Twenty-five minutes to nine and no sign of Lockwood yet. Bob Jourdan tilted back his chair and stared out of the window, biting his lip in annoyance. The Alpha staff were supposed to start work by eight-thirty sharp; he had been here himself since ten past, never saw the point of trailing in at the last moment. And on a Monday morning too, with the new week straining at the leash.
He let the legs of his chair slap down on the floor and snatched up a folder of papers from his desk. But it was no good, he couldn’t take a decision on his own about the Manchester job – or rather, he wasn’t permitted to take a decision on his own, he was perfectly capable of doing so. He had to have old Lockwood’s say-so. And he knew exactly what attitude Lockwood would take. The safe, conservative attitude of a man with his eye on a director’s seat.
A light rap on his door and Fiona Brooke came in with some files. ‘You look pretty grim,’ she observed, laying the folders in front of him. ‘Let me have these back as soon as you can.’
‘Old Lockwood’s late again.’ But some of Jourdan’s grimness began to fade. With his left hand he picked up the top file, running his eye over the cover which was stamped in red with the word Welfare; he suddenly shot out his right hand and without looking at her seized Fiona by the wrist. He dropped the file on the desk and idly flicked its pages. ‘Have dinner with me this evening,’ he said in a challenging voice tinged with amusement. His face seemed about to dissolve into laughter. Still keeping his gaze fixed on the folder he began to draw her towards him with easy strength.
‘I’m busy this evening,’ she said pleasantly, looking down at him with unruffled calm.
‘Tomorrow evening.’ He continued to pull her inexorably towards him.
‘Even more busy tomorrow.’ Her mouth trembled on the edge of a smile.
‘Wednesday. Thursday. Friday.’ She was right beside him now. In a swift movement he released her wrist and slipped his hand round her waist, holding her in a tight grip.
‘Absolutely frantically busy on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.’ She couldn’t help smiling broadly, it was as much as she could do not to laugh aloud.
He dropped his hand, looked up at her, his eyes suddenly intent and serious. ‘I’ll keep on asking.’
‘No harm in asking,’ she said lightly. ‘I must get back to Welfare.’
When the door closed behind her he abandoned all show of interest in the files and sat with his elbows on the desk and his chin propped on his clenched fists. Why do I do it? he asked himself yet again. He not only wanted to get on to a more intimate footing with Fiona, he wanted to marry her. Actually marry her! Why? He was thirty years old, had always looked on himself as an astute bachelor, had never wanted to marry anyone before. He’d never even kissed Fiona and yet he had this overpowering desire to put a ring on her finger, to hear her addressed as Mrs Jourdan. Is this what they mean by real love? he wondered with a sense of incredulity. It didn’t feel like anything he had previously identified as love. Could it possibly be – he frowned fiercely, trying to pin down the disturbing notion – that I want her simply because she belongs to Lockwood? He’d been transferred to Barbridge on promotion from another branch of Alpha only two or three months before; the liaison between Lockwood and Fiona was supposed to be a deadly secret but it hadn’t taken Jourdan half a day to spot how matters stood. It wasn’t the way two people looked at each other that was revealing but the way in which they carefully did not look at each other.
He passed a hand across his forehead, pressed his fingers into his scalp. Was it that, wanting Lockwood’s job, he was snatching symbolically at his mistress? If he somehow managed to step into Lockwood’s shoes at Alpha, would he instantly lose all interest in Fiona? Or was it after all simply that she was herself a tall, composed, elegant, intelligent woman?
Suppose by some chance that she was willing to marry him. And suppose also that by some other chance he took Lockwood’s place as Home Sales Manager. Was that a blueprint for happiness? Or would he in a month, six months, a year, find himself a prey to consuming retrospective jealousy? He had observed this ugly phenomenon once or twice in the marriages of contemporaries who had previously fancied themselves tolerant, broad-minded men of the world. The end result had never been anything but disastrous. Could it happen to him? He shook his head slowly. He simply didn’t know. He was almost totally ignorant of the depths of jealousy but it seemed to him that very strange fish might swim in those midnight waters.
A few yards away, in the corridor, he suddenly heard the crisp tones of Lockwood’s voice. At once he sat up and straightened the papers on his desk. A minute or two later Lockwood came into the room.
‘Morning, Bob. If you’ve got the details of that Manchester job, we can settle it now. Bring all the stuff into my office in—’ he glanced at his watch – ‘say ten or fifteen minutes. Must take a look at the post first. A bit late this morning. I’ve been downstairs, fixing up a spot of leave.’ He saw Jourdan’s questioning look. ‘I’m taking next week off. I fancy a breath of sea air.’
I’ll ask Fiona again next week, Bob thought, with a sense that events had somehow taken a decisive turn. He had a strong notion that with Stephen Lockwood out of the way for what? – the best part of ten days? – Fiona might have time to stand back and take a look at his own apparently teasing pursuit of her, might begin to reconsider the situation between herself and Lockwood, might very well, before the week was out, decide that she was not after all perpetually too busy to accept a dinner invitation from the Assistant Home Sales Manager.
In the larger and better-furnished office next door Stephen glanced through his letters. Nothing of world-shaking interest this morning. He raised his head and twirled his pencil between his fingers. That look of surprise and pleasure on Jourdan’s face when he told him he’d be away for a week . . . how well he could remember feeling exactly that blend of emotions in his junior days whenever his immediate boss declared an intention to take himself out of the premises for a while. I’ll show them, he used to think, I’ll make my mark. Into the office every morning at eight o’clock, the last one to leave at night . . . His shoulders moved in wry amusement.
Now he was no longer the young thruster, but the establishment figure the new wave of young thrusters must push aside on their way up the ladder. He caught the way that Jourdan looked at him sometimes, a curious, obsessive look. Did I ever look at my boss that way? he wondered. I don’t suppose he cared for it very much either. How rapidly the years slipped by, with what speed the game of musical chairs was played, how swiftly one was forced out of one role and into another. Was there ever any real choice in the matter? Was the whole thing inexorably played out in accordance with a set of rules totally beyond one’s control?
He became aware of his secretary standing at the other side of his desk. ‘Yes?’ He forced his attention back to the concerns of Monday morning. ‘By the way,’ he added when he had dealt with her query, ‘I shall be away next week. Taking a few days by the sea.’ He stood up and walked over to a framed map on the wall, jabbed a finger against the glass. ‘There, that’s the place. Chilford. We’re not actually staying in the town. We’re going to relatives, a little village a few miles along the coast. A pretty little place. A good golf-course.’
‘Westerhill,’ Jean Ashton said to her mother. ‘I’d better write the address down for you.’ She took a pencil from her handbag. ‘Oakfield, Westerhill, near Chilford. You can put care of Barratt if you like, but I shouldn’t think it’s necessary.’
Her mother took the paper and studied it. ‘It’s not a hotel, then?’
‘No, it’s some kind of guest-house. I got it from one of the
