A Bouquet of Barbed Wire by Andrea Newman

lunch hours. But it was more than that. He took active pleasure in seeing her there in the outer office as he came and went: she was so clean, so tidy, so suitably dressed, so discreetly scented. She was any man’s dream of a girl with whom to confront the world: This is my secretary. He could be proud of her at meetings. He felt mildly ashamed of not missing Monica—dear Monica—but Rupert was quite right, as usual: it was pleasant to have a secretary who was elegant as well as capable. When he thought of Monica’s sturdy arms and legs it seemed to him by contrast that Sarah’s bones might break if she bumped into anything. She was tiny and angular under the golden skin, which had little golden hairs on it when you looked more closely, over a letter or something—perhaps she was really blonde after all—and the back of her neck was soft and somehow vulnerable, like a child’s. Like Prue’s. He had spent many years looking at the back of Prue’s neck with delight. Now he realised that he still thought of her as a child. A child with child, confused, despoiled, led away. Whereas Sarah—what a difference those four years made. She was so out-going, so forward-looking. He saw at least two different young men calling for her after work or sometimesat lunchtime, so she was clearly not making the same mistake as Prue and going steady with one with a view to falling in love. She had talked of travel: she wanted to see the world. She would like her own car, she said, when she could afford it; she had passed the test already and sometimes friends would lend her a car so she could keep in practice. He pictured her in a white sports car, very much a status symbol, hair blowing in the breeze, as in the petrol ads, only sometimes the hair was dark when he pictured it. He had always planned to buy Prue a white sports car when she was twenty-one; he did not know if he still would. As things were, Gavin would benefit. Prue was so soft, she would be sure to lend it to him. Manson did not know whether he could stand the sight of Gavin roaring up to his front door in the white sports car, Prue’s birthday present, with her sitting meekly by his side. And he did not trust Gavin not to kill Prue (and himself, please God) on the road; he was sure Gavin would drive too fast.
    So Prue might not get her present; and he might not get the pleasure of giving it to her. Jewellery, perhaps that was the answer. Gavin could hardly wear her jewellery, although these days one could not be too sure, anything seemed possible. But it would be satisfying to give Prue the jewellery that Gavin could not afford to buy her. Maybe he should not wait for her twenty-first but start now with the coming birthday, and of course Christmas. He began to feel excited at the idea. A really beautiful piece, something so stunning that she would forget they had ever quarrelled. And she would have to wear it whenever she saw him, at least, and each time she put it on she would think, she would have to think, My father gave me this.
    ‘Sarah,’ he said. She was typing but the door between their offices was open for ventilation as it was late July and remarkably warm. People were beginning to remark on the summer.
    ‘Yes?’ She stopped typing and turned her head with a half-smile.
    ‘It’s my daughter’s birthday in October and I’d like to give her some jewellery. What do you suggest? She’s about your age.’
    Sarah said, ‘What does she look like?’
    ‘Small, dark, pretty.’
    ‘And what sort of clothes does she wear?’
    Manson flinched. ‘Sometimes perfectly normal and sometimes rather … hippy or whatever it’s called nowadays.’
    Sarah said doubtfully, ‘Maybe long ropes of pearls, if she wears beads. If she likes pearls, that is. I don’t myself but a lot of people do.’
    He couldn’t see Prue in pearls. He said, ‘No, I don’t think so.’
    ‘Of course,’ Sarah said, ‘the point is, do you want to give her what you think she wants or what