thought you were going to have a chat with him over the weekend? Lay it on the line about how you feel?’ Kim said quietly, forgetting her own troubles for a moment as she looked into Maggie’s sky-blue gaze. Pete commuted into London every day and arrived back at the flat well after eight each night, so any serious talking was always left until the weekends.
‘I was.’ Maggie shrugged her meaty shoulders disconsolately. ‘But he wasn’t feeling well—a touch of flu, I think—and I was snowed under with work anyway, so it perhaps wasn’t the right time.’
Maggie was an interior designer and her star was rising in the career sense if not in her lovelife.
‘He doesn’t know how lucky he is, that’s the trouble,’ Kim said stoutly, finishing the last of the coffee in one gulp and placing the mug on Maggie’s gleaming worktop.
‘I’ve been thinking the same thing myself,’ Maggie agreed wryly. ‘Working from home is great in all sorts of ways but he knows I’m always here, no matter what, just waiting for him to come back from the City. The way he carries on sometimes, you’d think he was a Viking returning from a far distant land—he’s such a drama queen! In his opinion, he’s the high-flyer taking chances, on the cutting edge and all that, and I’m good old dependable Maggie with nothing to do but get ready with his pipe and slippers.’
‘The short, sharp shock treatment might wake him up, if you can think of something not too life-threatening,’ Kim advised with a grin. ‘I’m sure he does love you, Maggie.’
‘Ah, but how much, lass—that’s the sixty-four dollar question, isn’t it? I’m getting on for thirty; I can’t wait around for ever!’
‘I must go; Melody will be out soon.’ Kim gave Maggie a quick hug and made for the door. ‘Ring me later if you fancy a chat.’
‘Even if it’s just to moan about Pete?’
‘Course. What else are friends for?’
Kim found herself sprinting the last hundred yards or so along the cold streets to the school, although there was no need; she was in plenty of time. She had always made sure—no matter how hectic or difficult her day or how heavy her workload—that either she or Maggie was there before time to pick up Melody.
Melody’s huge, thickly lashed brown eyes were searching for her the second her daughter walked out of the school doors, and as the small face lit up and a little red-mittened hand waved frantically Kim felt a lump in her throat at the unabashed love on the tiny face so like her own.
‘Mummy! Mummy!’ Melody fairly flew across the playground and into Kim’s waiting arms. ‘Guess what? I’m going to be Mary in the Nativity and have a white dress and tinsel in my hair. Mrs Jones picked me specially.’
‘That’s wonderful, darling.’
‘She said she can trust me not to be silly,’ Melody continued solemnly. ‘Cory Chambers was very silly today; she stuck a crayon up her nose and Mrs Jones couldn’t get it down and Cory was crying her head off. Mrs Jones had to get her mummy.’
The chatter continued during the ten-minute walk to their bedsit, situated in a terraced street which was grim by any standards. A young married couple and several students occupied the other four bedsits the narrow, three-storey house contained, with a shared bathroom for all occupants on the top floor next to Kim’s room.
The fact that the bathroom was right next door for Melody and that their elevated position cut out the possibility of noisy neighbours overhead were two small advantages in their somewhat miserable surroundings, but Kim fought a constant war against mould and damp, ancient plumping and poor lighting. It wasn’t so bad in the summer, but the two winters they had spent at the house had been abysmal.
Kim had made their home as bright and attractive as she could with the minimum of expenditure, making bright red curtains and a matching duvet cover and cushions for the bed-settee she shared with Melody, and scattering several rugs over the threadbare carpet, but nothing could hide the general run-down ambience of the old building.
Once home, and with Melody settled in front of the fire with a glass of milk and a biscuit, happily watching her favourite TV programme, Kim set about preparing the evening meal. But in spite of all her efforts to the contrary she found she was constantly replaying every minute of the interview earlier that day over and over in her mind.
It had been a travesty. Her eyes narrowed and she sliced a hapless carrot with uncharacteristic savageness. From the second her eyes had met those of Lucas Kane in the reception area she hadn’t stood a chance. The moment she had seen who was seated behind that desk she should have turned right round and marched out with her head held high. Instead… She gritted her teeth and another carrot met the same fate as the first.
Instead she had sat there and answered his barbed questions as though she wanted his precious job, and let him walk all over her in the process.
No—no, she hadn’t, she argued in the next instant. He hadn’t had it all his own way, and besides, she did want the job. She wanted it so much she ached with it—or, rather, she wanted what the position as secretary to the chairman and managing director of Kane Electrical would do for Melody, for them both.
But it wasn’t going to happen. She added two pieces of chicken breast to the vegetables and popped the casserole in the dilapidated oven the bedsit boasted. And in spite of the huge financial rewards it was probably just as well. She couldn’t even begin to imagine herself working for Lucas Kane.
At eight that evening, when the telephone rang in the hall downstairs and Juliana—one of the students—banged on Kim’s door to say a Mr Lucas of Kane Electrical was asking for her, Kim found herself having to do just that very thing.
‘This is Mrs Allen.’ She didn’t like the fact that her voice was so breathless but hoped he would put it down to the fact that she lived on the top floor—something Juliana had apparently pointed out to him, according to the raven-haired Italian girl.
‘Lucas Kane, Mrs Allen.’ The deep husky tones were just as compelling over the telephone and she could just picture him, eyes like silver ice and mouth a hard line in the darkly attractive face, sitting at that massive desk in what must now be a deserted office block. Not that he had to be there, of course, she amended silently. He could be calling her from home, wherever that was. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything—you don’t have guests?’
Guests? Once she and Melody were ensconced in the limited space within the bedsit, there was barely room to swing a cat, Kim thought drily. ‘No, Mr Kane, I don’t have guests.’ Her voice was better this time; less of the Marilyn Monroe and more of a Katharine Hepburn briskness to it.
‘Good.’ It was cold and crisp, very much like the man himself. ‘I’m ringing you to offer you the job, Mrs Allen,’ he said, without any preamble. ‘If you haven’t changed your mind, of course.’
‘I… You—’ Pull yourself together, woman, she told herself silently. He’s obviously looking for a secretary who can string two words together! ‘That’s wonderful, Mr Kane,’ she managed faintly.
‘Then you accept?’
‘Yes—yes, I do, and thank you. Thank you very much indeed.’ She forced herself to stop babbling, realising she had gone from one extreme to the other, and took a long breath before she said more slowly, ‘When would you like me to start, Mr Kane?’
‘Well, that was one of the points in your favour, Mrs Allen, the fact that you can begin immediately,’ he said coolly. ‘June is understandably anxious to join her fiancé as soon as she can and oversee the arrangements, the wedding being in the spring, but even allowing for the possibility you are an exceptionally quick learner—’ did she detect a note of covert sarcasm there, Kim wondered, or was she getting paranoid about this man? ‘—it will take several weeks to pick up all the strings.’
‘You want me to start tomorrow?’ she asked with a calm she was far from feeling.