I looked at my watch and tried not to twitch. It was already halfway through my lunchtime. If the psychologist took any longer, I’d be late for work. I couldn’t afford to be late, not with the amount this assessment was costing.
“Mrs Reed?” The psychologist was a comfortable-looking woman in her forties. She was holding a mug that announced, “If life gives you melons, then you're probably dyslexic!”
It was a little incongruous, but at least it was cheerful.
“We assessed Ben,” the psychologist said briskly, “and he is dyslexic.”
Hell. Hell. Hell. Goddamn it!
I’d told myself I was prepared, but even so, my heart sank. Inexplicably, I felt like a bad mother. Crazy, right? My head knew that kids are born dyslexic, that it’s not the result of bad parenting, but even so, I had a severe case of the guilts.
“What can I do?” I asked fearfully.
“We’ll give you a report to give to the school, but there are some useful tech resources if you can afford them.”
The psychologist went on to talk about touch screens, specialised apps, and other gear, all at eye-watering prices. The more she waxed lyrical, the worse I felt. I’d be broke for months. The roof would have to wait. Maybe till the next decade.
“And we’ll also give you a home support programme,” she finished. “It’s mostly reading together at night, multi-sensory learning, and lots of repetition.”
That sounded simple enough. “I can do that.” Anything to help Ben, poor mite.
“And we recommend some tutoring over the next few weekends.” She went on to explain, fluently and easily, and I found myself nodding along. It was just as I’d Googled. The tutoring wasn’t rocket science, but it did need a professional.
Crunch time. “How much is tutoring?”
The figure was horrendous. “But we can help with discounts if you’re unemployed.”
“I have a job,” I told her. “But I only just got it.”
“Well, employment will usually disqualify you, but you can try,” the woman said doubtfully. “If they turn you down, we can take payments in instalments.”
No-no-no, it’s just so unfair, inner me wailed.
Terrific, right? Without a job, I could get help, but it would have taken months to get Ben diagnosed. But now I had work, diagnosis was a snap, but I was on my own. It was a nightmare. Still, the woman was only giving the information, not making up the rules, so I smiled and thanked her.
I made it back to the office in time, just, but as I settled down to doing the weekly expenses, my mind was taken up with worry. The roof would have to wait. At least I'd picked up some super cheap flatties at Prymark. I could walk to work without worrying about the hole in my sole.
As I worried, my fingers automatically organised receipts. Unlike my first day, I was sailing through my work. Suze had never come back, but Jenny and Sam had pitched in, teaching me the system.
I discovered very quickly that staff expenses were easy, as they were limited to petrol and travel receipts, but dealing with the sub cons was a lot more complicated than fighting with the plumber. Luckily, a couple of nights poring over the files brought me up to speed.
Now I was flying solo, doing the weekly expenses, matching company progress reports to contractor invoices, and keeping detailed files on everything. When receipts and reports didn’t match paperwork, I made calls and filled in the gaps.
It was simple work, but I was enjoying myself. I’d always loathed money, but it turns out that was simply because I was always broke. My new job involved playing with money that wasn’t mine, so there was no emo—only the kick that comes out of neat columns of numbers, all adding up beautifully.
“Emma! Thank goodness you’re back!” Curtis cruised in, dressed in steel grey trousers and a plain pink shirt but managing to look good enough to eat.
Fluff your hair! Smile!
I ignored myself. “You were looking for me?”
“Can you tidy up my report, please? And make a presentation for me?”
“Of course.”
“The temp is a disaster,” Curtis grumbled. “Her organisation skills are lousy, and she’s constantly on the phone to her mum.”
“Sam will find you someone soon.”
“I hope so,” Curtis bitched. “She forgot to book dinner yesterday, too. I was left standing at the Ivy for an hour. I had Victor Blythe from Fitzsimmons with me, and he was not impressed.”
“You can let her go, but that would make three in a fortnight. The agency will blacklist you.”
“I’ve blacklisted them. All I want is a competent PA. And they keep sending me people who can’t spell, can’t organise, and can’t think!”
I loaded the thumb drive into my computer. The temps dealt with all his office grunt work, but after that first time, Curtis had taken to demanding my help for his presentations. It did mean a lot more work, but I didn’t mind because he was so grateful.
