A Professional Marriage

The flat consisted of a sitting room, bathroom, a tiny kitchen and two bedrooms, though the second bedroom was no bigger than her parents’ broom cupboard. ‘If there’s a chance, I’ll take it,’ Chesnie declared at once. The rent was astronomical—but so too was her salary.

‘You’re sure?’ Nerissa questioned. ‘You’re welcome to stay with me for as long as you like—if you can put up with Tibbetts.’ ‘Tibbetts’ being her husband, Stephen Tibbetts.

‘This will do fine,’ Chesnie assured her, and in no time Nerissa was speaking to her husband on the phone.

‘You can move in any time,’ she said the moment she had ended her call. ‘Let’s celebrate!’

Chesnie was grateful that the celebration was nothing more than a meal out with a glass of wine.

Tuesday proved every bit as busy as the previous day, with Barbara Platt trying to break her in gently but as aware as Chesnie that there was not too much time remaining before Barbara departed a week on Friday.

Joel Davenport had already been at his desk for over an hour when Chesnie arrived at her office on Wednesday. She was not late, was in fact fifteen minutes early. In the short time she’d been there she had heard that he simply ate up work—throughout that day he proved it.

Not that she had much to do with him. Though he did leave his office at one point to speak to Barbara and to pause in passing to ask, pleasantly enough, ‘Settling in?’

She raised her head, maintaining her cool image to politely agree, ‘Yes, thank you,’ and he went on to Barbara’s desk and Chesnie went back to what she had been doing.

By Friday, although she was starting to grow more confident that she was up to the job, she was nevertheless mentally exhausted by the time she arrived at her sister’s home, to be greeted by Nerissa smilingly telling her, ‘Philip Pomeroy rang. He wants to take you out.’

‘You make me sound like a set of dentures! Who’s Philip Pomeroy?’

‘You’re hopeless!’ Nerissa complained. ‘You met him at my party last Saturday. Tallish, wavy brownish hair, very slightly receding, pushing forty. Ring any bells?’

Chesnie did a mental flip back to the party, and placed Philip Pomeroy as a rather amiable man, interested in her, but inoffensive with it. ‘Did you tell him I was busy?’

‘I told him you’d ring him.’

‘Nerissa!’

‘Oh, go on, ring him. He’s nice.’

Out of courtesy to her sister, who had promised a return phone call on her behalf, Chesnie reluctantly phoned Philip Pomeroy, who appeared pleased she had rung and straight away asked her to dine with him.

‘I’m very busy at the moment,’ she replied.

‘You’re too busy to eat?’

‘I’m moving into a new flat tomorrow,’ she explained. ‘It will take me over a week to get everything unpacked.’

‘I could bring champagne and caviar round, and we could snack while you unpack.’

She laughed and decided she liked him. ‘Some other time,’ she said, and rang off.

Chesnie had a change from mental exhaustion on Saturday, when she met the delivery van from Cambridge and set about placing her belongings and hanging up curtains.

On Monday Barbara Platt afforded her the most wonderful, if scary, compliment by telling her that Joel Davenport had a meeting at one of their other businesses and that Barbara was going with him. ‘We won’t be back again today, but I know you’ll cope.’

Chesnie wished she had Barbara’s confidence in that, but, to her delight—though bearing in mind it had gone seven in the evening before she finally switched off her computer—cope she did. She was not complaining—she was starting to really enjoy her job. She went home to her new flat feeling on top of the world.

Friday, Barbara’s last day, arrived all too quickly. Chesnie spent the morning eagerly absorbing all and everything that Barbara was telling her of the more confidential details of their work. She supposed that with Barbara divulging such matters it must mean that she had satisfied herself that the new PA was worthy of such confidences.

Feeling enormously pleased with Barbara’s trust, Chesnie was further delighted when at half past twelve the good-looking Joel Davenport came into their office and, instead of going over to Barbara’s desk, came over to Chesnie.

‘I’m taking my number one PA for an extended lunch. The office is all yours, Chesnie Cosgrove.’

Indeed, so delighted was she at this further show of trust in her abilities that her cool exterior slipped momentarily. She smiled, a natural smile. ‘Bon appétit,’ she replied.

She became aware that Joel Davenport was staring at her as if seeing something new in her for the first time, but before she could change her smile back to her more usual guarded smile he muttered, ‘Those incredibly long eyelashes can’t be real.’

