sank. Trust her to have revived some ancient and hated nickname!
‘If, on the other hand, you do as little work as possible, date every woman in your year, and are never to be seen without a glass of beer in your hand, you’ll win the admiration of your peers and be labelled a jolly good chap!’ The rather nicely shaped mouth twisted again, and Poppy tried, and failed, to imagine him in this second role.
Oh, well. It had been a good try, but poor old Miss Webb was going to have yet another temp leave—and this one was probably going to break the record for having been there the shortest time.
Grumpy seemed to have forgotten she was there—his attention had switched suddenly from moaning at her to scanning a page of the textbook he’d just moved, and muttering ‘mmm’ just as if he’d bitten into an unexpectedly delicious cake. Poppy began to hitch her bag over her shoulder, uncertain of how best to get out of there.
She cleared her throat, but he didn’t even look up. She coughed quietly, but still he took no notice, just carried on reading. The sooner she was out of there the better—the man was a lunatic!
‘Er—I suppose I’d better be going, Dr Browne.’
He looked at her then, and she got a good idea of how some poor unsuspecting mouse must feel before the cat pounces on it.
‘What?’ he demanded.
‘I said I’d better be going now. I’m sorry if I appeared rude. . .’
‘Going?’ He slung the book down, and Poppy blinked with surprise to see ‘Fergus C. Browne’ on the front of it. ‘And just where do you think you’re going, Miss Henderson?’
‘Well, you won’t want me now, will you?’ she asked bluntly. ‘Not now that I’ve reminded you of what a rotten time you had as a student.’
And suddenly he laughed, showing superb white teeth. The relaxed movement affected his whole stance, so that for the briefest second he looked so—so gorgeous, there was no other way to describe it, that her heart did a funny little dance all on its own. There was even a twinkle in the forbidding eyes.
‘On the contrary, Miss Henderson,’ he drawled, ‘I had a very happy time as a student. Very happy indeed.’
And, witnessing this astonishing transformation, she could well believe it.
‘As for my “wanting” you,’ the smile had switched off more quickly than the Christmas tree lights on Twelfth Night, ‘what I want, and what I’ve been wanting for over fourteen months now, is a secretary who can type without making a mistake every other word. Someone who can be pleasant on the telephone, and helpful. Someone who will listen to what’s being asked of her. Someone who will not terrify or intimidate my patients. Someone who will not sniff, or sulk, or file her nails and look bored. Someone who will not attempt to engage me in what I believe is popularly known as “chit-chat”.
‘I don’t care what you’ve watched on television. I am not interested in soap operas, or the Royal Family. I want someone with more than two neurones to rub together.’ He watched her questioningly. ‘Do you think that what I’m asking is unreasonable, Miss Henderson?’
Poppy could hardly believe what she was hearing. What an insufferable pig! She remembered Miss Webb’s parting words, that on no account was she to let him bully her. Damn right, she wouldn’t!
She glowered at him. ‘Yes, I do! And more than that—it’s the most patronising thing I’ve ever heard!’
The watchful eyes grew thoughtful. ‘You think I’m exaggerating the tendencies of your predecessors?’
He was regarding her with interest, as though he actually cared about what she might think, and she felt her cheeks grow a little hot, irritatingly flustered by this quirky individual.
‘They probably did do some of those things—if not all of them. But perhaps they filed their nails because they were bored. Have you asked yourself whether you gave them enough work to do? Maybe they tried to chat to you because you were so prickly and they were trying to cheer you up. Their bad telephone manner could have just been insecurity. They probably hated being here as much as you hated having them here.’
He had shoved a whole pile of books aside and had perched on the edge of the desk, his long cord-clad legs spread in front of him. Poppy had to concentrate very hard not to stare at his awful tie.
‘Do go on,’ he murmured. ‘This is fascinating.’
She glanced at him suspiciously. Was he being sarcastic? But what the hell? She’d finish what she was going to say now.
‘You obviously don’t like having a secretary,’ she offered, ‘being reliant on someone else—and so you treat them badly; and everyone knows that if you treat people badly then they behave badly!’
The eyebrows retreated still further into a lock of the light brown hair. ‘Do they, indeed?’
She couldn’t believe he could be so stupid! ‘Of course they do!’ she declared. ‘If you kick a dog, then the dog becomes bad-tempered and aggressive and neurotic. If you mistreat a child it won’t develop normally, and pu-punitive punishments handed out to juvenile delinquents are far more likely to have a bad effect—than involvement and hard work.’
‘Punitive, hm? That’s a good word, Miss Henderson,’ he remarked.
‘I read it in a newspaper last week,’ she told him proudly, before returning his gaze mulishly. Was he making fun of her?
The long legs had shifted slightly. ‘I trust that you’re not comparing yourself to a dog, or a child, or a juvenile delinquent? How old are you, by the way?’
She really couldn’t see the point of prolonging this interview. ‘Twenty.’
A brief smile. He should do that more often, she thought.
‘Well, you nearly qualified, didn’t you?’ he remarked.
‘What for?’
‘The juvenile part, naturally,’ and he began to laugh.
‘Very funny!’ The surprising thing was that she didn’t feel any awe about talking to him so frankly. She still couldn’t believe that he was really a doctor, to her he seemed more like some overgrown schoolboy, and one who had had his own way for far too long.
‘How old are you?’ she asked.
‘How old do you think I am?’
Poppy sighed. ‘If you knew how many times I’d heard that! I’d say you were about thirty.’
‘Excellent! You’re a year out—I’m thirty-one.’
‘I’m good on ages,’ she said smugly, remembering the countless times that crêpe-lined faces had been thrust over the counter towards her at Maxwells with a plea for a foundation to hide the blemishes, usually accompanied by the lie that ‘I’m only just forty’.
She blinked after her little reverie to find him tapping one long finger on the side of the desk. He wore no gold band and she found herself wondering whether or not he was married. Pity the poor woman who found herself
