situation, she decided. And, from what she had heard about Emily’s father from Mrs Williams, she would need all the superficial help she could get her hands on.
He was, she had worked out, not one of life’s easygoing characters. For a start, he had made only one appearance in the two years his daughter had been at the school, and that had been to complain about her grades. Mrs Williams, recalling the incident, had blanched at the memory of it, and it took a great deal for Mrs Williams to lose her legendary calm.
So how he was going to react to this major body blow he would be dealt in a little under an hour was enough to make anyone shudder with apprehension.
Rebecca gazed thoughtfully at her reflection and was, for once, grateful for what confronted her. A woman of imposing height and stature, face attractive but well played down so that the firm jawline and widely spaced blue eyes looked strongly determined, and with her shoulder-length auburn hair tortured into something she hoped resembled a bun at the back, she looked every inch the sort of person that other people should consider very carefully before antagonising.
And her curves were well concealed under the boxy grey jacket. Curves and grim-lipped severity did not make the best of companions.
Fifteen minutes later she was striding confidently towards the principal’s office, glancing in at the classes in progress and mentally hoping that her own class was being well behaved for Mr Emscote, the English teacher, who had a tendency to wilt when confronted with too many high-spirited teenage girls.
Mrs Williams was waiting for her in the office, standing by the window, and looking fairly agitated.
‘He should be here in a short while. Please sit, Rebecca.’ She sighed wearily and took her place in the chair behind the large mahogany desk. ‘I’ve told Sylvia to make sure that we’re not interrupted. Has Emily been to see you again?’
‘No.’ Rebecca shook her head. ‘I think she decided that I needed a bit of a breather after the shock. How did she react to your talk with her?’
Another weary sigh, this time more pronounced. ‘She didn’t. React, that is. Barely said a word and looked utterly pleased with herself in that insufferably insolent manner she has.’
Rebecca knew precisely the insufferably insolent manner to which Mrs Williams was referring. It involved a bored expression, stifled yawns and eyes that drifted around the room as though searching for something slightly more exciting to materialise from the woodwork. She was the perfect rebel and, because of it, had a league of adoring supporters who, thankfully, while admiring her antics, were not quite foolhardy enough to imitate them.
‘Did you mention anything to her father about…why he was asked to come here?’
‘I thought it best to do that on a face-to-face basis.’
Shame, Rebecca thought. He might have simmered down if he had had a day to mull over the facts.
‘I’ve gathered all the relevant school reports on Emily, so that he can read through them, and I’ve also collated the numerous incident reports as well. Quite a number, considering that the child hasn’t been with us very long.’ She sat back in the chair, a small, thin bespectacled woman in her forties with the tenacity and perseverance of a bulldog, and shook her head. ‘Such a shame. Such a clever child. It certainly makes one wonder what the point of brilliance is when motivation doesn’t play a part. With a different attitude, she could have achieved a great deal.’
‘She’s had a…challenging home life, Mrs Williams. I personally feel, as I said to you before, that Emily’s rebelliousness is all an act. A ploy to hide her own insecurities.’
‘Yes, well, I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself, Rebecca,’ the principal said in a warning voice. ‘There’s no point in muddying the waters with a post-mortem on why this whole unfortunate business happened in the first place. Aside from which, she’s not the first girl to have endured her parents’ divorce and all the fallout from it. And other girls do not react by…’ she looked down at one of the sheets of paper ‘…smoking through the window of a dorm, falsifying sick notes to the infirmary so that she can go into town, climbing up a tree and remaining there for a day just to watch us all run around like headless chickens looking for her… The list goes on…’
‘Yes, I know, but…’ Rebecca could feel herself getting hot under the collar of her crisply starched white blouse, which she had unearthed from the furthermost reaches of her wardrobe and now felt so uncomfortable that she was seriously regretting having put it on in the first place.
‘No buts, Rebecca. This is an immovable situation and it will do no good to try and analyse it into making sense. The facts are as they stand and Emily’s father will have to accept them whether he cares to or not.’
‘And Emily?’ Rebecca asked with concern. ‘What happens to her now?’
‘That will be something that must be sorted out between herself and her father.’
‘She doesn’t have a relationship with her father.’
‘I would advise you to be a bit sceptical about what she says on that front,’ Mrs Williams told her sharply. ‘We both know that Emily can be very creative with the truth.’
‘But the facts speak for themselves…’ Rebecca found herself leaning forward, about to disobey her first rule of command, which was to be as immovable as a rock and launch into a fiery defence of her pupil, when there was a knock on the door, and Sylvia poked her head round.
‘Mr Knight is here, Mrs Williams,’ she said with her usual gusto.
Mr Knight? Rebecca frowned. Why was his surname different from that of his daughter? References to him had always been as Emily’s father, and it hadn’t occurred to her that he might not be Mr Parr.
‘That’s fine, Sylvia. Would you show him in, please? And no interruptions, please. I shall deal with anything that crops up after Mr Knight has left.’
‘Of course.’ Sylvia’s expression changed theatrically from beaming good humour to grave understanding, but as soon as she had vacated the doorway they could both hear her trill to Emily’s father that he could go in now, and could he please inform her how he would like his coffee.
Rebecca wondered whether he would be disconcerted by the personal assistant’s eccentric mannerisms—most people who didn’t know her were—but his deep voice, wafting through the door, was controlled and chillingly assured.
Stupidly, because her role in the room was simply to impart information, she felt her stomach muscles clench as he walked through the door, then a wave of colour flooded her cheeks.
Mrs Williams had risen to her feet and was perfunctorily shaking his hand, and it was only when they both turned to her that Rebecca sprang up and held out her hand in polite greeting.
Emily’s father was strikingly tall, strikingly forbidding and strikingly good-looking. Even wearing heels, she was forced to look up at him. She didn’t know what she had expected of him. Someone older, for a start, and with the military bearing of the typical household dictator who had no time for family but a great deal for work.
This man was raven-haired, dark-eyed and the angular features of his face all seemed to blend together to give an impression of power, self-assurance and cool disregard for the rest of the human race.
And the
