She was always doing this. Just when he’d managed to convince himself she was the most selfish, unthinking little brute in the universe, she’d suddenly show she actually had been listening all along. He put the cloth down. “Well, they did my bit second, after the passion fruit. He was quite good actually, although I thought his accent was a little bit off. They only did twenty takes for him. By the time I’d finished, all the others had arrived. Honestly, Ells, the director was—”
“Bet you’re glad you didn’t wear that awful surf shirt, aren’t you?” she interrupted. “Anyway, listen. Dougie phoned and asked if you were going to be at soccer later and your secret agent rang.”
Frankie winced. “Oh, you didn’t say anything stupid this time did you? You know Marina has no sense of humor.”
“That’s what makes it so irresistible!” Ella put on the smoky drawl of Frankie’s theatrical agent. “Daarling, she’s got you lightly penciled in for another voice-over next week.”
Frankie’s face fell. “I don’t know. I’ve had enough of that stuff. She hasn’t put me up for a decent part in ages. It’s so limiting, working like that.”
“Not as limiting as having no money, though. Anyway, that’s enough about you. Let’s talk about me for a while. My interview, for example. You haven’t even asked me about it yet.”
“Give me a chance! I’ve only just got in—and I’ve got all the shopping to put away.” Frankie turned from her, pretending to busy himself in the fridge. He’d completely forgotten about Ella’s interview and racked his brains for details—nothing. Knowing Ella and her constantly changing enthusiasms, it could have been for anything from neurosurgeon to jazz pianist—and her complete lack of qualification for either would not have been any deterrent. “So, how did it go?” he called vaguely over his shoulder from the chilly depths of the fridge.
Luckily, Ella’s usual verve saved him and she plunged into an account of her morning at a local radio station. So that was it. “The control desk was really complicated—far harder than the one at university. I’d have quite liked a go but they wouldn’t let me. Anyway, everyone seemed really nice. I made the station manager laugh and they said they’d be in touch, so I expect I’ll be starting in the next couple of weeks. Isn’t it brilliant? I’ll be making loads of money. And it’s what I’ve always wanted to do. And I’ll be able to help you with the bills at last.”
Oh God. She was so happy, he couldn’t bear to crush her. And yet he couldn’t leave her in her fool’s paradise. This would call for all his acting ability. Frankie stood up and turned to face her, carefully masking his features. “Well,” he laughed lightly. “If by ‘always wanted to do,’ you mean the last two weeks then, yes, I’m sure it’ll be great. But it is an incredibly competitive field, you know—lots of people probably chasing the same jobs, so… well, just wait and see, eh? I mean, were there other people there today? At the interview?”
Ella waved her hand airily. “Oh yes, one or two. Real stiffs, though. Shirt-and-tie types, y’know? Boring. Anyway, listen. I picked up a local paper while the station manager was out of the room. They have piles and piles of papers there—isn’t it weird? You’d think they’d have all the news they wanted without having to get in extra.”
Frankie handed a bowl of hummus through the hatch, with sticks of carrot and celery he’d just cut up, and set about spreading goat cheese onto rye bread. Watching Ella tuck in immediately, without even bothering to clear the table, he rolled his eyes. “Well, maybe they have the papers there so they can read bits out on air. Or find out what’s going on locally.”
Ella paled and put down the dishes, then rummaged in her backpack over by the sofa and pulled out a stack of newsprint. “I hope not, ’cos I’ve got most of them here. Oh dear! Hope they don’t realize it was me.”
Well, that was another job she wouldn’t be getting. Frankie sighed. Sharing a flat with his kid sister had never been part of his life plan, much less a penniless kid sister who was scraping by on the odd hour at the local cinema. Even having her contribute to the bills seemed like a wild fantasy these days. “Well, of course they’re going to realize it was you. Think about it, Ella.” Frankie could hear the exasperation in his voice, but couldn’t be bothered to suppress it this time. “Papers on desk, you in room. Manager leaves room, you in room, papers disappear. It’s not rocket science, y’know.”
