Taught to Serve

“On my knees?” she said with a coy smile.

“Well, I won’t turn down that offer.” He returned her smile.

Chapter Five: Taking Messages

Staring at the message pad, Casey equated her existence to being no more than a glorified answering service. Rob had been adamant he did not want to be disturbed. His request came upon a day when the telephone in Casey’s little room would not stop ringing.

His publisher rang to check on dates. The organiser of a seminar wanted to know when Rob’s presentation synopsis would be available. A lawyer from some firm wanted advice on the wording of a contract. The editor of a journal requesting whether Professor Tolchard would honour their publication with an article.

Casey noted all of the details down, precisely and concisely, on the pad. She did not know when Rob would answer them; he was very busy. Yes, they could send an email, but the same proviso was in place; Professor Tolchard was very busy.

Referring to Rob as a professor took some mental wrangling on Casey’s part. To those to whom he acted as consultant or to former academic colleagues at Oxford University, he remained a professor. To the rest of the outside world, he was Mr Robert Tolchard. He preferred Casey to use the latter form of address in his own home.

“I don’t live in a university,” he had once told her.

Still, it felt odd to refer to him in so many different ways. Mr, professor, sir, or Rob. All these titles and names were put to use according to his role, and Casey occasionally forgot the significance of each version of his name.

The telephone rang again, and she snatched the handset to her ear.

“Professor Tolchard’s office,” she announced for what felt like the billionth time that morning.

The man on the other end of the phone wished to speak to Professor Tolchard. Casey explained he was too busy to take callers.

“I don’t think you understand, young lady, I wish to speak to him.”

Casey was tired of repeating the same script. “You can’t. Okay?”

“Can’t!” said the man indignantly. “I am a professor and former colleague of Robert’s and I wish to speak to him today.”

“I know who you are, Professor Clayton,” rattled off Casey. “But, as I just said, he isn’t taking callers. Can I take a message?”

The man shouted back down the telephone. “Massage?”

“Message!” said Casey exasperated.

“No, I need to speak to him. He is expecting me.”

“No, he isn’t, and he is busy. Why is that so damn difficult to get?” she snapped at him.

“I beg your pardon!” His tone was somewhat aghast. “How rude!” The call ended abruptly.

She scrawled on the pad the name, time and the words ‘no message’. Then she went back to surfing the internet for new shoes. Twiddling the hair between her fingers, she heard a distant door slam.

Casey had failed to remember that her employer did not live in a bubble. Though she may answer his landline and filter his email account, Robert Tolchard had his own personal email account and mobile. The latter was in his hand as he stormed into her room.

“My study now!” he said icily.

Casey scurried after him, and she came to a halt before his desk. He did not sit down but instead paced up and down the room. The silence dragged on until he stopped in front of Casey.

“I employed you to represent me, to be my conduit, my public face, and to help organise my work life. Today you have been rude and obnoxious to a dear friend of mine.” Rob’s tone was quiet and forceful.

Casey did not need to ask to whom he was referring, although that did not stop her from blurting out the first thing that came to her head. “He shouted at me.”

“You swore at him!” said Rob through gritted teeth.

“Swore… I may have said something. Maybe I said damn. That isn’t a swear word, not really…” Casey’s voice lost its enthusiasm. It was not suitable vocabulary, and with hindsight, Casey realised the enormity of her mistake.

“I had arranged to speak to him. He has asked me to tutor a few of his promising students in private sessions. I was honoured by his request. He was my mentor at university.”