Ursula cleaned the make-up off her face and spent a long time showering, then carefully hung the cream silk trousers and top up in the wardrobe so the creases would fall out. She sat up in bed sipping tea and trying to concentrate on the glossy magazine she’d bought at the tube station that morning, but for once the enticingly entitled articles failed to grab her attention.
She was in a rut, no doubt about it. Maybe she should do what a lot of other single twenty-seven-year-olds did and join a dating agency...
Ross was in a filthy temper; that much was clear when he stormed into the office just after ten.
Ursula looked up from the pile of post she had been steadily working her way through.
He took one look at the stack of envelopes and scowled.
‘Fan mail?’ he growled.
Ever since he had been profiled in a TV programme about the rewards of working in advertising he had been besieged with requests for interviews and tips from wannabe tycoons.
‘Sort of,’ she prevaricated. ‘Maybe you should just write a book entitled Get Rich Quick Without Working!—I’m sure it would be an instant international bestseller!’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said evenly. ‘In between ferrying my daughter to and from school, trying to find a new cleaner, attempting to write a witty speech for the Advertising Awards ceremony—as well as putting in my fair share of hours here!’
‘That sounds like good old-fashioned moaning to me,’ she observed in surprise, because Ross usually managed to shoulder a heavy workload without batting his outrageously long, dark eyelashes.
‘Moan!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now why on earth should I want to moan?’ He yawned and tipped his head back. ‘I’m bushed, Ursula!’
Ursula picked up an imaginary violin and began to play it. ‘Oh, poor, poor Ross!’ she sang softly. ‘My overworked boss! While the rest of the country takes pleasure in shirking—the industrious Sheridan never stops working!’
‘Very funny.’ A smile twitched the corners of his mouth. ‘Actually, that wasn’t bad, considering you made it up on the spot. Maybe I should delegate the copywriting to you—since you have such an abundance of hidden talents!’ But his words were barely coherent as he stifled another yawn. ‘And I need a haircut. What’s in the diary for tomorrow?’
‘Meetings, meetings and more meetings,’ she told him apologetically. ‘And in the afternoon it’s—’
‘Let me guess—more meetings?’
‘Afraid so.’
Ursula gathered up a clutch of papers and carried them over to him, thinking that, yes, he did look tired. Not like Ross at all. ‘So why are you ferrying Katy to school?’ she asked. ‘I thought Jane usually did that.’
‘She does. But not much lately, unless under extreme duress. Lately, she’s been too busy making costumes for the forthcoming Connection tour. And, of course, nothing is ever good enough for Julian Stringer.’
‘Oh,’ said Ursula indistinctly, feeling vaguely uneasy at something in the tone of his voice, without knowing why. ‘Is it a long tour?’
His laugh sounded hollow, almost regretful. ‘There are dates all over the world—and Julian’s spending a fortune on staging. I think the special effects are meant to divert attention from the fact that his latest album hasn’t been selling well.’
‘And does Jane actually need to be there?’
‘Need and want are two quite different things,’ he said evenly. ‘She says she does. Apparently the wear-and-tear factor is high. Julian gets through a whole load of stage clothes which she constantly needs to replenish. Though, as I told her, if he didn’t insist on tipping bottles of champagne over his head and then diving all over the stage like a goalkeeper then maybe she wouldn’t need to. She was out until the early hours last night—’
‘But don’t you mind?’ asked Ursula breathlessly, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.
He raised his eyebrows at her, and Ursula was aware that she might have overstepped the line. Maybe he was regretting that illuminating glimpse into his marriage at Katy’s party.
Today he was obviously attempting to be diplomatic about his wife’s behaviour, she thought. And loyal.
‘I’m an independent man who can survive my own company pretty well,’ was all he said. ‘But it’s Katy’s end-of-year production tonight, and Jane has promised she’ll be back in time to watch her.’