And we get to drink him in. Ooooh, he’s yummy!
But with my newly heightened perceptions about dyslexia with Ben, I suspected Curtis was a bit shy about his English. The media always highlighted how he went to Cambridge and did brilliantly, but they didn’t mention that he went to a slummy comprehensive before that. So while he was brilliant, his grammar and spelling were hideous.
“I love how you work up my presentations.” Curtis really was generous with his praise. “Did you edit for Penguin?”
As that was the only bit of my career he knew the truth about, I could chat happily. “Yes. I read manuscripts and I did some proofreading.” I saw him twitch a little, and added, “It’s amazing how many best-selling authors can barely spell their own names.”
“Oh yeah?” Curtis was a little stiff but interested.
“Keats, Hemingway, and Jane Austen were the banes of their editors, too.”
“Oh.” He looked at me and grinned, the smile lighting up his eyes. “That’s a comfort.”
So I’d been right. Weird, right, to be a billionaire, a raving success, and to worry about a bit of grubby spelling and grammar? I’d swap my proofreading skills for a tenth of his talent.
Vulnerable is so sweet, inner me was lusting as always, worse than the Bimbettes in Beauty and the Beast.
Settled and happy, Curtis was hovering, examining the desk piled with documents. “Busy?”
“Not really.” I flicked through several screens. “This is for your next meeting with Fitzsimmons?”
“Yes.”
He was leaning over my desk, and I got a whiff of that delicious aftershave. He’d been out in the sun, too. The light tan highlighted the green flecks in the hazel eyes. He looked good enough to eat.
Curtis was totally relaxed now and excited about his progress. “This one includes a 3D model. Let me know what you think.”
Hey, want to go clubbing?
“Sure.” I sounded cool, suppressing the inappropriate thoughts wailing through my mind. An image of the beautiful Caitie flashed into mind. She was so thin, elegant, and gorgeous. There was no way that Curtis Weston would be interested in chubby, dull me. He was just being nice because I was useful to him.
Curtis looked at the papers again. “I hear we held on to all of our discounts, mainly thanks to some inspired smooth talking by you. Thanks.”
“You're welcome.” I could feel myself begin to blush.
He’s got a lean torso, nicely muscled, with smooth skin.
Hell, fantasies about the boss? Noooooooo! Hiding my discomfort, I pretended to tidy away my paperwork.
“I wish that silly bint from the agency had half your wit,” Curtis moaned. “She puts through cold callers who want me to invest in overseas fund scams, but she hung up on the Minister of Labour’s personal PA.”
“Ouch!”
“Yes, but I guess she wasn’t to know.”
That was another thing. Curtis was mercurial, but I'd quickly learned his bark was worse than his bite. His behaviour to me on my first day had been highly unusual. I now knew that the explosive temper was reserved for Sam and his close associates, men he saw as his peers.
But, having snapped at me and been given his own back, Curtis was treating me like one of the boys. He moaned to me about the temps because he had to let off steam, but with the women themselves he was cool and professional—if perhaps a little tight-lipped when they left him without a table at the Ivy and in hot water with the Ministry.
“I promised Sam I’d keep her on till the end of the week,” Curtis said. “If I don’t kill her by then, it’ll be a bloody miracle.”
“It’s only a few days,” I soothed him.
“She’s late most days, too.”
The silly girl is definitely for the chop.
It was a shame she was messing up, because despite all his moaning, Curtis was a good boss. He insisted on a good work-life balance, didn't allow anyone to play politics, and was scrupulously fair. Most importantly, he was also a man of his word. Curtis hired the best lawyers to write his contracts, but essentially, he was rather old-fashioned. If he shook hands on a deal, it was set in stone.
That was why he'd been so angry with Caitie, Suze, and that other girl, Anya, who’d handled the press for him. The records showed he’d been extremely generous about pay and time off, but they’d not even given conventional notice. Anya hadn’t even resigned in person; she’d called from the airport. Pressed with responsibilities or not, even I thought it unprofessional.
