that he would hardly ever see them from now on. Their priorities would be their wives and their families, not him. He would become old news, someone whom they recalled with vague fondness when they glanced through their photo albums every decade or so.
‘Who’s that man, Dad?’ he imagined Alex’s son asking. Harriet was expecting a boy.
‘Oh, that’s Jeremy. A chap I knew once. We went to Oxford together. He was the best man at our wedding. Gosh. Haven’t seen him for years.’
Jeremy scowled as he slammed the photo face down on the desk and snatched up his phone.
‘Damn it all, I’m not going to let that happen,’ he ground out as he retrieved Alex’s number.
Realising it would be the middle of the night in Australia—not nice to call at such an hour—Jeremy sent an email volunteering himself for godfather duty when the time came. That done, he righted the photo, placed it back in its pride of place and settled down to have a look at their current sales figures. Finding the file on his laptop, he clicked it open but didn’t get far before there was a rapid tap-tap-tap on his door.
‘Come in, Madge,’ he said.
Madge entered as briskly as she did everything. In her mid-fifties, Madge was a thin, plain woman with cropped grey hair, piercing blue eyes and a schoolmarm manner. Jeremy had hired her soon after buying the business, the previous owner’s secretary having quit in a huff over the new owner’s high-handed tactics. Jeremy had been impressed with Madge’s no-nonsense attitude, plus her knowledge of the publishing industry. He liked her enormously, and the affection was mutual.
‘We have a problem,’ she said straight away.
‘Which is?’
‘Kenneth Jacobs can’t be the auctioneer at tonight’s charity auction. He has a terrible head cold. I could hardly understand him on the phone just now.’
‘I see,’ Jeremy said, not actually seeing at all. He knew who Kenneth Jacobs was; hard not to, since he was Jeremy’s only best-selling author, having come with the deal when he’d bought the business. Kenneth wrote the grizzliest of murder mysteries, which had a huge fan base but whose forty-plus books hadn’t been marketed properly. Despite knowing this, Kenneth hadn’t left the publisher who’d given him his start. A crusty old bachelor, Kenneth was lazy when it came to business matters. Once Jeremy had taken the helm, he’d republished Kenneth’s entire back list, with new covers, and put them all out as e-Books.
‘What charity auction?’ Jeremy asked, having gained the impression that he was supposed to already know.
Madge rolled her eyes. ‘Truly. Just as well you have me to organise things around here. It’s not easy working for a man who has a short-term memory loss.’
‘I’ll have you know I have a photographic memory,’ Jeremy said defensively whilst his mind scrambled to remember what it was he’d forgotten.
‘In that case I’ll photograph everything for you in the future instead of telling you,’ Madge said with her usual caustic wit.
As much as Jeremy often enjoyed Madge’s dry sense of humour, on this occasion his patience was wearing a little thin.
‘Do that, Madge. But for now I would appreciate it if you’d explain about this charity auction one more time, then tell me exactly how I’m supposed to fix the problem of Kenneth having a head cold.’ Though by now he had a pretty good idea. Jeremy wasn’t always the most intuitive of men, but he wasn’t thick, either.
Madge expelled one of her exasperated sighs. ‘I would have thought that the words charity auction were self-explanatory. But that’s beside the point. You told me after the last charity dinner you went to that I wasn’t to accept any more invitations to such dos. You said you’d rather slash your wrists than sit through another of those dinners where the food was below par and the speakers intolerably boring. You said you were happy to donate to whatever cause was going but you’d given up being a masochist when you stopped working for your father. You said that—’
‘Yes, yes,’ Jeremy broke in firmly. ‘I get the picture. But that last dinner was just a meal followed by speeches, not something as interesting as an auction. Now, if you don’t mind, please fill me in on the relevant details and stop with the ancient history lesson.’
Madge looked as close to sheepish as he’d ever seen her. ‘Right. Well, it’s being held in the ballroom of the Chelsea Hotel, and it’s to raise funds for the women’s refuges in the inner-city area. There’s a sit-down dinner before the auction, which I’m assured will have quality food and which should raise a good sum of money since it costs a small fortune per head. I gather the place is going to be full of society’s finest. Kenneth was to be the auctioneer, the last prize being the privilege of the winning bidder having their name used as a character in his next book. It’s been done before, of course, by other authors. But never by Kenneth. The poor fellow is quite disappointed, as well as worried about letting Alice down. She’s the girl who’s organised everything. Anyway, I told him that you would do it in his stead.’
Jeremy pretended to look displeased. ‘Oh, you did, did you?’
For a split second, a worried frown formed on Madge’s high forehead. But then she smiled.
‘You’re just joking, right?’
Jeremy grinned.
Madge flushed with relief and pleasure. She adored Jeremy, envying his mother for having such a warm and wonderful son. He might be a devil where the ladies were concerned—or so she’d been told—but he was a good man and a great boss. Smart, sensible and surprisingly sensitive. She didn’t doubt that one day he’d fall in love and settle down.
‘You are a teaser,’ she said. ‘Now, do you want me to ring Alice and tell her you’ll do the job as auctioneer? Or do you want to ring her yourself?’
‘What do you think, Madge?’
This was another thing she liked about her boss. He often asked her opinion. And usually took it.
‘I think you should ring her yourself,’ she said. ‘It would put her mind at rest. She seemed rather stressed. I gained the impression she was new at this job.’
‘Right,’ he replied, nodding. ‘You’d better get me her number, then.’
Madge already had it in hand, of course.
‘You are a very devious woman,’ he said as she gave it to him.
‘And you are a very sweet man,’ she returned with a smug smile before turning and leaving him to it.
Jeremy found himself smiling as he keyed Alice’s number into his phone.
‘Alice Waterhouse,’ she answered immediately, her voice crisp and very businesslike, its cut-glass accent betraying an education at one of those private girls’ schools that turned out girls who invariably worked in jobs such as PR or fund-raising for charities before marrying someone suitable to their class.
Jeremy wasn’t overly keen on girls from privileged backgrounds, which was rather hypocritical of him, given his own background. There’d been a time when he hadn’t cared about such things. If a girl was pretty and keen on him, then he didn’t give their character—or their upbringing—much
