he added, ‘I’ve just remembered, he’s looking in on us on Wednesday evening. On Beryl and myself, that is. I don’t know if you’d care to join us. You’d be very welcome.’ He knew that would get her; she simply wouldn’t be able to say no to a chance of spending a few hours in Rolt’s company, however diluted. ‘Nothing very fancy, you understand, just a pleasant homely evening.’
Whatever it’ll be, it won’t be that, Celia thought grimly. However had Andrew allowed himself to accept such a frightful invitation? ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said, burnishing her expression into a smile. ‘I’d love to come.’ With so many lies thickening the air she couldn’t resist throwing in another. ‘I’ve always wanted to meet your wife.’
‘Something else I’ve remembered,’ Ford said with a knowing air. ‘What’s this gossip I hear about a merger between Sugdens and Murdoch Factors?’ Sugdens was the comparatively small but highly efficient firm for which Celia worked; Murdoch Factors was much larger, with a wider range of interests. If there was anything in the whisper – and it had reached Ford’s permanently-cocked ears only recently and as the merest breath of rumour – then it seemed to him a good deal more likely that the deal would be a take-over rather than a merger.
Celia’s smile vanished. ‘That!’ she said brusquely. ‘I don’t know who started that particular hare but there’s nothing in it. I can assure you of that.’
‘It sounded a bit of a wild tale to me,’ Ford said lightly. Maybe you don’t want to know about it, he said to himself, could be you’d lose your job, whether it’s a merger or a take-over. Could be also, he added in his mind with a sudden sense of illumination, that it’s the reason why you’re closing in on Rolt. Time was going inexorably by, she wasn’t getting any younger. And of course she’d always been irremediably stuck on Rolt.
‘Kindly contradict the rumour if you should hear it again,’ Celia said with force. She walked away towards the stairs, she went rapidly up. He stood looking after her with amused approval. That one never knows when she’s beaten, he thought – and so of course she never will be beaten.
What was I about to do when I looked out of the window and saw Celia Brettell? he asked himself a moment later, staring up at the ceiling. Oh yes, he answered himself almost at once, I was going to collect Robin. He was just about to go upstairs when he heard a light patter of footsteps along the first-floor corridor and Mandy Webb came into view. He raised a hand, called out to her.
‘Miss Webb – you might trot along and winkle Robin out for me. Tell him to get a move on or we’ll be late for lunch.’ He turned away without waiting for any acknowledgement on Mandy’s part, and went off to get his coat.
It wouldn’t do Mr Ford any harm to polish up his manners, Mandy said resentfully to herself as she went reluctantly off to carry out his command.
She found Robin standing by the window in an empty office. He held a sheaf of papers in his hand, he was gazing down at the car park. He was a slimly built lad of medium height; he had short brown hair with all suggestion of curl sternly suppressed.
‘Your dad wants you,’ Mandy said without preamble. He turned and gave her a blank look. His face was long and pale, he had large grey-blue eyes.
She felt a sudden impatient touch of sympathy for him, imagining what it must be like to be blessed with a dad like his. ‘Lunchtime,’ she said in a more kindly fashion. ‘Your dad’s all set and raring to go. You’d better get off downstairs.’
Robin made a small jerky movement of his head. ‘Oh yes, thank you, I’ll go right away. Very kind of you to come and tell me.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ she said automatically. She paused on the threshold and looked back at him. She and Tessa might ask him along to one of their parties some time. He looked as if he could do with a bit of livening up. But she said nothing about it yet. She’d have to mention it to Tessa first.
It occurred to her as she went along the corridor to the cloakroom that it might also do her a bit of good with Mr Ford if she did a kindness to his one and only chick; it might sweeten old Ford’s disposition towards her, make him speak up for her perhaps in due course when promotions were being handed out. She bit her lip, considering the notion. Mm, bit of a long shot, but possibly worth a try.
AN UNEXPECTED interview with a new client meant that it was one o’clock when Alison finally managed to get off to lunch. She was very hungry, she’d had nothing for breakfast but a cup of coffee and a slice of toast. She’d treat herself to a really good lunch, take her time over it. She might try that place by the old market, it prided itself on its grills.
She paused on her way out and put her head round the door of Hazel Ratcliff’s overheated little sanctum. Hazel scarcely ever went out for lunch; she brought a vast number of sandwiches and great slabs of cake from home.
‘I may be a little late back,’ Alison said. ‘I haven’t got an appointment till a quarter to three but you might take any messages that come for me.’
‘Yes, of course, Mrs Rolt,’ Hazel said without more than a brief upward glance. She had munched her way through the greater part of her lunch and was now engaged in crocheting a small square of tangerine-coloured wool. A little pile of completed squares in a variety of bright shades lay on a piece of white tissue paper well out of range of stray crumbs.
‘What lovely colours!’ Alison said. ‘Are you making something for the Fair?’ A Combined Charities Autumn Fair was being held in a few weeks’ time with the object of raising funds which would be distributed at Christmas among various worthy causes. Alison could hardly fail to be aware of the project, for which Hazel worked assiduously; several other members of the Kingfisher staff were either busy making an assortment of saleable objects or had promised to act as stallholders and general assistants on the day.
Alison had so far done nothing to help. She intended to call in at the Fair and patronize a few stalls; she felt that was all anyone had a right to expect of her. Now it occurred to her that an offer of help might be politic.
‘I’m making cushions,’ Hazel said in a slightly mollified tone. She reached into a zip-topped bag on the floor beside her. ‘This is one I’ve just finished.’ She held out a cushion about twelve inches square with a brilliant design of motifs in different colours arranged in a pattern of concentric oblongs.
‘That’s beautiful,’ Alison said without exaggeration. ‘Did you design it yourself?’
Hazel shook her head. ‘No, it’s one of my mother’s designs. She was very good at needlework.’ She was silent for a moment, then she spoke in a bracing tone. ‘We’re using three of her crochet designs, they’re all based on the same idea as this. Oblongs, squares and circles. And two gros point designs. Jacobean.’
‘I’d like to see one of those,’ Alison said. ‘I’ve always been fond of gros point work.’
‘I haven’t got one here to show you.’ Hazel pondered for a moment. ‘I wonder if Mr Yoxall has.’
‘Mr Yoxall?’ Alison said in surprise.
‘Yes.’ Hazel sounded mildly irritated. ‘He’s very good at gros point. A lot of men do embroidery.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘He’s making some cushions for the Fair. And he’s doing a lot to help generally.’ She fixed on Alison an eye full of accusation. ‘Everyone’s doing what they can.’
‘Yes,’ Alison said. ‘Actually I’d like to do something to help, if it’s not too late to offer. I find I’ve a little more free time just at present.’
‘Oh well,’ Hazel said, a fraction more warmly, ‘that’s good news. As a matter of fact we’re in a bit of a jam, the woman who was going to run the objets d’art stall has had to go up north to look after her grandchildren.