'You! The ginger one. Get your arse over here!'
The Price of Love
Apparently calm, Helen walked across the office to the young solicitor. She was seething. For your information, my hair is not ginger, it is titian. And yes, I know what you call this back-room where we temps work. You call it the pigpen.
And any more lip from you, laddie-boy, I'll report you to thesenior partner.
The solicitor thrust a sheaf of documents at her. 'Get these typed up. Pronto. Got to be presented in court, two o'clock.
HAVE YOU GOT THAT, WHATEVER YOUR NAME IS?'
Within minutes, Helen's fingers, hot and furious, were flying over the keyboard. Forget lunch, forget even going to the loo.
HAVE YOU GOT THAT, WHATEVER YOUR NAME IS?
Sure, she'd got it. And she'd had it. Right up to here.
But, thank God it was Friday. Come 5.30 she could clock off, collect her cheque from the agency and head off to the Red Lion. Now she was into her time. Now she was the one in the driving seat.
Helen's mood improved by the minute. She loved this part of it. The anticipation, the delicious uncertainty about whether, once again, she could swing it.
In the ladies' room of the Red Lion, Helene felt a mounting sense of excitement as she unbuttoned her grey blouse and stuffed it in her bag. Next, she tightened the straps of her cerise bra, and slipped her fitted black jacket on. Finally, she removed the comb from her hair and arranged a tease of curls around her face. She was stunningly pretty, with sapphire blue eyes and a mouth that curved into an inviting smile.
Not now it wasn't. Not when she was attempting to reapply her lipstick in the ladies' room of one of the oldest pubs in London, where the dingy lighting seemed as antique as the building. Of course there were other pubs, gleaming with state of- the- art spotlights. Yet Helen was loyal to what she liked, and she was fond of the Red Lion. The flamboyant barmaid looked after her very well and at lunchtime served fresh salmon and cucumber sandwiches, so there was never that sickening shepherd's pie smell that hung around so many other pubs.
Most important, the Red Lion was down an out-of-the-way street, the sort you had to know was there, or you'd miss it.
And missing it was, thankfully, what the thrusting learner lawyers she worked for were doing, preferring to shout and halloo in a smart Piccadilly cocktail bar.
In the brighter light of the corridor, Helen took out her compact and gave herself a final check. She looked good.
She was ready. As those arrogant sods in the office would
say - Bring it on!
So in her heightened state, as she returned to the bar, somehow she wasn't surprised to find a man sitting at her oak table. He was a complete stranger, but Helen had found before that when you were keyed up for something to happen, it often did. It was as if you gave off a scent saying
Come and get me.
The man was reading her Evening Standard. He stood up, passing her the paper. 'I'm sorry. I didn't have time to buy one.'
Helen noted that the stranger had the very precise Oxford accent usually acquired by cultivated foreigners. He said,
'May I get you an aperitif?'
Oh smooth, Helen approved. Aperitif indicated French and that he was taking her to dinner. She sized him up as he fetched her whisky. Tall, well built, about fifty. Blond hair streaked silver. Impeccably cut coat in fine herringbone.
Signet ring on his wedding finger. Charming smile.
Yes, decided Helen. You'll do very nicely for the evening.
This is an extract from the first chapter of The Price of Love. Copies of Deanna's novel are available from Troubador:
http://www.troubador.co.uk/book_info.asp?bookid=3323