A Nine-to-five Affair

‘Which, as you can appreciate—’ Mr Garratt smiled ‘—is not always so convenient in the running of an extremely busy office. We’ve been able to switch people from other departments, of course, but Mr Cunningham prefers his own team.’

‘That’s quite understandable, from a continuity standpoint,’ Emmie put in, having stretched the truth a mile by saying she had taken temporary jobs this past year to gain experience in many branches of industry. She had felt that her interview was going well, but owned to feeling a little let down when, the interview over, Mr Garratt stood up and, shaking her hand, advised her that he had two other candidates to see, but would be in touch very quickly.

Emmie drove home from her interview feeling very despondent. She hadn’t known that the job was as PA to the head of the whole outfit. Barden Cunningham would want someone older; she was sure of it. Which was unfair, because she was good at her job; she knew she was.

By the time she reached her flat Emmie was convinced that she hadn’t a hope of being taken on by Barden Cunningham. And though she knew that she should straight away ring Keswick House, and give some kind of reason why Aunt Hannah should not move into a larger room, somehow she could not.

Mr Garratt had said he would be in touch very quickly, but Emmie saw little point in holding her breath or looking forward to opening tomorrow’s post. She knew how it would read: ‘Thank you very much for attending for interview, but…’

A few hours later Emmie was again scanning the Situations column when the phone rang. Aunt Hannah had a phone in her room, but it wouldn’t be her because as far as she knew Emmie was out at work. Emmie picked up the phone, ‘Hello?’ she answered pleasantly, trying not to panic that it might be Lisa Browne or one of the care assistants ringing to say Mrs Whitford had gone missing.

There was a small silence, then, ’emily Lawson?’ queried a rather nice all-male voice.

‘Speaking,’ she answered carefully.

‘Barden Cunningham,’ he introduced himself—and Emmie only just managed to hold back a gasp of shock.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said, and cringed—she’d already said hello once!

He came straight to the point. ‘I should like to see you Friday afternoon. Are you free?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she answered promptly, her heartbeat starting to pick up with excitement. ‘What time would suit you?’

‘Four-thirty,’ he replied. ‘Until then,’ he added, and rang off—and Emmie’s face broke out into one huge grin. She had an interview with no less a person than the top man himself!

She was still grinning ten minutes later. Mr Garratt had said he would be in touch very quickly—indirectly, he had been. He must have reported back to his employer the moment he had concluded all interviews. And, not waiting for mail to reach her, Barden Cunningham had phoned her within a very short space of time.

Which told her two things. One, that despite there being other candidates she was still in there with a chance. The other, that Progress Engineering were anxious to fill the temporary vacancy with all speed. Though from what Mr Garratt had said she thought she knew that already. Oh, roll on Friday; the suspense was unbearable.

Adrian Payne asked her to go out with him for a bite to eat on Thursday evening, but Emmie put him off. She wanted to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next day for her interview, and intended to have an early night.

She was in frequent telephone contact with Aunt Hannah, but had not discussed her aunt’s desire to move into a larger room, nor had she yet answered the letter from Lisa Browne at Keswick House. She knew, however, that she would have to ring Lisa Browne soon; courtesy if nothing else meant she should give some indication of whether or not Aunt Hannah could move. But pride, Emmie supposed, decreed that no one should know how desperately hard up she was but herself.

She was again early for her interview on Friday, and sat in her car for some minutes composing herself. She had on her best all wool charcoal-grey business suit, her crisp white shirt ironed immaculately.

She stepped from her car, knowing that she looked the part of a cool, efficient PA in her neat two-and-a-half-inch heels, but felt glad that no one could know of the nervous commotion going on inside her. So much depended on this interview—and its outcome.

‘My name’s Emily Lawson. I’ve an appointment with Mr Cunningham at four-thirty,’ she told the smart woman on the reception desk.

Emmie rode up in the lift, trying to stifle her nerves, desperate to make a good impression and hoping against hope that Mr Cunningham would turn out to be fatherly, like old Mr Denby. He hadn’t sounded particularly fatherly over the phone, though.

Oh, she did so hope he was not another womaniser! She couldn’t be that unlucky yet again, could she? Emmie pulled her mind away from such thoughts. She must concentrate only on this interview and Aunt Hannah, and the fact that if she was successful this afternoon Aunt Hannah could move into the double room she preferred.

