Reckless Conduct

‘There’s far too much of them showing, that’s what!’ he growled.

This from a man whose wife frolicked in a basque across city billboards promoting a famous line of sexy lingerie! Harriet repressed an incredulous laugh.

‘Lots of women are wearing miniskirts again,’ she said patiently. ‘It’s the fashion.’

‘But not your fashion,’ he insisted with fervent persuasion. ‘You’re always so modest and discreet; classic clothes for the office environment—isn’t that what you call them? For goodness’ sake, in all the years you’ve worked for me you’ve never even displayed a knee!’ He sounded outraged at the very thought.

‘Well, now you know that I have two of them like everyone else,’ said Harriet crisply. So she used to be as stodgy and bland as rice pudding—from now on he would just have to get used to soufflé!

Brian Jessop ran a hand through his thick golden hair, his tanned face creasing into anxious lines as he announced, ‘You’ll just have to go home and change, that’s all. As quick as you can. Take a taxi—charge it to the firm. And for goodness’ sake wash that stuff out of your hair!’

Now it was Harriet’s turn to be outraged. ‘I can’t wash it out; it’s bleach.’

If the first consequence of her being a new woman was to be fired for insubordination, then so be it.

‘Then dye it back!’ he ordered.

‘Back to mousy brown?’ She looked at him incredulously. ‘Why ever would I want to do that?’

‘Because I ask you to. Would you? Please, Harry; you don’t—’

The telephone on his desk burred softly, interrupting his pleading, and he snatched it up, inadvertently hitting the speaker button as he fumbled the handpiece from the cradle to his ear.

‘What?’

There was a brief silence in response to his snarling demand and then a familiar voice, carrying a faint tinge of dry amusement, rang out from the speaker.

‘You sound harassed, Brian. Don’t tell me your little paragon hasn’t turned up yet. And here I thought she was infallible—’

Harriet looked sharply at her boss as he quickly punched off the speaker, cutting off the rest of the comment.

‘No! No…er…no, as a matter of fact she hasn’t—’ His normally frank brown eyes were suddenly furtive as he half turned his back on Harriet’s curious gaze and dropped his voice.

‘That is, she won’t be coming in today—as a matter of fact she just called in sick…Quite ill apparently… Uh—no, she isn’t, not very often…’

Harriet’s suspicions strengthened and she leaned around his blocking shoulder to demand in soft, clear tones, ‘Are you talking about me?’

Brian Jessop clapped his large hand urgently over the receiver and hissed at her to be quiet.

‘No, no idea, I’m afraid,’ he continued heartily to his unseen caller, ‘but if I hear anything else I’ll let you know. Perhaps someone else could—? Oh, yes, quite…quite. Oh, dear…well, perhaps Personnel can help you out in the meantime. Yes, yes, of course I will…’

He muttered a few more comments with a strained combination of deference and barely concealed impatience before hurriedly hanging up.

‘You were talking about me, weren’t you?’ Harriet demanded immediately.

‘Hmm?’ He escaped around the other side of his desk and began to poke vaguely about in the pile of correspondence on his blotter.

Be assertive, Harriet reminded herself. Stand up for yourself. Don’t be a doormat. Act blonde.

‘Mr Jessop? Brian!’ Her unprecedented informality succeeded where politeness had failed. He looked shocked but attentive as she challenged, ‘That was Mr Fox on the phone; I recognised his voice.’

It was impossible to mistake the distinctive cool drawl of the chairman of the board of Trident Finance. Marcus Fox had inherited the insurance company on the death of his father-in-law a decade previously, but although Gerald Jerome might have founded the business it had been his shrewd young son-in-law who, with characteristic forethought and caution, had taken the company public and expanded and diversified its financial interests to create a new, blue-chip investment stock. The Fox name was synonymous with trustworthiness and solidarity and he commanded an immense respect from his employees—Harriet included.

‘It was Mr Fox, wasn’t it?’ she persisted.

Cornered, her boss nodded reluctantly. ‘Well, yes, actually it was.’ He rustled the papers hopefully on his desk. ‘Oh, dear, I was sure the Cartwright folio was here somewhere; would you mind checking the files for me?’

Harriet’s blue eyes narrowed at this blatant attempt at evasion. The old Harriet would have retreated and meekly done as she was bid, willing to accept the hint that it was none of her business.