Whoever would have thought that one small boy could cause so much heartache? But she loved him desperately, and she was determined to keep him. Somehow she would make arrangements for the holidays, even if it meant bringing him to the office with her. That wouldn’t go down too well, of course, and it would be hard on Jeremy having to keep quiet for hours on end. But she was confident that Lance would not sack her out of hand, she was too valuable to him, and if it was a matter of one or the other, she was sure he would not object. Eight weeks was not so long, and three of those she would be on holiday herself. She found her fingers crossing on the steering wheel. It might never come to that. Her mother would not refuse to have him. Just because at Easter he had broken her Chinese vase … and poured salt into the sugar bowl … and played Red Indians with her ostrich feathers … and smuggled that disgusting little mongrel into the flat and hidden him under his bed …
Lesley hunched her shoulders. Perhaps he was too high-spirited for a woman of sixty to handle. Particularly a woman who had already worn herself out looking after her own child, or so she said. Lesley sighed. Had she been such a trial? She had quite fond memories of her youth. Of course, her father had been alive in those days and he and she seemed so much alike. Perhaps it was the later years, after her father was dead, when she had been at university. Her mother had hated all the sit-ins and demonstrations she had joined. Mrs Matthews’ politics were so arbitrarily conservative and she had been appalled by the left-wing young Socialists Lesley had brought to the house. She had not realised that it was all a phase. That an active mind demanded activity, of whatever persuasion. But in one respect her anxieties had been realised. Lesley had remained staunchly independent in her attitude towards men and Mrs Matthews had been convinced she would never get married. It would have been better if she hadn’t, Lesley thought now, not without some bitterness. Then Jeremy would never have been born, never have become the problem he was today. And yet … She drew the Mini to a jerky halt at the barrier marking the precincts of W.L.T.V. and forced a smile for the security officer as he raised the barrier for her. If she was honest with herself she would admit that she did not entirely regret those years with Carne. They had been an experience she was not likely to forget. And should she ever be tempted to do so, Jeremy—her darling Jeremy—was there to remind her.
She had still not got over the thrill of seeing her name on her parking lot. Mrs Lesley Radley, it read, right alongside Lance Petrie, Controller of Programmes. Her official designation was Personal Private Secretary, but she was more than that. She was his right hand, his assistant, the person everyone came to who wanted an audience with the big man. She was fortunate, she knew that. If she hadn’t worked at W.L.T.V. years ago she would never have stood a chance of getting where she was today after only two years. But Lance remembered her, and forgave her for walking out on him.
As she crossed the concrete apron of the car park to the swing glass doors of the executive building, she remembered how aggressive she had been when she first came here eight years ago—twenty years of age, straight out of university with a degree in both arts and languages, confident that she could change the face of civilisation. Lance had been the producer of a current affairs programme in those days, and she had applied for a job as his assistant. When he had asked her what she knew about news and broadcasting she had arrogantly maintained that she had what was lacking in television today—a fresh eye, an unbiased view, an original approach. He had been amused by her ignorance, she realised now, flattered by her determination to work for him, and willing to give youth a chance to prove itself. Within six months, he had changed her whole outlook on life, showing her the cracks in both the socialist and capitalist systems, making her aware that government in any form was ultimately a victim of its own prejudices. She had learned with him and from him, until that fateful day they drove north to Yorkshire to interview a young farmer with radical views on Britain’s entry into the European Common Market …
The wide, chequerboard tiling of the hall reflected the watery rays of a sun just struggling to clear the clouds that lingered after last night’s rainstorm. Lesley smiled at the receptionist, asked Albert, the commissionaire, how his arthritis was faring in this damp weather, and took the lift up to the penthouse floor.
Lance had done just as well as she, she thought now, entering the panelled outer office where she had her desk. From current affairs producer to Controller of Programmes in seven years was not bad going. Still he deserved it, she decided generously, taking off her jacket and hanging it on the stand. He was well informed and well liked, and no one else at W.L.T.V. would have taken her back after abandoning her career like any lovesick schoolgirl.
Her boss was not in, as she had hoped, and she had sorted through the pile of mail on her desk and laid aside those requiring his personal attention before he put in an appearance. Lance Petrie was a big man, both W.L.T.V.-wise and physically. Easily six feet in height, he rarely took any exercise, and in consequence years of liquid lunches and business dinners had put on several inches of girth. He had bristling ginger eyebrows and a voice that could strike fear into the strongest constitution, but Lesley had long learned that his bark was worse than his bite. He never did anyone a bad turn, unless they had done him one first, and his friends at W.L.T.V. numbered larger than his enemies, which was quite something for a man in his position.
Now he ambled into Lesley’s office with deceptive deliberation, and after answering her proffered ‘Good morning’ he looked over his shoulder at the letters she was studying.
‘Anything interesting?’ he enquired, and she cast a swift look up at him before replying: ‘Only this invitation to speak at the Guild Luncheon. They must have enjoyed your speech last year to ask you to make a repeat performance.’
‘Hmm.’ Lance sounded doubtful. He leant over and flicked the invitation aside. ‘Car going okay?’
His change of subject was so abrupt that the sound Lesley was about to make became strangled in her throat. When she could speak, she said faintly: ‘My car?’
‘Whose else?’ He straightened. ‘Well? Is it?’
Lesley sighed. ‘By that I gather you know it’s not,’ she exclaimed, and the heavy brow furrowed.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘It was an innocent question. I just wondered why you were late this morning as well as Friday.’
‘Oh!’ Lesley’s cheeks went pink. ‘You were in earlier.’
‘I was here at nine-thirty, yes,’ Lance agreed, thrusting his big hands into the pockets of his jacket and consequently pulling it all out of shape. ‘So what’s happened with the Mini? Don’t I pay you enough to keep it in working order?’
Lesley moved her shoulders apologetically. ‘I had a bump,’ she confessed. ‘I ran into the back of one of those foreign cars. I don’t know what it was, but I bent the fender.’
‘And that’s why you were late?’
Lesley hesitated. ‘Well—no.’ She looked up at him honestly. ‘It’s Jeremy, actually.’
‘Jeremy?’ Lance looked concerned. ‘He’s not ill, is he?’
‘Oh, no. No.’ Lesley made a rueful sound. ‘If only it were that easy! No, he’s due home for the holidays in ten days’ time, and—my mother has decided it’s too much for her to have him around the flat all day.’
‘I see,’ Lance nodded. Like Lesley, he too had been married, but perhaps fortunately his wife had been unable to have children and when they split up, no one had been hurt but themselves. ‘I guess he is a bit of a handful for a woman of her age.’
Lesley fiddled with the papers on her desk. ‘Yes.’
‘And there’s no one else who could care for him