‘Oh.’ Ursula bit back her indignation. It was all too easy for her to be critical of Jane’s mothering and slightly in awe of Ross’s quality as a father. Especially as she was bound to be biased in Ross’s favour. And things were never that simple, that black and white—especially relationships. Why, even her sister and Finn—who loved each other to distraction—had had their ups and downs. ‘I see. And why are you looking for a new cleaner?’
‘Because Mrs Wilson walked out.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. The saxophone player from The Connection upset her. The guy with the diamond in his tongue—you remember?’
‘He was pretty unforgettable,’ said Ursula drily. ‘How did he upset Mrs Wilson? Let me guess—beer on the carpet?’
‘Not exactly,’ Ross murmured drily. ‘But after you’d left, he continued to drink like there was no tomorrow. He was pretty smashed by the end of it, and so he crashed out and spent the night on the sofa...’ Ross’s voice tailed off and he began to look as though he was regretting starting the conversation.
Ursula shrugged. ‘So what was the problem with that? It’s immature behaviour from a man of that age, but hardly a federal crime!’
‘Except that he just happened to be naked.’
‘Oh!’ Ursula flashed him an innocent smile. ‘But your cleaner has children of her own, doesn’t she?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Just that she’s probably seen naked men before.’
‘Yeah, she probably has, but in this case...’
Ursula frowned. ‘In this case, what?’
He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course it matters, Ross! You can’t just start a conversation like that and then leave it hanging—’
‘No.’ And to Ursula’s astonishment, Ross burst out laughing.
‘Now what have I said that’s so funny?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing. Just a rather unfortunate choice of word, that’s all!’ He narrowed his eyes assessingly. ‘I’d rather leave it, if you don’t mind, Ursula.’
‘Please tell me.’
He let out a sigh. ‘Of course she had seen a naked man before!’ he answered briskly. ‘But in this case, what with it being first thing m the morning and everything...’ He looked up, expecting embarrassed understanding in her eyes, but found nothing but confusion.
‘Yes?’ she prompted helpfully.
‘Do I actually have to spell it out for you?’
‘Yes, I think you do.’
Ross’s frown deepened. ‘Well, he was aroused.’
‘He...was...aroused,’ Ursula repeated slowly.
‘Hell—yes! It was the morning, remember? And instead of just covering himself up—as anyone else might have done under the circumstances—he apparently gazed down at himself, then up at her and smirked and said, “Hey, will you get a load of that, Mrs Wilson?’”
The true meaning of his words dawned on her, and Ursula went bright pink, her embarrassment made even worse by the way that Ross was staring at her, as if he had only just realised...
She might as well have got herself a huge placard and painted on it in bright, luminous capitals that she was completely innocent about what men’s bodies did or didn’t do first thing in the morning. Even simpler—why didn’t she just wear a name badge bearing the single word ‘Virgin!’?
‘Oh, heck, Ursula,’ he groaned. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Please don’t apologise, Ross,’ she responded with dignity. ‘You just weren’t being terribly clear.’
‘No, you’re right,’ he said
slowly. ‘I wasn’t being terribly clear.’
Their eyes met in a long, defining moment. Ursula wondered whether he would opt for truth or concealment.
‘Heck, Ursula,’ he said again. ‘I didn’t realise—’
‘That I was so ignorant in the ways of men?’
His eyes narrowed, the look in them one of dazed incredulity. ‘Is that a roundabout way of saying that you’re a...a—?’
She cut in before he could utter the damning word and embarrass the life out of both of them. ‘I really don’t think we should be having this conversation, Ross,’ she told him steadily.
‘No. No, of course not. Neither do I.’ He heaved a sigh of relief, but his eyes were still curious. ‘Then let’s talk about something else.’
Ursula nodded. ‘That might be best.’
There was a deafening and uncharacteristic silence.
Ross began to draw zigzagged lines in the margin of his notebook—always a sign that he was agitated. He lifted his head to look at her, those dark eyes glittering like jet—piercing, searching, questioning. She wanted to look away, but found that she couldn’t.