‘I’m afraid they are,’ she replied.

‘Amazing,’ he commented—and took his ‘number one’ PA off for a parting lunch.

Feeling a mite disturbed by Joel Davenport’s personal comment—even if it had sounded more matter-of-fact than personal—Chesnie was soon over any disquiet when she realised that if Barbara was his number one PA today, then on Monday yours truly, Chesnie Cosgrove, would be number one!

She had plenty to do, and was fully involved in her work when at five to three Barbara came back from what it transpired had been a champagne lunch.

‘Joel has gone on to keep his three o’clock appointment,’ Barbara explained. ‘Now, what can I help you with?’

‘I think you’ve filled in as many blanks as you can,’ Chesnie replied.

And guessed she must have sounded a mite apprehensive when Barbara replied that she was confident she would cope admirably. ‘A bit different from your predecessor.’

‘My predecessor?’ Chesnie was puzzled. Mustard had nothing on Joel Davenport’s present PA.

‘Didn’t I mention it?’ Barbara realised that she hadn’t, and went on to correct that oversight.

Apparently Barbara’s life had changed dramatically when she had met Derek Platt. In no time she had fallen in love and married him. Derek had been in the process of purchasing a small holding in the Welsh borders, and that had been fine by Barbara. A smart and mature woman, she’d looked forward to this change of lifestyle.

‘I gave ample notice, and we thought we’d selected the right person. But she proved not up to the job, and Joel didn’t think the other candidates were any better, so we advertised again. And—’ she smiled ‘—here you are. And, I’m certain, more than up to the job.’

Chesnie fervently hoped she was right. ‘That won’t prevent you from leaving me your phone number, I hope?’ It had been Barbara’s suggestion that she would. But she laughed and, having more or less cleared her desk, began to expand on matters other than the work which Chesnie would be dealing with.

Barbara was full of praise for Joel. Yeatman Trading had been going through a very tough time when he had joined the firm. He had seen at once what needed to be done, and had done it—had transformed the company—and been rewarded with a seat on the board.

‘And now,’ Barbara continued, ‘within the next year Winslow Yeatman is going to retire.’

‘The chairman?’ Chesnie had picked that up from somewhere during the past two weeks.

‘None other,’ Barbara agreed. ‘And Joel wants that job—very badly. He has very progressive ideas, and believes that to be able to put those ideas into effect he needs to be chairman.’

‘Will he get it?’ Chesnie asked.

‘If there’s any justice he will,’ Barbara answered. ‘It’s largely through his efforts that a firm that was heading for the rocks has gone from strength to strength this past ten years. He, more than anyone, is responsible for its growth and expansion. He’s ambitious and hard-headed when it comes to business. But he’s good. They certainly don’t come any better.’

Chesnie had seen that much for herself in the short time she’d been there. ‘You think he might not get it?’ she asked.

‘Nothing’s certain. The problem here is that this started off as a family firm a hundred or so years ago, and, although new blood such as Joel has gradually infiltrated, over half the board are family members. Three of whom I know for a fact want a Yeatman to head the company. There are nine people on the board, excluding the chairman, and while I know there are three of the directors who are for Joel, he can’t vote for himself, so that leaves two other votes as yet unaccounted for. Should the vote be split and Winslow Yeatman have to make the casting vote then it’s more than likely he’ll favour a family man.’

‘One of his family?’

Barbara shook her head. ‘A man with a family. He also wants what is best for the firm.’

‘Doesn’t J…Mr Davenport have a family?’

‘He’s not married.’

Chesnie felt a little surprised. ‘Some woman named Felice phoned for him last week, and a woman named Gina phoned to speak to him on Monday. I put them in the wife and daughter slot.’

‘Girlfriends.’ Barbara corrected Chesnie’s assumption. ‘He’s more than happy with his bachelor lifestyle.’ She gave a wicked grin. ‘Though his fellow director, Arlene Enderby, née Yeatman, recently divorced, non-working but taking her cut just the same—and who just happens to be the chairman’s niece—has got her eye on Joel.’

‘Does he know?’

