stepped out of the lift. This was a very different sort of company from the one she had walked out of on Monday—true, she had been told not to come back. But the very air about this place was vastly more professional.
Emmie found the door she was looking for, tapped on it lightly and went in. A pale but pretty pregnant woman somewhere in her early thirties looked up. ’emily Lawson?’ she enquired.
‘Am I too early?’ Emmie’s hopes suffered a bit of a dent. He’d want someone older; she felt sure of it.
‘Not at all,’ Dawn Obrey responded with a smile. And, leaving her chair, she went on, ‘Reception rang to say you were on your way up. Mr Cunningham will see you now.’
Emmie flicked a hasty glance to the clock on the office wall, saw with relief that there were a few minutes to go before four-thirty and that neither her car clock nor her watch had played her false, and followed the PA over to a door which connected into another office.
‘Miss Lawson,’ the PA announced, and as Emmie went forward into the other room Dawn Obrey retreated and closed the door.
‘Come in. Take a seat,’ Barden Cunningham invited pleasantly, leaving his seat and shaking hands with her.
Ten out of ten for manners, Emmie noted with one part of her brain, while with another part she saw that Barden Cunningham was not old or fatherly, but was somewhere in his middle thirties. He was tall, had fairish hair and grey no-nonsense sort of eyes, but—and here was the minus—he was seriously good-looking. In her recent experience good-looking men were apt to think they were God’s gift to women—and Barden Cunningham was more good-looking than most.
Emmie took a seat on one side of the desk and he resumed his seat on the other. His desk was clear, which indicated to her that he wouldn’t be hanging about to start his weekend once this interview was over. Was she the last candidate?
She looked across at him and found he was studying her. She met his look, her large brown eyes steady, wishing she could read his mind, know what he was thinking. ‘You’re young,’ he said. Was he accusing? He had obviously scanned the application form she had been asked to complete so knew she was twenty-two.
‘I’m good,’ she replied—this was no time to be modest!
He looked at her shrewdly, ‘You trained at…’ he began, and the interview was under way. His questions about her work experience, her views on confidentiality, were all clear, and most professional. ‘What about your diplomacy skills?’ he wanted to know.
Emmie knew that great tact was sometimes needed when dealing with awkward phone calls or difficult people. Now didn’t seem the time to mention that earlier in the week diplomacy had gone by the board when she’d belted her previous boss and left him sprawled on the floor.
‘Very good,’ she answered, looking him in the eye. Well, they were—normally. Anybody who made a grab for her the way Clive Norris had, deserved what they got in her book. Barden Cunningham asked one or two more pertinent questions with regard to her general business knowledge, which she felt she answered more than adequately. ‘When I worked at Usher Trading, communication skills were…’ She went to expand when he stayed silent, only to be interrupted.
‘Ah, yes, Usher Trading—they went into liquidation about a year ago,’ he cut in—just as though it was her fault! As if she had been personally responsible!
Emmie clamped down hard on a small spurt of anger. Steady, steady, she needed this job. Perhaps he was just testing her to see how she reacted to the odd uncalled-for comment.
‘Unfortunately, that’s true,’ she replied, and gave him the benefit of her full smile—which had once been called ravishing.
He was unimpressed. He looked at her, his eyes flicking from her eyes to her mouth and back to her eyes. He paused for a moment before, questions on her abilities seemingly over, he went on to refer to her work record over the past year. She’d had small hope that he would not do so. But, until she knew if this man was in the same womanising mould, Emmie didn’t think she would be doing herself any favours if she gave the true reasons for her previous ‘temporary’ employment.
‘As I mentioned to Mr Garratt—’ she started down the path of untruth without falter ‘—I felt, having worked for the same firm for three years, that I should widen my work experience.’ Usher Trading were no longer in existence, but if he wrote elsewhere for references—she was dead!
‘Which is why you applied for this temporary post?’
There weren’t any flies on him! ‘I’m very keen to make a career in PA work,’ she answered.
‘You live with your parents?’ he enquired out of the blue. She wasn’t ready for it, and for a brief second felt unexpectedly choked.
She looked quickly down at her lap, swallowed, and then answered, ‘My parents are dead.’
His expression softened marginally. ‘That’s tough,’ he said gently. But after a moment he was back to being the interrogator. ‘As I’m sure Mr Garratt mentioned, Mrs Obrey, my PA, is having an atrocious time of it at the moment. While in normal circumstances she would frequently accompany me when I need to visit our various other concerns, she isn’t up to being driven around the country. That role will now fall to her assistant.’ He fixed her with his straight no-nonsense look. ‘Would that be a problem?’
Emmie shook her head. ‘Not at all,’ she answered unhesitatingly, hoping with all she had that Aunt Hannah’s forgetful perambulations were a thing of the past. She’d been so good lately.
‘It could be that I’d be late getting back to London,’ Barden Cunningham stressed—and, those direct eyes on her still, he went on, ‘You have no commitments?’
Emmie hesitated, but not for long. She guessed he meant was she living with anyone. Now, if she was going to confide in him about Aunt Hannah, was the time to do so. ‘None at all,’ she replied, again managing to look him in the eye. Well, her security was on the line here—her chances of getting this job would go cascading down the drain if he had so much as an inkling of her previous bad time-keeping and the erratic work hours she’d kept.
‘You’d have no problem working extra hours?’
Her heart lifted—the fact that this was turning out to be no cursory interview gave her confidence that she was still in there with a chance. ‘Working extra hours, working late has never been a problem,’ she replied, back on the honesty track, and glad that she was.
‘You were called on to work late in your other temporary job?’ he questioned, before she’d barely finished speaking—was he sharp or was he sharp!
‘I never liked to go home before I’d got everything cleared,’ she answered—oh, grief, that sounded smug and self-satisfied! Better, though, than telling him she’d regarded her jobs more as permanent than temporary during her short stays there.
Barden Cunningham had very few other questions he wanted to ask, and then he caused her hopes to go sky-high. ‘When would you be available to start?’ he wanted to know.
‘Straight away,’ she answered promptly.
‘You’ve nothing else lined up for Monday?’
Oh, crumbs—had she answered too promptly? Emmie took a deep and steadying breath