And at that precise moment, to Ursula’s everlasting relief, the telephone on her desk jangled into noisy life. She picked it up on the second ring. ‘Ross Sheridan’s office,’ she said shakily.
It was a TV company which produced a daily audience participation programme. Ross had appeared on it once and had vowed never to set foot near the place again. Ursula dealt with the pushy researcher’s request as efficiently and as politely as possible, aware all the time that Ross was sitting at his desk studying her, while pretending not to.
Great! She could just imagine what he was thinking.
Frumpy, unmarried and a virgin!
‘Shall I go and buy a copy of the local paper?’ she asked.
‘To?’
‘Look through the small ads for a replacement cleaner?’
He sighed. ‘Would you, Ursula?’
‘Or maybe it might just be better to arrange to have a bouquet of flowers delivered to Mrs Wilson, with a note saying it’ll never happen again. That sort of thing?’
But he shook his head. ‘Mrs Wilson seems to have already decided that the house is a den of iniquity.’
Ursula shrugged. ‘Her loss.’ But as she took a pound coin from the petty-cash tin she found herself wondering how Jane could be so stupid. Her face went pink again and she looked up.
‘What?’ said Ross:
Ursula shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
‘What?’ he repeated impatiently.
‘Well, it’s a good thing it was only Mrs Wilson who went in there and saw him,’ she ventured timidly. ‘I mean, it might very well have been Katy.’
‘Precisely,’ he said, in a grim voice she had never heard him use before and at that moment her heart went out to him.
She went out to buy the newspaper and when she came back she trawled through the small ads and circled the likely candidates. ‘Do you want me to ring round these numbers to try and find a new cleaner for you?’ she asked Ross.
‘Would you? Do you know what kind of thing to ask for?’
Ursula smiled. ‘Why? Because I’ve never had to employ a cleaner in my whole life and probably never will?’
Ross shifted his long legs comfortably under the desk. ‘Maybe.’ He shrugged.
‘Well, I know more than most people about professional cleaners,’ she said. ‘I know what is acceptable and what is not. It was a job my mother did for most of her adult life. I just hope you pay fair, Ross.’
A steady gaze was levelled at her. ‘What do you think?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘I’d hazard a guess that you probably pay over the odds.’
He smiled. ‘Yeah.’
He began to draw tiny thumbnail sketches all over the margin of his notebook, and Ursula knew that the Sheridan brain was being bombarded with ideas for the latest campaign. The company was pitching for a new account—a hot new airline which everyone in the industry was hungry to represent. But Ross was putting together the package himself, and Ross would win the account—Ursula would have staked her entire month’s salary on that!
The morning was taken up with meetings—first with Oliver Blackman, Ross’s partner, who was flying off to Zurich at lunchtime. Next came Zara Hobbs, the new Accounts Director, who was blonde and beautiful, but just happened to be absolutely brilliant at her job. She also flirted like mad with Ross, Ursula noted in an objective sort of way. While Ross didn’t even seem to notice...
After Zara, came an ‘ideas’ meeting with one of the other creative teams. This involved sitting around the large, round table and swopping ideas for a new beer campaign. A brainstorming session where, as usual, an interesting vision was given a defining twist of originality by Ross.
At one o’clock, they both went out for lunch with a client. The invitation had been for Ross and his partner, Oliver Blackman—but it had clashed with Oliver’s trip to Switzerland. They went to a restaurant at the very top of a skyscraper with panoramic city views and a temperamental chef. Ursula had read about it in all the Sunday supplements, and it didn’t disappoint.
The client was a dog-food manufacturer—not the kind of high-profile client Ross would normally have gone for—but, as he said to Ursula, he was a sucker for dogs! She had often wondered why he didn’t have one of his own—she was sure Katy would love one—but he’d once told her that Jane was allergic to dog hair.