Barbara gave a whoop of laughter. ‘I’ve an idea that there’s not much that goes on in the female mind that Joel doesn’t know. He’s taken her out a couple of times, so I’m positive she will have filled in any gaps.’ At that point Barbara seemed to collect herself. ‘And I’m talking too much—must be the champage—I’m not used to it. Either that or some instinctive feeling that you’ll be better able to help him get what he deserves and has worked for if you know more of what’s going on.’

At a quarter to five Joel Davenport, who must have entered his office by the outer door, rang for Barbara to go in to see him. She came out ten minutes later, emotional tears in her eyes, a cheque in one hand, a jeweller’s box in the other, and a gorgeous bouquet of flowers in her arms.

‘Oh, Chesnie,’ she said, emotion still with her after the presentation she had just received, ‘I do so hope you’ll be as happy working here as I have been.’

‘I’m sure I shall,’ Chesnie answered with a smile, but more hoped that she could do the job. For, aside from the everyday difficulties and stress that were part and parcel of the job, from what Barbara had said earlier it seemed there was a lot of in-fighting going on too.

For a fact, there were three board members who were against Joel Davenport getting the chairman’s job.

Chesnie suddenly felt swallowed up by an unexpected huge wave of loyalty, and she determined that if there was any small thing in her power she could do to help him get that chairman’s job, she would do it. Then she laughed at herself. What on earth did she think she, a PA, could do that would help when it came to electing the new chairman?

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS four weeks since Barbara had left, and Chesnie was thankful that in those four weeks she had not had to phone Barbara or needed to call on the services of Eileen Gray, a kind of floating PA who, while not wanting the pressure of being anyone’s full-time PA, was so good at the job that the company did not want to let her go.

Chesnie drove to work that Monday four weeks after Barbara’s departure and for the first time truly believed that she could do the job of Joel’s number one PA.

It had not been an easy four weeks. Joel Davenport, for all he made his job seem effortless, had an appetite for work that at first had caused her to work in overdrive just to try and keep up with him.

She worked late; once, when he was out for the day, staying at the office until gone nine at night to catch up and so have her desk clear for the next morning.

Most evenings she staggered home to make a quick snack, get her smart business clothes ready for the morning, and fall into bed. Sometimes she dreamed of him, but that was hardly surprising; he had become a dominant force in her life.

On one weekend she had visited her grandfather in Herefordshire, and another weekend she’d gone to see her parents in Cambridge. Robina had been there, having left Ronnie for a ‘final’ time. She was divorcing him, she’d declared in floods of tears, she’d had enough. Ronnie had phoned, and there were more tears as Robina had screeched a list of his faults down the phone at him.

All that hate and recrimination had served only to freshly endorse for Chesnie that she’d got the better bargain when 23 she’d decided never to marry. Though she had to smile—when would she get the chance? Working for and with such a high-powered, work-oriented man, she didn’t have the time to date, much less to build any kind of relationship.

Which reminded her. Nerissa had telephoned last night to say Philip Pomeroy had rung again and could he have her sister’s number?

‘You didn’t give it to him?’ Chesnie had asked, guessing that Philip wanted to ask her out; she didn’t have time to go out. By not letting him have her newly connected number, she was spared having to make excuses.

‘I promised you I wouldn’t,’ Nerissa had confirmed.

With her new-found confidence in her ability to cope with her job, Chesnie parked her grandfather’s car, swung into the building and took the lift to the top floor. It went without saying that Joel Davenport would already be hard at work. Unless he was out of town he was always in before her.

An involuntary smile lit her mouth as she recalled that first Monday after Barbara had gone. Hoping to look as cool and as poised as she was striving to look, Chesnie, feeling a bundle of nerves, had entered her office. No sooner had she sat down, though, and Joel Davenport had come to greet her as if it had been her first day.

‘Good morning, Chesnie,’ he’d said pleasantly. ‘We haven’t frightened you off, then?’

She had given him her guarded smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Davenport,’ she’d replied and, inwardly churning, ‘I don’t scare easily,’ she had added.

He’d studied her, nodded, and then commented, ‘That’s what I like to hear. The name’s Joel,’ he indicated, and her first day as numero uno had begun.

The door between the two offices stood open today, as it sometimes did when she went in. ‘Good morning,’ Chesnie called to the dark-blond-haired man absorbed in the paperwork in front of him.

‘Good morning,’ he answered, but did not raise his head. Business as usual.

