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What if he started to talk about last night, and it turned out that all I remembered hadn’t been some insane, alcohol-induced dream but, in fact, reality?
The world about me seemed to shiver and shimmer like a mirage. All of a sudden, I felt as if reality were a dream and dreams reality. What if… just hypothetically speaking of course… Mr Ambrose really did… want me in some way? What would I do if he indicated his intentions?
I really did not know. I had no idea what I would do.
And that was disturbing.
In the past I had always known what to do with a man who had declared his intentions and wanted to make me his. In most cases, a lecture on suffragism or a good, long dance during which I used his feet for target practice with my heels was sufficient to send the gentleman running. In tougher cases, a few good whacks with the parasol usually solved the problem. For some reason, though, I didn’t think this would work as well on Mr Ambrose. Nor, I discovered to my horror, would I be likely to try.
What was wrong with me?
I didn’t… it wasn’t possible that I… no! I could never feel anything like that. Never, ever. Not for any man, especially not this one.
And besides, I didn’t have time for anything like that. I was completely focused on forging an independent life for myself. Yes, I was totally concentrated and not in the least bit distracted.
Suddenly, the mist parted, and in front of me loomed the giant facade of Empire House.
Hell’s Whiskers! How did I get here?
Confused, I looked around and saw the familiar houses of Leadenhall Street. Had I walked all this way without noticing?
But I was much too focused for that, surely.
Ha, ha, ha. You are?
Quickly, I made my way up to the front door and past Sallow-face in the entrance hall. He still gave me suspicious looks whenever I passed by, and I didn’t like to subject myself to his scrutiny for too long, particularly when I was not at my best, performance-wise.
I climbed up the stairs.
They were very long stairs. I had noticed that already the first time I had climbed up to the higher realms of Empire House, but it impressed itself more particularly on my mind today. There were a lot of steps. And with every step, the question repeated itself:
What is he going to say?
What is he going to say?
What the bloody hell is he going to say?
By the time I had reached the upper landing, my head was ringing with the question. I hardly mumbled a ‘Good morning’ at Mr Stone in passing before I sneaked into my office and fled behind my desk. I wouldn’t go to him. If he wanted to say anything, he would have to come to me. And I wanted some solid protection between us when, or rather if, he did.
I didn’t have to wait long.
After only a few moments, I heard movement on the other side of the wall and tensed. My eyes snapped to the door that separated my office from that of Mr Ambrose.
I heard footsteps approach it from beyond. Sharp, hard footsteps. Footsteps with which I was, by now, very familiar.
Although I didn’t want it to, although I screamed at it to behave normally, screamed that there was nothing to be excited about, the beat of my heart picked up. The footsteps came closer and closer, finally stopping right in front of the separating door.
There was a moment of silence, then a faint jingli
ng as of coins or keys - then the footsteps turned and retreated back to where they had come from. A chair scraped across the door in the neighbouring room.
What’s this? What is he doing, damn him?
He didn’t leave me a lot of time for wondering, or for damning. Two minutes later, a small metal container shot out of the pneumatic tube and landed with a plink next to me on the desk. I jumped and grabbed the thing, pulling out the message. It read:
Mr Linton,
You are three minutes late. This will be deducted from your wages at the end of the month.
