Sirocco

Rachel laughed. ‘Not with this hair, I hope.’ She touched the unruly mass of dark-brown silk that refused to adhere to any current fashion and tumbled riotously to her shoulders. ‘I sometimes think I should have it all cut off, only Roger likes it this way.'

‘I bet he does!’ Jane pulled a face as she viewed her own mousy crop. ‘Besides, with your height you can carry it. Now, stop fishing for compliments and drink your coffee. I want to get washed up before I leave.'

‘Do you have an early class?’ asked Rachel, between sips. Jane taught history at the local comprehensive school, and did not have to face the morning rush into the city that her flatmate had ahead of her.

‘Not until ten,’ Jane replied comfortably, helping herself to more toast. Unlike her friend, she always ate a good breakfast, and her ample girth was proof of her weakness for food. ‘Are you sure you don't want anything to eat? You know what they say about eating breakfast ...'

‘I'll get a sandwich from the machine at break,’ Rachel assured her, putting down her cup and picking up the jacket of her suit. ‘Thank heavens it's not raining. At least the buses shouldn't be too full.'

Five minutes later, Rachel was walking along Oakwood Road to the bus stop. She never used her car for work; it was simply too impractical in the rush-hour traffic. Nevertheless, she was often tempted, particularly when the buses were packed and went by the stop without doing so.

It was a fine, sunny morning, with the promise of spring in the air. The daffodils were nodding their heads in Oakwood Gardens, and the grey squirrel that darted across the grass in search of food gave her spirits an unexpected lift. It would be March next week, she thought with some amazement, and the wedding was barely ten weeks away. Once she and Roger were married, his mother would have much less say in his affairs, and Mrs Harrington would have to accept that she was no longer the most important woman in her son's life. At present, she found it far too easy to divert Roger from the plans they had made, but once the wedding was over and Rachel was living at the apartment, Mrs Harrington would not be so welcome there.

Recalling how she had stormed out of Roger's apartment the night before, Rachel was reluctantly reminded of what had happened after. She had not found it easy to dismiss the incident from her thoughts the night before, and even now she felt herself tensing at the memory. Of course, she had soon recovered from the sense of panic that had gripped her at the time. Her unwilling interest in the man had been the natural sequel to the row she had had with Roger, and after all, their meeting had been highly unconventional. It was natural that she should have felt some curiosity about him, particularly bearing in mind his unquestionable good looks. Not that he had been handsome, as Roger was handsome, of course. The stranger's features had been much more irregular, harder, possessed of a harsh beauty that was more distinctively masculine. He had, she supposed, what was commonly known as sex-appeal, and that dominated his dark-skinned appearance ...

Irritated at the trend of her thoughts, Rachel joined the queue at the bus stop, her burst of lightheartedness evaporating. For heaven's sake, she thought impatiently, what was the matter with her? Why couldn't she forget about what happened the night before? It wasn't as if she was ever likely to see the man again. He was a stranger and he was not English, and she didn't know why she hadn't told Jane, so that they could have a giggle about it.

The solicitor she worked for, Arthur Black, was waiting for her when she arrived at the firm's offices in Fetter Lane, and his bustling presence succeeded in driving all other thoughts out of Rachel's head.

‘You're late,’ he remarked dourly, massaging the bald patch on the top of his head. ‘I did ask you to get here by a quarter to nine, Miss Fleming. It's now five minutes past, which leaves us only twenty-five minutes before my departure.'

‘I'm sorry,’ Rachel took off her jacket and hung it on the hook by the door, ‘but the traffic was——'

‘—hectic, I know,’ he interrupted her shortly, disappearing into his own office. ‘It always is,’ he called, as she extracted her shorthand note pad from a drawer and gathered up several pencils. ‘I should have thought you could have anticipated that by now.'

‘Yes, Mr Black.'

Rachel grimaced and followed him into his office, shivering a little as the gas fire sputtered to reluctant life. The old building badly needed renovating, but the firm of Hector, Hollis and Black was unlikely to undertake it. They seemed to thrive on its sagging floors and dusty corridors, and even the offices of the principals were like Mr Black's office: poorly lit and shabby. Nevertheless, they were never short of briefs, and Rachel could only assume their clients imagined the exorbitant fees they paid were all swallowed up in their defence. Certainly they employed some of the best brains in the legal profession, and when Rachel first joined the firm as a junior typist she had been excited at the prospect of meeting such people. Now, however, the initial spark of enthusiasm had been somewhat doused. Working as Arthur Black's secretary for the past two years had helped her get things into perspective, and she no longer viewed the profession through rose-coloured spectacles. A law practice was not particularly exciting or romantic, as she had first imagined. It was mostly dull and repetitive, and only occasionally did she meet one of those charismatic characters, whose advocatory skills had made their names famous.

‘I shall be in court most of the morning,’ Mr Black was saying now, after having dictated half a dozen letters and consigned an equal number for Rachel's personal attention. ‘But I shall ring the office immediately afterwards, in case there are any urgent messages. You will be here, I take it? You're not planning to go out for a meal?'