Chesnie had barely stowed her bag when Darren, the post boy, arrived. ‘Good morning, Miss Cosgrove,’ he said huskily, and as their hands touched as she relieved him of the bundles of post he blushed crimson.

Chesnie took her eyes from him, giving him time to compose himself. ‘How’s your mother?’ she asked. ‘I do hope she’s on the mend.’ She glanced at him, glad to see his blush had died down.

‘She’s going back to work today,’ he answered on a gulp of breath. ‘Thank you,’ he added, and gave her a beautiful smile as his eyes glued to her face, he backed to the door.

Then he became aware that Joel Davenport had come from his office and was standing watching him—Darren bolted. ‘That young man idolises you,’ Joel said abruptly.

‘It’s only a crush,’ Chesnie replied, and was ready to deal with any query her employer had when she discovered he wasn’t ready to dismiss the subject yet.

‘He’ll never get over it while you treat him that way!’

What way was that? ‘I’d rather be pleasant to him than not,’ she answered, as calmly as she was able.

‘Is that the way you treat all your admirers?’

What had this got to do with work? ‘It depends how old they are,’ she replied evenly. ‘Young men like Darren, sensitive young men, deserve to have their blushes respected. Older, more cynical men,’ she went on, looking one such straight in the eye, ‘are too tough to need kid-glove treatment.’

A grunt was her answer. ‘Bring the post through when you’ve sorted it!’ he rapped.

Yes, sir, three bags full, sir. And, anyhow, he could talk! In the short time she’d been there she’d observed he had quite a fan club amongst the female staff.

The morning that had got off to a rancorous start did not improve much for Chesnie when, nearing one o’clock, Joel’s office door opened. Observing he wasn’t there, the most striking-looking blue-eyed brunette, sporting a sensational tan, fluttered through and into Chesnie’s office.

‘You must be Chesnie!’ She smiled. ‘Uncle Winslow told me all about you.’

‘Uncle Winslow’ must be Winslow Yeatman, the chairman. Chesnie had by then met him several times and found him a most charming gentleman. ‘You must be Arlene Enderby,’ Chesnie guessed—the non-working director of the company.

‘You have it. I’ve come to take Joel to lunch, but he doesn’t appear to be in.’

Chesnie, who managed Joel’s diary with keen efficiency, knew for certain he did not have a lunch appointment with the chairman’s niece. ‘He’s probably been held up somewhere,’ she suggested tactfully. ‘Perhaps…’

‘Oh, we haven’t arranged lunch. I’ve just got back from soaking up the sun on holiday.’ She almost purred as she trotted out, ‘We have such a lot to catch up on, I thought—’ She broke off to exclaim, ‘Ah!’ as they heard a door open and saw Joel stride into his office. ‘Joel! Darling!’ Arlene Enderby cried, and was in the other office, flinging her arms around him as if he was some long-lost lover.

Chesnie met the eyes of her employer as Arlene Enderby snuggled into his arms. Chesnie did not smile; neither did he. She got up and deliberately closed the door—and discovered she was inwardly shaking, experiencing the strangest sensation of not caring to see him with his arms around some woman. How odd! Why should it bother her at all?

It wasn’t in the least odd, she decided a moment later. This was a place of business and that was why she didn’t care for it. Everything that happened in this office should be purely professional. Which wasn’t what was happening next door. What was happening next door? It was very quiet in there. She half wished she had left the door open.

Chesnie was over the slight glitch in her equilibrium by the next day. She smiled and chatted lightly to Darren when he brought the post, and dealt pleasantly with the various heads of department—male ones—who seemed to find it necessary to stop by her desk for one reason or another. She had gradually got to know more and more of the people within the organisation, and it was good to be able to put a face to the various names that cropped up from time to time.

Though there was one new face she hadn’t seen before. The tall white-haired man poked his head round her office door at a quarter to one and came in. ‘Well, you’re a decided improvement on Barbara Thingy,’ he beamed, and, when Chesnie looked pleasantly enquiring, asked, ‘Is my son around?’

‘You’re Joel’s father?’

‘I know, I know. I don’t look old enough to have a son that age,’ quipped the man Chesnie thought must be at least seventy. ‘Magnus Davenport, at your service.’ He extended his right hand, and Chesnie immediately decided she liked him.

‘Chesnie Cosgrove,’ she introduced herself, shaking his hand. ‘I’m afraid your son is at a business lunch. Can I help you at all?’

