One Husband Required!

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘What’s happened to the coffee?’ came a low growl from the office. ‘Are you boarding a plane for Colombia to harvest the beans yourself?’

  Ursula smiled as she popped two aspirin out of their foil container, poured him a glass of water and carried them through to him.

  He looked pale, she thought critically, handing him the drink and the tablets.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Are you ill, Ross?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just sleep-depleted.’

  ‘Well, don’t frown,’ she told him sweetly. ‘It’ll give you lines,’ and went back out to the delectable smell wafting from the kitchen before he had time to come up with a smart reply.

  Pinned on one of the walls of the kitchen was a framed still of one of Ross’s most successful campaigns, featuring a glossy young blonde with bee-stung lips, sipping from a glass of iced cocoa. The blonde had been sitting on a beach, clad in the skimpiest of bikinis, and Ross’s copyline had read, ‘Not Just For Bedtime...’.

  The campaign had exploded the myth that cocoa was only drunk by fuddy-duddies. It had also started a hot and angry debate in the women’s pages in newspapers about whether it wasn’t time to stop using sexist images to sell products. Ross had refused to comment.

  Sales had shot through the ceiling, and Ross had become the hottest property in town—and in more than just a commercial sense. With his creative genius, a body that was lean and hard—and eyes which could sometimes resemble hell’s fire—Ross Sheridan was the man whom everybody wanted to be seen out with.

  Except that he was seen out with nobody because he had a wife and daughter at home!

  And Ursula admired him for that. Over the years, the man had had enough temptation put in his path to have tempted the holiest of saints. She had seen models and actresses coming on to him like nobody’s business. But Ross hadn’t just resisted—he had shown absolutely no interest.

  Which only added to his appeal. The irresistible man who was beyond temptation. Moody, spiky, brilliant and erratic.

  She carried the tray of coffee through, added a plate of his favourite biscuits. She had poured them both a cup and settled back down at her desk when his deep voice punctured the silence.

  ‘Ursula?’

  ‘Yes, Ross?’

  ‘Um, how old are you exactly?’

  Ursula blinked. Again, the uncharacteristic use of the word ‘um’. ‘But you know how old I am!’

  His mouth assumed a stubborn little-boy curve. ‘Not exactly, I don’t,’ he hedged obstinately.

  ‘How exact do you want? Down to the nearest minute? Are you plotting my horoscope for me?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Don’t you know that it’s rude to ask a lady her age?’

  ‘But I don’t know any ladies,’ he mocked. ‘Only women.’

  The velvet sensuality which underpinned his words had the undesirable effect of making Ursula’s cheeks grow scarlet.

  ‘Ursula,’ he teased, ‘you’re blushing.’

  ‘Well, you caused it!’ she snapped.

  ‘Only because you were being so coy about your age.’

  ‘That was not coyness!’ she returned. ‘It was a perfectly natural wish to keep something of myself back!’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. You keep plenty of yourself back,’ he remarked obscurely, and took a sip of his coffee before catching her in the inky crossfire of his eyes. ‘So are you going to tell me?’

  Ursula found herself wondering briefly whether there was ever an age that a woman was happy to admit to! ‘I’m twenty-seven—twenty-eight soon.’ She stared across the room at him. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  He batted her back an innocent look. ‘Does there need to be a reason?’

  Ursula shrugged, and the upward movement caused her long dark hair to catch the light in a blue-black gleam. She wore her hair loose and flowing around her shoulders—not a terribly practical style for work, but at least it diminished the width of her unfashionably round face. Or so she thought. ‘Of course there needs to be a reason!’ she told him. ‘I’ve worked with you for the past six years and you’ve never bothered asking me before!’

  ‘Maybe I’m planning to surprise you—’

  ‘You mean you’re going to turn up on time tomorrow morning?’

  He laughed, but it was a slightly uneasy laugh. ‘You’re right,’ he sighed. ‘I have been late a lot recently.’

