by Caro Fraser
At that moment the phone rang. Felicity just sat there, stricken, wondering which was worse – another encounter with Mr Lamb or the prospect of the pleasure the Menopausals would derive from all this.
Getting hold of Rachel had not been a straightforward affair for Leo. When he rang Nichols & Co, he suddenly realised that he did not know, or had forgotten, Rachel’s last name.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ said Nora.
‘Yes. I’d like – I’d like to speak to Rachel, please.’ He felt perfectly absurd saying this.
‘Dean or Maxwell?’ enquired Nora pertly.
‘I – well, I’m not sure, really.’
‘We have a Rachel Dean, one of our partners, and a Rachel Maxwell in accounts,’ announced Nora patiently, crimson-tipped finger poised to flip the switch. ‘Which would you like?’
‘The first one,’ replied Leo helplessly. He felt he was already losing his grip on the suavity with which he had intended to handle this.
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Mr Davies.’
Nora flicked the switch and Rachel picked up the phone, still looking at the miserable Felicity. ‘Hello?’
‘Rachel, I have a Mr Davies for you.’
Rachel could think of no one she knew called Davies. Whoever it was would have to wait while she dealt with this business of Felicity. ‘I’m sorry,’ she replied, ‘you’ll have to tell him to call back. I’m busy. Tell him I’m in a meeting.’
Nora flipped the switch back. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Davies, but Miss Dean is in a meeting. Would you care to leave your number?’
Leo had not anticipated this. Annoyed, he replied, ‘No. No, that’s all right.’ And he hung up.
Rachel put the phone down and regarded Felicity impassively. ‘To go back to what I was saying, Felicity,’ she went on, ‘I’ll have to speak to Mr Lamb today. We’ll see what he can find for you. I’ll explain to him that I don’t want this to go to the other partners, because I know – well, I know your track record isn’t that good, and I don’t want this to be more difficult for you than it has to be.’ As she was speaking, the name of that caller was still lurking in the back of her mind. Who did she know called Davies? Why was it vaguely familiar? Suddenly she realised, and her heart felt as though it had dropped to her stomach. She stopped talking for a moment and stared vacantly. Oh God, he had called, and she had said she was busy. He might never call again. Oh, stupid, stupid cow that you are, Rachel, she cursed herself. She hesitated, then carried on. ‘Anyway – yes, well, let’s just try to keep the thing – low-key, shall we? I’m sure Mr Lamb will understand, if I explain …’ Her voice trailed away and she began to fiddle with the pen lying on the desk before her. Why had he called? Oh, the mere fact that he had called – that was enough. She could feel a smile rising unbidden to her lips, and managed to suppress it. ‘I’ll have another word with you later, Felicity, after I’ve spoken to him. In the meantime, could you run off five copies of the affidavit you typed up yesterday, please? The Flight Shipping one.’
Felicity nodded and rose. ‘I’m really sorry about that mix-up,’ she murmured. All she could think of was having to go and see Mr Lamb again. He’d probably just been waiting for an excuse like this – and she’d been trying so hard to keep her nose clean for the past few weeks, to get things right for a change. She left Rachel’s office, sick at heart, and went back to her desk. It was Doris’s birthday that day and she had bought cream cakes for all the girls. Now she thrust the box at Felicity.
‘Like a cake, dear?’
Felicity shook her head and mumbled, ‘No, thanks.’ She could feel tears not very far away and rose quickly and headed for the Ladies. Behind her she could hear Doris murmuring, concern and gratification mingled in her marshmallow voice, ‘… she looks ever so upset about something …’
As soon as Felicity had left her room, Rachel grabbed the phone and pressed zero. ‘Nora,’ she said anxiously, ‘that man who called a moment ago – did he leave a number?’
‘No, dear. Sorry.’
‘I see. Thanks.’ Rachel put the phone down. Of course he hadn’t. And even if he had, would she have rung him back? No. That wasn’t form. Girls don’t chase boys. They might jump into their beds, but they don’t thereafter chase them. She put her hands over her face. Please let him ring back, she prayed. Oh, please. She wondered how she would get through the day until he did ring again. If he ever did.