‘Oh, dear, that’s a nuisance! I’ve driven all the way across the city hoping he’d take me to lunch,’ Davenport Senior replied with a sigh.

Chesnie thought for a moment. The matter was settled when it came to her that Joel’s father was only about ten years younger than Gramps. She wouldn’t hesitate to take her grandfather to lunch. ‘I’ll take you if you like?’ she offered.

‘I thought you’d never ask!’ he beamed.

Over lunch she discovered Magnus Davenport was a bit of a rascal. He insisted that she call him by his first name, but as he chatted away freely, about everything and everyone, she found that as well as being an outrageous gossip he was also a bit of a flirt—but quite harmless.

He openly told her that his wife, Joel’s mother, had thrown him out and divorced him years ago. ‘Said I was shiftless. Can you believe that? And that she’d had enough.’ Chesnie was on the point of feeling sorry for him when all of a sudden he laughed. ‘D’you know, I can’t really blame her? I never did hold down a job for long. Come to think of it, one of the happiest days I’ve had was when I retired.’

Chesnie had to laugh too; he had a sort of infectious quality about him. ‘I must think about getting back,’ she hinted, when he seemed inclined to linger over his coffee.

‘I’m going to the races tomorrow. Fancy coming with me?’ he asked.

She smiled and declined, and knew she was going to be late when Magnus Davenport drove her back to the Yeatman Trading building. She was not unduly alarmed that it was nearer half past two than two o’clock when Magnus dropped her off. She had worked late many times, and would cheerfully work late tonight if she hadn’t finished her workload by five.

‘I won’t come in—give me a call if you change your mind about the races,’ he said, and handed her his card.

Chesnie was smiling as she bade him goodbye, but had work on her mind as she opened the door to her office. She noticed at once that the communicating door to her employer’s office was open and that Joel was back from his business lunch.

Courtesy demanded that she commented on her lateness. She crossed that carpet and was aware that Joel knew she had returned, even though she hadn’t noticed him look up.

Nor did he glance up then, when she stood to the side of his desk. For some reason it niggled her. She’d be blessed if she’d say a word till he acknowledged her presence.

Just as she was about to turn around and go back to her office, however, he carefully laid down his pen. Then his head came up. He leaned back in his chair, silently appraising her, from the top of her red-blonde hair, to her slender but curvy figure in the royal blue suit, and all the way down to her shoes. Then, while she was studying his firm jaw, noticing that his mouth was pretty terrific even without the semblance of a smile, he moved his glance swiftly upwards and his blue eyes met her stubborn green ones head on.

Good, she’d got his attention. He waited—waited for her to speak first—and she felt quite irritated about that too. But she had been at pains to adopt a cool front; she wasn’t about to let it slip now.

‘Your father called,’ she began evenly, pleasantly. ‘He was disappointed not to see you,’ she added. ‘We went to lunch,’ she informed him, when Davenport said nothing.

‘No doubt you were able to help him over his disappointment,’ he threw in sourly, and at that moment pugilistic tendencies awakened in Chesnie that she’d had no idea she possessed. To her amazement she felt a momentary desire to poke Davenport Junior in the eye with something sharp and painful. ‘Who paid?’ he asked abruptly, his tone toughening.

What was it with him? The nerve! ‘Your father was my guest,’ she answered primly.

‘He conned you into taking him to lunch, didn’t he?’

‘Not at all. I liked him,’ she began. ‘He—’

‘I’ll reimburse you!’ Joel Davenport cut in sharply—and her anger went soaring, and with it her cool image.

‘No, you won’t!’ she flared hotly, and saw him smile—every bit as if he really enjoyed fracturing the cool front she’d displayed this past six weeks.

He shrugged. ‘So I won’t,’ he agreed, his tone all at once silky, and picked up his pen.

Chesnie went swiftly back to her own office. She felt then that she hated him. He’d done that on purpose—made her forget her poise for a moment. She didn’t want her front fractured; it made her feel vulnerable. She did not care for the feeling.

She slammed into her work and wanted nothing to do with him. This was what happened when you let personalities in on the scene. Meeting his father, liking him, laughing with him, had put a severe dent in the Chesnie Cosgrove she preferred to show the world. It seemed as if one Davenport had softened her up for another. Well, she wasn’t having it.