia next month and nothing you can say or do can stop me.’
Charles looked down into the snapping blue eyes of his pseudo-sister and wondered, briefly, whether the real thing could be half as exasperating. Did he really want to put up with this for a year? A standard-issue secretary would have been a puddle on the floor by now. He couldn’t have that, of course, but wasn’t it possible to have a secretary who just got on with the job, without starting World War III?
He was about to tell Barbara to go to Sardinia and be sure not to write when the world-weary voice of Personnel echoed lugubriously in his mind. ‘The crème de la crème…can pick and choose,’ it said morosely. ‘They don’t like to be shouted at… We’re offering a competitive package…’ it said. ‘Experienced, highly qualified people… can get the same money and benefits elsewhere.’
Well, he thought grimly, there’s competitive and there’s competitive.
He looked at Barbara evenly.
“That’s silly money,’ he said. ‘You know you’re not going to get it. So what you’re saying is, you’d like something off the charts compared to the going rate for the job. Make me another offer.’
Barbara stared at him. The problem was, she didn’t want something off the charts—she just didn’t want the job. But if he was seriously prepared to throw serious money at her she could walk away from temping for an awfully long time…
“There’s a new issue of shares for this venture, isn’t there?‘ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said curtly.
‘Five per cent of that,’ said Barbara.
His eyes were as brilliant and as hard as emeralds. ‘Keep trying,’ he said.
Barbara looked at him thoughtfully. Just how far was he willing to go? Or, to put it another way, what would irritate him the most? And suddenly she knew exactly what to say.
A couple of years ago Charles had started up a tiny company to act as a launchpad for miscellaneous inventions that didn’t fit well in the main company. Compared to the big Mallory Corporation it was nothing—but Barbara had a hunch it would hit the stratosphere a few years down the line. The fact remained that on paper it wasn’t worth much. The price of its shares was low—mere was no reason in the world why Charles shouldn’t let her have a few of them.
‘Five per cent of Mallorin,’ she said. ‘And that’s my final offer.’
He thrust his hands into his pockets. There was a long silence, in which he stared first at the carpet and then at Barbara with undisguised dislike.
‘All right, damn you,’ he said. ‘You’ll have the contract by the end of the week. But the Mallorin stock is conditional on your completing the year.’ He handed her the cassette from the day’s meeting. ‘For that kind of money I’d like the minutes typed up in time for tomorrow’s meeting. I want you in the office at seven a.m. sharp.’ And he strode from the conference room without waiting for a reply, and slammed the door shut behind him.
CHAPTER FOUR
BARBARY stayed at the office until midnight, coaxing the minutes into sense. She’d been hired for her languages so she prepared them in English, French and German, made copies and left the stacks on her desk.
At six o’clock the next morning she woke to the bleat of her alarm clock. She turned it off and snuggled back into the covers. Why on earth had she set it for such an ungodly—?
Argh.
Blearily she sat up in bed and looked out of the window onto a glorious day. A perfect day for leaving for Sardinia. Instead she’d agreed to be a slave for a year for a mere five per cent of Mallorin. She should have stipulated ten per cent if she had to be out of bed by ten. Too late now.
At seven-fifteen she staggered into the lift at Mallory, precariously balancing a cardboard tray laden with an assortment of pastries and three coffees. Charles could have one; it would take at least two, she reckoned, just to keep her eyes open.
At seven-seventeen she emerged from the lift. Charles’s door was open.
‘You’re late,’ came the curt comment from within.
Barbara approached the room gingerly. It faced east; brilliant yellow sunshine was streami
ng into the corridor. Narrowing her eyes, she entered the office and flinched.
‘I told you I wanted you here at seven.’ Charles was pacing up and down, a Dictaphone in his hand. He looked sickeningly fresh and energetic, his jaw freshly shaved, hair slicked down, eyes piercing, tie beautifully knotted.
‘I brought breakfast,’ said Barbara.
‘I don’t eat it,’ said Charles.
‘Naturally,’ said Barbara. ‘You’re too busy dictating. I understand. You just carry on and I’ll join you presently.’