As soon as the words left his lips, Frankie knew it was a mistake. Cranky, arrogant and selfish as she could be, his sister could still bring out his protective side and, as she stood there, that stricken look on her pale face with her huge eyes ringed with black kohl, he felt the familiar pang. She blinked fast and spun away suddenly to cover up the hurt. “Well, I took them for you, as it happens. Wish I hadn’t bothered now if that’s what you think. I saw an advert. That’s all. I was only thinking of you.”
“I’m sorry,” Frankie apologized uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sure it won’t matter about the papers. I’m just feeling shitty, ’cos this banana thing was so—so humiliating, if you must know.”
Ella spun around, a gleam in her eye. “Well, then you’ve got to look at this!” She brandished a page of small ads in his face, fired up with enthusiasm once more. “Look. Right here. ‘Busy Woman Seeks Wife.’ It’s perfect for you.”
“What? I’m not interested in a lonely hearts ad. You’re not starting all that again, are you?”
“Noooo. This isn’t lonely hearts at all. It’s job ads.” Frankie tried to grab the paper but she whisked it away and hopped over towards the window. “Listen. I’ll read it out to you.” Frankie was aghast as his sister read the details. “ ‘Occasional weekends. Good rate of pay for right applicant. Wandsworth area.’ There are two phone numbers. What do you think?”
“I think you’ve taken leave of your senses! Are you really suggesting that for me? I’m not a cleaner! I’m not a cook. Most of all, I’m not a woman!”
Ella went through a pantomime of searching the ad. “It doesn’t say anything about them wanting a woman. And you may not be a cleaner or a cook, but you’re better at either than anyone I’ve ever met. Probably better than you are at…”
“Acting! You were going to say acting, weren’t you? Honestly, Ella! I take you in out of the kindness of my heart…” Frankie tugged the paper from her. “Let me have a look. Yes, see? ‘Busy Woman Seeks Wife.’ Wife? Like, female-type person? I may be a brilliant actor, but I just don’t have the tits for it.”
“Sexist pig.” Shaking her head in exasperation, Ella pulled him down to sit beside her on the sofa. “Think outside the box for once, Frankie. It’s not specifically a woman she’s after—anyway, that would be against the law. She needs someone who’s expert at keeping things shipshape and you’re good at that. You know you are.”
Frankie could almost hear that familiar rush of water; that sense he always got with Ella of being swept along. All the reasons he could come up with would be answered and argued away—as usual. He tried another tack. “Okay, so I’m good at cooking and stuff. But I couldn’t do this job—I just couldn’t logistically. I’ve got to be free for auditions and castings and stuff.”
Ella shook her head impatiently and flicked him sharply on the ear—something she’d done with tiresome regularity ever since that first time he hid her Brownie sash. “What? Auditions for being the biggest, stupidest banana in town? Come off it, Frankie. What you need is a sensible job for a bit. We need the dough, me old darling. Did you see that last phone bill?”
“Phone bill? What phone bill?”
Chapter 4
Thanks, a coffee would be lovely. But only if you’re having one.”
Frankie took off his best jacket and hung it on the back of the metal-and-leather director’s chair, then looked around cautiously as the short, cute woman who’d introduced herself as Saff went through to the kitchen. They were waiting for someone else to arrive—her husband presumably—but two calls from a mobile had told of solid traffic. He checked his watch
. He’d turned up at six on the dot, and was due to meet Dougie and the boys at the pub in Tooting at eight. If the other interviewer didn’t get a move on, he’d have to leave anyway. He walked over to the window. The flat wasn’t big and was sparsely decorated. The small table was bare except for the papers the woman had left there.
What the hell was he doing here anyway? Bloody Ella and her interminable phone calls. Where the hell had she been calling for the phone bill to be so huge? Bolivia? If she’d been a bit more sensible for once in her life, he wouldn’t have to be here, interviewing for this ridiculous job.
