Secretary on Demand (5 page)

‘Well,' Kane conceded, ‘I normally return home by eight, so your exciting social life shouldn't suffer too much.'

‘By
eight
? When do you ever get to see your daughter?'

‘I usually try and keep weekends free,' he muttered, turning away as a dark flush spread up his neck. ‘Do you know your way around London?' He bent over and scribbled his address on a piece of paper. ‘No, forget that. I'll get my driver to come and collect you, say, Friday evening? Around seven-thirty? Eleanor usually stays up late on a Friday as there's no school on a Saturday.'

‘I'm sure I can find my way to your house, Mr Lindley.' She looked at the address and wondered how far it would be from an underground station. She wasn't averse to walking but walking at night, freezing cold and potentially without any real clue as to where she was heading, wasn't her idea of fun.

‘I wouldn't dream of it.' He smiled briefly. ‘After all, you're the one who will be doing me the service.'

‘What is she like?' Shannon asked curiously, folding the piece of paper and stuffing it into her bag.

‘Small, blonde hair, blue eyes.'

‘Actually, I meant her personality.'

‘Oh, Eleanor is…very quiet.' He frowned and seemed to be thinking of some other way he could find of describing her. ‘Doesn't give any trouble at all.'

To Shannon, that hardly sounded like a great description of an eight-year-old child. I mean, she thought, if you can't get into a spot of trouble when you're eight,
then when on earth
can
you? She had spent most of her formative years getting into trouble! When she'd left school at sixteen, she could remember the headmistress telling her mother that never in the history of the school had one parent paid so many visits.

‘Right,' Shannon said in a subdued, reflective voice.

‘Don't forget, if you run into anything you can't handle, and I'm not around, Sheila will help you out. She knows as much about this business as I do, probably.' He moved towards the door and stopped to say with a gravity in his voice that was only belied by the glint in his eye, ‘And don't forget the office canteen. It's a hotbed of gossip and intrigue. Let me know if you hear about any insurrections I should beware of.'

She could have sworn she heard a chuckle as Kane shut the door behind him and she was left with the computer, a stack of letters to type and the prospect of dinner
en famille
in four days' time with a man who was reluctantly beginning to intrigue her even more than he had when she'd been serving him his coffee and bagels.

K
ANE
L
INDLEY'S
house was as far removed from Shannon's expectations as it was possible to be.

She'd expected something modern and austere, perhaps a penthouse suite in a renovated building with thick white carpets to drown out the noise of an eight-year-old child, whom she imagined wandering forlornly amid the luxury, searching for places to hide from a largely absent father.

But when the chauffeur-driven car turned into a pair of wrought-iron gates, the house confronting her was an ivy-clad Victorian house with neatly trimmed lawns. The outside lights revealed mature trees shading some swings and a slide.

She rang the doorbell, feeling her stomach muscles tense. Kane Lindley was proving to be a very good boss, so how was it that she still felt a little quiver of alarm every time she saw him? In fact, even when he was working in his office and out of sight, there was still a part of her that seemed tuned in to his presence, waiting for him to emerge. She assumed that it was all wrapped up in the usual nervousness of being new to a job.

She might have surmounted this initial nervousness if he'd been out of the office much, as he'd implied he would be at their first interview, but, in fact, he was in a great deal. Through the partially open door, she was always aware of his clipped voice as he conversed on the phone or else his steady silence as he worked through paperwork and on his computer. Ever so often he would
call her in and dictate something, and then he would swivel his chair away from his desk and talk fluently and smoothly at her, frowning as he spoke, while his fingers lightly drummed his thigh. And he never failed to peer in at least twice a day just to see how she was progressing.

She couldn't really see why he hadn't been able to find a suitable secretary. It was hardly as if he was prone to dramatic mood swings or unpleasantly critical behaviour, and she could only think that his pace was maybe too fast for someone with too little experience. If nothing else, working at Alfredo's and at the radio station had promoted a healthy ability to think quickly and react without confusion to abrupt changes of routine.

A rotund, middle-aged woman answered the door, introduced herself as Mrs Porter and informed Shannon, without preamble, that Kane was waiting for her in the sitting room.

‘And where's Eleanor?' Shannon asked, anxious to make sure that the object of this evening visit hadn't done something unfortunate, like gone to bed. A cosy little dinner with only Kane Lindley for company, while his daughter innocently slumbered upstairs, wasn't an appealing prospect. But Eleanor, she was told, was in the sitting room with her father and was, she was also told in a confidential whisper, eagerly looking forward to meeting Shannon.

‘If you ask me,' Mrs Porter said, her voice sinking lower so that Shannon had to strain to hear what she was saying, ‘Mr Lindley should have remarried a long time ago. A child needs a mother figure. No stability, that's her problem, poor little mite. Young Carrie is fine with her, but she really needs someone permanent. Not these
women friends who seem to drop in one minute and out the next.'

