Husband-To-Be

‘Really? Why? Is a profound respect for felt display boards with Velcro attachments supposed to come with the territory?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘No, but—aren’t you supposed to be steely-eyed and granite-jawed? Shouldn’t you have a five-year plan? Shouldn’t you be shouting at me for being five minutes late, or wearing too short a skirt—?’

‘I won’t hear a word against that skirt,’ he interrupted.

‘How could you just offer me a job on the spur of the moment? You should be grilling me on my qualifications—you didn’t even ask me to take a typing test!’ she said accusingly.

He considered a moment, absent-mindedly fanning the pages of the catalogue, then met her eyes with another of those quizzical smiles. Rachel didn’t know how Olivia could be so impervious to them—Rachel could feel her own mouth smiling back, could even feel her pulse speeding up, and she, after all, was madly in love with Driscoll.

‘Sorry, I suppose it must seem a bit haphazard.’ The blue eyes were mildly amused. ‘Well, it probably wouldn’t hurt to get a few things straight.’

He drummed his fingers on the table-top. ‘The thing is, the main thing you find out from any test is whether someone can pass the test. If you grill someone, you find out how they stand up to a grilling—but it’s not much of a way to getting at what you really want to know, and you may have alienated a first-class worker before their first day on the job. In my experience what actually matters is how much somebody wants to do a job, and how good they are at getting what they want—of course skills matter, but they’re secondary.’

He shrugged. ‘Well, you were persistent, and prepared to go for the job under embarrassing circumstances, in the teeth of probable opposition from your fiancé—so the will was there. And you were apparently somebody who’d succeeded in getting an ordinary member of the public on first-name terms with a tarantula, so I reckoned you could find a way when you had the will. It was just a hunch, but my hunches usually work out pretty well—if you ask me, that’s probably the thing self-made millionaires usually have in common.’

Rachel fought down an almost irresistible urge to ask if he’d had a hunch about Olivia. Or was she somebody else who’d wanted a job badly enough? Had Olivia convinced him she wanted the job of wife? But she’d seemed so perfunctory about everything but selecting the furniture! ‘Well, I’ll try to justify your faith in me,’ she said primly instead.

He laughed. ‘You already have. You look like a million dollars—definitely a credit to the firm. As for typing, I assume you wouldn’t have wanted the job if you didn’t have some knowledge of a keyboard. There won’t be a huge amount to get through, so as long as the finished product looks all right I don’t care whether you type a hundred words a minute or use the fast three-finger method.’

‘And what if I don’t work out?’ Rachel persisted, oddly curious.

‘Oh, I’ll just have to practise looking steely-eyed when I shave. Seriously, though—if you’re not up to the job I’ll have to get someone else in; it’s as simple as that—and I can certainly show someone the door if I have to. But even then I’d still think I could’ve made a more expensive mistake using some big recruitment agency that gave spelling tests and typing tests and couldn’t see the potential in a girl with a way with spiders.’

He opened the catalogue again and gestured beside him. ‘So there you have it,’ he said, with another of those knee-weakening grins. ‘The secret of my success. But my Achilles’ heel is a complete lack of sympathy for office or any other furniture—so any advice you can give will be more than welcome.’

Rachel hesitated, then hopped up to sit beside him on the table and look down at the furniture portrayed in the glossy pages. Suddenly her skirt seemed a lot shorter, she realised; an endless expanse of gleaming, Lycra-clad leg seemed to swing over the edge of the table. And Grant, suddenly, seemed not just close but disturbingly close. Their knees were almost touching; he’d put the catalogue on her lap now, and leant over her shoulder to inspect it. She could see the smooth, clean line of his jaw, the ashdark hair cut close to the skull around his ear, shading the bright gleam of hair that had been burnished by the sun.

‘Is something the matter?’ he asked, the brilliant blue eyes meeting hers. ‘I’m really not a hard taskmaster, you know.’

Rachel shook her head.

His eyes dropped to the page again. ‘I don’t know,’ he said gloomily. ‘This all seems so unnecessary. Do you know anything about conferences?’