“Suze never did come back to hand over,” Curtis said abruptly. “Are you settled in now?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Excellent. For goodness’ sake, don't leave!” Curtis smiled and for a moment my heart fluttered. After all the temper, the smile was surprisingly sweet, bringing a gentle glow to his eyes. “Apart from settling the sub cons and sorting out the Gordian Knot of red tape Suze left, I need you.” He tapped his thumb drive. “The way you bring my work to life in a few simple words is fantastic.”
He likes us! Smile, and maybe we get rewarded with lunch!
“Thank you.” Yes, I was beacon red again. Lovely.
Curtis really was good-looking. And talented. The building he was designing for Burrell was a gorgeous new take on a Chinese pagoda, complete with gabled roof and asymmetrical garden. But instead of the classic dark interior, the roof floated over the base, letting in loads of light, and each tile was a solar panel.
“I love your work,” I blurted out. “It's beautiful, practical, and green. It's superb, and they're nuts if they don't instantly agree to let you build it.”
Curtis’ turn to flush. “Thanks.”
Oh, dear lord, the man was totally lickable.
Ask us out, pleeeeeeease!
The wish echoed around my lecherous mind. I found myself gazing at him, hopefully without the actual drool showing.
But that was crazy thinking. He was the boss, not interested, flirting in the office was a no-no, and I had Ben to think of.
There was an awkward silence.
“Curtis?” Sam was at the door. “Thought I'd find you here,” he grinned. “Has Emma agreed to work her magic?”
“Yes, I'm probably tempting fate, but I think that means it's in the bag.” Curtis got up. “You want me?”
“I've got a couple of likely candidates for the PA job.”
Hell, I thought miserably. Now Curtis won't be popping in anymore. But I didn’t show it. Acting cool, pride surging, I said, “I'll have this done by three.”
“Thanks,” Curtis smiled. And then, turning to Sam. “I hope this lot are more professional than the one you sent yesterday. I asked her why she quit her last job, and she actually cried!”
“Well, the company went belly up.”
“So I gathered. But does that mean she has to act like a bloody watering pot?”
Typical Curtis! As he went off, I was wondering if I were daft to lust after him. He was sexy and talented, but was there a warm heart under that delicious exterior?
Who cares? With that pretty packaging, he could be the devil.
Sometimes I worry I’m possessed. By the sluttiest demon this side of hell.
I glanced at the presentation. Oh well, it’s not like I’d have a chance to find out. He’d hire a PA, someone stunning like Caitie, and then he’d stop popping in. Maybe it was just as well. Office romances are always tricky, and I couldn’t afford to lose this job.
Having told myself to be sensible, I went to work. The artwork was inspiring; my breath caught just looking at it. I ran through the presentation, fixed it up here and there, made the printouts, and sighed. I might not have a shot at the man, but at least I had a good job.
“You can give Ben everything he needs, and that's all that really matters,” I told myself. “You've got a diagnosis, a plan of action, and the funds are coming in.”
And you know what? I got the weeps. I know. It made no sense.
It’s sheer relief, you silly cow.
Sometimes inner me has it right on the button. Ben was wonderful, but raising him alone was sometimes lonely and frightening. Getting decent work and compensation had lifted us out of the gutter and had given me back some self-respect. It should have been a sign for a party, not tears, but there you go.
I cry from time to time, but it never lasts long. “Stop acting like a damn watering pot,” I imitated Curtis. “You’re bloody lucky to have a wonderful son and a cottage of your own. Life is good.”
Determinedly cheerful, I went through to his office. The door was open, and I could hear he was interviewing.
“I don't mind long hours,” a ravishing blonde in a Chanel suit was purring. “And I have contacts in every planning office in the Home Counties.”
She was beautiful and connected.
We hate her!
There was no way I could compete with that.
Then I caught myself. There was no competition. Curtis Weston was my boss, pleasant and appreciative of my work but certainly entirely disinterested. Clearly he wouldn't flirt, not in the office. On the other hand, I’d done four presentations for him, and in all our little chats, he hadn't even asked me a single personal question. Not even where I was from or anything. No, I was nowhere on Curtis' radar.
However, I was beginning to know him, and now, looking at the frown and the way he was leaning back in his chair, I could see he was hugely uncomfortable.
