game show hostess enthusing about a prize. Presumably that constant repetition was inaudible wherever Ellen would be working if she got the job. "That would be our Mr Rutter," the receptionist was saying now. "He's in London unexpectedly. Can our Mr Hipkiss help you? What was it concerning? I'm going to ask you to hold for a moment ..." Ellen was still waiting for her to do so when she resumed: "I'm afraid Mr Hipkiss is tied up just now. Shall I get him to ring you? I'm afraid Mr Fuge and Mr Peacock are in a meeting. I'll tell Mr Hipkiss you rang just as soon as he's free."
She switched off the call and ducked her head as if challenging her audience to prove that her blonde hair was dyed, and Ellen had to begin her question twice before the receptionist would look up. "Who did you say — who did you say were in a meeting?"
"The partners except for Mr Rutter. They'll be ready for you any moment now," the receptionist said with a briskness that suggested faint reproof.
"Mr Fuge and Mr ..."
"Peacock. He used to work locally, then he went away until Mr Rutter tempted him back. Why, do you know him?"
Ellen was taking a deep breath when the switchboard buzzed and addressed the receptionist in a small sharp voice. "They want you now," the receptionist said. "I'll take you in."
Ellen stood up. She could walk straight out of the building and leave Sid Peacock wondering — but she wouldn't let him off that easily; she wanted to see how he would conduct himself. She followed the receptionist down an inner corridor, past a large office where several men in shirt-sleeves were working at drawing-boards, to a conference room.
Two men were seated midway along the extensive heavy table which took up much of the room. One of them, a ruddy man whose waistcoat buttons appeared to be in danger of snapping their threads, came to meet Ellen. "Mrs Sterling," he said in a voice thick as a cigar. "Sorry we kept you waiting. I'm Gordon Fuge, and this is Sidney Peacock."
So he was Sidney now, Ellen thought, growing tense as Peacock put aside the papers he was scanning and extended a
hand to her. His wide face looked worn, his tan was turning purplish with veins. When she gave his hand a single hard shake he peered at her as if confused by her brusqueness and then let his gaze drift over her breasts. "Pleased to meet you," he said.
For as long as it took her to sit down she thought he was pretending not to know her. He watched her sit as though that was included in the appraisal to which she was submitting herself. "Well, Mrs Sterling, can you sell yourself to us?"
Ellen stared at him until he glanced away, at the papers in front of him. She was enjoying his apparent discomfiture when he said "Don't be afraid to repeat whatever you said in your letter. I haven't had a chance to read it. I'm sitting in for Max Rutter at short notice."
Unexpectedly and infuriatingly, she couldn't help feeling offended. How dare he forget her after the trouble he'd caused her? He deserved the shock he was going to suffer when he recognised the work in her portfolio. "Where would you like me to start?" she said with a sweetness she could almost taste.
"Give us some idea of your experience."
Both he and his colleague were gazing expectantly at her portfolio. She was about to pass it across the table and sit back to watch Sid Peacock's face when Fuge said "What brought you into this game?"
"Advertising? At art college they were always telling us it was the place to aim for. And it paid decent money, which came in handy when I got married."
"That's what I like to hear."
Ellen counted three slowly and silently. "What do you like to hear, Mr Peacock?"
"A designer who doesn't try to impress us with how much of an artist she is."
"Oh, I'm only sublime when I'm working on a book."
"Mrs Sterling illustrates her husband's books," Fuge explained.
"Should I have heard of him?"
"That depends on the kind of company he'd find himself in," Ellen said.
"They're
She switched off the call and ducked her head as if challenging her audience to prove that her blonde hair was dyed, and Ellen had to begin her question twice before the receptionist would look up. "Who did you say — who did you say were in a meeting?"
"The partners except for Mr Rutter. They'll be ready for you any moment now," the receptionist said with a briskness that suggested faint reproof.
"Mr Fuge and Mr ..."
"Peacock. He used to work locally, then he went away until Mr Rutter tempted him back. Why, do you know him?"
Ellen was taking a deep breath when the switchboard buzzed and addressed the receptionist in a small sharp voice. "They want you now," the receptionist said. "I'll take you in."
Ellen stood up. She could walk straight out of the building and leave Sid Peacock wondering — but she wouldn't let him off that easily; she wanted to see how he would conduct himself. She followed the receptionist down an inner corridor, past a large office where several men in shirt-sleeves were working at drawing-boards, to a conference room.
Two men were seated midway along the extensive heavy table which took up much of the room. One of them, a ruddy man whose waistcoat buttons appeared to be in danger of snapping their threads, came to meet Ellen. "Mrs Sterling," he said in a voice thick as a cigar. "Sorry we kept you waiting. I'm Gordon Fuge, and this is Sidney Peacock."
So he was Sidney now, Ellen thought, growing tense as Peacock put aside the papers he was scanning and extended a
hand to her. His wide face looked worn, his tan was turning purplish with veins. When she gave his hand a single hard shake he peered at her as if confused by her brusqueness and then let his gaze drift over her breasts. "Pleased to meet you," he said.
For as long as it took her to sit down she thought he was pretending not to know her. He watched her sit as though that was included in the appraisal to which she was submitting herself. "Well, Mrs Sterling, can you sell yourself to us?"
Ellen stared at him until he glanced away, at the papers in front of him. She was enjoying his apparent discomfiture when he said "Don't be afraid to repeat whatever you said in your letter. I haven't had a chance to read it. I'm sitting in for Max Rutter at short notice."
Unexpectedly and infuriatingly, she couldn't help feeling offended. How dare he forget her after the trouble he'd caused her? He deserved the shock he was going to suffer when he recognised the work in her portfolio. "Where would you like me to start?" she said with a sweetness she could almost taste.
"Give us some idea of your experience."
Both he and his colleague were gazing expectantly at her portfolio. She was about to pass it across the table and sit back to watch Sid Peacock's face when Fuge said "What brought you into this game?"
"Advertising? At art college they were always telling us it was the place to aim for. And it paid decent money, which came in handy when I got married."
"That's what I like to hear."
Ellen counted three slowly and silently. "What do you like to hear, Mr Peacock?"
"A designer who doesn't try to impress us with how much of an artist she is."
"Oh, I'm only sublime when I'm working on a book."
"Mrs Sterling illustrates her husband's books," Fuge explained.
"Should I have heard of him?"
"That depends on the kind of company he'd find himself in," Ellen said.
"They're
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