  Ursula quickly straightened the papers on her desk into a neat line. She wasn’t going to ask why. Didn’t need to. Married men who kept turning up late in the morning usually had a very legitimate reason for doing soy—presumably because they had been distracted by the womanly wiles of their wives.

  And that was an area of Ross’s life which Ursula determinedly kept her nose out of. She was glad that Ross was happily married—she just didn’t want it rammed down her throat every five minutes.

  ‘So why the sudden interest in my age?’ she quizzed. ‘Have you decided that I’m due a pay rise as a reward for long service? Or maybe just for being long-suffering?’

  Ignoring her question, Ross picked up a pencil and with three swift, hard strokes on a sheet of scrap paper managed to produce an uncanny likeness of a philandering Cabinet Minister who had been in the news all week. ‘It’s disturbing,’ he said, after a minute, ‘to think of you getting on for thirty.’

  ‘It is very disturbing,’ Ursula agreed equably, ‘when you put it like that. Because I’m not! Now who’s the mathematically challenged one? I happen to be more than two years off thirty! I’m not exactly queuing up for my pension just yet! And, besides,’ she added defensively, because taking a resolute attitude helped diminish the fear of a lonely old age, ‘thirty isn’t very old, not these days.’

  ‘No. You’re right. It isn’t.’ His voice was thoughtful as he fixed luminous dark eyes on her. ‘And is there a man on the scene?’

  Ursula blinked with surprise. What on earth was the matter with Ross today? First inviting her to Katy’s party. And now this. He had never asked her about her love life before. ‘Y-you mean...a boyfriend?’ she asked breathlessly.

  Ross gave an odd kind of smile. ‘Do you only go out with boys, then, Ursula?’

  If only he knew!

  But no one knew, not even her sister, though Ursula suspected that Amber must have guessed her embarrassing secret. That she had reached the grand old age of twenty-seven and had only ever had one serious boyfriend. And even he hadn’t been that serious; not if you judged the relationship in the way everyone else did—in terms of sex. Because—shame of all shames—in a liberal world where experience was everything, Ursula O’Neil remained an out-of-touch virgin.

  ‘No, there isn’t a boyfriend,’ she told him, hoping she didn’t sound too defensive. ‘I’m quite busy enough with my line-dancing and my French Appreciation lessons. And I read a lot. I don’t need a man to justify my existence, you know!’ She frowned at him suspiciously. ‘And why have you suddenly started taking an interest in my personal life?’

  ‘No reason,’ said Ross innocently. He absently took a bite from his biscuit and then looked at it in surprise before finishing it, like someone who hadn’t realised how hungry they were before they started eating. He popped the rest of it in his mouth and crunched it.

  ‘Miss breakfast this morning, by any chance?’ queried Ursula.

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘The way you practically bit your fingers off? That gave me just a tiny clue!’

  He smiled as he licked a stray crumb off his finger with the tip of his tongue. ‘You know, you’re bright, funny and extremely tolerant, Ursula.’ There was a pause as he looked across his desk at her. ‘Do you ever think about changing your job?’

  Ursula might have felt insecure about her looks and lack of attraction to the opposite sex, but she was supremely confident about her work, and it didn’t occur to her that Ross might be hinting at her to leave. She assumed an expression of mock shock. ‘You really want me
to answer that? On a Monday morning, when you’ve got a headache? What’s up, Ross—worried that I’ll walk out and leave you in the lurch?’

  ‘I’m serious, Ursula.’

  ‘Well, so am I.’ She blinked at him, dark, feathery lashes shading her unusually deep blue eyes. Her best feature, or so her mother always used to say. ‘I presume that wasn’t a prelude to “letting me go”, or whatever horrible euphemism it is they use these days when someone wants to sack you! Was it?’

  ‘Sack you?’ He gave a gritty smile. ‘I can’t imagine the place without you, if you must know.’

  Which sounded like a compliment, but left her with a rather disturbing thought. ‘Do you think I’m stuck in a rut, then, Ross?’

  ‘The question rather implies that other people do,’ he observed. ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘My sister,’ Ursula admitted.

  Ross knitted his dark brows together. ‘Amber? The model?’

