Escape Me Never

Cass’s heart sank. ‘But why?’

‘They’re waiting for the new chairman to fly in from Paris. It seems he likes to be in on every act, and they don’t know what’s hit them.’ Sylvie paused. ‘And Roger’s wife’s been on the ’phone. He’s in bed with ‘flu—temperature up in the hundreds, and the doctor’s forbidden him to move.’

‘Oh, I don’t believe it,’ Cass said limply. ‘He was complaining of a headache last night, but I thought—well, you know what I thought …’

Sylvie nodded. Apart from his job and his family, Roger’s other prevailing interest was his health. He enjoyed a mild but persistent hypochondria which his colleagues either tolerated or fumed over, according to temperament.

‘One of his little Wednesday moans,’ she agreed. ‘But this time it’s for real. And Barney’s bellowing like a wounded bull,’ she added grimly. ‘And that’s nothing to the way he’ll react when he sees what you’re wearing. Hell, Cassie, you know how he feels about women wearing trousers to work.’

Cass flushed. ‘And you know how I feel about his stupid chauvinist prejudices about clothes,’ she retorted with energy. ‘Besides what does it matter. I’m the backroom girl.’

‘Not today, sweetie,’ Sylvie reminded her acidly. ‘Roger’s demolishing the nation’s stock of soluble aspirin—remember? So you’ll have to do the presentation.’

‘What?’ Cass’s face was appalled. ‘Sylvie—I can’t.’

‘You’re going to have to,’ Sylvie said unsympathetically. ‘For heaven’s sake, ninety per cent of the ideas in the campaign are yours, anyway. And you’ve heard Roger do presentations dozens of times. Just sock it to them, like he does.’

Cass said flatly, ‘It’s impossible. I’m not Roger, and you know it.’

‘You’re certainly healthier,’ Sylvie agreed cheerfully. ‘But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t speak up for yourself for once. Old Roger may have the gift of the gab, but you do most of the work, and everyone knows it. You carry him, Cass.’

Cass’s lips parted in further protest, but before she could utter another word, the door of the office burst open and Barney erupted into the room, calling something to someone over his shoulder as he came.

His glance flashed to Cass. ‘So you finally got here,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Cass said non-committally, reflecting bitterly that there wasn’t a lot that ever got past Barney.

‘Damn Roger,’ he went on forcefully. ‘Three hundred and sixty four other days he could have had ‘flu, but he has to pick this one. The presentation—you can cope.’ It was a statement rather than a question. ‘Well, you’ll have to. I’ll back you up, of course, but the thing’s your pigeon.’ He gave her a long assessing look, and sighed. ‘And for God’s sake do something to yourself before they get here.’

Cass straightened, and her eyes flashed fire. ‘What’s the matter with the way I look?’

‘Nothing—if sludge and leaf-mould are your favourite colours,’ Barney said disagreeably. ‘And you’re trying to sell a cosmetics campaign, not promote the well-scrubbed look. Don’t you think it might have been tactful to have worn some of their stuff?’

Sylvie said, ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ and slid out of the room. Neither of them saw her go.

Cass almost bounced out of her chair. ‘I thought you’d hired me for my brains. If you wanted a glamour girl, you should have gone elsewhere,’ she flared.

‘I would have—no danger,’ Barney threw back at her. He discovered a new bone of contention. ‘Trousers,’ he howled. ‘Christ, today of all days couldn’t you have sacrificed your bloody feminist principles and worn a skirt?’

It had nothing to do with feminist principles, but was the result of laddering her last pair of tights during that maddening early rush, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of telling him so.

‘I’ll wear what I want, and if you don’t like it you can fire me,’ she hurled at him recklessly. ‘You took me on for what was inside my head, not for any half inch of muck plastered on my face.’ She banged a fist on the table. ‘This is how I am, and you can take it or leave it.’

There was a silence, then slowly she saw his face crinkle into a reluctant smile, like the sun emerging from behind a thunder-cloud. ‘I’ll take you, Cass,’ he said. ‘Warts and all. You’re the best ideas girl this agency’s had in years. If we get this account, it will be down to you basically, and I won’t forget it. It’s just …’ He paused. ‘Hell, the clients expect an image from you, as well as the campaign. Usually, you have Roger to hide behind, but you won’t today and—well, it is important.’

Cass looked back at him with the beginnings of ruefulness. ‘I know it,’ she acknowledged quietly. ‘And—I promise I’ll do my best, but I can’t change the kind of person I am.’

‘No-one’s asking you to,’ Barney assured her. ‘But—look, Cass, they’re going to be late as it is, waiting for their latest big shot to join them You’ve got time to pop out—get yourself something else to wear. The agency will pay, naturally.’

Cass sighed. ‘What do you suggest?’ she asked bitterly. ‘Something short and see-through? I’m sorry, Barney, but I just can’t. It would be false to everything I’ve come to believe in.’ She bit her lip. ‘After all, if I was Roger, you wouldn’t be in here criticising the tie I’d chosen, or my aftershave. Why should it be different, just because I happen to be a woman?’

