had been directed at him. ‘What?’ he demanded.
She was undeterred by the angry note in his voice. ‘I said is that all you’re going to say? The girl was really upset, surely there must be something more that we can do than just give her a call later. You. . .’
‘No—you! Listen to me for a minute, before you come out with any more of your naïve little clichés. Do you imagine for one moment that you’re the only person who cares about her? Do you think I hold some instant cure here in my hands, which through some sadistic urge I’m refusing to give her? Well? Do you?’
Poppy’s lips snapped shut. ‘I was only trying. . .’
Trying nothing! You were preaching to me. Of course she was upset. She’s had acne since the age of fourteen—a time when most girls of that age are just beginning to adjust to their burgeoning sexuality. Ginny at that age would rather have had a cave to cower in than a discotheque to go to dance and flaunt her beauty and her youth. She’s come a long way since then—despite the fact that with each year the acne has become progressively worse, culminating this year with a student teacher, albeit an ignorant one, asking Ginny to provide her with a doctor’s certificate stating that the rash wasn’t infectious. She even hinted delicately about AIDS. . .’
‘But that’s terrible!’ Poppy gasped.
‘Yes,’ he agreed grimly, ‘that’s terrible, but that, I’m afraid, is life. It was then that Ginny decided that she must go to college, and I agreed with her, but tempered with my agreement was the warning that it wasn’t all going to be plain sailing, that one of the most intrenchable characteristics of the human race is prejudice.
‘So you see, my dear Miss Henderson, it comes as no surprise to me to learn that she’s encountered it yet again, and I’d like to hear just what you suggest I do. Go down there and personally threaten to beat up anyone who’s insulted her? Or do you think I should be down in the bowels of this building, inventing a new face for her?’
The depth of his anger was shattering, and Poppy felt close to tears, but she had the sense within herself to realise that the anger was not directed at her personally, that he was as upset by Ginny’s problems as she was. But there was no doubt about one thing. That she owed him an apology.
‘I’m very sorry, Dr Browne,’ she said clearly. ‘I spoke out of turn. I didn’t know enough about her case, and I can assure you that it won’t happen again.’
He rubbed at the soft brown hair on his temple, slightly mollified. ‘Humph,’ he muttered. ‘At least you haven’t stormed out, leaving me in the lurch. I made my point, but perhaps I didn’t do it in the most tactful way—I do have the tendency to fly off the handle when I’m roused.’
Never! she thought, as her customary good humour returned. But she had an idea. ‘Can I ask you something else, please, Dr Browne?’
‘Not time off already?’ he asked suspiciously.
What kind of women had he had working for him before? she wondered.
‘No, nothing like that. It’s just that I know someone who deals with the importation of cosmetics. They bring in a lot of stuff from the States—there are new products on the market all the time. I just wondered whether I should speak to her, to ask if there’s anything revolutionary in the line of concealment products—I do know they exist.’
He looked unimpressed. ‘Oh, they exist all right, and they’re very useful for disguising birthmarks—port-wine stains and the like, but I’ve not heard of anything that’s particularly efficacious for acne. Ginny’s will probably have disappeared by the time she’s twenty-five.’
But that’s nearly ten years away, Poppy wanted to blurt out, but stopped herself in time.
‘However, there’s nothing to stop you trying,’ he finished, and she flashed him a huge smile of gratitude.
‘One thing, though,’ he warned. ‘Don’t become too attached to her.’
‘Why ever not?’ she asked in surprise.
‘Because she’s vulnerable, because she’ll probably like you—she’s not past the age where she might hero-worship you. So you’ll form an attachment with Ginny, she’ll put her trust in you—and then you’ll get bored with the job, and you’ll be off.’
She wished he didn’t have such a jaundiced view of everyone. His voice when he spoke was alive with passion and conviction; rarely had she met someone so quixotic, and she knew with some kind of uncanny conviction that she would not get bored with this job, with working for this man. She wanted this strange, prickly, grumpy individual to respect her—more than that, she wanted him to actually like her—but she suspected that winning his affection and respect wasn’t going to be easy.
‘I can’t imagine the job boring me, Dr Browne,’ she told him calmly. ‘And I have no intention of leaving. What do you think of your bookshelves?’
He glanced at them critically. ‘They’re not completely straight, are they? Didn’t you use a spirit level?’
She should have expected it! The word contrary must have been invented for Dr Fergus Browne!
‘Actually, no,’ she replied through gritted teeth. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to take them down and start again?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t be silly, I was only teasing! Would you get me a Dr Henry Burke at St Thomas’s on the line? I’d like to speak to him.’
She did as he asked, and then he handed her a tape for the audio machine.
‘I did this last night,’ he explained. ‘It has to be in as soon as possible, so can you give it priority.’
She nodded and took the tape, and the two of them worked in companionable silence for the next couple of hours, Poppy rattling away on the keyboard of the fairly new electric typewriter, and Dr Browne scribbling furiously.
When she presented him with the finished copy, he looked up with an expression of mild surprise on his face.
‘That was quick,’ he remarked.
Quick! She’d gone as fast as she could, but she knew she was slower than a lot of experienced secretaries. He really must have had some dud typists if he thought she was quick!
She glanced at her watch. It was almost half-past eleven.
‘Excuse me, Dr Browne,’ she began.
He looked up from the paper he was studying, the grey eyes focusing on her face as if she’d woken him from a trance.
‘Yes? What is it?’
Poppy wished he wouldn’t bark at her like that. ‘I’m going to get myself a cup of coffee. Would you like one?’
‘What? Oh, a coffee—yes, please.’ He started reading again.
‘Er—how do you like your coffee, Dr Browne?’
‘What? Oh—black, no sugar.’
‘And tea?’
He gave a click of annoyance. ‘What is this—the Spanish Inquisition? Milk, no sugar in tea.’
‘Thank you,’ she said in an exaggeratedly patient voice. ‘Now I know, and I shan’t have to ask you again. Just one thing more, Dr Browne. . .’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! What is it now?’
‘To fetch us a cup of coffee I have to walk all the way over to the canteen, which is a waste of time, and by the time I get it back here it will probably be cold. So I was wondering if I could bring a kettle in?’
He frowned. ‘I don’t see why not. Have you got a kettle to bring?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Poppy conversationally. ‘When we got our new jug kettle to match the kitchen——’ She stopped hastily