  ‘She doesn’t really model very much these days—not since she got herself involved with Finn Fitzgerald—’

  ‘But she doesn’t approve of you working here?’

  Ursula bit her lip, wishing that they’d never started this wretched conversation. Life was so much easier if you just drifted along without asking too many questions along the way. ‘She thinks six years in one place is a long time.’

  ‘And she’s right,’ he said slowly.

  Ursula looked up in alarm. Maybe she had misjudged things. Him. Maybe subconsciously he did want her out.

  Ross saw the wide-eyed look of fear on her face and shook his head. ‘Now what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?’

  ‘Don’t you patronise me!’ she snapped. ‘Or tell a lie!’

  ‘And how am I telling a lie?’

  ‘I am not pretty!’

  ‘Well, that’s purely subjective, and I happen to think you are—exceedingly.’ He saw her blush, and smiled. ‘In fact, if I go so far as to be objective—then I’d describe those enormous eyes as sapphires set in a complexion as dewy and as fresh as creamy-pink roses left out in the rain—’

  ‘Now you’re letting your copywriting skills run away with you!’ she interrupted drily. ‘Just what are you trying to say to me, Ross? That our working partnership has grown stale? That there’s some hungry new female champing at the bit to replace me, and you do want me to go?’

  Ross sighed. ‘No, I don’t want you to go. Right now, all I want is to resist the temptation to make any comments about female logic. Or the lack of it,’ he added in a dark undertone. ‘But I am interested in hearing your sister’s objections to you working for me. Particularly since I’ve met her on very few occasions. She hardly knows me!’ he finished indignantly.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, with an evasive shrug of her shoulders. ‘You know.’

  ‘No, Ursula, I don’t.’ He looked at her.

  ‘She...she...’

  ‘She...?’ he put in helpfully.

  She didn’t dare tell him her sister’s real reason for urging her to leave Sheridan-Blackman. That Amber thought Ursula was being unrealistic. Wasting her life by pining for a man who could never be hers. Except that I’m not pining! Ursula thought defiantly. Or being unrealistic.

  Just because she happened to like Ross as a man, and enjoyed working with him—it didn’t necessarily mean she wanted to start ripping his clothes off! ‘She thinks that a change of scene would do me good.’

  ‘It’s worth thinking about,’ Ross said unexpectedly.

  ‘It is? Then that does mean—’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ he put in impatiently. ‘Other than that it might be an idea to consider any other offers which may come your way.’

  Other offers? Ursula stared at him in confusion. ‘But they’re not likely to, are they? Not if I’m not actively seeking employment. I’m a personal assistant, not an account executive, and I’m hardly a prime target for head-hunters!’

  ‘I guess not,’ he answered tersely. ‘Do you have a lot of work to do, Ursula?’

  ‘Not particularly.’ She tried to answer lightly, but it wasn’t easy now that he had sown seeds of doubt in her mind. Somehow she had gone from complacency to insecurity in the space of about half an hour. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting swopping idle chit-chat with you.’

  ‘Then maybe you could pop down to the market and buy me some oranges?’

  She didn’t miss a beat—but then she was used to bizarre requests by now. ‘How many?’

  ‘A dozen.’

  ‘And these oranges—are they for eating, or looking at?’

  ‘For looking at. I need inspiration! There’s a new juice campaign coming up—and Oliver’s pitching for the account. So we need to compose the perfect catchphrase which will have people ransacking their supermarkets for Jerry’s Juice. So. Any brilliant ideas?’

  Ursula knitted her brows together in concentration. What did she like best about orange juice? ‘Everyone always emphasises how sweet it is...’

  ‘Yeah. And?’

  ‘Well, why not do the opposite—emphasise how sharp it is?’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  Ursula shrugged. ‘Oh, the possibilities are endless—sharpens the appetite, that kind of thing. You know! You’re the copywriter, Ross!’

  ‘Mmm, I am,’ murmured Ross slowly. ‘But maybe you should be, too. You’re in the wrong job, you know, Ursula.’

