hair extensions, one more flick of her lustrous locks and they might fall out. Though, to give him his due, Miles Kingsley didn’t appear to notice. Perhaps because ninety-nine point nine per cent of women he met did the same.
‘This way,’ he said, turning back to her and pointing up the wide glass and steel staircase.
Jemima gave the receptionist a tentative smile and turned to follow him.
‘Have you been temping long?’
‘No. Not really.’ Or, in fact, not at all. Probably better not to mention that, though. Jemima clutched at her shoulder bag and swallowed nervously.
‘To the left here,’ he remarked, pointing down a corridor, ‘you’ll find a staff recreational room—which is a grand way of saying it’s a pleasant place to have a coffee break. Saskia will show you around later and introduce you to the other support staff. We’re a tightly knit team and I’m sure they’ll all be available to help you, should you need it.’
Jemima nodded.
‘This way.’ He stepped back and held the door open. ‘Do you know much about what Kingsley and Bressington do?’
‘Not a great deal,’ she replied stiffly. Amanda had concentrated on it being a ‘fantastic place to work’, and ‘I’ve got temps queuing up to go there. Give it a try and see what you think’. Clearly the smooth and efficient Miles expected she’d have been given a little more information than that.
She let her eyes wander about the total unexpectedness of the place. From the outside it looked like any other Victorian building in the street, but inside…Inside it had been gutted and everything chosen to ensure maximum impact. Small, but perfectly formed, it was all cutting edge and very modern. Intimidating, actually. But that was probably intentional. Anyone hiring Kingsley and Bressington to manage their public persona probably wanted to see something high-tech, stylish and controlled.
‘But you’ve worked in public relations before?’
Jemima shook her head, feeling as though she were letting Amanda down. She watched the slight frown mar his forehead and wondered, not for the first time, whether Miles Kingsley was the kind of man who’d be satisfied with her newly acquired secretarial skills. As if she didn’t know he wasn’t.
‘There are various aspects to what we do. Some of our clients are large corporations and we track and manage their image in the press, both here and abroad.’
She struggled to suppress the rising tide of panic. A six month post-graduate secretarial course hadn’t even begun to touch on anything he was talking about. Somehow she didn’t think he’d be particularly impressed that she held a Qualified Private and Executive Secretarial diploma—albeit with a distinction.
‘Others are individuals, predominantly working in the media. Many find themselves in a particularly sensitive place in their lives when they first come to us.’
‘I see.’ Another door, another corridor. It wasn’t that the building Kingsley and Bressington occupied was particularly large, it was just it was painted in similar shades of cream and it was difficult to get your bearings. There was only so much limestone and travertine a girl could take.
‘Confidentiality is an absolute prerequisite,’ Miles continued, ‘as I’m sure you realise.’
Confidentiality was something they’d covered in her diploma course. It was nice to know there was at least one part of this job she was going to find easy. ‘I wouldn’t dream of repeating anything I learn from working here. I’d consider that very unprofessional.’
‘Excellent,’ he said, holding open the door for her. ‘I know Amanda wouldn’t have sent you to us if that wasn’t the case. This is your office.’
Jemima stepped through into a room that had obviously been designed to have a wow factor. Yet more shades of cream blurred together as a restful whole and made the burr walnut desk a focal point. The computer screen on it was wafer-thin and the chair she recognised as being a modern design classic. A Charles and Ray Eames styled, if not original, chair upholstered in soft cream leather.
‘We rarely keep our clients waiting, but if there’s any delay I’ll rely on you to keep them happy until I can see them.’ He turned and pointed to some chairs clustered around yet another shattered glass coffee table. ‘Ply them with tea and coffee. Make sure they feel important.’
Jemima felt the first stirrings of a smile. Maybe Amanda had known what she was doing when she had sent her here. She knew a lot about making other people feel important. Being a satellite to other people’s bright star was what she did best. In fact, a lifetime of practice had honed it into an art form.
She glanced back towards the door and noticed the twenty or so black and white photographs grouped together on the wall. Dramatic publicity shots all autographed with love and messages of thanks.
Miles followed her gaze. ‘Some of our clients,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘You can see why discretion is imperative.’
She certainly could. Her smile widened as she recognised the chiselled features of an actor who’d scarcely been off the tabloid front pages in recent weeks. His particular ‘sensitive place’ was a pole-dancer from Northampton—allegedly.
And Kingsley and Bressington had to find a way of spinning that into a positive, did they? She couldn’t quite see how that would be possible. If Miles Kingsley could restore that actor’s persona as a ‘family man’, he was a genius.
The door opened and a young and stunning blonde in impeccably cut black trousers burst in, an A4 file tucked under her arm. ‘Miles, I’m so sorry. I was caught on the phone and couldn’t get away—’
‘Jemima had been in reception for over fifteen minutes.’ His voice sliced smoothly over the other woman’s words.
‘Felicity has just buzzed me. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ Jemima interjected quickly, unsure whether the apology was for her benefit or for Miles’s.
‘If you’d like to come with me now, I’ll take you through everything.’ The other woman adjusted the file under her arm. ‘I’m Saskia Longthorne, by the way. Come through to my office….’
She was halfway to the door before she’d finished speaking.
‘Jemima might like to hang up her jacket? Put her bag down?’ Miles suggested in a dry tone.
He’d strolled over to the walnut desk and had picked up a large black diary and was leafing through the pages. Jemima glanced over as he looked up. His eyes were astonishingly bright against the minimal colour in the room. At least that was her excuse for the sudden tightening of her throat.
‘I’ll see you again in a few minutes.’ He picked up the diary and carried it across to the wide double doors that, presumably, led to his own office.
Good grief. Jemima let out her breath in one slow steady stream. Miles Kingsley was a sharp-suited nightmare. No other way of looking at it.
Saskia seemed to understand what she’d been thinking. ‘I know,’ she said, walking over to a tall cupboard. ‘Miles is a walking force field. You can leave your jacket and handbag in here.’ She pulled out a hanger and handed it across.