Ross had masterminded the countrywide poster campaign, showing a smug-looking Labrador sitting with both paws on a tin of dog food which was being marketed as both cheap and nutritious. Everyone, Ursula included, had teased the hell out of Ross for the corny line which had accompanied the poster and had simply said, ‘Paws For Thought’. But Ross had argued that it was the dog’s gloriously contented expression which would sell the brand. ‘Just watch the sales figures,’ he had predicted.
And the sales figures had said it all. As Oliver had remarked to Ursula—the man was just too clever for his own good!
At four o’clock, when their one glass of lunchtime Chablis was threatening to make them both doze off, Ursula was just on her way out of the office in search of coffee when the phone rang.
She turned immediately. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘No, it’s okay—I’ll take it!’ He stifled a yawn and lifted up the phone. ‘Hello?’
His body took on a sudden kind of tension as he listened to the voice at the other end.
Instinct made Ursula remain rooted to the spot Was it bad news? she wondered as she saw the sudden stiffening of his shoulders. Whatever the reason, she stayed there, listening unashamedly—not because she was nosy, but because instinct told her that he might need her. And there was no greater call to Ursula than that...
‘I don’t think I understand exactly what you mean,’ Ross was saying quietly into the telephone. He listened again for a moment.
‘Disappeared?’ he demanded, his voice growing louder. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
He waited while the person at the other end said something else.
‘Well, it’s a pretty emotive word to use,’ he said snarlingly. ‘Particularly if you don’t even know whether it’s accurate or not!’ His mouth twisted as the voice apparently tried to placate him, and he shook his dark head impatiently. ‘No, please don’t bother doing that. I’m on my way over.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll be there as soon as it’s humanly possible.’
There was a crash as he slammed the telephone back into its cradle and rose to his feet, his eyes unseeing, his face an odd, grey sort of colour.
From the door where she stood, Ursula gripped the handle. ‘What’s happened, Ross?’ she croaked nervously. ‘What’s the matter?’
He focussed his eyes as though he had only just remembered that she was there, then fixed her with a piercing stare.
‘Ross?’ she prompted gently. ‘What’s happened?’
His words were slow and deep.
He spoke as you would imagine a sleepwalker would speak. ‘I have to go to the school to pick Katy up.’
‘But what’s happened?’
He gave a slight shake of his head, as if he had water in his ears and was trying to clear it. ‘Jane was supposed to collect her...’
‘And?’
‘She hasn’t turned up. The school say that she’s disappeared.’
‘What do they mean, she’s “disappeared”?’ Ursula demanded heatedly. ‘Is she a missing person? Have they tried ringing her at home?’
‘She sent a message via Julian’s roadie—saying that she wouldn’t be able to get to school, asking them to contact me. They said he—the roadie—sounded...I don’t know... strange...’
Ursula tried to remain calm and sensible. She was a dab hand at handling bad news, but then she had a lifetime of experience to fall back on. ‘Well, of course he would sound strange, Ross,’ she said reasonably, ‘if Jane had given him a message like that to leave. You’d hardly expect him to sound as though he was ringing up to see whether the school had a vacancy next term, would you?’
His eyes glittered like coal. ‘I suppose not.’
‘But why didn’t Jane ring the school herself?’ Ursula wondered softly.
‘Right now I don’t really care!’ he emphasised savagely. ‘All I care about is getting to Katy!’
He picked up his denim jacket with the air of a man ready to do battle.
‘But you’ll have to track her down,’ said Ursula.
He stared at her, not seeming to have heard her.
‘You’ll have to trace her,’ added Ursula gently. ‘Jane, I mean. We don’t live in the kind of society where someone can just disappear into thin air, do we?’
‘That isn’t my first priority. Nor even my second.’ His eyes were hooded. ‘Can you come with me, Ursula? Would you mind? Now?’
‘Me?’ she squeaked.
One Husband Required! Page 5