  ‘No, I’m in the right job!’ Ursula unlocked the petty-cash tin and took a ten-pound note out. ‘Just because I happen to have a fertile imagination and an active mind doesn’t mean I want to be a copywriter!’

  He laughed. ‘So you’ll come to Katy’s party on Saturday?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ she promised airily.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THERE was a click as the connection was made. ‘Hello?’

  Ursula paused before saying, ‘Is that you, Amber?’

  ‘Of course it’s me! Surely you know the sound of my voice by now! I am your sister!’

  ‘You just sounded... I don’t know...odd.’

  Amber gave a heavy sigh which reverberated down the line. ‘Just fed up. Finn’s overworking. Again. How are things with you?’

  ‘Er, fine.’ Ursula hesitated. ‘Ross has invited me to a party on Saturday.’

  ‘Gosh. What does his wife say about that?’

  Ursula silently counted to ten. She loved her sister very much, but sometimes, honestly... ‘I have no idea,’ she replied frostily. ‘But I should imagine that he checked with her before he asked me. I do wish you wouldn’t make assumptions, Amber. I’m hardly worthy competition, and anyway—I like Jane.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  It was time, Ursula decided firmly, to put an end to Amber’s totally false speculations about what kind of party Ross had invited her to. ‘I do like her,’ she reaffirmed, though more out of duty than conviction. ‘What little I know of her. And anyway—it’s Katy’s birthday party.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Why do you say “oh” in that tone of voice?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. I suppose I imagined that he was whisking you off to some glamorous advertising-related function.’

  ‘Well, he’s not. And I never go to those, anyway.’

  ‘So you’ve been invited to a child’s tea party?’

  ‘It’s an early evening supper, actually.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘Don’t be mean, Amber.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m being objective. And protective.’

  ‘Protective?’

  ‘Of course. And it’s slightly worrying that this... party...is your social affair of the month!’

  ‘It isn’t!’

  ‘Well, what else have you done this month?’

  Ursula even found herself cringing as she answered her sister’s question. ‘I went out for a meal with my French Appreciation class last week—’

  ‘And were there any men there?’

  ‘Lots!’ said Ursula brightly, as s
he recalled the portly doorman from the nearby Granchester Hotel who sat next to her in class. He was planning to visit Marseilles for a holiday to trace some of his forebears and had grown hot and sweaty around the collar before asking Ursula if she wanted to accompany him on the trip! She had politely declined.

  Then there was that rather nice young sculptor whose pint she always paid for if the class went to the pub afterwards, because he never had any money. True, he was only twenty—but terribly friendly. And very interesting.

  ‘Eligible men?’ put in Amber sharply.

  ‘That’s so subjective I can’t possibly answer it!’ responded Ursula smoothly.

  ‘Well, if everything is so marvellous, then why are you ringing me, Ursula?’

  ‘Because I don’t know what to wear!’ wailed Ursula.

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Oh, I’m not suggesting borrowing something of yours!’ said Ursula hastily, sensing her sister’s embarrassment. ‘I wouldn’t like to try and squeeze myself into one of your size eight Lycra miniskirts!’

  ‘I’m a size ten now,’ said Amber, the gloom in her voice suggesting a disaster of national proportions.

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible, sweetie!’ teased Ursula, though she had to bite back her first comment, which was that she would be in seventh heaven if she were anywhere near that size! She had gained extra weight as a teenager, and never really lost it. ‘But it doesn’t help me to decide what to wear!’

  She could have asked Amber how she imagined it must feel when your main criterion for buying any outfit was whether or not it made your bottom look fat and wobbly. But of course she couldn’t do that. If Ursula’s bottom was bigger than she would have liked, then it was nobody’s fault but her own. If you ate too much, you got fat. Cause and effect. Simple. And, while she might occasionally justify her plumpness by calling to mind the grim reality of her growing-up years, nothing altered that simple fact.

  ‘Wear jeans,’ advised Amber succinctly. “They’re always useful around children.’

  ‘Jeans! If I wore jeans, they’d be digging out their safari clothes—I look like a hippo in jeans!’