Leo spent the entire day in court and forgot about Rachel until he got back to chambers late in the afternoon. He was tired and irritable; his case was not going well. He had not handled that cross-examination as smoothly as he should have. Then, as he closed his door and flung his papers onto his desk, he remembered that abortive phone call of the morning. Should he try again? He was almost inclined to forget the whole idea. He felt suddenly low-spirited, the business of his application and the possibility of its failure preying on his mind. The whole thing seemed rather futile. Ridiculous, even. To have to spend several weeks in the apparently devoted pursuit of some woman whom he hardly knew and scarcely cared for, merely to try to furnish himself with some sexual respectability – how absurd.
He sat down and drew a sharp crease with his thumbnail in the whiteness of his blotter. Outside on the landing he could hear Stephen Bishop’s voice, then Roderick Hayter’s, a brief chuckle of laughter, their footsteps dying away on the wooden staircase. Stephen. Portly, plodding Stephen stood to gain, and he to lose, merely through the vagaries of the specious morality of the Lord Chancellor. He suddenly saw the life that would stretch ahead of him, if he were to fail now, and it was a blank and unrelieved picture of mediocrity, a steady plateau of unspectacular success, no brilliant heights to be scaled, no further glories. It was a dead prospect. He must seize whatever chances existed.
He thought of Sir Basil’s cocktail party in a few weeks’ time, of the people who would be there, of how fleeting impressions and minute understandings could tip the balance in all things. And he picked up the phone.
Rachel was just coming out of the lift as she heard the phone ring, and she sped to her room, praying for it not to stop before she got there. Her heart was racing, as it had every time she had picked up the phone that day, bracing hope against the possibility of disappointment.
‘Hello?’ She sat down, trying to catch her breath.
‘I have Mr Davies for you,’ said Nora’s matter-of-fact voice as she answered Rachel’s prayer.
‘Put him through, please.’ She waited.
‘Hello – Rachel?’ The sound of his voice filled her with happiness. She gripped the receiver tightly, smoothing the smile out of her voice.
‘Yes. Yes, hello.’
‘It’s Leo,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and swinging his feet up onto the desk. ‘I tried to call this morning, but you were busy.’ He paused. ‘How was your weekend?’
‘Oh,’ she replied, her heart still thudding, ‘it was good, thanks. Some long brisk walks, Sunday lunch, that kind of thing. Good.’ She hesitated. ‘How was yours?’ She couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Leo, feeling he could hardly tell her that it had been tedious beyond belief, since all his activities were now morally circumscribed, replied, ‘Oh, so-so. Dull, really.’ Then he said, getting down to business, ‘I’d rather like to see you.’
Rachel was uncertain how to respond; happiness soared in her, and she could not help smiling. ‘Fine,’ she said faintly.
He took his feet off the desk and swivelled round, gazing at the faint blur of his reflection in the darkened window. He heard the smile in her voice as she said that one word; she was pleased to hear from him. He had supposed she might be. As he stared at the window, someone switched a light on in a room on the other side of Caper Court.
‘Shall we have dinner?’ he asked.
‘I should like that,’ she replied. Please, she thought, please don’t say that it’s because you want to apologise for Thursday. Don’t say that. But Leo did not say that.
‘Excellent. I’ll pick you up from your office at half six,’ was what he said. Best to get the thing up and running, he thought.
‘Tonight?’ she said, dizzy with happiness. ‘But I’ve—’
‘Don’t say that you’re not dressed to go out. If you look as good as you did in my shirt on Friday morning, you’ll look wonderful.’
‘But—’ she began again.
‘And if you had something else arranged, cancel it.’ He paused for just the correct few seconds before adding quietly, ‘Please.’
