urgency and frustration. ‘You know,’ he said, and paused. ‘You know—’ And he put up a hand to touch her hair lightly. ‘I …’
‘What?’ Her face held only a blank look of curiosity; there was not a shadow of reciprocation of his own desires and feelings. He felt confused, horribly wrong-footed. He dropped his hand.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘goodnight, and thank you.’ As she walked away, she turned and gave a little wave, relief and guilt in her heart.
CHAPTER SIX
When Felicity stumbled into the office one morning two weeks later, in early November, puffing from her run from the station, she felt a small glow of triumph at having arrived on time for the fifth day running. Although there was still something of a backlog of Rachel’s work on her desk, she felt that she was getting somewhere with her resolution to prove herself capable and efficient. All she had to do now was improve her spelling and typing.
As she made her way to her desk, pulling off her woollen gloves, Felicity was aware that the Menopausals were huddled together like so many twittering birds. They drew apart at her approach, and she knew they had been talking about her. Despite a sour little sense of ostracism, she managed a cheerful smile and called ‘Good morning!’ to them.
Without even pausing for her morning coffee, Felicity set straight to work, clattering away at Rachel’s tapes, and felt by the time eleven o’clock came that she was breaking the back of it. She would just grab a sandwich at twelve and spend her lunch hour photocopying those charts on the
Valeo Trader
. Asshe worked, however, Felicity was aware of the glances of Louise and Alma straying in her direction; there was an atmosphere of secrecy and tension. When her phone rang at eleven-thirty and Mr Lamb’s voice summoned her to his office, she knew, with a sinking heart, that trouble was coming.
She took the tapes and letters she had completed to Rachel’s room. Rachel, she thought, was looking as serene and lovely as she usually did; it almost broke Felicity’s heart that someone should look as good as that. Maybe some day they could sit down, just girls together, and talk, and she could ask her how she did it. Maybe I could find out how to get my life straight, thought Felicity wistfully.
Mr Lamb had an office on the eighth floor, right at the end, in a remote corner of the accounts department. Quite what he did there all day, unless it was to shuffle round the holiday rotas and count out luncheon vouchers, no one knew. He wore a sour, officious expression as Felicity entered the room; she knew he was relishing this.
He did not ask Felicity to sit down, but let her stand. ‘I expected you to come as soon as I asked to see you,’ he said.
‘I had some letters to take to Miss Dean,’ replied Felicity. Where did he get off with all this stuff? she thought. He was only an office manager, not the senior partner. Still, let’s try to keep him sweet. ‘Sorry,’ she added, and smiled.
‘I imagine you know the reason why I asked to see you,’ said Mr Lamb. He ran a hand over his head, smoothing down the sparse black hairs on his pink, shining skull.
‘No, I don’t, as a matter of fact,’ said Felicity brightly.
‘I’ve received complaints.’
‘From Miss Dean?’ asked Felicity, lifting her chin and swallowing.
‘No, not from Miss Dean,’ said Mr Lamb. ‘It seems Miss Dean is rather stupidly good-natured where you are concerned.No, I’m afraid that your fellow secretaries are the ones who have complained.’ He clasped his hands together on the desk in front of him. They were stubby white hands, with coarse black hairs on the backs of his fingers. What a mean, horrible little man you are, thought Felicity, in your nasty little office, hating your own inadequacy, getting your own back by picking on people like me.
‘What kind of complaints?’ she asked.
‘Mainly that they are being forced to take on extra work
‘What?’ Her face held only a blank look of curiosity; there was not a shadow of reciprocation of his own desires and feelings. He felt confused, horribly wrong-footed. He dropped his hand.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘goodnight, and thank you.’ As she walked away, she turned and gave a little wave, relief and guilt in her heart.
CHAPTER SIX
When Felicity stumbled into the office one morning two weeks later, in early November, puffing from her run from the station, she felt a small glow of triumph at having arrived on time for the fifth day running. Although there was still something of a backlog of Rachel’s work on her desk, she felt that she was getting somewhere with her resolution to prove herself capable and efficient. All she had to do now was improve her spelling and typing.
As she made her way to her desk, pulling off her woollen gloves, Felicity was aware that the Menopausals were huddled together like so many twittering birds. They drew apart at her approach, and she knew they had been talking about her. Despite a sour little sense of ostracism, she managed a cheerful smile and called ‘Good morning!’ to them.
Without even pausing for her morning coffee, Felicity set straight to work, clattering away at Rachel’s tapes, and felt by the time eleven o’clock came that she was breaking the back of it. She would just grab a sandwich at twelve and spend her lunch hour photocopying those charts on the
Valeo Trader
. Asshe worked, however, Felicity was aware of the glances of Louise and Alma straying in her direction; there was an atmosphere of secrecy and tension. When her phone rang at eleven-thirty and Mr Lamb’s voice summoned her to his office, she knew, with a sinking heart, that trouble was coming.
She took the tapes and letters she had completed to Rachel’s room. Rachel, she thought, was looking as serene and lovely as she usually did; it almost broke Felicity’s heart that someone should look as good as that. Maybe some day they could sit down, just girls together, and talk, and she could ask her how she did it. Maybe I could find out how to get my life straight, thought Felicity wistfully.
Mr Lamb had an office on the eighth floor, right at the end, in a remote corner of the accounts department. Quite what he did there all day, unless it was to shuffle round the holiday rotas and count out luncheon vouchers, no one knew. He wore a sour, officious expression as Felicity entered the room; she knew he was relishing this.
He did not ask Felicity to sit down, but let her stand. ‘I expected you to come as soon as I asked to see you,’ he said.
‘I had some letters to take to Miss Dean,’ replied Felicity. Where did he get off with all this stuff? she thought. He was only an office manager, not the senior partner. Still, let’s try to keep him sweet. ‘Sorry,’ she added, and smiled.
‘I imagine you know the reason why I asked to see you,’ said Mr Lamb. He ran a hand over his head, smoothing down the sparse black hairs on his pink, shining skull.
‘No, I don’t, as a matter of fact,’ said Felicity brightly.
‘I’ve received complaints.’
‘From Miss Dean?’ asked Felicity, lifting her chin and swallowing.
‘No, not from Miss Dean,’ said Mr Lamb. ‘It seems Miss Dean is rather stupidly good-natured where you are concerned.No, I’m afraid that your fellow secretaries are the ones who have complained.’ He clasped his hands together on the desk in front of him. They were stubby white hands, with coarse black hairs on the backs of his fingers. What a mean, horrible little man you are, thought Felicity, in your nasty little office, hating your own inadequacy, getting your own back by picking on people like me.
‘What kind of complaints?’ she asked.
‘Mainly that they are being forced to take on extra work
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