CHAPTER ELEVAN
POPPY HENDERSON didn’t look particularly Irish; in fact at that moment she looked more like a hurricane gone out of control, thought Ella as she watched her flatmate whirl into the sitting-room, brandishing a piece of paper and whooping with joy.
She didn’t sound particularly Irish either; she just had an unusually soft voice which took on a gentle lilt if she was feeling tired or excited. Like now.
‘Tra-la!’ she sang. ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog!’
Ella glanced up again from her newspaper, only mildly perturbed—she was long used to Poppy’s excessive enthusiasm.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,’ repeated Poppy, grinning happily.
‘I should see your doctor about it if I were you,’ suggested Ella. ‘I always knew you were crazy—but now I’ve got proof!’
Poppy collapsed into an armchair, throwing her feet over the side. ‘No, silly. That was my typing test—do you realise that that particular sentence uses every letter of the alphabet?’
‘No, I didn’t actually!’
‘And this evening I got it word-perfect—over and over again—at fifty words a minute. I’m Mrs Johnson’s prize pupil and she’s even trying to fix me up with a job!’
Ella sighed and put the newspaper down, abandoning all attempts to read it. When Poppy was in this kind of mood she wouldn’t get a moment’s peace. ‘You’re not really going through with all this, are you? Throwing up your job at Maxwells and everything?’
‘It’s done! The deed is done!’ announced Poppy dramatically. ‘I’ve left. Seriously,’ she wrinkled her upturned nose, ‘I’m sick of being a beautician. Trying to convince women who need to lose thirty pounds that new Blanko face cream will make them look like Kim Basinger! Having to lie through my teeth every time they ask me whether such-and-such eye-shadow enhances their eyes—when a blindfold is about the only thing that would!’
‘Poppy!’
‘At least when I’m a secretary I’ll be doing something really useful.’ Her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway expression. ‘Who knows? I could end up as the indispensable right-hand woman of some archaeologist—searching for ancient tombs somewhere in Egypt. . .’
‘Hasn’t it already been done in a film with Harrison Ford?’ interposed Ella drily. ‘You’re much more likely to end up typing invoices for some importer in a ghastly windowless office somewhere in the town.’
‘Honestly, Ella,’ Poppy reproached her, ‘you’re the world’s biggest pessimist!’
‘Realist, you mean.’
‘Anyway,’ she announced airily, ‘we shall see. I register at Trumps Temporary Agency tomorrow. Mrs Johnson’s friend runs it.’
‘I hope you’re going to tone your image down a bit first,’ said Ella, in some alarm.
‘Nonsense! They’ll have to take me as I am.’
Which was why Mrs Johnson’s old college friend, a Miss Webb, blinked slightly as Poppy breezed into Trumps Temporaries.
She had, in fact, toned her image down slightly, but Miss Webb wasn’t to know that. She saw across her desk a very slender young woman, her endlessly long legs encased in tight black leggings and topped with a huge fluffy mohair sweater on which Winnie-the-Pooh was licking from a jar of hunny.
The pale blonde hair obviously owed little of its abundance of curls and startling shade to nature, and the large violet eyes were enhanced by a subtle shading of at least three different coloured eyeshadows. Fromjier ears swung two enormous silver ear-rings, and Miss Webb privately wondered how she managed to walk on such high heels.
But within several minutes of talking to her Miss Webb knew that her old friend’s lavish praise had not been unjustified. The girl was indeed talented—bright, witty and quite overwhelmingly honest, a point which Miss Webb commented on.
‘That’s one of the reasons why I want to leave,’ explained Poppy earnestly, leaning over the desk to emphasise what she was saying, silver bangles clanking like a brass band. ‘The whole business of being a beautician is one of deceit—people don’t want the truth. They want to believe that their skin is as soft as a rose petal. It’s one of the best kept secrets in the world that the only people lots of make-up looks good on are those who really don’t need to wear any.’
Miss Webb thought Poppy herself was one of those people, but refrained from comment. Instead she started to explain the uncertain world of ‘temping’.
‘I haven’t very much in at the moment, I’m afraid. The best I can offer you is going to be odd days here and there, which can be a little unsettling, but things should pick up soon.’
Poppy brightened a little on hearing this. ‘Oh, well. Just so long as I can pay the rent!’
Miss Webb began sorting through a box of cards in front of her. ‘Let’s just see what we have here. . .’ she began, when the telephone on her desk began to jangle noisily.
‘Excuse me,’ she murmured, and picked up the instrument. ‘Hello? Trumps Temporaries. How may I help you?’
Poppy then heard an intriguing one-sided conversation, peppered with half a dozen ‘oh, no’s!’ and several terse asides of ‘that man!’ When she eventually replaced the receiver, Miss Webb turned her eyes on Poppy.
‘I think we may be able to help one another, my dear. I think I have just the job for you.’
‘You do?’ Poppy sat up in her chair.
‘I do indeed, working for Dr Fergus Browne at Highchester Hospital.’
‘But I’m not a medical secretary,’ protested Poppy. ‘I couldn’t possibly work for a doctor.’
‘You’ll soon pick it up—a bright girl like you,’ said Miss Webb soothingly. ‘And besides, I have no one else to send—his latest girl has just walked out.’ She saw Poppy raise her eyebrows enquiringly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t deny he’s a difficult man, Miss Henderson. Very difficult. He’s used about seven girls from my agency, and not one of them has agreed to stay. Quite the opposite, in fact—they seem to leave
