‘Has this kind of thing happened before?’ he was demanding.
She nearly said no. But once or twice it had, so she muttered, ‘Well—’
‘I thought so. Well, you might get a kick out of two men fighting over you but our clients don’t expect to walk into a blood bath when they come through the door.’
She was getting the sack. Aunt Helen had been right. ‘You’ll never keep a job there,’ she’d said when Robin had told her and Uncle Edward that she’d had an interview and was starting on Monday. This would be just what Aunt Helen had expected, but all through lunch the young clerk had been talking about his career prospects. He was so pleased to be working here.
‘What will happen to him?’ she asked. ‘It wasn’t his fault.’
‘I can believe that,’ Hammond drawled. ‘Somebody like Tony wouldn’t stand much of a chance if you moved in on him.’
That was not what she’d meant. She hadn’t made the moves. The first day she’d arrived he had asked for a date and gone on asking, but it was not until today she’d agreed just to have a sandwich with him. She said, ‘I meant the fight; Jack hit him first.’
‘I’m sure he did. I think Tony’s ego has been damaged enough for one week. We can forget him. The problem is you.’ She felt even younger than she was, standing there while he passed judgement on her. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll make your mark,’ he said drily. ‘But not in my firm. And I hope you don’t do too much damage to others on the way.’
She went downstairs to get her coat. The receptionist was dealing with a smartly dressed man and woman and avoided looking Robin’s way, and Robin thought that it was just as well they hadn’t arrived five minutes earlier. They didn’t look the sort to be impressed by a member of the firm having a punch-up with a biker.
Now, three years later, the biker had long gone. Robin might have passed the clerk in town since without noticing him, but they’d certainly never spoken another word to each other.
‘So what happened?’ Mrs Myson was wanting to know. She looked from Robin to Marc and he answered.
‘Three years ago, you were with us how long?’ He knew how long, Robin would bet. ‘Nearly a week, wasn’t it?’ She nodded and he told Mrs Myson, ‘Two of her admirers had a fight in the foyer.’
‘The office foyer?’
‘That’s the one.’
She crowed with laughter. ‘I never heard about it.’
‘We kept it quiet.’ His grin took the sternness from his face, making him look suddenly light-hearted. ‘We didn’t want rumours getting around that dissatisfied clients were beating up the staff. The only witness was Edna Hodgkiss, and you know what a soul of discretion she is.’
Mrs Myson wasn’t shocked; her eyes were twinkling. But Robin knew the joke was on her. At just seventeen she had wanted to crawl away. Now she would have said, I didn’t get a kick out of it. They’re a couple of morons, like a lot of the men I seem to meet, and that’s their problem, not mine.
Mrs Myson waved the matter away. ‘This happened years ago; it’s all forgotten by now, and Robin needs a job. You say I need a companion. Well, I’d like Robin.’
‘We’ve had much more suitable applicants, and you’ve turned them all down,’ said Marc Hammond.
‘I didn’t want them,’ said Mrs Myson. She nearly pouted, and Robin glimpsed the dazzling, demanding girl she must have been, and still was under the skin.
‘No way,’ he said implacably.
Robin pulled her other hand clear but Mrs Myson had her at once by the elbow and was smiling sweetly at Marc. ‘At least Robin must stay to tea.’
‘No, thank you,’ Robin said promptly. She would choke trying to swallow while he watched her.
‘With me,’ said Maybelle Myson. ‘I am allowed guests, aren’t I?’ That was another joke, and again he shook his head at her, a smile lifting the edge of a mouth that Robin would have likened to a rat-trap.
‘I’ll tell Elsie to bring up a tray,’ he said.
‘This way, my dear,’ said Maybelle.
As she followed the old lady up the wide staircase Robin didn’t have to look back to know that Marc Hammond was still standing in the hallway below, watching her. She could feel his eyes on her almost like a hand shoving her, so that she took every step carefully as if she might stumble.
She hadn’t realised the effect that meeting him again face to face might have on her. She would never forget how she was sacked; it had been so humiliating. But it was more than three years ago. Since then she had had her share of bad scenes and she had thought she was tough.
She was tough. She had had to be. She had learned as a child not to wear her heart on her sleeve or to show hurt or anger unless she was unbearably provoked. But Marc Hammond seemed to storm through her defences. She found herself almost holding her breath, until they reached the top of the stairs and she followed Mrs Myson into a room and the door closed behind them, shutting him out down in the hall.
This was a sitting room. Chairs and a long sofa were covered in pale blue silk. There were fresh flowers—an arrangement of freesias and roses. Their perfume filled the air. It was a delightful room.
Mrs Myson sat with her feet up on the sofa and Robin took a low stool. Mrs Myson began telling her about some of the other applicants for the job. Some of them sounded reasonable to Robin, although
Maybelle Myson had been dead set against every one—almost as prejudiced as Marc Hammond was against Robin, and Robin was the one she couldn’t have.
‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you turned up,’ Maybelle said.
‘He won’t let me stay,’ Robin pointed out.
‘We’ll see.’ Maybelle gave a little nod, and Robin wondered if the old lady would go against Marc Hammond’s advice. Perhaps he was here in a professional capacity, as her lawyer, although that was not at all how it had seemed.
‘Are you related?’ she asked. Maybelle could have been his grandmother
‘Marc’s grandmother was my sister,’ she said. ‘I’m his aunt—well, his great-aunt. We had no children. I would have liked a daughter, a granddaughter.’ Briefly she sounded wistful, then her eyes filled with tenderness. ‘But Marc has always been like a son to me. Better than most sons I hear about.’
There was a tap on the door and the woman who had let ‘Miss Johnson’ into the house came into the room carrying a tray. Maybelle Myson thanked her and she put down the tray on a side-table, pausing to give Robin a long, hard stare from head to foot before she went out.
The tray was laid with tiny sandwiches, a Dundee cake, cream, sugar and lemon, and a teapot, cups, saucers and plates in beautiful china.
Robin poured, and took lemon tea because the amber liquid and the lemon rind looked so pretty in the eggshell-thin white cup. She took a bite of cake, letting the crumbs melt on her tongue, listening to Maybelle Myson.
Until now Robin had known next to nothing about Maybelle. She was always well dressed and anyone could see she was a lady in the true sense of the word-but their talk had always been cheerful chatter—no heart-to-hearts or confidences. But somehow Robin had felt they were on the same wavelength in spite of an age gap of a couple of generations.
Now, as they took tea together, she listened enthralled while Maybelle talked, telling Robin she had been a widow for years. Her husband had been an engineer and they had travelled the world together. Marc Hammond was right; Maybelle Myson had had a life packed with adventure in far-away places.
Listening had Robin on the edge of her chair, because it was nearly like being there herself.