Oh God, he seriously expected an answer? Any moment now I’d start drooling. What the hell was wrong with me? I was a happily engaged woman for heaven’s sake.
The thing was those green eyes, high cheekbones and the short dark hair sparked a dart of instant sexual attraction, sending my heart rate into intensive care levels. Lust at first sight. Nothing more. My libido sitting up and taking notice. After all, it wasn’t as if my lady parts were getting an awful lot of attention at home at the moment. Yes, just lust.
I realised he was still waiting for an answer.
‘I just thought it needed rebooting.’ I plucked the phrase out of the air, knowing I’d heard Felix use it once or twice.
His eyes narrowed, his mouth tightened. I swallowed. Even scary, he looked damn attractive.
‘Rebooting,’ he spat the word with enough venom to strike down the entire make-up team.
I nodded with a hopeful smile.
He closed his eyes, a look of pain crossing his features. I could see tension in his jawline as if he were clenching his teeth really hard.
When he opened them, I leaned over and patted his arm. Getting stressed like that wasn’t good for you. ‘Hey, it’s only a computer. It’ll be fine. We don’t use it that much anyway.’
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Jeanie shaking her head ever so slightly.
‘Give me pen and paper any day.’ I smiled encouragingly at him.
Jeanie looked horrified.
Green-eyes took in a strangled sort of breath but couldn’t hide the slight twitch of his mouth as if he wanted to smile.
‘Do you know who I am?’
I didn’t but he seemed to expect I did. In that suit, which added to the overall heart-socking attractive package, (and I don’t normally do corporate types), he didn’t look as if he worked here. The fine wool jacket emphasised broad shoulders and the sharply creased trousers hinted at long lean legs. Visiting sponsor? Interview candidate? Contractor?
Then I spotted the staff badge tucked under his suit jacket. He must be new … oh minims and crotchets. Sweet hallelujahs. The new guy. There’d been a department note circulated last week about the spanky new appointment to whizz up our computer systems. I’d filed it under irrelevant, i.e. straight in the bin. My heart plummeted stone-like and I stepped in front of the computer as if I could hide my recent misdemeanours.
‘Mr Memo, I mean erm … Mr er… er.’ Could this get any worse?
‘Walker. Director of IT.’ The way he said it, he might as well have said ‘defender of the faith’ or something else weighty.
‘Right.’
‘So, Miss, Mrs …?’
Jeanie jumped in, ‘This is Matilde Hunter. She’s one of our team.’ She’d pronounced it in the French way, which I thought might be deliberate as if to suggest that English wasn’t my first language, so how on earth could I possibly be trusted with a computer.
‘And this is exactly what I was talking about in the management meeting,’ he glared at Jeanie.
She nodded. ‘And as I explained at the meeting, we don’t have much call for computers up here. We’re more hands on, if you know what I mean.’
‘Rubbish. It’s the twenty-first century. How do you manage your inventory?’ He glanced around at the untidy room, over to the shelf with rows of head blocks, some with complete wigs, others pinned in grid patterns ready to start making a new one and others partially made. Like a rather odd rainbow, hair in every shade spilled from the shelf. From the white of yaks’ hair used for seventeenth century Rococo wigs and the golden blonde of Brunhilde’s tresses through to an intricate plaited Titian hairpiece and a dark black coronet of ringlets.
‘Surely you need to keep track of how many wigs you’ve got and the materials you use.’
Jeanie and I both glanced over at the antiquated filing cabinet hiding the tattered card index system we used.
‘Not only,’ his eyes bored into mine, ‘does this place need a thorough overhaul but you …’
For the briefest of seconds something flashed in his eyes.
‘… need to learn how to deal with a computer properly. You do not yank out the plug … ever. You shut it down. You don’t …’ There it was again, that little twitch of his mouth. ‘Reboot it.’ His face softened but we’re talking degrees here. He still seemed pretty fearsome. ‘Leave that to the experts please.’
‘Okey-doke,’ I said with a cheery smile. Thank goodness he hadn’t walked in two minutes earlier, when all those emails were flying the nest. At least I’d got away with that much.
To: All Departments
Please join me in welcoming our first Director of IT, Mr M Walker, who joins us from a significant financial institution in the City.
This is a new appointment for the London Metropolitan Opera Company. I therefore hope you will make him feel welcome and offer your co-operation as he gets to grips with our wonderful work here.
Julian Spencer
Chief Executive
London Metropolitan Opera Company
After the cluttered mayhem of the wig room, the calm, clinical atmosphere of the make-up department was like stepping into an operating theatre.
Harsh white light from a bank of bulb-lit mirrors filled the room. Underneath them, a spotless white counter ran the full length of one wall, in front of which sat a row of cream leather swivel chairs as impressive as thrones awaiting royalty.
‘Hey Pietro.’ The imposing figure filling the plush chair with his broad shoulders and wide chest was waiting for me.
‘Tilly, darling.’ Under the dark bushy brows which contrasted sharply with his silver hair, his eyes glinted with merriment. On either side of him, the other opera singers chattered away together as they waited for their respective make-up artists to arrive.
‘How are you today?’ I fished out a black cape and draped it across the rich fabric of his heavily embellished costume. ‘Did your granddaughter like the zoo?’
‘She loved it darling.’
The words came out as ‘lorved eet’. Despite all his years in England, he’d never lost his Italian accent and the exaggerated vowels always made me smile.
‘Especially the snakes.’ He shuddered dramatically and winked at me in the mirror. ‘Revolting child. Next time we’re going to Selfridges. To see Santa, that will be far more civilised.’
He didn’t mean it, he positively doted on twelve-year-old Lottie and had even been into her school in Notting Hill to talk in assembly. Not something that many international superstars did in my experience.
Laying out my kit, I checked I had everything, not once but twice. It made me antsy if I had to break off half way through to go searching for a brown pencil or the right brush.
Yup, everything was where I wanted it to be. I looked at Pietro in the mirror. In front of him, on a wooden block, sat the long flowing wig which made the final transformation from favourite grandpa to Don Giovanni.
‘How was your morning?’
‘I had a run in with a virus, blinking thing,’ I said shaking my head. ‘Think I’ve spread it everywhere.’
‘What?’ Pietro’s face filled with concern and his hand