Barney gave her one of his deliberately disarming looks, usually saved for clients with grievances. ‘That’s the million dollar question, Cass, but there is a difference, and it will take a few more generations of women’s liberation to remove it. Well, have it your own way,’ he added briskly. ‘And at least your hair looks better for once,’ he added as he headed for the door again. ‘What have you done to it.’

Cass said without rancour, ‘I got it caught in the rain.’

When she was alone, she sat down slowly, resting her elbows on the desk, and cupping her chin reflectively in her hands. What Barney and everyone else at the agency didn’t know was that there’d once been a Cass Linton who’d been as fashion conscious as anyone else, who’d enjoyed enhancing her natural attractions with make-up and scent. But that girl was long since dead, and the new personality which had risen painfully from the ashes of the old preferred to camouflage herself in drab clothes, and severe hairstyles. She didn’t want people to look at her as they once had. She didn’t want, in particular, men to look at her. She was a widow. She wanted no other relationship in her life, and although she no longer wore Brett’s ring, she carried it with her always to remind her.

She examined her hands judiciously. Bare, with neat unpolished nails. A neat face too, pale-lipped and unremarkable, her clear blue-green eyes its chief beauty. And—neat hair, when the wind and rain hadn’t played havoc with it, turning it into a dark curling mop instead of the usual controlled bob. Everything about her designed so that people wouldn’t give her a second look.

But today, whether she liked it or not, everyone would be looking, and making judgments, and the thought irritated her almost unbearably. She’d made unobtrusiveness her leitmotif, and today, through no fault of her own, she was going to be the centre of attention.

It might not be so bad, she tried to console herself. After all, executives from the Eve cosmetics board had visited the agency on a number of occasions. Only the new chairman, the overlord of Grant Industries, was an unknown quantity.

She tried briefly to review what little she knew about him, culled mainly from agency gossip. Quite young, she’d gathered, for the onerous position he now occupied after his father’s retirement. Had spent a lot of time in the States, but for the past couple of years had been European director. Was expected to take a firm hold on Grant’s worldwide business interests, but had not, frankly, been expected to interest himself in a relatively minor detail like an advertising promotion for Eve Cosmetics.

No wonder Barney was going off like a firecracker, jumping in all directions, Cass thought wrily. She could have coped adequately with Mr McDowell, and Mr Handson. But Rohan Grant was additional pressure which she could have well done without.

Sylvie popped her head round the door. ‘Is it safe to come back?’ she asked. ‘What have you done with the body?’

‘The body’s alive and well, and no doubt playing hell somewhere else,’ Cass said, with a faint grin.

‘And you’re sticking to your guns?’ Sylvie asked.

‘Why not?’

‘Oh.’ Sylvie hunched a shoulder. ‘I thought you might have—compromised for once. Under the circumstances.’

Cass looked at her in mild surprise. ‘But I thought you agreed with me,’ she said. ‘Barney’s blatant sexism has always infuriated you too.’

‘Yes,’ Sylvie agreed. ‘Although his wife seems to thrive on it,’ she added drily. ‘At the last Christmas party she told me she’d gone back into stockings and suspenders because he preferred them.’

‘Well, good luck to her,’ Cass said, shrugging. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting I should do the same to woo Rohan Grant and his cohorts.’

‘No, that would be going too far.’ Sylvie hesitated. ‘Oh, what’s the use in pretending. Bloody Barney wants me to persuade you out of those khaki horrors you’re smothered in, and into something with a skirt. And for once, I see his point,’ she added hastily as Cass opened her mouth to protest. ‘Whether you want it or not, today you’re the agency’s spokesperson. They’re going to judge us all by you, or at least Rohan Grant will. You know how important the right impression can be,’ she went on appealingly. ‘Cass, I feel a total heel saying these things to you, but just for once, can’t you forget your aim of fading into the wallpaper—and look the successful lady you are?’

There was a silence. Cass said, ‘Quite a speech. What do you want me to do? Take Barney’s thirty pieces of silver and get myself a basic black?’ Her tone was bitter.

‘Why not?’ Sylvie’s voice was equable. ‘You’ve got a part to play, so dress up for it. It might even make it easier.’

Cass bit her lip. ‘That—actually makes sense,’ she admitted slowly. ‘All right—I’ll do it, for this occasion only. Did Barney give you any further instructions?’

Sylvie giggled. ‘Can you doubt it? He said we were to get something which matched your eyes and showed off your legs.’ She sent Cass a droll look. ‘So much for Operation Chameleon.’

And after a stunned moment, Cass found herself joining helplessly in her laughter.

But two hours later, she had stopped smiling. The clients still hadn’t arrived, and any remaining hope she’d had of getting off for Jodie’s open day was vanishing fast.

She sighed irritably. The day was proving a chapter of disasters from start to finish, and this—charade she’d allowed Sylvie to talk her into it, was one of the worst. The dress, a simple cream wool sheath with a cowl neck, was the most expensive garment she’d ever possessed, but she took no pleasure in it, or in the broad leather belt which cinched her waist, reducing its slenderness almost to nothing, or the matching dark brown shoes, the heels of which added over an inch to her height. And to add insult to injury, Sylvie had produced one of the Eve cosmetic beauty cases, and insisted on Cass touching her eyelids with a delicate tracing of pearly shadow, and smoothing a soft pink gloss on to the indignant lines of her mouth.