accounts department.’
She looked, Francesca thought, as though she had been wildly miscast. She looked, in fact, as though she should have been working at the cosmetic counter of a large department store. Her hair, dyed jet-black, was carefully styled and hung in a straight bob to her shoulders, and her face was impeccably made up in an assortment of shades which gave her the look of a highly painted doll—she was attractive in a very obvious sort of way, and was clearly in no mood to hurry on, from the way she was standing looking around her.
‘Actually,’ Helen said, dragging a chair to sit opposite Francesca, much to Francesca’s dismay, ‘we’ve been curious about you. One minute Oliver had given his temp the boot and Cathy was filling in, and the next minute here you are. How did you manage to land the job?’
‘Oh, usual way,’ Francesca lied vaguely, but the other girl let that one go past. She was clearly not madly interested in the ins and outs of how Francesca had found herself working for Oliver Kemp. But she wanted something, because she still made no move to depart.
‘We’re all dying of envy, anyway,’ Helen said, narrowing her blue eyes. ‘I’d do anything to work for Oliver, but my typing skills are lousy.’ She picked up a paperweight from the desk and idly turned it over while Francesca wondered what this bizarre conversation was leading to.
‘Well, I’m sure your job must be very interesting,’ Francesca said politely, and Helen laughed—a hard, brittle sound that jarred.
‘Oh, riveting, dear.’ She plonked the paperweight back down and stood up. ‘Well, I’m off; just thought I’d come and see what the competition was like.’
‘The competition?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She opened her eyes wide and failed to look guileless. ‘Thought you might be the brainy type that Oliver goes for, but you’re not. Still, just between the two of us, he can’t be that immune to a pretty face, can he?’
‘And, if he isn’t, you want to make sure that you’re the one in the firing-line?’
‘Got it in one.’ She smiled but without humour. ‘I’d give my right arm to get into the sack with him.’
‘Really?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘No,’ Francesca said coldly. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a lot of work to do.’
‘Sure.’ Helen walked towards the door. ‘He in tomorrow?’ she asked, and Francesca nodded. ‘Tell him I’ll come by to collect that stuff in the morning.’ And she was gone, leaving an unpleasant taste in Francesca’s mouth.
That, she thought acidly, was office politics—something else of which she had no experience.
She was ready to leave by five-thirty, and it was something of a relief to see Rupert at seven—sweet, uncomplicated Rupert, who wouldn’t know the meaning of ‘connive’ if it jumped in front of him waving a sign in neon lettering.
‘You look tired,’ he said as they walked towards his car—a sleek red Jaguar which he had obligingly parked in the very centre of the courtyard. ‘Tired yet extraordinarily gorgeous, considering all we’re doing is going out for a meal. Sure you won’t change your mind about coming out to a nightclub with me? We could dance till dawn and drink until at least midnight.’
Francesca laughed. He was incorrigible. He was also easy company. They drove to the restaurant—a French bistro in the theatre district—and he entertained her with a barrage of fairly trivial chat, which was quite amusing nevertheless. Rupert had always felt uncomfortable with pregnant pauses in conversation, and consequently he was adept at making small talk, which, she thought as they went into the restaurant, was just what she needed.
The restaurant was dimly lit, in accordance with someone’s clever notion that subdued lighting was conducive to a romantic atmosphere.
The proprietor knew them well and showed them to a little table in the corner, much loved by aficionados because it offered an excellent view of the other diners. Rupert liked it. From there he could watch the comings and goings of the largely pre and post theatre crowd who were wealthy enough to afford the exorbitant prices the place charged.
Privileges, Francesca thought suddenly—all those privileges that money could buy.
She had never known what it was like to have her choice of restaurant narrowed down to a hamburger bar because of financial considerations. Of course, she had eaten hamburgers, and she had enjoyed them, but then she had chosen to. She frowned and wondered why she was devoting so much time to these questions when they had never really bothered her before.
She was subdued over the meal, listening to Rupert ramble on in his harmless, amusing fashion. He was typical of all her friends—out for a good time, ever game for harmless, mostly expensive fun. But they all lacked something, didn’t they? she thought. It was as though reality hadn’t quite impinged upon them.
Then she thought of Oliver Kemp, and that irritated her. He was hardly what she would call a role model of a caring man—at least not as far as he had shown her—but still, he was somehow more substantial than anyone else she had ever met, wasn’t he?
Rupert was saying something and she nodded amiably enough, letting her eyes drift through the crowded restaurant, and she saw him just as he saw her. Their eyes tangled in the dimly lit room, and then, with a feeling of sinking horror, she watched as he and his companion walked towards their table.
At first she hardly noticed the woman with him. The only thing her eyes could focus on was the masculine figure in his dark suit with a cream silk tie around his neck.
‘Oh, God, Rupert,’ she whispered nervously. ‘Here comes my boss.’
They watched until Oliver had approached the table, then Rupert, ever ready with a tactless opening statement, said, smiling broadly, ‘So you’re the slave-driver I’ve been hearing so much about!’ He stood up, unruffled by Oliver’s cool, speculative expression, and said expansively, ‘Why don’t you pull up a couple of pews and join us?’
‘I’m sure Mr Kemp has a table booked,’ Francesca said, mortified, while the woman with him watched the cabaret with a pleasant smile.
‘We’d love to join you,’ she said, still smiling, and for the first time Francesca looked at her fully.
Was this Imogen Sattler—the tall, hard woman she had envisaged from Rupert’s vague description? The self-made woman who had climbed to the top of her career?
She was small, with short, curly fair hair and an intelligently serious face.
‘I take it you’ve just come from a play?’ Rupert asked them both as they sat down, and Oliver nodded, looking at Francesca with amusement, as though the playboy man in her life was just precisely as he had imagined.
‘I’m Rupert Thompson, by the way,’ Rupert said with limitless bonhomie. ‘General wastrel but with a heart of gold.’
The woman laughed and said brightly, ‘What a novel introduction. I’m Imogen Sattler.’ She looked at Francesca. ‘And I’m so glad to meet you. I hope you work out as Oliver’s secretary. He seems to run through them at a rate of knots.’ She glanced at him fondly, and Francesca felt a spurt of confused emotion which she could neither