He jumped as Saff came back into the room. “Couldn’t find any biscuits, I’m afraid.” She shrugged apologetically, handing him a chipped mug bearing a sportswear logo. “And it’s instant too. That was all I could find. I hope it’s all right?”
With a smile like hers to look at, Frankie thought, he’d happily drink dishwater. He took a sip and flinched. Yep, it wasn’t far off dishwater. He quickly put the cup down on the table and took the seat she indicated.
She looked at her watch and shook her head. “I know we talked briefly on the phone, but I’ll need to know a bit more. Shall we make a start? I mean, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than wait here with me. This way, I can make some notes at least.” She sat down opposite him, shuffling through the papers. “Now, where did I put that list of questions… ?”
Frankie took the opportunity to study her. In her flowered linen skirt and pink V-necked cardigan, she looked completely out of place in the rather clinical surroundings, and far more appealing. Her round face was generously sprinkled with freckles and she had eyes that looked used to laughing. She hunted around futilely for a little while, then shook her head sadly.
“Perhaps I could just make something up?” she suggested.
“Fire away.” He leaned forward in the chair and looked at her expectantly. He could definitely work for her.
“Right, well. I’ve got your full name and address. How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.” He watched as she scrawled on the page with a sequined pen she produced from her bag.
“Your last job?”
He was damned if he was going to tell her about the banana fiasco, or the list of restaurants he’d appearanced at in the past couple of years. “Well, that would be The Bill. I had quite a few lines but it was heavily cut.”
She nodded sympathetically. “Always the way, isn’t it? Is that what you’re really interested in, then, telly? Because this would be a bit of a change for you, wouldn’t it?”
Looking across the table at her, Frankie had the sudden feeling that he should be completely honest with this woman—that it would be quite wrong to be anything else, even if it scuppered his chances of getting the job. “Well, theater’s my first love, of course, but I do mostly fringe stuff, you know.”
“Hmmm. Theater for flash, telly for cash, eh? Usual story.”
Frankie was a little taken aback by her directness. “Er, yes.” She wasn’t quite as fluffy as she looked.
She glanced at her watch again. “So what makes you think you’d be right for this job? It’s an odd choice for an actor.”
He’d been anticipating this question and he’d rehearsed a reply on the way over here. He coughed. “Well, yes, I can see it would seem that way but I’m used to working with people and I’m very flexible too, but what I feel I could really bring to this are my organizational skills. I’ve done quite a bit of touring, you know, taking small shows on the road. And I always do the logistics and help with the stage-managing, so I’m quite used to sorting out problems and, actually, anticipating them before they arise.”
She smiled knowingly, clearly unconvinced, and made a few more notes, tucking fair curls behind her ear with her left hand, momentarily dazzling him with the bloody great rock on her fourth finger. He wondered what she did for a living that kept her so busy that she needed a “wife.” There was no evidence of children in the flat so she either had some flashy career or was the type who spent her life playing tennis and having coffee with the girls. She looked up. “There will be cooking involved. Could you deal with that?”
“Oh yes, cooking is one of my passions. I think Nigel Slater should be knighted for services to chicken. And I can knock up a mean seafood chowder if pushed.”
Saff smiled and relaxed. “Oh, I love that. Do you use clams?”
“If I can get them, otherwise I settle for mussels.”
Saff scribbled again on her pad, enthusiastically this time. “Good, good.” She checked her watch again and sighed dramatically. “Honestly, I’m running out of questions. Er—where do you see yourself in five years’ time?”
He looked at her in puzzlement. She returned his look challengingly, a slow smile curving her small mouth into an infectious grin. They both burst out laughing. At that moment the door opened and a cold draft swept into the room. A tall, dark-haired woman in jeans and a parka strode in, taking them both in at a glance. Then she stopped, her eyes resting on Frankie, her look bewildered.
“Oh, I thought you said the interviewee was here.” She sounded a little irritated and she turned to Saff. “What’s going on?” she asked abruptly, unhooking the bulging messenger bag from across her chest and shrugging off her jacket. Frankie noticed that, unlike most women he knew, she made no effort to smooth her hair and tart herself up. He was no expert, but even he could see her hair needed a cut or at the very least a comb pulled through it. It seemed of a piece with her tanned, makeup-free face. Even her hands were sensible—short nails and no jewelry to be seen.
