‘I’ll stick it out,’ Dawn had said bravely. ‘I’m having tomorrow afternoon off for an antenatal appointment, as you know. Thanks all the same, Emmie.’
Dawn had asked her that first Monday if she was called Emily or if there was another name she was known by. ‘I’ve been called Emmie for as long as I can remember,’ she’d answered, and had been Emmie to all at Progress Engineering since then.
So, Emmie went back to trying to find the root cause of what was making her so restless. She had no worries about Aunt Hannah now, she liked her job and she liked Dawn, and everything else was ticking along nicely. So why did she feel…?
Her thoughts suddenly faltered. Everybody at Progress Engineering called her Emmie—except him! To him, she was still Emily. She wasn’t terribly sure quite when Barden Cunningham had become him. She had quite liked him during those first few hours of working for him. That was before she had taken the first of his May-I-speak-with-Barden-please-Paula-here-type calls.
‘Do I put Paula through?’ she’d whispered to Dawn.
There had followed, over the next few weeks, Ingrid, Sarah, and a whole host of other females—it was a wonder to Emmie that he ever got any work done. But he did. That was the bitter pill. She couldn’t fault him; given that—wouldn’t you know, another wretched womaniser—he took time out to answer his calls, the amount of work he turned out was staggering.
‘He’s not married, then?’ Emmie had asked Dawn, knowing she was going to hate him like the devil if he were.
Dawn had shaken her head. ‘Why limit yourself to one pudding when you can have the whole dessert trolley?’
Emmie had managed a smile, but she’d had her fill of womanisers. She’d been sure, however, to keep her feelings well hidden, but happened to be in his office when a female she hadn’t so far come across had telephoned him.
‘Claudia!’ he’d exclaimed with pleasure. And, charming the socks off Claudia—Emmie didn’t want to know what else he charmed off her—he’d kept Emmie waiting while he dallied with his new love.
‘If you’d just sign these papers for me!’ Emmie had requested crisply, when he’d at last finished his call.
She’d ignored his raised eyebrow, that look that said, Who the blazes do you think you are? ‘Anything else?’ he’d asked sarcastically, and Emmie had felt sorely inclined to give him a taste of what she’d given Clive Norris.
‘No, thank you,’ she’d replied politely, if a shade aloofly, and returned to her desk. Men!
True, he hadn’t attempted the womanising bit with her. Let him try! Not that she wanted him to. Heaven forbid! It irked, though, in some strange way that he still called her Emily, even though she knew for a fact that to him, Dawn always referred to her as Emmie.
Realising she was getting all huffy and puffy over nothing, Emmie got ready to face the day and drove herself to work. The morning went well, and Dawn went off at lunchtime to keep her hospital appointment.
Barden Cunningham was out of the office for the first hour of that afternoon, and Emmie quite enjoyed the challenge of being left in sole charge of the office. Her enjoyment, however, was somewhat dimmed by a telephone call she took around two-thirty.
‘Mr Cunningham’s office,’ she said into the mouthpiece, on picking up the phone.
‘Roberta Short,’ the caller announced herself. ‘That’s Emmie, isn’t it?’ See—even Cunningham’s friends knew she was called Emmie!
‘Yes,’ she answered, a smile in her voice. She liked Roberta Short, a striking woman in her early thirties. Emmie had met her and her husband, a man in his late forties, when they had called in to see her employer one day. ‘I’m afraid Mr Cunningham isn’t in.’
‘Oh, drat! I particularly wanted to catch him.’
‘May I get him to call you?’ Emmie offered—and felt her blood go cold at Roberta Short’s panicky reply.
‘Lord, no!’ she squeaked. ‘Neville mustn’t know I’m phoning Barden. I’ve an idea he already suspects—’ She broke off. ‘Oh, help, Neville’s coming in…He mustn’t find out…’ The line went dead.
Slowly, feeling stunned, Emmie replaced her phone. No, she’d got it wrong. That call just now didn’t really imply what she’d thought it might. Neville Short was Barden Cunningham’s friend, for heaven’s sake! Just because Cunningham was a womaniser of the first order, it didn’t follow that even married women weren’t safe from him. Emmie felt all churned up inside. Why didn’t it? He had charm by the truckload—no woman was safe from him. Well, save for her, and she was sure that didn’t bother her in the smallest degree!
But—his friend’s wife? No! Emmie got on with some work, but time and again those words ‘I’ve an idea he already suspects’ and ‘Neville’s coming in…He mustn’t find out…’ before Roberta Short had abruptly ended her call returned to haunt her.
Ignore it. It’s nothing to do with you even if he is having an affair with his friend’s wife. Two-timing her too with Claudia whatever-her-name-was, who’d phoned him last week. The man was an out and out monster! Men like him wanted locking up!
The sound of the connecting door to the next office opening told her that the object of her sweet thoughts was back. Who had he been extending his lunch with? she’d like to know. Claudia? Paula?
Emmie looked up. ‘Any messages?’ Barden Cunningham wanted to know.
‘Mrs Neville Short rang,’ Emmie replied. ‘She didn’t want to leave a message.’
‘She’ll ring again, I expect.’
My stars! How about that for confidence? Though, since the diabolical hound most likely knew that Neville Short was at home, he wouldn’t be likely to ring Roberta while her husband was there. Emmie concentrated solely on being an efficient PA, and then told her employer of a business enquiry she’d taken before he went back to his own office and closed the door. She carried on with what she had been doing.
It was just around half past three when her intercom went. ‘Come in, Emily, please,’ her employer instructed.
Certainly, your libertine-ness! Without a word Emmie picked up her pad and went in. And for the next half an hour she took dictation or jotted down his instructions. She was still writing when the phone in her office rang.
Cunningham indicated she should stay where she was, and, reaching for the phone on his desk, pressed the appropriate button. ‘Cunningham,’ he said, and then there was a smile there in his voice as his caller announced herself. ‘Roberta! You cunning vixen, how’s it going?’ he asked.
Emmie didn’t like it. A kind of sickness hit her, and she wanted to dash out of there. She made to leave—she could come back later, when he’d finished chatting up the ‘cunning vixen’. Cunning, no doubt, because she was successfully fooling her husband! But Barden Cunningham motioned her to sit down again. All too obviously he didn’t give a damn that Emmie overheard his philandering phone calls. Why couldn’t he conduct his wretched affair outside business hours?
She had no idea what Roberta’s replies were, but what Cunningham was saying didn’t leave Emmie in very much doubt that the conclusions she’d drawn were correct.
‘You’re worrying too much!’ Cunningham teased. ‘I promise you he’s not likely to divorce you.’
Grief—how was that for confident! Even if Neville Short did find out about the affair, the poor chap so loved his wife he would never divorce her. Barden Cunningham was taking advantage of that! Locking up! He should be put down—preferably painfully! The call was coming to an end.
‘I’ll somehow manage to snatch a few moments with you tomorrow night at the theatre,’ Barden promised. ‘It shouldn’t be too difficult.’