“I could be awfully useful to you.” The blonde was leaning forward, no doubt giving him an eyeful. “I go to Ministry drinks parties in London all the time.”
“I avoid them,” Curtis said sharply.
Yes, he loathes her!
Unsure of what to do, I hung back. But he’d seen me.
He was on his feet in a flash. “Emma! Come in!”
The blonde turned around in her chair, but even the frown couldn't mar the beautifully regular features highlighted by perfect makeup. Most annoyingly, she was model-thin. The classic houndstooth lent that air of perfect corporate chic, too.
I loathed her on sight. The daily trek to the office had made me fitter but not thinner. I felt my trousers tighten merely by standing next to this fashion horse. My favourite blouse, butter yellow, felt wilted.
The blonde's eyes raked me over, and then she smiled. Smugly. “Hello,” her voice was sugar sweet. Then she added, “Dear.”
The bitch.
A declaration of war, right? Like I was mud on the bottom of her shoe. But I pretended not to notice. “I just came to drop this off,” I said brightly. “I won't interrupt.”
“You're not. We're done here.” Curtis was clearly desperate to end the interview. That made me grin. Call me a bitch, but there you go. She might have the Chanel and the job but I had the presentation. Curtis was dying to get on with his pagoda.
He turned to the blonde. “Thank you so much for coming in. Lovely to meet you. I'm sure you'll find an excellent position soon.”
Ouch. My jealousy fled instantly. It was clear she’d failed her interview. Having been in the same position for years, I felt for the girl.
“I didn’t get it?” The houndstooth was bristling. “May I ask why?”
“I’m afraid we won’t suit,” Curtis said firmly. “Talk to Sam; maybe he has another position for you.”
“Another position? I only work for CEOs.”
But not for our Curtis!
To my shame, I was flooded with schadenfreude. It’s mean, rejoicing in someone else’s failure, but I felt it nevertheless.
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere.” The blonde was fuming, but Curtis wasn't worried. He hustled her out and shut the door behind her, muttering, “Barracuda.”
“It's hard to find work,” I heard myself say.
“Maybe, but she's not after a job. She's husband-hunting.” Curtis sounded frustrated rather than flattered. “Let me see the presentation?”
Sam was at the door before he got through it. “Curtis, for goodness’ sake! Three interviews and not one of them a match? Really? Not one of them was suitable?”
“Afraid not,” Curtis was flipping through the pages. “This is brilliant, Emma.”
Sam wasn’t backing off. “Nicole Aspen worked with Richard Branson.”
“And would be bored with us.”
“Zarita Chomsky was with the Housing and Planning Ministry.”
“And longs for London.”
“What was wrong with Felicity Brewster?”
“She was after a title: Mrs.” Curtis was pulling out another thumb drive. “Emma, I love it. Look, it’s probably hubris, but can you do me another one for tomorrow? If I get through today, I need to present to the shareholders. Basically, it’s pushing all we’ve done so far into one presentation but dumbing down the finance and adding glitz.”
I took the thumb drive with mixed feelings. I had a pile of correspondence to finish. This was going to be tight. But I also felt awfully flattered. However glamorous and well-connected the Nicoles, Zaritas and Felicities were, Curtis valued my work more.
Yes! We rock! My inner evil self was dancing a happy jig. I ignored her, but I couldn’t help but smile.
“Curtis, those were the best candidates,” Sam urged. “You can't keep burdening Emma. She's got her own work.”
“I agree,” Curtis hastily shoved the papers into a file. “Emma, why don't you take the PA job? Sam can find someone to take over as office manager.”
I just stared at him. “Me?”
“Yes, I want a competent woman. You.”
Curtis had lost the plot, and I hadn’t noticed. “Me,” I said again.
“You're efficient, reliable and fuss-free,” Curtis replied. “It's exactly what I want.”
And totally unqualified, I thought. But somehow the words, “I cleaned the floors at the Royal Bank” wouldn’t come out. I just stood there, speechless.
“Unless you can't work with me?” Curtis asked suddenly.
“Of course I can work with you!” Okay, that just ripped out.
“Well then? How about it?”
“Yes, please,” I heard myself say.