Rachel shook her head. ‘No. Roger's playing golf this morning, and I've no plans to see him until this evening.’ If he turns up, she added to herself silently. After last evening's fiasco, he might conceivably expect her to make the next move.

‘Oh, well——’ Mr Black shrugged his rounded shoulders, ‘that's all right, then.’ He paused. ‘Though I must say that young man of yours seems to have a great deal of free time. Does he work at all?'

‘Of course he does!’ Rachel was indignant. ‘But, as he works for himself, he can choose his own hours.'

‘Hmm.’ Mr Black sounded unimpressed. ‘Running women's clothes shops, I suppose.'

‘Roger supervises the management, yes.’ Rachel rose to her feet. ‘Is this all, Mr Black? Do you want me to contact Mr Perry about the Latimer case?'

Mr Black's nostrils flared as he accepted the rebuff, but he made no comment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Fix an appointment for me to see him on Friday. Oh, and arrange to send Mrs Black some flowers tomorrow, will you? It's our anniversary, and I shan't have the time.'

‘Yes, Mr Black.’ Rachel's mouth grew wry. ‘Is that it, then?'

‘I think so.’ Mr Black looked at his watch. ‘And with fifty seconds to spare. I suppose I should congratulate you.'

Rachel's lips twitched. ‘That won't be necessary, Mr Black. I'll see you this afternoon, shall I? Or won't you be back?'

‘It rather depends what happens,’ replied her employer thoughtfully. ‘I'll give you my answer at lunchtime. I should know by then.'

Sophie Tennant appeared soon after Mr Black had left the building, slipping into Rachel's office with a conspiratorial smile on her face. ‘Guess what?’ she said, perching on the side of Rachel's desk. ‘Mr Rennison's asked me to have lunch with him. Do you think I should accept?'

Rachel pulled the letter she had been typing out of the machine and viewed it critically. Then she looked up at the girl draped decoratively over the corner of her desk. Sophie was eighteen, four years her junior, and just as young and susceptible as Rachel had been when she first came to work here. A pretty blonde, with blue eyes and a pink and white complexion, Sophie had attracted the eye of one of the junior partners, and Rachel wondered how she could tell her she had had to negotiate that particular obstacle herself four years ago.

‘He is married,’ she pointed out now, shuffling the letters waiting to be typed together. ‘I've met his wife. She's very nice.'

Sophie pouted. ‘You're telling me not to go, aren't you?'

‘No.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘That's for you to decide. I'm only saying that—well, it's not the first time he's tried to date one of the typists.'

‘So what?’ Sophie swung her heel impatiently against the side of Rachel's desk. ‘I came to tell you because I thought you might understand. Everyone else around here is ancient!'

‘I wouldn't exactly call Mary Villiers ancient,’ replied Rachel tolerantly, and Sophie grimaced.

‘She's twenty-six if she's a day! All the secretaries are old, except you. And once you've left, I'll have no one to talk to.'

‘Well, I'm not planning on leaving just yet,’ remarked Rachel drily. ‘I'm not giving up work when I get married, you know that.'

Sophie shrugged. ‘So you say. But what if you get pregnant? You won't have much choice then, will you?'

‘N-o.’ Rachel acknowledged the point, but she refrained from adding that it was unlikely. Roger had said several times that he didn't want to start a family immediately, and in any case, they had no proof that such a contingency was even possible. In spite of his modern outlook on make-up and clothes and furnishings, Roger was singularly old-fashioned when it came to relationships, and although he had taught her ways to please him without their going to bed together, they had never actually made love.

‘So what do you think?’ Sophie persisted. ‘I mean, it's only lunch. It's no big deal.'

Rachel shrugged. ‘So long as he remembers that.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, would you like it, if you were his wife? Is it fair to encourage him to cheat on her?'

Sophie sighed. ‘He is very attractive, isn't he?'

‘If you like ex-rugby players, I suppose he is.'

‘Oh——’ Sophie's smile came and went, ‘you're not much help. Haven't you ever been tempted to cheat on Roger? I know you've been going out with him for ages! Surely there've been occasions when some other man has attracted you.'

‘I don't think so.’ Rachel was crisp, her tone sharper because of the unwanted memory Sophie had stirred. ‘Look, I've got to get on. You'll have to make up your own mind. It's your life, not mine.'

She felt a little mean when the younger girl had gone, realising her attitude had been governed by that unwelcome recollection. It was difficult for someone like Sophie to cope with the practised charm of a man like Peter Rennison. How could boys of her own age compete with his sophistication—and his Jaguar XJS?

It was almost lunchtime when the switchboard rang through to say there was a call for her. ‘Oh, that will be Mr Black,’ said Rachel at once, reaching confidently for her notepad, but Jennifer, the telephonist, demurred.

‘If it had been Mr Black, I'd have put him straight on to you,’ she exclaimed. ‘Or Roger either, for that matter. But this man won't give his name, and I thought I'd better ask you before putting him through.'

Rachel's mouth felt suddenly dry. ‘He—won't give his name?’ she echoed, and the telephonist went on:

‘He says it will mean nothing to you. Do you want to speak to him? Or shall I ask him to call back when Mr Black is there?'