Emmie made a vow there and then that, for Aunt Hannah’s sake, if her prospective employer was yet another of the Casanova types she would keep a tight rein on her new-found temper. To do so would also mean that she kept her security—always supposing she was lucky enough to get the job. Having spent many years in a financially uncertain household, security was now more important to her than ever. She had to be self-reliant; she had no family but Aunt Hannah. And, having Aunt Hannah to look out for, Emmie knew she must think only of her career and, if all went well, the high salary being offered, which would afford both her and Aunt Hannah that security.

She was worrying needlessly, Emmie considered bracingly as she stepped out of the lift. This was a very different sort of company from the one she had walked out of on Monday—true, she had been told not to come back. But the very air about this place was vastly more professional.

Emmie found the door she was looking for, tapped on it lightly and went in. A pale but pretty pregnant woman somewhere in her early thirties looked up. ’emily Lawson?’ she enquired.

‘Am I too early?’ Emmie’s hopes suffered a bit of a dent. He’d want someone older; she felt sure of it.

‘Not at all,’ Dawn Obrey responded with a smile. And, leaving her chair, she went on, ‘Reception rang to say you were on your way up. Mr Cunningham will see you now.’

Emmie flicked a hasty glance to the clock on the office wall, saw with relief that there were a few minutes to go before four-thirty and that neither her car clock nor her watch had played her false, and followed the PA over to a door which connected into another office.

‘Miss Lawson,’ the PA announced, and as Emmie went forward into the other room Dawn Obrey retreated and closed the door.

‘Come in. Take a seat,’ Barden Cunningham invited pleasantly, leaving his seat and shaking hands with her.

Ten out of ten for manners, Emmie noted with one part of her brain, while with another part she saw that Barden Cunningham was not old or fatherly, but was somewhere in his middle thirties. He was tall, had fairish hair and grey no-nonsense sort of eyes, but—and here was the minus—he was seriously good-looking. In her recent experience good-looking men were apt to think they were God’s gift to women—and Barden Cunningham was more good-looking than most.

Emmie took a seat on one side of the desk and he resumed his seat on the other. His desk was clear, which indicated to her that he wouldn’t be hanging about to start his weekend once this interview was over. Was she the last candidate?

She looked across at him and found he was studying her. She met his look, her large brown eyes steady, wishing she could read his mind, know what he was thinking. ‘You’re young,’ he said. Was he accusing? He had obviously scanned the application form she had been asked to complete so knew she was twenty-two.

‘I’m good,’ she replied—this was no time to be modest!

He looked at her shrewdly, ‘You trained at…’ he began, and the interview was under way. His questions about her work experience, her views on confidentiality, were all clear, and most professional. ‘What about your diplomacy skills?’ he wanted to know.

Emmie knew that great tact was sometimes needed when dealing with awkward phone calls or difficult people. Now didn’t seem the time to mention that earlier in the week diplomacy had gone by the board when she’d belted her previous boss and left him sprawled on the floor.

‘Very good,’ she answered, looking him in the eye. Well, they were—normally. Anybody who made a grab for her the way Clive Norris had, deserved what they got in her book. Barden Cunningham asked one or two more pertinent questions with regard to her general business knowledge, which she felt she answered more than adequately. ‘When I worked at Usher Trading, communication skills were…’ She went to expand when he stayed silent, only to be interrupted.

‘Ah, yes, Usher Trading—they went into liquidation about a year ago,’ he cut in—just as though it was her fault! As if she had been personally responsible!

Emmie clamped down hard on a small spurt of anger. Steady, steady, she needed this job. Perhaps he was just testing her to see how she reacted to the odd uncalled-for comment.

‘Unfortunately, that’s true,’ she replied, and gave him the benefit of her full smile—which had once been called ravishing.

He was unimpressed. He looked at her, his eyes flicking from her eyes to her mouth and back to her eyes. He paused for a moment before, questions on her abilities seemingly over, he went on to refer to her work record over the past year. She’d had small hope that he would not do so. But, until she knew if this man was in the same womanising mould, Emmie didn’t think she would be doing herself any favours if she gave the true reasons for her previous ‘temporary’ employment.

‘As I mentioned to Mr Garratt—’ she started down the path of untruth without falter ‘—I felt, having worked for the same firm for three years, that I should widen my work experience.’ Usher Trading were no longer in existence, but if he wrote elsewhere for references—she was dead!

