Jennifer. I'll find out later.'
‘Oh—all right.’ Clearly Jennifer was disappointed that she was not going to take the call, and Rachel was glad she had refused. She could just imagine Roger's reaction if he found out some strange man had been trying to ring her. And he might, bearing in mind the grapevine at Hector, Hollis and Black.
Mr Black himself rang a few minutes later and Rachel listened to his instructions with some abstraction. She was still trying to convince herself that the previous call had had nothing to do with what had happened last night, and it was difficult to concentrate on legal matters when her brain refused to function normally. It couldn't have been him, she told herself fiercely. He had no reason for getting in touch with her again. And in any case, how had he known where to find her? There must be dozens of Rachel Flemings in the greater London area.
‘Did you get that?'
Realising Mr Black was still speaking to her, Rachel was relieved to see that her hand had automatically taken down his instructions, even while her mind was occupied with other things. ‘You want me to take the Oliver file to Mr Rennison, and then go to Willis and Potter to collect some documents. Is that right?’ she ventured, and her employer agreed rather grudgingly that it was. ‘So long as you remember to tell Rennison I want that file back tomorrow,’ he added brusquely, before clearing his throat. ‘Damn this chest of mine! I think I'm getting a dose of bronchitis. Call Mrs Black, will you, and ask her to get a repeat prescription of my tonic from the chemist. I'd ask you to get it for me, but the chap in Cricklewood knows what I need.'
‘Yes, Mr Black.’ Rachel acknowledged his request and jotted it down. ‘Anything else?'
‘No, I don't think so. I should be back around four. Do you think you could stay until six this evening? I'd like these reports typing up before I leave the office.'
Rachel hesitated. Roger was supposed to be calling for her this evening and they were going to have dinner with some friends of his. But he wasn't coming until seven-thirty, and she would have plenty of time, even if she didn't leave the office until six. If he rang before she got home, Jane could explain.
‘Okay,’ she said now, ‘I'll stay until six. Is that everything?'
‘That's it,’ he agreed dourly. ‘Goodbye.'
Sophie appeared in the doorway as she was plugging in the electric kettle to make herself a cup of coffee in lieu of a meal, and Rachel arched dark brows in her direction. ‘What, no lunch?'
‘No.’ Sophie sidled into the room. ‘I told him I had another date. Can I stay in here with you? Just until he's left the building?'
‘You can have some coffee, if you like,’ Rachel offered casually. ‘I'm not going out today. I promised Mr Black I'd be here in case there were any urgent messages.'
Sophie grimaced, and after surveying the room for somewhere to sit, she found herself a comfortable place in the leather armchair in the corner. ‘Thanks,’ she said, taking the earthenware beaker Rachel handed her. ‘This is cosy, isn't it? I wish I worked for one of the partners. Our office is as draughty as a wind tunnel!'
‘I know—I used to work there,’ Rachel sympathised, resuming her seat at her desk and propping her feet up on the waste paper basket. ‘Mmm, coffee: the saviour of the twentieth century!'
Sophie relaxed. ‘How long is it to the wedding? Your wedding, I mean. Didn't you say you were getting married at the beginning of June? Lucky thing! Have you decided where you're going to spend your honeymoon?'
Rachel looked down into her coffee cup. ‘Nothing's properly decided yet. Oh, we're getting married at the beginning of June, you're right about that. But Roger doesn't know whether he'll be able to get away at that time. We may have to postpone the honeymoon.'
‘What a shame!’ Sophie gave her a commiserating look. ‘Still, I suppose being together is the important thing, isn't it? Are you going to move into his apartment?'
Rachel nodded. ‘That's the idea.'
‘It is his own apartment, isn't it?’ Sophie was youthfully inquisitive. ‘His mother doesn't live there, does she?'
‘No.’ Rachel's smile was tolerant. ‘She has her own house in St John's Wood.'
‘I envy you, you know,’ remarked Sophie sighing. ‘Being able to give up work, if you want to. And not just because you're marrying Roger either. It must be nice to be rich.'
‘I'm not rich,’ exclaimed Rachel, laughing. ‘And I do have to work, believe me!'
‘But your father——'
‘My father doesn't support me,’ declared Rachel firmly. ‘If that's what you think, forget it.'
‘But he would if you asked him,’ said Sophie irrepressibly. ‘My father couldn't, even if he wanted to. He finds it hard enough to support the rest of the family!'
Rachel had no response to make to this, and for several minutes the two girls sat in silence, each busy with their own thoughts. For Rachel's part, she was thinking that Sophie had something she had never had, and that was a proper home life. Her own parents’ divorce when she was barely eight had left her at the mercy of aunts and boarding schools. Her mother had taken herself off to Australia with the salesman she had fallen in love with, and Rachel's father had found various excuses why he could not take care of his child. In consequence, until she was eighteen Rachel had seen very little of either parent, and only when her father discovered what a beautiful young woman she had turned out to be did he begin to appreciate the asset she might prove to his business dealings. But by then it was too late. Rachel had found employment with Hector, Hollis and Black, and her subsequent meeting with Jane Snowden, an older girl, who used to attend the same school, culminated in their taking the flat together as soon as Jane had completed her course at university.
‘Well, anyway,’ said Sophie at last, ‘I wish something exciting would happen to me!'
‘Like Peter Rennison?’ suggested Rachel drily, and the younger girl grimaced.
‘Well, he is handsome, you must admit. And I love that car of his, don't you?'
Rachel shook her head. ‘It's all right.'
‘All right?' Sophie was beginning indignantly, when without warning the door opened and a man's tall figure appeared in the aperture.
For the space of a moment, Rachel thought it was Peter Rennison, come to check up on Sophie's immature excuse. She was in the process of finishing the coffee in her mug and her first glimpse was of a man's dark pants and suede boots set some inches apart. But as she lowered her cup and her eyes moved up over an expensive leather jacket covering an equally costly silk shirt and tie, her conviction weakened, and by the time she reached the determined curve of his jaw she was certain she knew who it was. Her eyes flew to his, to clear grey eyes set beneath brows several shades darker than his hair, which in this light revealed the streaks of sun-bleached lightness in its wheat-gold vitality, and her stomach contracted.
‘Good morning,’ he said, with cool assurance. ‘Or should I say good afternoon?’ He consulted the slim watch, whose leather strap encircled his wrist. ‘It is almost one o'clock.'
RACHEL exchanged a look with Sophie and seeing the avid expression on the other girl's face she inwardly groaned. Much though she liked her, Sophie was the last person she would have wished to be here at this moment, and she could already hear the gossip which would ensue from this encounter.
Realising she had to say something, Rachel put her feet to the floor and stood up. ‘Er—can I help you?’ she asked, hoping against hope that he might get the message and not compromise her. Why on earth had he come here? What did he want? And how had he found her in such a short time?
‘I hope so,’ he said now, the grey eyes moving intently over her flushed face, and Rachel