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Harriet snapped the compact shut and grinned at her. ‘Just another one of his pointless panics, then, is it?’
Unnerved by the friendly grin as much as the irreverent reference to their boss’s sometimes volatile nature, Barbara smiled weakly back.
‘I don’t know…he said something about God not making things easy for him—I don’t know whether he was being religious or profane.’
‘Hmm, knowing Mr Jessop, it’s bound to be profane,’ said Harriet, lapsing into a tartly disapproving tone that made Barbara’s smile blossom with relieved recognition.
‘He has been swearing rather a lot,’ she offered, glancing towards the closed door to the inner office. ‘I had to make him three cups of coffee before he said it tasted right. But I always make the coffee that way. It was no different from the coffee he gets any other morning!’
‘I’d better go in, then,’ sighed Harriet, taking pity on her assistant’s evident anxiety. Barbara had shaped up extremely well in the two months she had been with them, but she still lacked the self-confidence to handle an irate boss.
Well, might as well get it over with, she thought. Unconsciously squaring her padded shoulders, Harriet knocked briefly and marched into Brian Jessop’s office without the customary pause for permission.
‘You wanted to see me, Mr Jessop?’
She had been going to use his Christian name but at the last moment her nerve failed her, and she mentally cursed herself for her cowardice.
Brian Jessop was sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, just on the verge of taking a sip from his steaming cup. His blond head jerked at the sight of her and he inhaled sharply, sucking coffee into his air passages. He was immediately struck by a coughing fit, spewing coffee down his crisp white shirt-front and costly silk tie.
Harriet walked around the desk and thumped him heartily on the back, further slopping the coffee out of the cup and over his hand and shirt-cuff.
‘Wha—? Miss Smith? Harriet! Harry?’ he spluttered, the cup crashing back into its saucer as he lurched unsteadily to his feet. He swept a stylishly folded silk handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and began to blot distractedly at the mess on his shirt-front.
‘Oh, my God, Harry, what’s happened? What have you done?’ His tone was one of utter consternation as he swept her a comprehensive look that took in the full impact of the red high heels, narrow black miniskirt, the filmy white blouse under the cropped red jacket and the slick make-up job.
‘It’s only coffee; it’ll wash out,’ she said soothingly, deliberately misunderstanding him.
‘Not me! You! What in God’s name has happened to your hair?’ His normally low-pitched voice almost hit a screech as he stared, aghast, at the top of her head where she usually pinned her neat brown bun.
She lifted her chin high. ‘I bleached it.’
Well, actually, she hadn’t done the bleaching, the hairdresser had, and a very long and expensive process it had been too, when combined with a cut and blowdry, a facial and manicure. But worth every cent, Harriet had decided faintly when the hairdresser had finally held up the mirror to show her the radical new image she had chosen for hersel
f.
While she was growing up Harriet’s mother had drummed it into her that a woman’s hair au naturel was her crowning glory, and accordingly Harriet had always worn hers long and straight, pinning it tidily up when she was at work or leaving it in a thick plait.
Now it was a glaringly unnatural platinum blonde that was, fortunately, flattering to her olive skin. It was also short and bouncy, the clever cut having revealed a natural wave that enabled her to sweep back the fringe in a careless, finger-tousled look.
‘But why? Why now, of all times?’ Brian Jessop groaned, scrubbing despairingly at his ruined shirt.
Harriet shrugged. She had no intention of going into the depressing details. The new Harriet was a woman without a past, a woman of the future!
‘I felt like it.’
‘You felt like it?’ he howled, and Harriet frowned, disappointed by the strength of his negative reaction. She had expected her boss to be startled, yes—amused even, but hardly horrified. After all, he was married to a glamorous model who changed her hair colour at the drop of a hat.
‘I don’t believe it. A damned blonde…in a peek-a-boo blouse no less.’ He shook his head violently. ‘You can’t do this to me, Harry.’
Harriet began to get irritated. ‘I haven’t done anything to you,’ she pointed out with a tinge of sarcasm. ‘And this blouse has two layers of chiffon. It’s opaque, not peek-a-boo.’
He ignored her disgruntled protest, his eyes dropping to her hemline. To her amazement he actually flushed.
‘And, my God, look at your legs!’
He pointed accusingly.
Harriet obediently looked down at her lacy black stockings. ‘What’s the matter with them?’ Like the rest of Harriet her legs were a little on the thin side, but fairly ordinary as far as she could judge.
