appearance of yours beats a heart of steel, does it?’
She looked at him indignantly. ‘Marshmallow? What’s that supposed to mean?’
By now he definitely looked as though he was enjoying himself. ‘All that pale, fluffy hair—and all that muck you’ve got plastered around your eyes. And that sticky-looking stuff on your mouth—you look just like a sugar-coated piece of confectionery!’
There was a long pause.
Well. She could tell him what he could do with his typewriter and head for the door. Or could she? Hadn’t Miss Webb told her that this was the only job she had? And Miss Webb was a good friend of her tutor; she had gone to her highly recommended. No other agency would touch her, with such little experience. And she did need the job. She had left Maxwells now, and it might have been boring but at least it had paid very well. How else was she going to find the rent?
She dropped her handbag over the back of the nearest chair with a fluid movement. She needed the job, and he needed a secretary. She would work for the obnoxious man, but she was going to take Miss Webb’s advice literally—and damn the consequences!
She gave him the benefit of a sweetly innocent smile. ‘If I look like a sugar-coated piece of confectionery, Dr Browne, then your shirt looks like the crumpled-up bit of wrapper from it! And now, if we’ve finished our little chat, perhaps we could get on with some work?’
He opened his mouth, and shut it again. How wonderful to see him looking so nonplussed!
‘You’ll have to do it without me,’ he said carelessly. ‘I’m off to a meeting now. Perhaps you’d like to tidy up a bit?’
The way he said it suggested that she was little more than a skivvy, and Poppy gritted her teeth, but said nothing.
‘I’ll be in early Monday morning, so I’ll show you the ropes then. That is, if you’re coming back on Monday?’
Put like that, it sounded like a challenge. There was nothing more she would have liked than to have told him she was never going to set foot in his dark, untidy mausoleum of an office again, but she was not going to give him that pleasure. That was what was known as cutting off your nose to spite your face.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that, Dr Browne,’ she told him. ‘I’ll be back.’
She bent over her handbag as if she’d found something tremendously important in it, and didn’t look at him once as he strode out of the room.
AFTER he had disappeared, Poppy heaved a huge sigh of relief and sat back in one of the chairs to survey the contents of his office more closely. Thank heavens she had worn her leggings! There was dust everywhere—generated, no doubt, by the heaps of books. She picked up the book he had been reading and regarded it with interest. It was entitled Diagnostic Dermatology and was indeed written by the man for whom she now worked.
The book was new, the dust cover shiny, and the whole volume had that delicious smell which all new books have. Poppy loved books. She lived for them. And books had taught her almost everything she knew. When you’d missed chunks of your education because teachers would never stay in the remote part of the country you’d grown up in, you quickly realised that there was a lot of catching up to do!
On the inside of the dust cover there was a short piece about the author. It told her that Fergus C. Browne—she wondered idly what the ‘C’ stood for—had been educated at Cambridge and then at King’s College Hospital. That, as well as being one of the youngest consultant dermatologists in the country, he had also written papers on infectious diseases, and the psychological effects of having a chronic skin condition diagnosed.
Poppy frowned. It was a pity he didn’t apply some psychological reasoning to the way he treated his staff—or, better still, use a bit of common sense. What was it going to be like working for such a capricious individual? Were they going to be engaged in running verbal battles all day long? Would he continue to be so incredibly rude about the way she looked?
She gave a long sigh. Better stop being so pensive and get on with the job. She wouldn’t put it past him to come breezing back in here after an hour, just to check what she had accomplished in his absence!
But how to go about tidying up his disgusting den? She didn’t want him accusing her of misplacing all his books, but clearly she couldn’t set up an efficient workplace if she had to keep stepping over haphazardly sited piles.
In the centre of the room was an enormous, old-fashioned fireplace, with a large recess on either side. The two spaces were just crying out for bookshelves. She scrabbled around on his desk and eventually found an unused notepad and Biro, and began to make a list.
In her rather rounded script, she wrote:
1. Have bookshelves erected ASAP!!!
2. Phone library re. most effective way of classifying books.
3. Buy a plant!
The hospital telephonist gave her the number of the maintenance department, and Poppy had to bite back a giggle when she remembered how she’d mistaken the illustrious Dr Browne for one of them. Thank goodness she hadn’t blurted that out!
A bored voice answered the phone and informed her that there was no one in the department who could help at that time, but if she left her number then they would get back to her later that afternoon, and with that Poppy had to be content.
Next she rang the local library and spoke to a very helpful girl there who explained that, as most large libraries were computerised, their systems would be inappropriate for a small, private collection of books. She suggested that alphabetical filing by author would be best, with a cross-reference file for subject matter. She also advised a marker system, in case any of the books were lent out.
While she waited for the maintenance department to ring her back, Poppy sorted all the books out into alphabetical order and placed them in neat groups around the room. It took her over an hour to do this, and by the end of it her mouth felt dry and her clothes were covered in a fine layer of dust. She had long since removed her mohair sweater, and her pink T-shirt proved plenty warm enough. She brushed her hands down the side of her leggings and glanced around. Some order had been restored, at least. She hunted around for something to drink, but found nothing, and since she didn’t want to risk missing the telephone call regarding the bookshelves she did without, but added, ‘Buy a kettle!’ to her list.
At five minutes to five they rang back and she explained her predicament, but not even all her charm could sway the dour-sounding man at the other end, who seemed the worst kind of petty bureaucrat, and obviously relished refusing her request.
‘If we put shelves up for you, then everyone would want them,’ he droned.
‘But we’re not everyone!’ wailed Poppy. ‘And if you don’t tell anyone, we won’t.’
He was now not only impervious to pleading, he was disapproving.
‘We have to work within the system, miss,’ he said sternly. ‘And as for not letting anyone know—I have to complete my work sheets in triplicate, so everyone would know.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’
