CHAPTER ONE
SHE might just—just—make it.
Shauna flung her suitcase and holdall into the empty compartment, clambered in and slammed the door shut just as the train began to move away.
She’d made it with seconds to spare, but, glancing at her watch with a grimace, Shauna realised that, although this might be the express train from Dover to London, it would need to sprout wings and fly if it were going to get her to her interview on time.
She looked out of the window and cursed the stormy skies which had made her ferry crossing so turbulent, before pulling the now crumpled advert out of her holdall. Oh, please—if anyone up there is looking down on me—let me get this job, she thought, as she read it for the umpteenth time.
WANTED
Assistant to businessman in Central London. Hours erratic. Salary excellent. Accommodation available. Initiative and enthusiasm a plus—along with conventional office skills. Languages essential, including fluent Portuguese. Apply in writing to Box No.4204
She had applied, and had received a type-written reply, requesting that she attend for interview at Ryder Enterprises at sixteen-hundred hours today. The letter had been signed ‘Max Ryder’ in a firm and rather flamboyant signature.
Some luck, she thought ruefully. It sounded a peach of a job—and she was going to be late.
Exactly three hours later Shauna arrived at Ryder Enterprises, feeling as if she’d been run over by a steamroller. Two years of working in the relatively laid-back atmosphere of Portugal had left her ill-equipped to cope with the frantic bustle of the London Underground.
Struggling with her baggage, she pushed open the heavy glass door and sank into an opulently deep-pile cream carpet. A waft of cloying perfume hit her like a solid wall and her heart sank as she saw the other women in the room. She was in the wrong place! She must be. There was no way that she had anything in common with the other occupants of the room. She stood out like a sore thumb.
The three females sitting around a glass table the size of an ice-rink who had been laconically chatting with each other all froze in unison as they looked her up and down. Their assessment lasted less than five seconds before they gave a group demonstration of superior dismissal, then renewed their conversation, ignoring her completely.
Shauna stood stock-still, frozen with indecision, momentarily debating whether or not she should simply turn right round and leave, when she heard a polite cough, and stared across the room into a pair of smiling eyes. The smiling person wore spectacles, had a slick, dark bob and was seated behind a desk. She was speaking now, and it took a couple of seconds for Shauna to realise that she was addressing her.
‘I’m Mrs Neilson,’ she said. ‘And you must be…?’
‘Shauna,’ she said clearly. ‘Shauna Wilde. I’m so sorry,’ she walked forward and put her case down by the desk, ‘but I’m late.’
Mrs Neilson looked down at a list of names before her. ‘Yes, you are,’ she agreed. ‘And by over an hour, too.’ She looked up, her eyes apologetic. ‘I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid that Mr Ryder won’t tolerate unpunctuality.’
‘Oh, but he must!’ said Shauna hastily. ‘Please?’ She smiled at the receptionist, a pleading look in her eye. She had a lot riding on getting this job. ‘I’ve come straight from the Continent—all the way from Portugal. I was making brilliant time but then my ferry was delayed. Can’t I just wait until he’s interviewed the others? He might see me then.’
‘He might,’ said Mrs Neilson doubtfully, then gave a small smile. ‘You can try. Take a seat—but I can’t promise anything.’
‘Thanks.’ Shauna walked over to a chair, dropped her belongings defiantly on the ground beside her and sat down. The eyes all turned in her direction. Well, she decided—this is a game that more than one can play, and she began to stare back.
The more she saw, the more uneasy she became. The three women looked so much older than her, and confident. And assured. Very assured. Apart from one elegant creature with short hair—and that must have been cut by someone with a degree in technical drawing, judging by the precision and angles of the style—they had the kind of untamed lion’s mane of hair which every woman knew took at least an hour in front of the mirror to achieve. Tousled, yet perfect—while Shauna’s was scraped back like a schoolgirl’s.
Shauna’s hair was undoubtedly her best feature, but black curls which tumbled waistwards were hardly practical for everyday wear. Maybe she should have had it cut to a more manageable length, but she had long since given up going to a hairdresser’s for just that purpose. Every hairdresser she’d ever met had managed to talk her out of it.
Shauna looked at the women again. Oh, why hadn’t she bothered to put some make-up on? Because you slept on the boat and it would have smudged, spoke the voice of reason—and a tiny loo on the train was hardly the place to accurately apply your mascara!
As she waited she considered furtively scrabbling around in her holdall and going off to try and camouflage her shiny face, when a final despairing look at the group convinced her that she would stand no chance against them. They were band-box neat and perfectly co-ordinated. As sleek as well-groomed pedigree cats with their up-market clothes, and Shauna felt like a moggy who’d been left out in the rain all night.
Had things in England really changed that much? she wondered. Was this kind of high-powered dressing really de rigueur for a job as a businessman’s assistant? Nervously, Shauna tugged at the cuff of her suit.
A door behind the woman at the desk opened, and a blonde sashayed her way out of the room without a word.
Mrs Neilson looked up. ‘Would Miss Stevens like to go in next?’
The woman with the short hair headed for the inner sanctum, and Shauna dived into the bottom of her holdall, seriously worried now. Was the job all she had supposed it to be? Had she missed something? Been more naïve than usual? Did these women really look like your run-of-the-mill PAs? Suppose the advertisement was a cover for something else—what had she thought about it sounding too good to be true?
She located the letter nestling against a railway timetable and the remains of an apple-core and read it again. Twice.
No. If there was some subtle message in it then she, Shauna, was too dense to fathom it out. And let’s face it, she thought, if you go in there and some guy offers you a job in his massage parlour, then you smile politely and head for the door.
Shauna’s fingers, when they replaced the advert, were trembling. She had read about places like this in the Sunday papers. Her imagination began to run away with her. What if they wouldn’t let her out? What if a strong hand were to snap itself over her wrist with steely strength…? Don’t be so ridiculous, reprimanded an inner voice. Everyone else is getting out, aren’t they?
The last woman—a luscious-looking strawberry blonde—went in and the phone on Mrs Neilson’s desk bleeped. She picked it up and listened.
‘Yes, Mr Ryder—she is the last, but Miss Wilde has turned up.’ There was a pause. ‘Yes, I know she’s late, but apparently she’s travelled a long way to get here…’
Shauna
