would get there exactly on the hour and in the meantime do a little window-shopping, have a snack lunch and make her way on foot to the address in the advertisement. It was a pleasant day in late September, when she considered London was at its best, and she spent an hour or so going unhurriedly from one big store to the next. If she got the job she would be able to buy one or two things to bring her wardrobe up to date—she made a list while she drank coffee and ate a dull ham sandwich, and then walked on, away from the shops now, taking short cuts through narrow streets full of people hurrying out for their lunch, until she arrived in front of the British Museum. Here she had to stop and ask someone the way, and presently found herself in a quiet Bloomsbury square, its tall houses overlooking the garden in its centre. Number ninety-one would be at the far end; she started to walk along one side, noting that almost all the houses had brass plates under their old-fashioned brass bells—offices, she supposed, lawyers, dentists and doctors, she imagined with some satisfaction, so even more respectable than she had hoped for.
Number ninety-one’s front door stood open, so Jemima went into the lobby and from there into a narrow hall and followed an arrow on the wall which had ‘Waiting Room’ written under it, and found another door on the landing above, a handsome mahogany one with ‘Waiting Room’ on a discreet brass plate. No one answered when she knocked and since a nearby church clock was striking the hour, she opened the door and went inside.
The room wasn’t large, but it was empty of people, which rather surprised her. She glanced at the address again to make sure that she had come to the right place and then went and sat down. There were a couple of small easy chairs against one wall, but she chose the straight-backed chair behind the desk set cornerwise against the window, where she sat composedly, waiting.
She waited for ten minutes and no one appeared; held up by traffic, she decided, and getting bored, typed her name with one finger on the paper ready in the typewriter and, flushed with this success, carefully filled in the rest of the line with the first thing which came into her head: ‘Little Jack Horner sat in a corner—’ She came to the end of the paper and turned the roller, quite absorbed. She had a finger poised for the next word when there was a quick determined step on the stairs and the door was opened.
Jemima froze in her chair, not daring to look up. Suppose it was the typist whose machine she was messing about with? She put her hands in her lap and assumed what she hoped was a serene expression.
The steps had reached the desk and she looked up, just in time to have a sheaf of papers thrust at her and hear a deep impatient voice say: ‘Get these typed by five o’clock, will you?’ He barely glanced at her. ‘I suppose you’re the girl from the typing pool to replace Miss Ames? I hope you’re efficient.’
Jemima goggled at him, looking, if only she knew, the height of inefficiency. She had to tell him smartly that he was mistaken, but she hesitated for a few seconds because she really had to look at him. Tall and very large, with pepper-and-salt hair and the coldest grey eyes she had ever seen; a mouth pressed into a thin line and a high-bridged nose—very nice-looking if only he’d smile… She opened her mouth finally. ‘I…’ she began, too late as he strode past her and went through a door at the end of the room, closing it with a decided click which somehow prevented her from following him.
She looked at the papers he had given her—not even ordinary writing but page upon page of what looked like Greek and little sums dotted here and there—a kind of advanced algebra, perhaps? She looked at it for a minute or two, summoning up courage to go after him and explain, vexed with herself because she felt timid and nervous. ‘Ridiculous,’ she said out loud. ‘Father always said you had more common sense in your little finger than any other female he’d ever known.’
She tidied the papers into a neat pile and prepared to stand up just as the door opened again. This time it was a girl, a gorgeous creature with golden hair, a fetching waistcoat and black velvet knickerbockers. She swanned in, smiled brilliantly at Jemima and draped herself in one of the chairs.
‘Hullo—is he in?’
Jemima nodded while she wondered if her legs were good enough to carry off knickerbockers. She was probably far too curvy, she thought regretfully.
‘Oh, good. Be a darling and tell him I’m here, will you?’
It was a chance to see the man and explain. Jemima got to her feet once more, the papers in her hand. ‘What name?’ she asked.
‘Just say Gloria.’
She knocked on the door before she had time to get nervous and walked in. The man was sitting at a massive desk, his head bowed over a pile of papers, so untidy that Jemima itched to straighten them.
‘There’s a young lady,’ she began, and encouraged by his grunt: ‘Her name is Gloria…’
‘Tell her to go away—I shan’t be ready for hours yet. How’s that typing going?’
He looked up and his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the papers.
‘Well,’ said Jemima, reasonably, ‘not very well, I’m afraid. You see, I can’t type…’
‘Then why the hell are you here?’ He flung a hand on to the desk so violently that most of the papers there flew on to the floor. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ he declared furiously.
‘Not me—you,’ Jemima corrected him calmly. ‘If you wouldn’t get so cross I could explain.’
‘I am not cross. Well?’
She explained with commendable brevity while he sat glowering at her. ‘So,’ she concluded matter-of-factly, ‘if you would tell me where I ought to be…it does give this address, you know.’
He frowned at her. ‘Sit down, wait here,’ he told her, and went out. She could hear his voice rumbling on about something or other and Gloria’s rather shrill tones interrupting. Presently a door banged and he came back.
‘You appear to be the only applicant for the post,’ he said without preamble, ‘but I don’t imagine you will get it. The lady in question is difficult to please; I don’t think you are suitable.’ His cold eyes studied her leisurely and she said tartly:
‘Don’t stare, it’s rude, and what has it got to do with you, anyway?’
Just for a moment the grey eyes warmed with amusement. ‘Er—nothing. I merely suggest that you might not be able to cope—a companion’s life isn’t all roses.’
‘I didn’t expect it to be. And now perhaps you will be good enough to tell me where I should go?’
‘Perhaps I am mistaken—appearances are so deceptive. Take a taxi to this address’—he was scribbling on a pad as he spoke. ‘It’s close to Harrods—you will of course be reimbursed for any expenses.’
Jemima stood up, took the paper he was offering her, wished him good afternoon, and went to the door. He hadn’t answered her, hadn’t looked up even. She said as she opened the door, ‘You’ll have to do your own typing, won’t you?’
Sitting in the taxi she was filled with remorse and shame; to have been so rude, and such a waste too—a complete stranger she would never see again, but it was no good brooding about it, she still had to get the job. ‘Not suitable, indeed!’ she muttered, and when the taxi stopped in a quiet street in Knightsbridge, she had got out, paid her fare, added a tip and mounted the steps to the front door of the tall narrow house, thumped the door with the heavy brass knocker, and
