“Is that why you asked me about the article when you were meant to bring up the subject of what was playing on Broadway?”
“Yes,” replied Kate. “Don’t forget, I’ve had an extra couple of days to get to know her, and she’s just phoned my cabin to ask me if I really believed that you were in publishing.”
“And what did you tell her?” asked Keith, as there was another knock on the door. He put a finger to his lips and pointed in the direction of the shower. He waited until he had heard the curtain pulled across, and then opened the door.
“Mrs. Sherwood,” said Keith. “How nice to see you. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Townsend. I thought I’d drop this in for you tonight,” she said, handing over a thick manuscript. “Just in case you had nothing else to do.”
“How very thoughtful of you,” said Keith, taking the manuscript from her. “Why don’t we get together sometime after breakfast tomorrow? Then I can give you my first impressions.”
“Oh, would you really, Mr. Townsend? I long to know what you think of it.” She hesitated. “I trust I didn’t disturb you.”
“Disturb me?” said Keith, puzzled.
“I thought I heard voices as I was coming down the passageway.”
“I expect it was just me humming in the shower,” said Keith rather feebly.
“Ah, that would explain it,” said Mrs. Sherwood. “Well, I do hope you’ll find time to read a few pages of The Senator’s Mistress tonight.”
“I most certainly will,” said Keith. “Good night, Mrs. Sherwood.”
“Oh, do call me Margaret.”
“I’m Keith,” he said with a smile.
“I know. I’ve just read the article about you and Mr. Armstrong. Most interesting. Can he really be that bad?” she asked.
Keith made no comment as he closed the door. He turned round to find Kate stepping out of the shower, wearing the other dressing-gown. As she walked toward him, the cord fell to the ground, and the robe came slightly open. “Oh, do call me Claire,” she said as she slipped a hand around his waist. He pulled her toward him.
“Can you really be that bad?” she laughed as he guided her across the room.
“Yes, I am,” he said as they fell on the bed together.
“Keith,” she whispered, “don’t you think you ought to start reading the manuscript?”
* * *
It was only a matter of hours after Sharon had moved from the bedroom into the office that Armstrong realized Sally hadn’t been exaggerating about her secretarial skills. But he was too proud to call her and admit it.
By the end of the second week his desk was piled high with unanswered letters or, worse, replies he couldn’t consider putting his signature to. After so many years with Sally, he had forgotten that he rarely spent more than a
few minutes each day checking over her work before simply signing everything she put in front of him. In fact the only document he had put his signature to that week had been Sharon’s contract, which it was clear she had not drawn up herself.
On Tuesday of the third week, Armstrong turned up at the House of Commons to have lunch with the minister of health, only to discover that he wasn’t expected until the following day. He arrived back at his office twenty minutes later in a furious temper.
“But I told you that you were having lunch with the chairman of NatWest today,” Sharon insisted. “He’s just rung from the Savoy asking where you were.”
“Where you sent me,” he barked. “At the House of Commons.”
“Am I expected to do everything for you?”
“Sally somehow managed it,” said Armstrong, barely able to control his anger.
“If I hear that woman’s name again, I swear I’ll leave you.”
Armstrong didn’t comment, but stormed back out of the office and ordered Benson to get him to the Savoy as quickly as possible. When he arrived at the Grill, Mario told him that his guest had just left. And when he got back to the office, he was informed that Sharon had gone home, saying she had a slight migraine.