A dozen questions crowded her head: Why? What about all the things you said? Have you been thinking about me? Did you realise you were wrong? – oh, tell me, tell me, just say it again. But all she said was, ‘Fine. I’ll see you at six-thirty,’ and put the phone down.
Leo buzzed through to Henry. ‘Book me a table for this evening at Le Caprice, would you, Henry? Eight o’clock.’ Important to start the thing properly, a little cheerful sophistication, nothing too intense. If the affair were to go the distance, it had to be properly paced. The months between now and Easter stretched in his mind like a broad, curving ribbon; where it all ended, he did not speculate. Time would take care of that. What was essential at the moment was the careful staging of a most important piece of romantic theatre.
In her office, Rachel felt too elated to do anything for a few moments. Then she glanced at her watch. Twenty to five. Nearly two hours to wait. She must fill it up, do something, make the time speed by. She remembered her talk with Felicity that morning. She should go and see Mr Lamb now, arrange to have Felicity transferred to another department and a new secretary brought in to take her place as soon as possible. If she left it any longer, she might find herself relenting.
As she took the lift to the eighth floor, Rachel found herself wondering whether, apart from the disaster of the Payne Loftus business, she didn’t subconsciously have some other reason for wanting Felicity transferred. Unease, guilt at the events of Wednesday night, the realisation that once the formal divide between boss and secretary had been breached, then respect must crumble? Possibly. Well, whatever it was, things simply weren’t going right. Felicity would probably be relieved, too.
She tried to explain the matter to Mr Lamb in the most general of terms only, without levelling any direct criticism at Felicity, but it was difficult.
‘You see, I don’t want this to be taken as any indication of – well, real dissatisfaction on my part with Felicity. She’s very good at many aspects of the work – dealing with clients, arranging things. It’s just that I don’t think she’s entirely suited to the kind of work we do in the litigation department.’
‘Well,’ said Mr Lamb, who seemed to be deriving a certain amount of satisfaction from what he was hearing, ‘I don’t see that her slipshod ways as a secretary are going to make her an asset to the conveyancing department either, do you?’
Rachel eyed him coldly. She disliked the man’s overweening attitude, his knowing eyes, his consciousness of his own power over the lowlier employees of Nichols & Co.
‘Surely,’ she said, ‘there must be work for her within the firm where she would be less …’ Rachel hesitated.
‘—of a liability?’ supplied Mr Lamb. He laid down his pen. ‘With the greatest respect, Miss Dean, Nichols and Co is not a charitable institution. Felicity was aware that this was her last opportunity to prove she was adequate for the work of the firm. This might be a case of misplaced loyalty on your part.’
‘Don’t speak to me about my loyalties, Mr Lamb,’ retorted Rachel frostily. ‘They are none of your concern. I simply feel that Felicity has a good deal to offer, but that she is not suited to being a partner’s secretary. I don’t wish to see her leave the firm because of this.’
Mr Lamb sighed. It delighted him to have Miss Dean asking him a favour. Effectively, that was what it was. He savoured the moment as he deliberated.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I suppose it might be possible to move her to another department. As a favour to you, of course, Miss Dean.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll have a word with Felicity in the morning. It’ll take me two or three weeks to find someone to replace her, you understand.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rachel, hating to have to say it.
‘Oh, not at all,’ he replied, and sprang from his desk to hold the door open for her as she left.
When Rachel got back to her room, Felicity was there, fastening a copy of the affidavit onto its file. She did not look round as Rachel sat down at her desk. The tension in the air was dismal to Rachel, particularly since she felt so light-hearted at the prospect of the evening.
‘Felicity,’ she said. Felicity put the file back on its shelf and turned round. ‘I’ve seen Mr Lamb, and he thinks he can get you transferred to another department without any fuss. You won’t be losing your job – you know I wouldn’t let that happen. It’s just—’ She sighed. ‘Look, Wednesday night was really good fun, and I still want us to be friends. But this is my job, and it’s really important that things are done properly. You do see that, don’t you?’