‘Which is why you applied for this temporary post?’

There weren’t any flies on him! ‘I’m very keen to make a career in PA work,’ she answered.

‘You live with your parents?’ he enquired out of the blue. She wasn’t ready for it, and for a brief second felt unexpectedly choked.

She looked quickly down at her lap, swallowed, and then answered, ‘My parents are dead.’

His expression softened marginally. ‘That’s tough,’ he said gently. But after a moment he was back to being the interrogator. ‘As I’m sure Mr Garratt mentioned, Mrs Obrey, my PA, is having an atrocious time of it at the moment. While in normal circumstances she would frequently accompany me when I need to visit our various other concerns, she isn’t up to being driven around the country. That role will now fall to her assistant.’ He fixed her with his straight no-nonsense look. ‘Would that be a problem?’

Emmie shook her head. ‘Not at all,’ she answered unhesitatingly, hoping with all she had that Aunt Hannah’s forgetful perambulations were a thing of the past. She’d been so good lately.

‘It could be that I’d be late getting back to London,’ Barden Cunningham stressed—and, those direct eyes on her still, he went on, ‘You have no commitments?’

Emmie hesitated, but not for long. She guessed he meant was she living with anyone. Now, if she was going to confide in him about Aunt Hannah, was the time to do so. ‘None at all,’ she replied, again managing to look him in the eye. Well, her security was on the line here—her chances of getting this job would go cascading down the drain if he had so much as an inkling of her previous bad time-keeping and the erratic work hours she’d kept.

‘You’d have no problem working extra hours?’

Her heart lifted—the fact that this was turning out to be no cursory interview gave her confidence that she was still in there with a chance. ‘Working extra hours, working late has never been a problem,’ she replied, back on the honesty track, and glad that she was.

‘You were called on to work late in your other temporary job?’ he questioned, before she’d barely finished speaking—was he sharp or was he sharp!

‘I never liked to go home before I’d got everything cleared,’ she answered—oh, grief, that sounded smug and self-satisfied! Better, though, than telling him she’d regarded her jobs more as permanent than temporary during her short stays there.

Barden Cunningham had very few other questions he wanted to ask, and then he caused her hopes to go sky-high. ‘When would you be available to start?’ he wanted to know.

‘Straight away,’ she answered promptly.

‘You’ve nothing else lined up for Monday?’

Oh, crumbs—had she answered too promptly? Emmie took a deep and steadying breath and then, her innate honesty rushed to the fore. ‘Well, to be quite frank, I was hoping this interview would go well enough for me not to need to apply for anything else.’

Again Emmie wished she could have a clue as to what he was thinking. But he was giving nothing away as he sat and stared at her. Then, after some long moments, ‘You want the job?’ he enquired.

He’d never know how much. She swallowed down the word ‘desperately’ and changed it to, ‘Very much.’

Barden Cunningham’s eyes searched her face for perhaps another couple of seconds. Then slowly he smiled, and it was the most wonderful smile she had ever seen. But better than that were the words that followed, for, as he stood up, indicating the interview was over, he said, ‘Then, since you’re going to be working with her for a while, you’d better come and have a chat to Dawn.’

‘I’ve got the job?’ she asked, hardly daring to believe it.

‘Congratulations,’ he said, and shook her hand.

CHAPTER TWO

FEBRUARY was on its way out and they were in the throes of some quite dreadful weather. Last week it had seemed to rain non-stop. Today it had gone colder, and snow was threatened. Emmie had not slept well, and got out of bed that Wednesday morning feeling oddly despondent. Oh, buck your ideas up, do. A month ago she had been overjoyed that she’d actually managed to be offered the job of assistant, shortly to be acting, PA to Mr Barden Cunningham. So—what had changed?

Emmie padded around her flat, trying to pin-point why she felt so—well, not exactly dissatisfied with her lot, but certainly sort of restless, out of sorts about something.

Which was odd, because she no longer had any worries about her step-grandmother. Aunt Hannah was now cheerfully established in the double room she had so wanted, and was more settled than Emmie could have hoped. Indeed, so content did Aunt Hannah seem that Emmie realised how right she had been to think it was important to the dear soul to feel safe during the long hours while Emmie was away at work. Safely ensconced in Keswick House, gradually, bit by bit, Aunt Hannah’s confidence was returning. Her confidence—and her spirit of independence. Twice in the last month Aunt Hannah had declined to stay with Emmie for the weekend—though she had permitted Emmie to collect her for Sunday tea.

