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I cut that thought off before it could go any further. Now wasn’t the time for silliness. Now was the time for deep thought.
‘Lillian, my love!’
Correction: Now was the time for running! The voice from behind me froze the blood in my veins and set my heart hammering. He was behind me! If he caught up to me, I’d never get to work! And then…well, I wasn’t quite sure if Mr Ambrose would ‘fire’ me, because I wasn’t sure you could apply such a hot word to Mr Rikkard Ambrose. But he would definitely freeze me.
I hastened my steps. I just had to get around that corner! Maybe…
‘Lillian, my darling! Stop! It’s me, Mor-oomph!’
I was halfway to the street corner before I realized that Morty’s footsteps were no longer following me. His voice, too, had cut off abruptly. Knowing I might regret it, I stopped to listen.
No ‘Lillian, my love!’
No ‘Lillian, hand over your bosom so I can cry tears of happ
iness on it!’
No nothing.
Slowly, very slowly, I turned. In the whole street, there was no sign of Morty. There wasn’t any sign of anyone. And yet, in the moments before Morty’s voice had cut off, I could have sworn I had heard a second, heavier pair of footsteps.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a motion, and whirled. But the mouth of the alley I whirled towards was empty. Strange. For one moment I thought I had seen a shadow moving into it. No…not moving, exactly. Being dragged.
An involuntary shiver ran down my spine.
Stop imagining things! I told myself. And get to work!
Mr Ambrose did not freeze me. But he wasn’t very warm and chummy, either. We still hadn’t worked through the balance sheets, and his mood was getting icier with every penny of taxes that was added to the total. That day, I went home exhausted and thoroughly depressed at the thought of the weekend ahead. True, my dear employer worked me like a carthorse, but at least he wasn’t prone to frequent and flowery confessions of love. I shuddered at the thought of having no office to escape to for two whole days. I knew what awaited me instead: forty-eight hours of Morty around the clock.
Only…
When Saturday morning dawned and we all sat down to breakfast, Morty didn’t show up. Neither did he show up for lunch, or our usual stroll in the park to which my aunt in her cruelty had condemned me. When, after an hour of feeding the ducks, he still hadn’t put in an appearance, I shrugged and returned home.
‘What are you doing back here so early?’ my aunt snapped. ‘And where is Mr Fitzgerald?’
I shrugged again. ‘He wasn’t there.’
‘What do you mean, he wasn’t there?’
‘I mean that he was in absentia. Skiving off. Not present.’
‘Don’t take that tone with me, young lady! Go dress for dinner! He must be here for dinner, and I’m sure he’ll explain everything then.’
But he didn’t appear for dinner either. I didn’t dare to hope yet when I went to bed that evening, but when Sunday morning came and there still was no sign of him, hope would no longer be denied and fought her way into my consciousness.
Is it possible? Can he really be…gone? Simply vanished? But how?
I didn’t want to believe it yet. Believing it would make it real - and that would make the disappointment when Morty finally walked through the door only all the more crushing. But he didn’t walk through the door all day, nor climb through the window nor come down the chimney.
It can’t be possible! He can’t be gone! He can’t! I can’t be this lucky!
I tried telling myself that again and again as I lay in bed that night, trying to fall asleep. But the ridiculous grin on my face just wouldn’t die down, and neither would the hope blossoming in my non-bosomy chest. I suppose I should have felt a bit worried about what might have happened to poor Morty - but I was too blissful at the prospect of not becoming Mrs Morton Marmeduke Fitzgerald to bloody care!
This happy prospect became exponentially more likely when, by next morning, Morty still hadn’t put in an appearance. Ignoring my aunt’s sour face, which could have been used to make enough pickled eggs to supply London for a whole year, I danced out of the house, threw on my men’s clothes and dashed off to work, running twice as fast as I normally did. By the time I arrived at 322 Leadenhall Street, I was barely out of breath. I danced into Mr Ambrose’s office, hardly able to suppress my urge to sing.
‘Isn’t it a wonderful morning, Sir?’ I sighed, twirling like a ballerina in the middle of the office.
Mr Ambrose didn’t raise his cool gaze from the paper he was reading.
