you.’
‘Don’t thank me—you’ll be typing up the memos. If you can’t take the heat, you’d better get out of the kitchen, Magenta.’
‘I can take it.’ Yes. Yes! Oh boy, could she take it. This was an incredible turnaround from the most intransigent of men.
‘Good, because you’ll be adding all this new work to your regular duties.’
Would there come a point where she crumpled beneath the pressure? Well, if there did, Quinn wouldn’t care—so she had better not. Getting that break for the girls was the only thing that mattered.
Magenta could barely wait for Quinn to leave the room before flinging the protective sheet he’d handed her into the air with a whoop of excitement. The next step would be planning a new ad campaign with her team.
The girls were giddy with excitement just at the thought of being taken seriously. The sexism and chauvinism in the office knew no bounds and Magenta could hardly believe that such intelligent and vital individuals had been disregarded solely on the basis of gender. How could these women have been kept down for so long, subjugated by the men? How could any manager afford to waste such a valuable resource?
Having assured her new colleagues that their ideas really were going to be listened to, she got down to writing up her report and delivered it to Quinn before lunchtime as instructed. To her amazement, he handed her a typewritten sheet. ‘My report,’ he said.
‘Thank you…’ Perhaps they were getting somewhere after all. Holding the sheet of folded paper close, she left the room feeling warm inside. And, yes, even a little triumphant. If all the battles ahead of her would be so easily won.
‘Leave my door open, will you? ‘ Quinn called after her.
‘Of course.’
Quinn wasn’t so bad, Magenta decided, settling down at her desk. He just needed handling. She was in charge of collating the results for the trials and, now she had Quinn’s report, she could make a start.
Studying the sheet of paper he’d given her, Magenta’s eyes widened.
Dinner tonight, Quinn had written. Pick you up at your place at eight—no excuses.
It was less of an invitation and more of an instruction.
Magenta tensed. Reports forgotten, she stared into space. Kisses were one thing, but anything more… She had just experienced a prolonged sensory experience with Quinn and now he was calling her bluff. Was she up to a one-on-one meeting after work?
‘Did you want to talk business tonight?’ She turned with the note in her hand to speak to him through the open door.
‘What else?’ Quinn said impatiently, waving her away.
A business meeting. Well, that was all right, and would give her a chance to learn more about Quinn. She felt a thrill of anticipation. Of course she could handle it. She was a big girl, wasn’t she? She could always say no. How could she turn Quinn down without offending him? That might put the girls’ future prospects in jeopardy, which she would never do.
Turning in her chair, she flashed Quinn a faint smile and a nod. It didn’t do to look too eager.
Hemlines were getting shorter, according to the fashion magazines the girls kept around the office. Venturing into one of the tiny boutiques, that had sprung up down a street Magenta knew would one day be turned into office blocks, was a temptation she couldn’t resist. Armed with cash from her wage packet, she was ready to shop. The chance to wear one of the daring outfits for Quinn being showcased in the shop windows was slightly less appealing—she’d feel safer in a sack—but she guessed he might baulk at that for their evening out.
Swinging London was the first headline she noticed on a news stand as she walked along, together with a picture of the Beatles. She definitely had to make some sort of effort to be stylish. Dragging her gaze away, she saw a hairdressing salon and decided to make that her first stop.
A stylish young man with floppy hair and tight, flared trousers arranged Magenta’s long hair so that it hung loose down her back and was dressed fairly high at the top. Taking it up at the sides, he gave her a fringe so long it caught on her eyelashes.
Realising she could buy make-up at the salon, she chose some smoky eye-shadow, passing on the pale foundation with the option of white lips. She had to contend with the lady behind the counter giving her some strange looks as she battled with the unfamiliar pre-decimal currency. She finally managed to get it right and handed over what seemed to her like a very small amount of money before leaving the shop.
Now she had to hunt for an outfit to wear that evening. She had fun trying on all the vintage clothes and realising they were new. There was nothing subtle about sexiness in the sixties; she already knew that. Though she didn’t want Quinn to think her a frump, a couple of inches above the knee was as far as she was prepared to go. Rejecting a cobwebby, crotcheted dress, she chose a high-necked, soft turquoise silk with trumpet sleeves that flattered her figure without exposing too much of it.
‘You could go bra-less,’ the shop assistant informed her. ‘You’ve got the figure for it.’
What and show off her nipples? Give Quinn a handy barometer to go by? He hardly needed that sort of encouragement. ‘I’d prefer to wear a bra.’
‘What about this no-bra bra?’ the assistant suggested. ‘It’s almost sheer, but it does offer some protection…’ She weighed Magenta up. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is pretty,’ Magenta agreed and she definitely wanted all the protection she could get.
‘You could try these hip-huggers to go with it. Or some matching bikini-pants in the same flesh-coloured lace?’
‘They’re very flimsy.’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘I’ll take them.’ She just wanted to get out of the shop now. The girl’s close scrutiny was beginning to make her feel uncomfortable.
‘Which one?’ The girl was holding up a pair of knickers in each hand.
‘Both.’
‘You’re sure they’re not too flimsy for you? I do have some heavy-gauge serge in the back.’
Was it so obvious that Magenta’s twenty-first-century lifestyle meant her choice of underwear depended on what washed well on a short cycle and lasted longest?
MAGENTA braved her freezing bathroom to take a bath and then dressed carefully. When the doorbell rang, her heart went crazy. If this was a dream she was certainly taking her time waking up, she thought as she hurried downstairs.
And now she didn’t want to wake up. Quinn looked amazing. Standing on her doorstep wearing a heavy overcoat over his suit, and with a long, silk scarf slung casually around his neck, he was unreasonably handsome—like a hero stepping out of a dream. In full sixties hero-about-town rig, he really was something else.
‘Ready