Shannon nodded, loath to continue talking in this manner about someone else's private life yet avidly curious to find out more about Kane. Women friends? He had women friends? Of course he had, she thought, wildly trying to imagine what this long line of inappropriate women friends was like. He always seemed so controlled that the idea of him flinging himself passionately at a woman, growing weak at the knees whenever she came into the room, was beyond the powers of even
her
imagination.

Fortunately, the temptation to elicit more information on this suddenly raunchy side of Kane Lindley was abruptly halted by Mrs Porter pushing open the door to the sitting room and then stepping aside so that Shannon could enter.

‘I'll be off now, Mr Lindley, if that's all right with you. The food will just need heating up, but the table's all set.'

‘Heating up?'

‘I can help, Dad.' There was a childish eagerness to Eleanor's voice that made Shannon ache.

‘Eleanor, this is Shannon, my new secretary. You're going to be seeing a bit of her when I'm not around.'

‘Hello.' She smiled briefly, then turned to her father with a pleading face. ‘But, really, Dad, I can help. I know what to do. Honestly.'

‘Eleanor, darling, you're far too young to be doing anything in the kitchen. Most domestic accidents originate in the kitchen, did you know that? There are knives, fire, pans of boiling water—'

‘She can do a bit, Mr Lindley,' Shannon interrupted, growing impatient with his listing of danger points
which made the average kitchen sound like a death trap. ‘When I was Eleanor's age, I was already doing a few basic things.' She sneaked a glance at Eleanor who was gaping at her with shy gratitude. ‘You just have to make sure that there's supervision and—'

‘
You
may have been preparing three-course meals at the age of eight, but Eleanor didn't have your sturdy upbringing.' He turned to his daughter. ‘Shannon comes from a family of seven children.'

‘
Seven?
Wow!' The revelation had turned her eyes into saucers. ‘How lucky! I wish…' Her voice trailed off and her eyes flitted across to her father.

‘I'll make sure I supervise her, Mr Lindley,' Shannon said hurriedly, before the telling sentence could be completed. ‘I mean, Eleanor, don't you do home economics at school? A bit of baking and stuff?'

‘Not really,' Eleanor admitted, frowning.

‘There, you see! Even the school realises the limits of letting children loose with dangerous objects.' His eyebrows rose with the satisfaction of someone who has proved a point, and Shannon flushed hotly.

‘Actually, Mr Lindley—'

‘Kane. It's ridiculous for us to be on such formal terms. And I can see from the indignant expression on your face that I'm about to be subjected to a lecture on the importance of teaching young children how to play with fire.'

‘I wouldn't dream of lecturing you on anything of the sort,' Shannon informed him in a huffy voice, ‘but what I'm talking about here is a wooden spoon, a bowl and a bit of stirring perhaps. How many young children do you personally know who have fallen victim to a sharp cut from a wooden spoon? And how many serious domestic accidents have been caused from a bit of stirring?'

‘We do woodwork at school,' Eleanor interrupted helpfully. ‘Don't we, Dad? Do you remember that box I made for you a few months ago? The one with the lid that could open and close?'

‘Yes, of course I do.' But Shannon could tell from the vague expression on his face that the last thing currently stored in his memory bank was a box with a lid that could open and close.

‘I hate to criticise you,' Shannon muttered as they walked towards the kitchen with Eleanor eagerly leading the way like a proud, albeit diminutive, hostess, ‘but do you take any interest in what your daughter does at school?'

‘And I hate to criticise
you
, reds' he muttered back, ‘but I hope you're not going to launch into a load of psychobabble about workaholic fathers.'

‘So you admit you're a workaholic.'

‘I don't admit anything of the sort,' he said,
sotto voce
. ‘And just in case the ground rules of this contract have escaped you, you're employed to look after Eleanor for a few hours a day after you leave work, not to analyse me.'

‘Smells wonderful in here,' Shannon exclaimed, ignoring his remark.

‘Mrs Porter always does the cooking when Dad entertains his women friends at home,' Eleanor said. ‘I laid the table. I wasn't too sure where the soup spoons went, so I thought I'd just stick them in the bowls.'

‘Excellent!' Kane said heartily, avoiding eye contact with Shannon. He moved over to the stove and flicked on the fire, looking dubiously inside the saucepan as though not too sure what his next move should be.

‘I think you're meant to pour it into the bowls,' Shannon said, and Eleanor gave a stifled giggle. ‘Surely,
with all those women friends you've been entertaining, you must have got to grips with the basic food-serving procedure.'

‘Oh, Mrs Porter usually does all that,' Eleanor informed her earnestly. ‘Doesn't she, Dad? She had to leave tonight because her son is poorly. He's twelve years old and he twisted his ankle in a game of rugby at school.'