Charles scowled. ‘It’s a complete waste of time. If you have trouble waking up in the morning you’d do better to get some exercise. Go for a run as soon as you get up.’
Barbara shuddered. ‘Is that what you did?’ she asked.
‘I went to the gym for an hour.’
Barbara winced. She sank feebly into the nearest chair—the enormous, leather-covered chair that stood behind Charles’s desk. She stretched out a nerveless hand for her first caffe latte—she’d asked for three shots of espresso—and lifted it carefully to her lips.
Charles prowled up and down in front of his desk.
‘Don’t mind me,’ Barbara said pleasantly, reviving slightly under the influence of the coffee. ‘I know you must want to get on with work.’
She selected a croissant from the pile and bit into it Lovely, lovely food. Lovely coffee. Perhaps she would live.
‘I hope you’re not planning to calculate your overtime based on a seven o’clock start,’ Charles said acerbically. ’For this you think you’re worth five per cent of a company?‘
Barbara yawned. ‘More like ten per cent, but you got a good deal.’
Charles glowered at her. He really did look marvellous, Barbara thought sleepily. Marvellous to wake up next to, except that you’d never get the chance because he’d be off to the gym in the middle of the night.
‘A good deal!’
‘Did anyone ever tell you you’re beautiful when you’re angry?’ she asked dreamily.
‘Are we going to have to go through this every morning?’ Charles asked through gritted teeth.
‘Every morning!’ Barbara stared at him in horror. ‘You don’t start this early every morning!’
‘I do,’ he said even more grittily. ‘And so will you.’
‘No, I won’t,’ said Barbara. She put down her coffee and stood up. ‘The deal’s off. I’m not going through this for a year. I’ve done the minutes in English, French and German. There are about ten copies of each on my desk; they should be pretty clear. I really don’t think your seventeen-minute start in dictation would have been that much of a handicap for me, but it’s not my problem. I’m going to Sardinia.’
Charles stalked out to her desk. He came back, leafing through a set of minutes.
‘These are good,’ he said.
‘So glad you like them,’ said Barbara. She started on another croissant.
Charles paced up and down, turning the pages.
‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘You can start at eight.’
‘I’d rather go to Sardinia,’ said Barbara, ‘but I did say I’d take the job. I might be willing to start at nine.’
Charles seemed about to say something when his eye was caught by the German minutes, which were now on the top of the stack. He gritted his teeth again.
‘Your problem is your blood sugar is low,’ Barbara explained helpfully. ‘That’s why it’s so important to eat a good breakfast. Otherwise you’re likely to be irritable and short-tempered.’
‘I’m not irritable—’ he began.
‘Have a croissant,’ urged Barbara. ‘Or a Danish pastry. It will help you to get everything in perspective.’
Charles threw the minutes onto a nearby chair. ‘I must be mad,’ he remarked.
‘No, you just have low blood sugar,’ Barbara reassured him. ‘Have something to eat and you’ll feel much better.’
For a moment she wondered whether she’d gone too far. She kept forgetting she no longer had to deal with the easygoing, self-mocking seventeen-year-old Charles who’d laughed at her teasing. Now she was dealing with the driven, self-made entrepreneur who clearly saw her as the single greatest obstacle in his race to take over Eastern Europe. On the other hand, if she once started being scared of Charles…
‘Have something to eat and you’ll make me feel better,’ she went on provocatively. ‘I went to all this trouble to bring something for you—it’s simple good management to show your appreciation. When a member of staff goes out of her way to do something helpful you should show you appreciate the initiative. It’s good for staff morale.’
It occurred to her that she suddenly felt wide awake—wonderful what arguing with Charles did to sweep away the cobwebs.
The spark of temper in his eyes showed he knew she was baiting him. ‘I’ll have something if it will hurry you up finishing your own breakfast and getting on with work,’ he said.
He put a couple of croissants on a plate and took one of the cups of coffee.
Barbara swivelled in the big leather chair. Around and around. ‘What a marvellous chair,’ she remarked on her fourth time around. ‘Do you ever do this?’
‘No,’ said Charles.
‘Too busy,’ said Barbara, rotating again. ‘Too important. Things to do, people to see. Got to set a good example for the staff.’
