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The inner office was as cool and dignified as the man who inhabited it, decorated in soothing shades of blue and grey and unadorned by any hint of frivolity. The large window was tinted, screening out most of the summer sun’s damaging rays. Apart from a single, sombre portrait of Gerald Jerome behind the desk there were no paintings on the plain-papered walls or striking touches of personality in the furnishings. The huge desk dominated the room and the grey leather chairs and couch arranged around it were as functional as they were luxurious.
Harriet shook off the strange feeling of anxiety that gripped her as she looked at the furniture. There was no reason for her to feel uncomfortable. Everything was neat and in its rightful place.
The only thing that was unusual was the powerful, complicated-looking telescope squatting by the large window. Harriet remembered seeing it the last time she had been in the office nearly three months ago, but at the time she had been too puzzled by the chairman’s behaviour to pay much attention to it. He had been vague and imprecise as to his reason for summoning her, and Harriet had been increasingly edgy herself until it had dawned on her that he must be trying to apologise delicately for the unfortunate events of New Year’s Eve, a couple of nights previously. He had probably spoken privately to each and every employee who had attended the annual office party.
Because of the cultural and religious diversity of Trident’s workforce, the traditional Christmas do had been eschewed in favour of a more neutral mark of appreciation for the year’s work, but on this occasion the delicious fruit punch which was offered along with beer and wine had been liberally spiked by an employee who had arrived already drunk. Some dangerous high jinks and appallingly offensive behaviour had occurred as a result, and Harriet had been grateful that her own unaccustomed consumption had merely resulted in her being wretchedly ill.
Marcus Fox had fired the man who had doctored the punch, but Harriet considered it typical of his code of ethics that he’d accepted personal responsibility as head of the firm for the safety and welfare of his employees.
Only by strenuously assuring him that she had been far too unwell to notice or care what was going on around her had she succeeded in fending off his unshakeable conviction that she must have been deeply embarrassed by what had occurred. He had been so obviously ill at ease with her calm rejection of his apologetic concern that she had been glad to escape back to Brian Jessop, who had treated the whole thing as a joke, albeit one in very poor taste.
He wasn’t ill at ease now, thought Harriet as she watched Marcus Fox stride around his desk and past the telescope to sink heavily into his leather swivel chair. He leaned his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth, and gave her his famous blackbrowed look, every bit the imperious employer.
Harriet guessed that she was meant to quail. Her toes curled in her shoes as she attempted to show that she wasn’t oppressed by his intimidating silence.
‘Is astronomy one of your hobbies?’
‘No.’ The clipped monosyllable sternly discouraged her interest.
Quite. She didn’t imagine that he had any hobbies. From what she had heard, he worked practically nonstop. Even at that notorious New Year’s Eve party he had made only a fleeting appearance. A teetotaller, he had toasted the staff with the spiked punch and mingled sociably for a while, but, having just walked off a plane from London, he had been pale with fatigue, and Harriet had heard that he had disappeared long before the alcohol-fuelled mayhem had begun. She tried to imagine Marcus Fox letting his hair down and couldn’t. He was always so serious, so controlled. He would never do anything reckless.
‘What’s the telescope for, then? Spying on the offices across the square?’ she teased impulsively. ‘Or do you use it for girl-watching?’
She couldn’t quite believe that the brazen words had popped out of her own mouth, and he seemed similarly stunned. His jaw clenched and an unusual flush mounted the broad cheek-bones. His pale eyes glittered under lowered lids. This time his inspection of her was slow and nerve-rackingly thorough and Harriet’s knees turned to jelly. He was trying to make her horribly self-conscious and he was succeeding, but at least he was finally deigning to acknowledge that the Harriet Smith he was dealing with was most definitely not the woman that he had previously taken so arrogantly for granted.
‘Sit down, Miss Smith.’
It was an order, not an invitation. Harriet walked carefully over to the chair furthest from the desk, aware that the temporary weakness in her knees made her hips sway more than ever. However did models manage to slink down runways on their uncomfortable, high-fashion stilts? She thought wistfully of the comfortable, old-fashioned court shoes that she had donated to the Salvation Army, along with the rest of her old wardrobe.
She sat down with relief, only to find that her narrow skirt shrank alarmingly up her slender thighs. She pretended not to notice. She hadn’t taken into account things like bending and twisting and sitting when she had been burning up the boutiques during the long weekend. She had just stood in front of the mirror and ruthlessly bought whatever the shop assistant had recommended.
Harriet folded her hands in her diminished lap and tried to remember everything she had ever read about miniskirt etiquette. Did one cross one’s legs or slant them primly parallel to the side? The idea of being prim decided her. She slid one knee rashly over the top of the other. The skirt retreated another crucial few centimetres.
Marcus Fox’s steepled fingers collapsed and his voice was slightly hoarse as he began ominously, ‘Miss Smith, I am about to break one of my cardinal rules about not allowing personal problems to intrude on matters of business.’
Harriet’s jaw jutted sullenly. If he made one single slighting comment now about her appearance, she would throw it right back in his pompous face!
‘Miss Smith, I have a daughter…’
Harriet stared at him blankly, wondering whether she had misheard. ‘A daughter?’
‘Yes. Her name is Nicola. She’s just turned fifteen. A very mature fifteen, I might add,’ he added wryly.
Harriet was bewildered. What did his daughter have to do with her? Unless he was going to wrap up some more of his unwelcome advice under the guise of talking about his daughter’s adolescent problems.
Yes, that must be it. Harriet’s blue eyes darkened in pain. He wasn’t her father! Her father had been a wonderful man and not at all like Marcus Fox. He was gone now, like her mother and her harum-scarum elder brother, Tim. Like Keith. Like Frank—
Her mind slammed shut on the grim litany. She wasn’t going to dwell on it. She was tough, a survivor, not some feeble-willed green girl who believed in stardust and fairy tales. She knew exactly where she was going with her life and why. She certainly didn’t need Marcus Fox’s paternalistic concern. The only person she had to please these days was herself…
‘Miss Smith, are you listening to me?’
The deeply nettled tone finally penetrated Harriet’s abstraction and she tried to look alert and interested.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’m trying to tell you about my daughter.’ His strained patience warned her not to push him too far.
‘I didn’t know you had any children,’ she said, reluctant to give him any encouragement for the lecture that she was certain was in store.
