went downstairs now to find Saul munching his way through a bowl of cornflakes in the kitchen, while Matthew made his school lunch. I watched Saul carefully spoon in more cereal, his face dreamy with the early hour, his eyes absent, jaws working mechanically. He was gorgeous. It was the one thing I envied Emily for – that he was hers, properly hers, and not mine. I pretended for a moment what I always did: that he was my son, mine and Matthew’s, and we were a happy family waking up to another happy day. Forget my parents and sisters, this was one family scenario where I felt I truly belonged.
Temp Hell that day was . . . well, hellish. I started a tally of how many times I was asked to do a particular job without anyone saying ‘please’, and was up to twenty-seven by midday. Then the intercom buzzed and the SlugMan spoke. ‘Can you come into my office for a minute,’ he said.
Twenty-eight.
‘Sure,’ I replied, trying not to wilt too visibly. I knew he’d be watching me from his glass-walled Office of Power in the corner and that the slightest grimace or eye-roll would be noted and held against me.
‘Oh, and bring your notepad and a pen,’ he added as an afterthought.
Twenty-nine.
‘Sure,’ I repeated tonelessly, feeling like a robot.
Mr Davis had the best office in the whole building, with huge windows along one side of the room, giving him a perfect view of the city centre, packed with the domed roof of the Radcliffe Camera and various church spires and college towers, all in the beautiful mellow Cotswold stone. It was just as well he had the view, because he hadn’t exactly done much to doll up the rest of the space. He had one of those I’m-the-boss-style desks, vast and imitation mahogany, with a smart black laptop open on top, alongside a framed photo of what looked suspiciously like his mum. There were shelves crammed with files behind his head and dull grey filing cabinets below the windows, one of which sported a sickly looking aspidistra with dust on its parched leaves.
‘So, Miss Flynn,’ he said, his voice smarming over my name. I hated his affectation of refusing to call me Evie like any normal person would. ‘You smell very nice today. New perfume? Or is it what they call pheromones, eh?’
My face felt hot at his words. Pheromones indeed. In his dreams. I tapped my pen against the notepad, determined to get this over with quickly. I didn’t want to hang around here exchanging innuendo-loaded chit-chat with this creep for any longer than I absolutely had to. ‘You said you wanted me for something?’ I asked briskly.
There was a horrible juicy silence. Damn. That had come out wrong.
‘I did, didn’t I?’ he replied after a pause just long enough that my cheeks had turned scarlet with embarrassment. Oh God. He was actually licking his lips. ‘I do want you for something, Miss Flynn, believe me. I’ve always wanted you, Miss Flynn.’
I inadvertently took a step backwards and bumped into a filing cabinet. My flesh was goosebumping all over at his words, but I uncapped the pen and held it over the pad, willing him to give me my orders and let me go again. I badly needed some fresh air.
‘Miss Flynn,’ he began. ‘I’d like you to take down . . .’ then he paused and looked right at me, bug-eyed and leering, ‘your knickers. I mean – a letter.’
Blood pounded in my ears. I couldn’t believe he had actually just said that. I’d like you to take down . . . your knickers. The dirty, lecherous bastard.
He was smirking, his lips parted in a way that I could see his horrible red tongue in the wet cavern of his mouth. ‘I don’t think so,’ I managed to say after a moment of stunned shock.
He sneered. ‘Oh, right, lost your sense of humour, have you? Feeling frigid today? Very well, let’s get on with it, if you’re not going to play. Dear Mr Baxter, I am writing in reference to your letter of—’
I shut my eyes briefly as he began rattling off the letter, and
Temp Hell that day was . . . well, hellish. I started a tally of how many times I was asked to do a particular job without anyone saying ‘please’, and was up to twenty-seven by midday. Then the intercom buzzed and the SlugMan spoke. ‘Can you come into my office for a minute,’ he said.
Twenty-eight.
‘Sure,’ I replied, trying not to wilt too visibly. I knew he’d be watching me from his glass-walled Office of Power in the corner and that the slightest grimace or eye-roll would be noted and held against me.
‘Oh, and bring your notepad and a pen,’ he added as an afterthought.
Twenty-nine.
‘Sure,’ I repeated tonelessly, feeling like a robot.
Mr Davis had the best office in the whole building, with huge windows along one side of the room, giving him a perfect view of the city centre, packed with the domed roof of the Radcliffe Camera and various church spires and college towers, all in the beautiful mellow Cotswold stone. It was just as well he had the view, because he hadn’t exactly done much to doll up the rest of the space. He had one of those I’m-the-boss-style desks, vast and imitation mahogany, with a smart black laptop open on top, alongside a framed photo of what looked suspiciously like his mum. There were shelves crammed with files behind his head and dull grey filing cabinets below the windows, one of which sported a sickly looking aspidistra with dust on its parched leaves.
‘So, Miss Flynn,’ he said, his voice smarming over my name. I hated his affectation of refusing to call me Evie like any normal person would. ‘You smell very nice today. New perfume? Or is it what they call pheromones, eh?’
My face felt hot at his words. Pheromones indeed. In his dreams. I tapped my pen against the notepad, determined to get this over with quickly. I didn’t want to hang around here exchanging innuendo-loaded chit-chat with this creep for any longer than I absolutely had to. ‘You said you wanted me for something?’ I asked briskly.
There was a horrible juicy silence. Damn. That had come out wrong.
‘I did, didn’t I?’ he replied after a pause just long enough that my cheeks had turned scarlet with embarrassment. Oh God. He was actually licking his lips. ‘I do want you for something, Miss Flynn, believe me. I’ve always wanted you, Miss Flynn.’
I inadvertently took a step backwards and bumped into a filing cabinet. My flesh was goosebumping all over at his words, but I uncapped the pen and held it over the pad, willing him to give me my orders and let me go again. I badly needed some fresh air.
‘Miss Flynn,’ he began. ‘I’d like you to take down . . .’ then he paused and looked right at me, bug-eyed and leering, ‘your knickers. I mean – a letter.’
Blood pounded in my ears. I couldn’t believe he had actually just said that. I’d like you to take down . . . your knickers. The dirty, lecherous bastard.
He was smirking, his lips parted in a way that I could see his horrible red tongue in the wet cavern of his mouth. ‘I don’t think so,’ I managed to say after a moment of stunned shock.
He sneered. ‘Oh, right, lost your sense of humour, have you? Feeling frigid today? Very well, let’s get on with it, if you’re not going to play. Dear Mr Baxter, I am writing in reference to your letter of—’
I shut my eyes briefly as he began rattling off the letter, and
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