He stretched out a hand to turn a page, accidentally brushing Rachel’s arm. She felt as if an electric shock had suddenly run up her arm; in her confusion she forgot that too much knowledge was a dangerous thing.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘I know all about conferences. You really don’t need to worry about all this paraphernalia—I mean, you need enough to look respectable, but it’s not the main thing.’ She was speaking rapidly to distract herself from his closeness now—saying the first thing that came into her head.

‘The thing you’ve got to remember is that the papers aren’t really the point—they’re an excuse. The overhead projectors are just to make it look like a good excuse. The big names will come and give papers they’ve put together in three days—they won’t waste time doing something big for a mere conference—and shoals of minor people will give things they’ve cobbled together to get a publication record.’

‘You’re very cynical, Spidergirl,’ he told her. ‘If you’re right, it’s hardly worth doing at all, is it? I might as well turn the place into an adventure park.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘Not necessarily,’ she assured him. ‘The point of it all is—it’s sort of like giving people a chance to have those conversations you had over a campfire drinking tea from a tin. Nobody’s going to pay an airfare to let someone sit by a campfire and eat baked beans, whereas people can get funding to go to a conference, especially if they’re giving a paper. And once they’re there—with a bit of luck—some sparks might fly.’

She flicked the catalogue dismissively. ‘Of course a lot of it’s just people promoting their careers, but a few ideas can come out of it. So the crucial thing is to make it easy for people to socialise outside the papers. Keep the bar or, better, bars open as long as you can. Have lots of little nooks where a few people can sit over coffee. Make it easy to get refreshments in an informal way any time of the day or night. Get that right and, frankly, no one will care whether you’ve got Velcro or Sellotape on your felt-backed boards.’

It was only when she reached the end of this little speech that she realised that Grant was looking at her oddly.

‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ he remarked. ‘I thought there was more to you than meets the eye.’

‘Oh...’ said. Rachel. ‘I lived in a university town for several years,’ she explained, perfectly truthfully. ‘I helped out at a lot of conferences.’ Mainly by giving papers, but never mind that.

‘I see,’ said Grant. He smiled. ‘I tried to go to a conference once. R. K. V. Hawkins was giving a paper on insect populations in the pampas. Then a crisis blew up at work and I missed him. But I refuse to believe it was just something R. K. V. threw together for the airfare.’

Before Rachel could think of a suitable reply to this the telephone rang. She looked wildly around; the sound seemed to be coming from a mound of papers in the corner.

‘I’ll get it!’ they both exclaimed, leaping from the table. This was a mistake.

The smooth soles of Rachel’s brand new shoes skidded on one of the brochures which had been tossed to the floor; Grant’s beautifully polished black loafers slipped on another. They toppled headlong to the ground.

Grant reached out a long arm and extracted the telephone from beneath the pile of papers. ‘Arrowmead Conference Centre,’ he said, as imperturbably as if he’d been sitting behind a twelve by ten black marble desk instead of entangled on the floor with a breathless secretary. ‘Oh—yes, she’s right here.

‘It’s for you,’ he said to Rachel, handing over the receiver.

Rachel held it to her ear.

‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Oh, hello, Driscoll.’

Grant had been on the point of sitting up, but he now simply propped himself on one elbow and gave her a lazy grin. ‘Tell him he’s a lucky man,’ he said. ‘Tell him if he tries to interfere with your career he’ll have me to reckon with.’

Rachel frowned. ‘No, it’s nothing, Driscoll—no, I—yes, I thought I’d give it a try—yes, I realise it’s a departure, but I—I really don’t think this is the time to discuss this.’

Driscoll ignored her. ‘Look, Rache, something big has come up. You got a letter from Bell Conglomerates—they want you to do an environmental impact study for them—plenty of scope for both of us.’

‘You opened it?’ said Rachel.

‘Of course I opened it. It could have been important. It is important. There’s not a moment to lose.’

‘But I’m not interested,’ protested Rachel.

Driscoll argued vehemently. At last, he said reluctantly, ‘Well, if you don’t want it, maybe I’ll apply on my own. Tell you what, why don’t we both go to London in person? Then you can put in a good word for me—you know, say you’re definitely not interested and that I’m the next best thing.’

Rachel hesitated. Driscoll had never been much of a one for fieldwork. Would he be able to do an independent survey if it turned out one was needed? But there was Grant’s philosophy, she reminded herself—and Driscoll certainly wanted the job badly.