So it wasn’t on Aunt Hannah’s account that she felt so unsettled, Emmie decided. Her thoughts turned to her job, and how, without bothering to take up references—clearly he was a man confident in his own judgement, and that had been one tremendous worrying hurdle out of the way—Barden Cunningham had appointed her.

She had been working at the head office of Progress Engineering for four weeks and two days now, and loved the work. Had, in fact, taken to it like a duck to water. Sometimes she worked under pressure but she absorbed it, enjoyed the challenge—and felt that she did well enough that her employer could not have one single solitary complaint about her output.

She got on exceedingly well with Dawn and was glad to be of help to her whenever she could, because, as well as being a thoroughly nice person, Dawn was not having a very easy pregnancy at all. ‘I thought morning sickness was something that happened early on—not now,’ Dawn had sighed only yesterday, after yet another visit to the ladies’ room.

‘Why not go home? There’s nothing here I can’t cope with,’ Emmie had urged.

‘I’ll stick it out,’ Dawn had said bravely. ‘I’m having tomorrow afternoon off for an antenatal appointment, as you know. Thanks all the same, Emmie.’

Dawn had asked her that first Monday if she was called Emily or if there was another name she was known by. ‘I’ve been called Emmie for as long as I can remember,’ she’d answered, and had been Emmie to all at Progress Engineering since then.

So, Emmie went back to trying to find the root cause of what was making her so restless. She had no worries about Aunt Hannah now, she liked her job and she liked Dawn, and everything else was ticking along nicely. So why did she feel…?

Her thoughts suddenly faltered. Everybody at Progress Engineering called her Emmie—except him! To him, she was still Emily. She wasn’t terribly sure quite when Barden Cunningham had become him. She had quite liked him during those first few hours of working for him. That was before she had taken the first of his May-I-speak-with-Barden-please-Paula-here-type calls.

‘Do I put Paula through?’ she’d whispered to Dawn.

There had followed, over the next few weeks, Ingrid, Sarah, and a whole host of other females—it was a wonder to Emmie that he ever got any work done. But he did. That was the bitter pill. She couldn’t fault him; given that—wouldn’t you know, another wretched womaniser—he took time out to answer his calls, the amount of work he turned out was staggering.

‘He’s not married, then?’ Emmie had asked Dawn, knowing she was going to hate him like the devil if he were.

Dawn had shaken her head. ‘Why limit yourself to one pudding when you can have the whole dessert trolley?’

Emmie had managed a smile, but she’d had her fill of womanisers. She’d been sure, however, to keep her feelings well hidden, but happened to be in his office when a female she hadn’t so far come across had telephoned him.

‘Claudia!’ he’d exclaimed with pleasure. And, charming the socks off Claudia—Emmie didn’t want to know what else he charmed off her—he’d kept Emmie waiting while he dallied with his new love.

‘If you’d just sign these papers for me!’ Emmie had requested crisply, when he’d at last finished his call.

She’d ignored his raised eyebrow, that look that said, Who the blazes do you think you are? ‘Anything else?’ he’d asked sarcastically, and Emmie had felt sorely inclined to give him a taste of what she’d given Clive Norris.

‘No, thank you,’ she’d replied politely, if a shade aloofly, and returned to her desk. Men!

True, he hadn’t attempted the womanising bit with her. Let him try! Not that she wanted him to. Heaven forbid! It irked, though, in some strange way that he still called her Emily, even though she knew for a fact that to him, Dawn always referred to her as Emmie.

Realising she was getting all huffy and puffy over nothing, Emmie got ready to face the day and drove herself to work. The morning went well, and Dawn went off at lunchtime to keep her hospital appointment.

Barden Cunningham was out of the office for the first hour of that afternoon, and Emmie quite enjoyed the challenge of being left in sole charge of the office. Her enjoyment, however, was somewhat dimmed by a telephone call she took around two-thirty.

‘Mr Cunningham’s office,’ she said into the mouthpiece, on picking up the phone.

‘Roberta Short,’ the caller announced herself. ‘That’s Emmie, isn’t it?’ See—even Cunningham’s friends knew she was called Emmie!