‘A dangerous sport. I'm surprised schools allow it,' Shannon said piously. ‘On the whole, I'd say it was a darn sight more dangerous than home economics, actually.'

‘Or woodwork, even,' Eleanor replied, tucking into her soup and licking her lips after every mouthful. ‘Last week, Claire Thompson hurt her finger when her bowl dropped on her hand.'

Shannon made tutting noises under her breath. The soup was delicious. No wonder he used Mrs Porter whenever he entertained at home. All those hundreds of women who probably flitted in and out of his life like ships in the night. Did they know, she wondered, when they started dating Kane that they would end up as a ship in the night?

‘And I can remember getting a paper cut once at school,' Shannon mused in the startled voice of someone putting two and two together and suddenly arriving at the correct answer. ‘Perhaps schools should ban paper.'

Eleanor started to laugh. ‘Or food at lunchtime, in case someone spills some over themselves and gets burnt!'

‘Or desks! A child can get a nasty bang on the edge of a desk if she's not careful!'

‘Oh, shut up, the two of you,' Kane said, smiling at his daughter. Her face was flushed. ‘And you can start
on your home economics course,' he added, wiping his mouth with his napkin and sitting back in the chair, ‘by clearing away these bowls to the sink.'

By the end of the meal, Eleanor was becoming more what Shannon envisaged an eight-year-old child should be like. Her voice was less of a whisper and she was laughing as she related things that had happened at school, what people had said, what games they played at break.

‘When are you going to be coming to stay with me?' she asked Shannon, pausing on her way out of the room to hear the answer.

When Shannon looked enquiringly at Kane, he said, raising his hands in mock surrender, ‘I'll be a bit late home next Monday. Can you make it then after work? Carrie will collect Eleanor from school as usual and then she'll leave when you get here to replace her.'

So that was settled. It was only when Eleanor had been escorted upstairs by her father, and Shannon was left alone in the stillness of the kitchen, that she felt a sneaking suspicion that she had somehow been manipulated. She also had the uneasy feeling that she was being drawn into a family unit which would somehow undermine her bid for freedom.

Part of her mission in coming all the way to London, aside from the obvious reason of physically distancing herself from Ireland and its nagging, unpleasant memories, had been to try her feet at walking without the aid of her family around her. So what was she doing? Getting involved with another family.

‘She likes you.' Kane's voice snapped her out of her worrying speculation and Shannon turned to him with a bright smile. ‘Some coffee in the sitting room?' He moved over to the kettle and switched it on.

‘I really should be heading back, actually.'

‘At nine-thirty? On a Friday night? We need to talk about how often you're prepared to take over from Carrie,' he told her bluntly. ‘Eleanor…' He perched against the kitchen counter and folded his arms thoughtfully. ‘To be honest, I've never seen Eleanor respond so quickly to anyone.'

Shannon had a sharp mental picture of Eleanor in the presence of the mysterious line of women, which had been preying on her mind more than she was willing to admit, shyly retiring, insecure, mouse-like, seeking her father's approval even though the furthest thing from his mind would have been the attention-seeking of his daughter.

‘I always knew that having so many brothers and sisters would come in handy some day.' She followed him into the sitting room and sat in the deep chair closest to the fire, curling her legs underneath her like a cat.

‘Shall we scrap the coffee and have a nightcap instead?' Kane moved over to a wooden cabinet in the corner of the room and clicked open a concealed door to reveal a healthy supply of glasses and drinks. ‘What would you like? I have pretty much everything. What about a brandy? Or a glass of port?'

‘I'll have a port,' Shannon told him. ‘You have a lovely house, Mr Lindley…Kane. How long have you lived here?'

‘My wife and I bought this house when we were first married…'

‘And you stayed on after…?'

‘After she died?' He strolled over to her and handed her a glass of red liquid, his fingers brushing hers as she took it from him. Then he sat on the sofa and crossed his legs, resting his hand lightly on his knee. ‘I thought
about moving, but only briefly. I like the house and, at any rate, you can't run away from your memories. They'll follow you to the end of the earth. You just have to learn to cope with them. Now, what did you think about Eleanor? It's not an ideal situation, leaving work to come immediately here, and I expect you to be honest and tell me now if you don't think you'll be able to do it on a regular basis.'

Shannon took a sip of port and it rushed down her throat like fire. ‘By regular basis, you mean…?'

‘Every day after work,' he said lazily, ‘but, of course, that's open to negotiation.'

‘Don't you get back early
any
evening?' Another sip of port. This time the fire seemed slightly less potent, although her head was now beginning to feel fuzzy. Her new-found freedom and aspirations towards a exciting, cosmopolitan lifestyle hadn't included nurturing a taste for alcohol. She still only drank wine, and in small amounts, and the port was like a bullet being fired into her brain.