‘Well, all right,’ she said at last. ‘When do you want to go?’

‘They’ve given you an appointment for Wednesday next week.’

‘I’ll see if I can make it,’ Rachel said reluctantly.

Grant was still looking at her, the brilliant blue eyes watchful. ‘Now, don’t tell me he’s talked you into quitting on your first day on the job,’ he said.

Rachel shook her head. ‘I’m afraid you won’t like it, though,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’ve got to go up to London on Wednesday next week.’

Grant shrugged. ‘As a matter of fact, so have I. I’ll give you a lift, shall I? That way I can make sure you come back.’

CHAPTER FOUR

IN THE week before her appointment Rachel brought order to the chaotic office. She managed, through sheer obstinate perseverance, to get through on the phone to the firm handling the network, and got the computers connected to the London headquarters. She set up a filing system. She made a number of recommendations about requirements for the conference centre. She also spent a surprising amount of time talking with her eccentric, easygoing employer about things that seemed to have nothing to do with business.

Though Grant had abandoned an orthodox scientific career, he still had an active, wide-ranging interest in an extraordinary variety of scientific subject. The reception area was soon piled high with periodicals he pretended to think visitors might like to consult. He seemed to be unable to visit a bookshop without bringing away five or six things that ‘looked interesting’; this was his explanation, at any rate, for the large number of books that soon cluttered his office. He encouraged Rachel to borrow anything she liked; then he argued with her about it.

This was not, of course, for the most part in office hours. Olivia had gone back to London, since the upstairs was still uninhabitable. That didn’t stop Grant from camping out there—it just meant he had his evenings free. Just as Rachel was getting ready to leave for the day, he’d come in and ask a casual question about something she’d been reading. The next thing she knew three or four hours would have gone by.

One night he might bundle her into the Jaguar and take her off to a three-star country restaurant. On another he’d remember he had a couple of tins of baked beans and a carton of eggs upstairs. Either way, Rachel realised she hadn’t had such a good time in years. Grant had a knack for spotting what was original and interesting in new work; it was wonderful talking with him! In fact, she sometimes thought guiltily, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d talked about new developments in any field with Driscoll. Driscoll talked about the jobs that were going, and who was likely to get them. Well, of course you had to be practical, but it was wonderfully refreshing to talk to someone who was just interested in the subject.

If she was honest, Rachel had to admit that there was more to it than the thrill of discussing the latest developments in DNA research. She’d never spent so much time in the company of such a spectacular physical specimen, and there was no point in pretending she didn’t enjoy it. A fact was a fact, and as a scientist Rachel had a great respect for facts.

There was also no point in pretending she didn’t enjoy going into the office and getting a daily expression of aesthetic appreciation from said spectacular physical specimen. It was just a joke, of course, but it cheered her up anyway. The mosquitoes had never had much time for aesthetics: they’d just gone for blood.

Since he was engaged, and she was engaged, it was a lucky thing that there was no danger of her falling in love with Grant. He didn’t always talk about science. Sometimes he talked instead about hair-raising escapes he’d had.

Rachel didn’t know whether Olivia knew what she was getting into; maybe she didn’t believe she would ever personally be in danger. Rachel knew better. She might get short of breath sometimes at a certain look in those blazing blue eyes, she might sometimes feel her pulse quicken when he stood close to her—it didn’t matter. All it took was one blood-chilling reminiscence to expose these for the trifling physical phenomena they were. This man was trouble. Rachel did not like trouble. Therefore, this man was emphatically not her type.

Still, even if she didn’t want to marry him, she couldn’t imagine a more delightful, stimulating employer. This was the job for her. By the end of the week she was even more reluctant to accept the environmental assessment assignment.

The Tuesday night before the fateful interview was another three-star restaurant night. Grant came into the front office at five-thirty, finger in the middle of a book on alternative medicine, paced up and down for two or three hours talking heatedly about various questions it raised, and suddenly remembered he was starving. Rachel had told her aunt days before that she couldn’t count on being home in time for dinner; she was now able to rush down to the Jaguar with Grant without even an apologetic phone call.