The rapport he had started to build up with Saff died away with their laughter. So this was the Busy Woman. This changed everything and he wasn’t sure what tack to take with this forthright athletic-looking woman. His usual line in light charm wasn’t going to work here. He stood up and held out his hand. “Hello. Frankie Ward. I am the interviewee.”
She looked astonished but automatically put her hand out anyway. Her grip was more hesitant than he would have expected, although he could feel strength in her long, thin fingers. “Alex Hill.” She dropped his hand quickly. “I don’t quite understand. We advertised for a woman, didn’t we?”
Saff smiled. “I didn’t specify actually.”
“But it said ‘wife,’ didn’t it?”
“Well, technically yes, but in fact you’re not allowed to exclude anyone no matter what the advert says. That’s what the man at the local paper told me.”
“Yes, I know all that, Saff. But that’s ridiculous in this instance!” Alex snorted. “Obviously I can’t have a man doing this job. I’m surprised you even asked him to come for an interview.”
Saff put her hands on her hips and raised her chin. “Why not? Why should a woman be a better wife just by virtue of her sex? You of all people should know that, in your world. What sex you are shouldn’t be a barrier to a job. That’s what you’re always banging on about.”
Frankie looked between the two women, who seemed to have forgotten he was there, so different in their manner but obviously very close.
“Max couldn’t do what you do!” Alex continued. “You’re always saying how useless he is around the house.”
“Yeah, but that’s only because he pretends to be. What I do is easy and he could do it if he had to. If he can run a company, he could probably get his head around making a cake.”
There was an awkward pause and Frankie interjected cautiously, “I make great brownies.”
Alex’s shoulders dropped. “Okay,” she sighed. “Let’s carry on with the interview but only for legal reasons. I’m not comfortable with this. A man I don’t know in my house every day? I don’t think so. And what would Mum make of it?” She scanned the table. “Er, Saff, have you got the list of questions? How far did you get?”
With a completely unrepentant smile on her face, Saffron took her seat. “Sorry—couldn’t find it. I might have left it at home. I made some notes, though.”
Alex rubbed her te
mples and closed her eyes for a moment. She had surprisingly long dark lashes and, although her mouth was quite wide, her lips were pressed tightly together as though she had a headache. She looked exhausted, and for a moment Frankie felt quite sorry for her. It must be a tough life being a professional ballbreaker, and he wondered what “her world” was.
“Right.” Alex opened her eyes smartly.
“You look like you could murder a drink.” Saff patted her shoulder. “Is there a bottle open?”
For the first time Alex smiled and the transformation was astonishing. Her eyes softened and her cheeks dimpled. Now that was something she ought to do more often. “Would you like one?” She turned to look at him and he flicked his eyes guiltily away.
“No thanks. I haven’t finished my coffee.”
She didn’t ask twice, reached for her bag, branded with the famous Zencorp logo, and took out a leather folder with the same branding. Either she was a big fan or this was her world. That would explain the sporty image. “Let’s get on with it then. Can you cook? Have you had a recent background check? Do you have references?”
The questions rattled at him like machine-gun fire, each one designed to leave him in no doubt as to the nature of what would be expected of him. Alex glanced up at him occasionally as he tried to formulate his answers. He started to feel uncomfortable, but soldiered on, the size of the phone bill at the front of his mind. Yes, he could cook—he’d worked in restaurants for several years and had even gotten a basic food hygiene certificate after doing a stint in a sandwich shop in the city. Yes, he’d had a recent background check because he’d done theater for schools. Yes, he had references—he handed them over.
“Do you have experience of looking after an elderly person?” she asked suddenly. Frankie looked around, surprised. What had this got to do with it?
“Not exactly,” he faltered. “But I was a porter at St Thomas’ Hospital before college.”
Busy Woman Seeks Wife Page 3
