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 him and marched stormily into her own office. She didn’t know about losing dignity, but she did feel a fool—and humiliated into the bargain. Heartily did she wish she had never bothered, had ignored the plague of her conscience. Her apology was rejected. Huh! The way he talked, he would only accept her apology if it was sincere. He was so sincere! Stabbing his friend Neville in the back—it looked like it!
Fuming, Emmie tossed her notepad in her drawer and locked it away—only to feel like storming in and punching Barden Cunningham’s head when his voice floated coolly from his office. ‘Leave typing back your notes until the morning, Emily.’
Was he serious? He actually thought she had it in mind to type up those minutes tonight? There was a full day’s work there! Resisting the temptation to go to his doorway and poke her tongue out at him, Emmie instead picked up her bag and went swiftly to her outer office door.
Afraid that if she opened her mouth something not very polite would come out, she decided against wishing him goodnight, but, by switching out the light and plunging her office in darkness, she let that be her farewell to him. The swine. He had an assignation with Roberta Short at the theatre that night. He must already be late—she hoped that he wouldn’t be let in.
Emmie had difficulty in getting to sleep that night. It seemed to her that she only had to close her eyes to start wondering if Cunningham had managed to snatch some private time with his married lover. Perhaps even now, at this very moment, they were alone together. The thought made her feel quite wretched. She moved and thumped her pillow—wishing that it was his head.
She surfaced on Friday, after a very fractured night, and showered and donned a white silk shirt and her second-best suit of dark navy wool. Satisfied with her appearance, and aware that, since her notes from yesterday needed to be typed up she was in for a hard day, she was about to don her three-quarter-length car coat when her phone rang.
Aunt Hannah? She didn’t normally ring in the morning on a weekday. Though since she did sometimes get her days mixed up, which was perfectly understandable, Emmie defended, perhaps Aunt Hannah thought today was Saturday.
Emmie went over to the phone, checking her watch and mentally noting she had five minutes to spare if it was Aunt Hannah.
The call was from Keswick House, she soon discovered. However, it was not her step-grandmother—but Lisa Browne. Mrs Whitford was not to be found, and enquiries had revealed that one of the other residents had seen her letting herself out an hour ago. She hadn’t