Half an hour of expert driving through the country lanes brought them to one of the most famous restaurants in the county. Another fifteen minutes and they were devouring an appetiser of roasted vegetables while they argued about genetic engineering. Rachel had been thinking all day about the interview, and then trying not to think about it Now, as she gazed across the candlelit table at Grant’s blazing eyes and infectious smile, she decided for the fifteenth time that day not to think about the interview but just to enjoy herself while she could. And just as she’d reached this sensible decision she looked across the room, and saw Olivia at a table with a group of stylishly dressed older people.

Grant’s eyes followed hers. Rachel wondered for a moment whether he would mind being found having dinner tête-à-tête with another woman, but Grant seemed to have other things on his mind.

‘Oh, no,’ he groaned. ‘Did you see what I just saw?’

‘Olivia?’ hazarded Rachel.

‘My fiancée, yes,’ he agreed. ‘And, more to the point, my fiancée in the bosom of her family, and, as if that weren’t bad enough, in the company of her family’s friends. Well, we can’t pretend we haven’t seen them—we might as well get this over with. Come on.’

He stood up and escorted Rachel to the other table, where he performed introductions with an unusually subdued manner. ‘You remember Rachel,’ he told Olivia.

Olivia’s eyes widened. It was clear that she hadn’t recognised the scruffy spider-catcher in the dark-haired, beautifully groomed girl with Grant.

‘Of course,’ she said smoothly. ‘And you remember Rupert, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Grant said. He glowered at the distinguished, silver-haired man to Olivia’s right. ‘Rachel, I’d like you to meet Rupert Matheson, managing director of Glomac. Rupert—my secretary, Rachel.’

Matheson extended a beautifully manicured hand and shook Rachel’s. ‘Delighted,’ he murmured. ‘You’ll join us for a drink, of course.’ He pulled over a chair for Rachel before Grant could demur; Grant drew up a chair for himself and sat down with evident reluctance.

Matheson seemed somewhat amused by Grant’s ill-concealed distaste. ‘How are you getting on with raising funds for the science park?’ he asked.

‘Well enough,’ Grant said curtly.

‘It’s not easy sometimes for a small operation like yours,’ Matheson commented. Rachel stared at him in astonishment, then remembered that Glomac was one of the largest pharmaceuticals companies in the world.

‘I don’t see any problem,’ said Grant. ‘Of course it’s early days. The environmental impact assessment should be pretty straightforward, but obviously we’ve got to deal with a few formalities before we really get going.’

‘Quite, quite,’ agreed the older man. ‘Well, you’ve got a marvellous location. We may be interested ourselves.’

Grant merely raised an eyebrow.

‘And if the investors don’t come as fast as you’d hoped...’ Matheson paused and took a sip of his drink ‘...you might reconsider leasing the rights we spoke of. You know Glomac can develop the product on a much bigger scale; it would be worth our while to make it well worth your while.’

Grant drained his glass and set it down. “Thanks, but I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to leave you; our dinner has come.’

He stood up and stalked back to the other table, Rachel trailing behind him in perplexity.

‘A bigger scale,’ Grant said tightly. ‘Couldn’t they just. My God, he makes me sick.’ His face was black.

‘What was he talking about?’ Rachel asked.

‘I helped an Amazonian tribe to get some land rights a few years back. Now I’ve got an agreement with them to research and develop use of some of the native plants as medicines—there’s one that looks like it might be the next wonder drug.’ He gave her a grim smile. ‘Well, naturally Glomac would love to get its hands on it. More specifically, Matheson would love to be able to chalk up a spectacular money-spinner to himself—the company’s been stagnating since he took charge.’

‘And you don’t trust him?’

Grant shrugged. ‘He can’t afford to deal fairly with the tribe. To make the kind of money he wants, he’d have to get them off the land. They’ve had enough contact with civilisation so that they don’t have the kind of cash-independent existence they once had; Glomac would refuse to pay them a decent price for the product until they were desperate, then offer them an attractive deal to sell the land outright. I’m not saying Matheson would admit in so many words that it was acceptable for the tribe to end up in the slums of Recife, provided Glomac made enough money out of it, but he’d look the other way while it happened.’

He glanced contemptuously across the room. ‘It’s not easy for Olivia,’ he added. ‘He’s a friend of her father, so she can’t really cut the acquaintance.’