Felicity folded her arms across her generous bosom and nodded sadly, her curls bobbing. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m just not that good at – well, some things, I suppose.’ She chewed thoughtfully on her thumbnail. ‘I’m sorry it hasn’t worked out.’
‘So am I,’ said Rachel, relieved that the thing appeared to be accepted without rancour. It had been pretty clear from the start that, dear girl though she was, Felicity was not a clerical asset to any solicitor. ‘Mr Lamb says he’ll have a word with you tomorrow,’ she added.
And what else’ll he have besides? wondered Felicity gloomily as she wandered back to her desk. A bit more pawing in return for being allowed to carry on working at Nichols & Co, no doubt. She slumped into her chair. Mind you, she thought, aware of the furtive glances of Louise and Doris, at least she’d be away from these old cows. It might even be fun in another department. If only there wasn’t Mr Lamb to be faced in the morning.
At six-twenty, Felicity came into the Ladies and was surprised to find Rachel there, carefully putting on make-up. She murmured hello.
‘I thought you would have gone home long ago,’ remarked Rachel, giving her a smile in the mirror.
‘I’m meeting Vince up town,’ said Felicity, ‘so I thought I might as well finish that report thing.’ She disappeared into a cubicle.
‘You didn’t have to, you know,’ said Rachel, raising her voice to reach Felicity. She gazed at her reflection. She didn’t normally wear much make-up to work, but she didn’t want to look completely insipid for Leo. He was probably the kind of man who liked his women well groomed. Was this too much lipstick?
Felicity flushed the loo and emerged. ‘I thought I might as well try to end on a good note,’ she said cheerfully. She began to wash her hands, then glanced up at Rachel. ‘You going out?’
Rachel nodded; her smile was radiant as she combed her hair.
‘Well,’ said Felicity awkwardly, ‘have a nice time, then.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Rachel. ‘You, too.’ They looked at one another for a moment in the mirror, neither saying anything.
‘You look really nice,’ added Felicity. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight,’ said Rachel, feeling, she did not know why, faintly ashamed.
Felicity put on her coat and went down in the lift to reception. Nora had gone home and Ted, the night porter, was on duty, talking to a grey-haired man at the desk. Very snazzy, thought Felicity, eyeing the elegant suit and dark cashmere coat.
‘I’ll just check with Miss Dean,’ said Ted, as Felicity walked past, twinkling her fingers at him in farewell.
Christ, how does she do it? wondered Felicity, glancing back over her shoulder at Leo’s lean, preoccupied face before pushing through the revolving doors into the cold night air. Mind you, she thought, ramming her hands deep into her pockets as she headed for the Tube, Rachel’s men all seemed far too neat and tidy for her taste. She th
ought with longing and affection of Vince’s tousled, unkempt cheerfulness, and did not envy Rachel a thing.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
How can anyone be this happy? thought Rachel, watching Leo’s face in the restaurant as he talked. They seemed to have done nothing but talk – incessantly, wonderfully, all evening. She had never met anyone who knew so much, who was so amusing and perceptive, with the ability to be funny and grave in the same moment. It delighted her to find that they shared common interests, too. He had been talking about sculpture, and she had mentioned a bronze he had in his house in Mayfair. ‘Dennis Mitchell, isn’t it?’ she had said. And he had looked surprised and pleased and said, yes, it was. And they had talked for a while about that.
Now he was telling her about a case he had, and as he spoke her eyes wandered across his face, a little tired now at the end of the day, shadows below the eyes. She wanted to be able to reach out and stroke a hand across his features, touching them lovingly. Instead, she sat listening, wishing the evening didn’t have to end, sipping at her wine. Not once had he referred to Friday morning, nor to the possibility that this evening was purely by way of atonement for that. From his very first smile when she had emerged from the lift at six-thirty, he had behaved as though being with her was the simplest, most natural thing in the world. He talked to her as though from some different beginning, as though everything he already knew about her was an irrelevance. But it seemed to her impossible that the events of the recent past should not be touched upon.