She put a foot down to stop the chair so that it faced the window. It was only seven-thirty, and the street was still fairly empty—but people were coming down it in ones and twos, a briefcase in one hand, a gym bag in the other, and all these early risers were disappearing through the doors of the Mallory Corporation building. No doubt the effect of Mr Mallory’s good example. There was something depressing about it.
‘Dictations to dictate,’ she added flippantly. She gave the wall a kick with her foot to start the chair around again.
It swivelled perhaps three inches, before coming to an abrupt stop. Barbara found that she was now looking up into the thunderous face of the good example to his staff. She was about to protest indignantly when the Great Motivator took hold of her arms and pulled her roughly to her feet.
‘Don’t you think it’s about time you grew up?’ Charles was speaking through clenched teeth. She must have hit a sore spot. Well, it was good to know there was a chink in his armour.
‘I am grown up,’ said Barbara. ‘I don’t personally call not swivelling in chairs the benchmark of maturity—’
‘Neither do I,’ Charles agreed drily. ‘I was thinking of a few other things, such as doing something with the talents you’ve been throwing away ever since I’ve known you. You should have people to see and things to do yourself. You should have a company of your own, damn it. You could do anything you want—’
‘I was doing exactly what I wanted before you interfered,’ said Barbara breathlessly.
He was still holding her arms; the brilliant eyes blazed down into hers. Unbidden, the thought came to her that he might have held her just so if he’d meant to kiss her. It was something she’d imagined about five thousand times, at a conservative estimate, and this was as close as she was ever likely to get: Charles glaring down at her for not wearing shoulder pads and running a boardroom.
A sardonic eyebrow shot up. ‘The ambition takes my breath away.’
Her eyes fell to the firm, sensuous mouth, now curved in something uncomfortably like contempt. What would happen if she kissed him instead? At least she’d know what it was like…
‘I don’t know why you’re complaining,’ she said, dragging her eyes back to meet his. ‘I thought you needed a multilingual secretary. Where would you be if I weren’t?’
‘Struggling along somehow, I imagine.’ He shook her impatiently. ‘We both know you’ve a good mind. I don’t underestimate myself and, unless yours has mysteriously deteriorated since the age of eleven, I’d say yours is as good as mine. What do you expect me to think when I see someone as good as I am making silly jokes and swinging in my cha
ir like a pretty fool with straw for a brain? Do you think it makes it better that you’re not a man? You should be ashamed of yourself.’
Barbara stared into his eyes. How beautiful they were—the green iris rimmed with black, the lashes thick and long, and then above, the black slash of brow… She zeroed in on the essential element in the lecture.
‘Do you really think I’m pretty?’ she asked.
Charles ground his teeth. He dropped his hands from her arms in disgust. ‘This is a waste of time. I’ve got work to do. Forget I said anything. Do whatever you want with your life as long as it includes typing up dictation for an hour before the meeting.’
‘Yesterday you said I was beautiful,’ said Barbara. ‘Did you mean it?’
He flicked her a glance. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Can we get back to work?’
‘But,’ said Barbara.
‘But what?’
‘Nothing,’ said Barbara. She had the feeling that if she said anything she would say something so stupid it would permanently destroy his flattering estimate of her intelligence. She could almost hear herself blurting out, ‘If I start my own company will you kiss me?’ Bad idea. ‘If I win a Nobel prize, I mean just supposing, would you maybe just for one night—?’ No. No. No.
It was getting up so early that had thrown her off balance. There was something about this queer inhuman hour that did something to your inhibitions. Maybe it was because it all seemed so dreamlike. She dreamed about Charles sometimes, and he was always much nicer in her dreams than he was in real life, so that in the small hours of the morning—around eight, say—Charles would kiss her or she would kiss Charles and she would try as hard as she could not to wake up.
He ejected a tape from the recorder and handed it to her. ‘Get started on this and see how far you get. I’ve just given the names and the gist. You can flesh out the letters and I’ll vet them when you’re done.’
This was the genuine Mallory mode. For some reason it was only now that he’d reverted to type that she was struck by how completely out of character his outburst had been. At the time it had seemed just another case of Charles ordering people around. But…