‘Yes,’ she answered, a smile in her voice. She liked Roberta Short, a striking woman in her early thirties. Emmie had met her and her husband, a man in his late forties, when they had called in to see her employer one day. ‘I’m afraid Mr Cunningham isn’t in.’

‘Oh, drat! I particularly wanted to catch him.’

‘May I get him to call you?’ Emmie offered—and felt her blood go cold at Roberta Short’s panicky reply.

‘Lord, no!’ she squeaked. ‘Neville mustn’t know I’m phoning Barden. I’ve an idea he already suspects—’ She broke off. ‘Oh, help, Neville’s coming in…He mustn’t find out…’ The line went dead.

Slowly, feeling stunned, Emmie replaced her phone. No, she’d got it wrong. That call just now didn’t really imply what she’d thought it might. Neville Short was Barden Cunningham’s friend, for heaven’s sake! Just because Cunningham was a womaniser of the first order, it didn’t follow that even married women weren’t safe from him. Emmie felt all churned up inside. Why didn’t it? He had charm by the truckload—no woman was safe from him. Well, save for her, and she was sure that didn’t bother her in the smallest degree!

But—his friend’s wife? No! Emmie got on with some work, but time and again those words ‘I’ve an idea he already suspects’ and ‘Neville’s coming in…He mustn’t find out…’ before Roberta Short had abruptly ended her call returned to haunt her.

Ignore it. It’s nothing to do with you even if he is having an affair with his friend’s wife. Two-timing her too with Claudia whatever-her-name-was, who’d phoned him last week. The man was an out and out monster! Men like him wanted locking up!

The sound of the connecting door to the next office opening told her that the object of her sweet thoughts was back. Who had he been extending his lunch with? she’d like to know. Claudia? Paula?

Emmie looked up. ‘Any messages?’ Barden Cunningham wanted to know.

‘Mrs Neville Short rang,’ Emmie replied. ‘She didn’t want to leave a message.’

‘She’ll ring again, I expect.’

My stars! How about that for confidence? Though, since the diabolical hound most likely knew that Neville Short was at home, he wouldn’t be likely to ring Roberta while her husband was there. Emmie concentrated solely on being an efficient PA, and then told her employer of a business enquiry she’d taken before he went back to his own office and closed the door. She carried on with what she had been doing.

It was just around half past three when her intercom went. ‘Come in, Emily, please,’ her employer instructed.

Certainly, your libertine-ness! Without a word Emmie picked up her pad and went in. And for the next half an hour she took dictation or jotted down his instructions. She was still writing when the phone in her office rang.

Cunningham indicated she should stay where she was, and, reaching for the phone on his desk, pressed the appropriate button. ‘Cunningham,’ he said, and then there was a smile there in his voice as his caller announced herself. ‘Roberta! You cunning vixen, how’s it going?’ he asked.

Emmie didn’t like it. A kind of sickness hit her, and she wanted to dash out of there. She made to leave—she could come back later, when he’d finished chatting up the ‘cunning vixen’. Cunning, no doubt, because she was successfully fooling her husband! But Barden Cunningham motioned her to sit down again. All too obviously he didn’t give a damn that Emmie overheard his philandering phone calls. Why couldn’t he conduct his wretched affair outside business hours?

She had no idea what Roberta’s replies were, but what Cunningham was saying didn’t leave Emmie in very much doubt that the conclusions she’d drawn were correct.

‘You’re worrying too much!’ Cunningham teased. ‘I promise you he’s not likely to divorce you.’

Grief—how was that for confident! Even if Neville Short did find out about the affair, the poor chap so loved his wife he would never divorce her. Barden Cunningham was taking advantage of that! Locking up! He should be put down—preferably painfully! The call was coming to an end.

‘I’ll somehow manage to snatch a few moments with you tomorrow night at the theatre,’ Barden promised. ‘It shouldn’t be too difficult.’

There was a pause as Roberta replied—and Emmie started to get angry. She knew full well that it was nothing to do with her, but, confound it! Not content to play fast and loose behind the cuckolded Neville’s back, it sounded very much as though Cunningham would be seeing them both at the theatre tomorrow, and—given half a chance—he would snatch his opportunity for a quick cuddle right under her husband’s—his friend’s—nose. Oh, it was too much!