Lydia,’ he said casually. Before he could utter another word, Sabrina could hear those distinctive tones sailing on uninterrupted.
‘Why haven’t you been returning my calls?’ the woman said petulantly. ‘It really is most annoying, Alexander.’
‘Yes, I know. Sorry, Lydia.’ He paused. ‘It’s just that I’ve been extremely busy, and rather distracted, because Janet has left and I’ve had to find someone else suitable.’
‘Yes, I’ve just been told about Janet,’ the woman went on. ‘Your problem is you work too hard, Alexander. Anyway, enough about all that. I hope you’re still free for Sunday week?’
As Sabrina poured the boiling water onto the coffee, she couldn’t help being riveted to the conversation going on beside her. Alexander made no effort to exclude her from listening in. Who was Lydia? Clearly an over-familiar lady friend who didn’t seem very important to Alexander, if the expression on his face was anything to go by.
‘Sunday week?’ he repeated, frowning.
‘Yes, Sunday week,’ the woman said. ‘Look, I’m not taking no for an answer this time, Alexander.’ She paused. ‘There are going to be lots of party people there you’ll know.’
‘I don’t do parties. You know that, Lydia,’ he said.
‘You always used to! Your…social reputation was very well-known at one time.’
‘That was a very long while ago, Lydia,’ Alexander replied. ‘I have, shall we say, outgrown parties.’ Especially your parties, he thought. ‘I really do not find them entertaining any more.’
‘Well, I can promise you that you’ll find this one entertaining,’ Lydia persisted. ‘Do say you’ll come?’
Alexander glanced at Sabrina, raising his eyebrows in mild exasperation.
‘Oh, well, OK. If you insist, Lydia,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Wonderful! And, by the way, Lucinda is back in England and she’ll be at the party.’ There was a long pause. ‘She particularly asked whether you were going to be there when we spoke on the phone. Mentioned something about an old score to settle.’
Alexander’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘I wonder whether Lucinda and I will recognize each other,’ he said. ‘After all this time.’
There was a girlish giggle at the other end. ‘I doubt that there will be any difficulty with that. You were very close once, weren’t you?’
‘That also was a very long time ago, Lydia,’ Alexander said, clearly irritated by now. ‘Um, look, I have to go. But thanks for the call.’
‘Don’t forget—Sunday the sixteenth. And don’t be late!’ was the parting shot.
He ended the call and Alexander turned to pick up his coffee, glancing down at Sabrina, his eyes narrowing slightly.
After a moment he said thoughtfully, ‘Could you possibly arrange to be available on the evening of the sixteenth to come to this function it seems I can’t get out of?’ He paused. ‘It might be useful to have you there.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry it’s a Sunday, when I wouldn’t normally ask you to work, but it would be helpful if you could.’
Sabrina frowned thoughtfully. She hadn’t realized how demanding this job was going to be, but if needs must she’d better do as her employer wanted. She made a mental note to bring a note pad and pen with her.
‘When I get home I’ll double check I’m free,’ she said. ‘But I think I can do as you ask.’
‘Great. Thanks.’ He finished his coffee and turned to go. ‘I very rarely see my mother these days, and sometimes I just have to fall in with her wishes.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yes—Lydia. My mother,’ Alexander said as he left the room.
Chapter Three
BY THE middle of the following week, Sabrina felt she was beginning to get to grips with her secretarial duties, starting with the countless pieces of mail which arrived in the post each morning, and fielding all the telephone calls—most of which Alexander refused to follow up.
‘They’re always about being asked to go places, attend functions,’ he grumbled once, as she showed him the list. ‘Can’t be bothered.’
After Alexander had left to go to the gym the previous Thursday, Sabrina had concentrated on trying to decipher his terrible handwriting. Bit by bit she had managed to unravel the meaning of the subtle and sophisticated prose, all of it, naturally, in perfect English—even if his spelling didn’t quite match up. She even felt privileged to have sight of it, to be the first to read this particular new piece, to share the inner workings of his illustrious mind.
But more of those warning bells began to ring for her when, after a particularly poignant page or two, Sabrina had found herself stopping to trace the script gently with her forefinger, as if by touching the words he’d written she was touching him. Getting close. How dreadful was that? Alexander McDonald was arousing dangerous feelings in her which she thought she’d ruled out for ever.
By Friday afternoon she was able to hand him the countless pages, everything he’d asked her to type up, and he seemed genuinely pleased with the result.
‘Thanks very much,’ he said later, after scrutinizing each page carefully. ‘That even makes some sense to me now.’ He shot Sabrina a quick glance, thinking his new secretary had cottoned on to his requirements quicker than he’d dared to hope.
One thing which Sabrina was grateful for was that Alexander went to the gym on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, so she did have some time when he wasn’t sitting a few feet away from her. He’d also been away on two occasions for meetings with his agent. It was so much easier to concentrate when she was by herself—especially as several times when they’d been together she’d looked across briefly to see him watching her, one finely arched eyebrow raised thoughtfully, his perfect, sensuous lips parted slightly. Sabrina had coloured immediately, a surging tide of feeling seeping down to her groin.
Sensing her discomfiture, Alexander had said hurriedly, ‘I was admiring the speed at which you type, Sabrina. I can never manage more than one finger at a time.’
‘Well, what I do is the easy bit. I mean, where does all this come from, or start from, Alexander? I mean, Alex?’ she’d asked, feeling uncomfortable at using his Christian name. ‘How on earth do you compose such intricate and beautiful work?’
‘With the utmost difficulty, most of the time,’ he’d replied. ‘Someone once said that writing was the same as hacking lumps out of granite—and it often feels like that.’
‘Well, you’d never know it from this,’ Sabrina had said, meaning it. ‘All these words which I’ve typed seem to just spill off the paper, like oil running from a spoon.’
He had seemed pleasantly surprised at that. ‘Does that mean you might even read one of my books one day?’ he’d said, only half-teasing. She’d looked up at him, hoping she hadn’t said the wrong thing or been over-familiar with her
