late in the morning to make up for it. He’ll be out until lunchtime.’
‘Make sure you do that. And don’t worry about dinner, he always works through it so I doubt if he’ll even notice you’re missing. Can I bring you something to eat here? You won’t feel like cooking.’
‘I’ll just make myself a cup of tea and a slice of toast and fall into bed, thanks all the same.’
‘Well, come across in the morning and I’ll cook you some breakfast—you’ll be hungry by then.’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but said goodnight and left.
Jilly closed the door and leaned on it, looking around her, scarcely able to believe her luck. Then a huge yawn caught her by surprise. It was, she decided, quite possible that she wouldn’t get as far as making toast. But she had to have a bath. And phone her mother. That would take careful handling. What was she going to say?
I’m such a great secretary that Max has given me the flat above his garage rather than lose me? She could just imagine her mother’s reaction to that news. She’d struggled to bring up three young children on her own and her opinion of men was not good at the best of times.
It was utterly ridiculous, of course—a man like Max Fleming wouldn’t look twice at a girl like her. But perhaps it would be a good idea if she continued to refer to him as Mr Fleming…The geriatric Mr Fleming. The thought provoked a giggle as she rang home.
‘Jilly! What on earth is happening? I’ve been sitting here all afternoon waiting, worrying—’
Jilly brought the giggle under control and quickly said, ‘Everything’s fine, Mum. Mr Fleming has offered me the use of the chauffeur’s flat until Gemma gets back. If you’ve got a pen there, I’ll give you the telephone number.’
‘Where’s the chauffeur?’ her mother demanded suspiciously.
‘He hasn’t got one. The place was empty. I’ll give you the phone number now, if you’re ready.’
‘Oh. Right. Just a minute, I’ll have to find something to write with.’ Disappointment oozed down the line and Jilly suddenly realised that her mother must have thought it was her lucky day when she’d discovered Gemma was away. Well, she wasn’t about to give her time to think of some other reason why she simply had to come straight home.
She read the number off the dial. Then, before her mother asked any awkward questions—like, What kind of office block has a chauffeur’s flat?—she said, ‘Look, I’ll have to go, Mum. This is long distance.’ And she didn’t feel in the least bit wicked for using her mother’s excuses for her own ends. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow evening. Don’t worry, now. Bye.’ She put the phone down quickly. That had been easier than she’d thought.
It rang again almost immediately, making her jump, and she smiled a little grimly. She’d congratulated herself a fraction too soon. She picked up the receiver somewhat gingerly.
‘Jilly Prescott.’
‘I was just checking that I’d got the number right,’ her mother said.
Just checking up on her, more like. ‘Good idea, Mum.’
‘And what’s the address?’
She told her and then quickly said goodbye and hung up before her mother thought of any more questions.
She glanced at the telephone, wondering if she should try Richie’s office again. She checked her watch and realised that it was nearly seven-thirty. Far too late.
She unpacked, hanging her clothes neatly in the closet. The bed had been made, presumably by Harriet; it took a real effort of will to drag herself away from the temptation of the turned-back cover and white linen sheets and to go and run a bath.
The bathroom wasn’t up to the marble magnificence of the cloakroom in the house, but the water was hot and there were expensive bath salts and a pile of fresh towels just like the ones in the cloakroom. Too much of this, she thought as she sank beneath the water, and she’d be spoilt rotten.
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