‘I see,’ said Rachel noncommittally. She took a sip of wine. It didn’t seem to her that Olivia’s friendliness to the man had been forced, but this was hardly something she could say to Grant.

The sparkle and spontaneity of their conversation seemed to have been quenched by the short visit to the other table. They ate quickly, not saying much; neither felt like lingering over dessert or coffee, and they left by mutual consent after another twenty minutes.

Rachel got into the car the next morning in a gloomy mood. Even Grant’s enthusiastic reunion with the pink suit failed to raise her spirits. If only Bell Conglomerates would listen to reason and take Driscoll instead. But would they?

The drive to London passed largely in silence. Grant seemed preoccupied by the encounter of the previous evening; Rachel was full of foreboding at the prospect of her interview. The more she thought about it, the less she thought Bell Conglomerates was going to take a substitute on her say-so. If she wasn’t careful, they’d suck her back into fieldwork before she could bat an eye—they’d sponsored her graduate work, after all, and might try to make her feel she owed them one.

That was problem number one. The second problem was her hair, or lack thereof. She still hadn’t broken the news to Driscoll—what if the shock put him off his stride? What if it lowered her credibility as a reference with Bell Conglomerates?

Well, she could do nothing about problem number one, but she could spare Driscoll’s sensibilities. She asked Grant to drop her off in Oxford Street, bought a shoulder-length black wig in Selfridges, and had plenty of time to arrange this artfully on her head before setting off to meet Driscoll. It wasn’t exactly her usual style, but Driscoll wasn’t exactly the noticing type.

They met in the lobby of Bell. Driscoll didn’t notice the wig. He did notice, and disapproved of, the pink suit, which he thought had too short a skirt. He explained that he’d confirmed the appointment in her name with the head of the company.

They went to the top floor, and were shown to a reception area outside the director’s office. Driscoll stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking out of the window; Rachel sat leafing through an old copy of Nature. Footsteps came bounding down the corridor.

‘Hawkins!’ exclaimed a familiar voice. ‘This is a real pleasure—I can’t tell you how glad I am to meet you at last. Terrific that you’ll be working for us. Won’t you come into my office?’

Under Rachel’s bemused stare, none other than Grant Mallett advanced on Driscoll and shook him heartily by the hand. A handshake was insufficiently cordial to express the intensity of his delight; he slapped him even more heartily on the back, then steered him through the door of the office. The door closed behind them.

Rachel expected them to bounce out again immediately, but the door remained shut for some time. Presently it opened again. Driscoll’s face was flushed; Grant’s, she was surprised to see, was uncharacteristically grim.

‘I’m afraid that’s not the way I do business,’ he said. ‘But, in any case, I particularly want Hawkins for this job, and as it was one of the conditions of the Bell grant that the recipient be prepared to do something of the kind there’s really nothing to be discussed. If you’ve brought Dr Hawkins with you I’ll have a word now—’ He broke off, and looked blankly about the reception area, then at Rachel, then around the room again, as if a stray zoologist might be hiding under a sofa, and then back, again, at Rachel.

‘Rachel?’ he said. He gave her a rather preoccupied smile. ‘I’d know that suit anywhere, but why, in God’s name, the wig?’ Before she could answer, he did a sudden double take, and looked again at Driscoll. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said. ‘You don’t mean...?’

‘Yes,’ Rachel said resignedly.

‘Your fiancé,’ said Grant. ‘Driscoll. I should have known there couldn’t be two. I’m sorry not to have better news for you both,’ he said, with painstaking politeness, ‘but I’ve someone else in mind for the job. Any idea where Hawkins might have gone?’ He flicked a glance at Driscoll. ‘I’d like to get this sorted out today.’

Driscoll stared at him. ‘I’ve already explained,’ he said rather sulkily, ‘that Rachel is not interested in the work. If you don’t believe me, ask her.’

There was a short silence. Grant looked at Driscoll. ‘Rachel?’ he said.

‘She would rather not take on any more fieldwork,’ said Driscoll. ‘I understand she’s working as your secretary down in the country; I think it’s a waste, but it’s what she prefers, and I can’t see why you won’t accept her recommendation for someone to take her place.’