The Bedroom Incident

‘I’m old enough.’

‘Ditto. And, as we’re talking age, one of the reasons why The Ambassador has become duller than a lawnmower manual is because many of its staff are as old as Methuselah, have been there for years and are set in a groove.’

‘True,’ Matthew agreed, ‘though the worst offenders are being despatched into retirement with a golden handshake.’

She nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Sir George told you this at your interview?’

‘No, I read it in the papers.’ Kristin shone a sweet smile. ‘This may come as a big surprise, but I do read the serious papers. I’ve read about you, too.’

‘What about me?’ he enquired.

His appointment and the restyling of The Ambassador had created a considerable amount of interest and he had been interviewed both by newspaper journalists and on television. His brow creased. Whilst he was keen to publicise the paper, he was not into the cult of personality. He preferred to keep his private life private and his fifteen minutes of fame had been enough.

‘I read that you have a reputation for cool, shrewd judgement, clear focus and having a will of iron. Also that you’re six foot four and live in a mansion block in Kensington. Plus I read how you’re the “Golden Catch of the Year”.’ She looked him coolly up and down. ‘Or so one of the more sensational tabloids bizarrely claimed.’

‘You don’t agree?’ Matthew said, finding himself amused. ‘No, you wouldn’t. After all, I’m stuffy and bloody-minded and—’

He broke off to look towards the doorway of the room where Sir George was clapping his hands for attention.

‘Someone has asked if they could hear something about the history of Flytes Keep and take a look around,’ the businessman said, when the group fell silent. ‘I’m happy to lead a conducted tour. Would anyone else care to come along?’

As hands were raised and there was a general chorus of ‘Me, please’ their host beamed. He was proud of his home and loved to show off its treasures.

‘We are in what was originally called the Withdrawing Room,’ he declared, starting on a talk which he had given many times before, ‘because after eating the company withdrew to this room.’

Sir George talked about the portrait of a bewigged haughty-looking individual which hung over the fireplace where a log fire blazed and crackled, then gestured for the group to follow him out. As they set off en masse along the main hall, Emily returned to Kristin’s side.

‘See you later,’ Matthew said, taking advantage of the chance to leave, and went ahead to join Rob and his wife.

If the circumstances had been different he would have enjoyed Kristin Blake’s company—she had an appealing personality—but he was damned if he would be bamboozled into employing her.

‘In the mid-seventeen hundreds the Flytes, the aristocratic owners, fell upon hard times and the house fell into disrepair,’ Sir George stated, leading the way into the library which had walls of leather-bound books and stainedglass windows.

‘Then, towards the end of the last century, a wealthy American trader bought it. He embarked on a programme of painstaking renovation which was continued by his son and grandson. A few years ago, the grandson died, a bachelor without an heir, and—’ he smiled ‘—I became the new owner.’

‘Did you need to do any work on the castle?’ one of his guests enquired.

‘I updated the central heating and put in a fire-fighting system and the computer-controlled burglar alarm. As you’ll appreciate, many of the contents are extremely valuable.’

‘I’ve just bought the latest Trend and your column reminded me of the good times I’d had with Mummy,’ Emily whispered.

Absorbed in what her host was saying, Kristin glanced round. ‘I beg your pardon?’

The girl put a hand on her arm, holding her still and letting others go by until they were at the tail-end of the group. Kristin looked wistfully ahead. She would have liked to hear more about the castle, but Emily seemed eager for her attention.

‘You wrote of how you’d gone shopping with your mother. Mummy and I used to go shopping together and—’

As the tour of the house continued, Emily talked—first about how much she missed her mother who had died the previous year, then about Kristin’s column—most of which she appeared to have committed to memory. The girl’s interest in her work was flattering, she thought, and frowned at where Matthew Lingard’s dark head was visible amongst the crowd. It made a sharp contrast to his attitude.

By the time Sir George delivered everyone back to the drawing room, it had gone eleven o’clock. Some guests accepted the offer of another drink, while others professed a readiness to turn in. Matthew, she noticed—she seemed to be continually aware of him—had begun to look weary. He and Rob were standing to one side, each nursing a last brandy and talking.

‘At first I used to cry whenever I spoke to anyone about Mummy, but it’s getting easier,’ Emily said. “Though I don’t think Daddy will ever recover. They were very close. I remember how—’

As the girl reminisced about her parents’ happiness, Kristin heard the words ‘features section’. She cocked an ear. Once again, it seemed, Matthew was talking about the post which she so much wanted.

‘Don’t bust a gut,’ she heard Rob protest. ‘OK, Sir George likes her, but that doesn’t mean you have to hire the woman.’

There was a pause during which Matthew, whose voice was lower and frustratingly inaudible, spoke, then his friend started up again.

‘Matt, I’m sure you can rise to the task of finding some way to persuade her to exit, without any fuss and while keeping her sweet.’

Matthew said something which, again, she could not hear.

A moment or two later, the two men moved away.

Kristin cleaned off her eyeshadow in swift smooth strokes. For Matthew Lingard to have marked her down as useless without knowing anything about her or reading a word which she had written was unjust. Unreasonable. And so maddening! She had brought a stack of magazines with her which she had intended to show him at her interview, but she knew that when he ‘squeezed her in’ tomorrow he would leaf cursorily through.

Loosening the glossy twist of hair, she began to brush. The editor was in the room next door, so why didn’t she slip along and deliver the magazines to him now? she thought suddenly. That would enable him to take a longer look at her column and a longer look might make him realise that she possessed credible writing talent.

The evening was a little late, but he would not be asleep. When she had left the party he had been waiting with other guests to say goodnight to their host, so chances were he had yet to get as far as shucking off his jacket.

Matthew squeezed a ribbon of white paste onto his toothbrush and began to clean his teeth. He had a clear vision of how he intended to run The Ambassador—the spectrum the paper would cover, the downfalls to be avoided, the qualities he required in his journalists—and the vision did not include Kristin Blake. She might be the proprietor’s dream come true, but he had no place on his staff for an enfant terrible from a women’s magazine.

Spitting into the basin, he brushed his teeth again. Even if she had possessed a writing history which merited serious attention, he would hesitate to hire her because, if he did, he would be allowing Sir George to set a precedent. A dangerous precedent. He would be sending out the message that, despite all his tough words about making the decisions, he was open to coercion. The proprietor might then attempt to impose his own rule. He swilled out his mouth with water. Over his dead body.

This was, of course, supposition. Whilst he had had many business meetings with Sir George when they had worked easily together, he did not know him well on a personal basis. He frowned. If he did, he would have a better idea of how the older man would react to him rejecting his protégée.

Walking into the bedroom, Matthew drew back the covers on the four-poster and climbed into bed. How should he play tomorrow’s interview? In saying she suspected he would ‘go through the motions’ before despatching a ‘no, thanks’ letter, Kristin had already called his bluff—so did he act as if he was intent on winning an Oscar, insist she might appeal and pretend to solemnly consider her application? Or did he turn her down fiat?

There was a third option; he could ring Angela Carr first thing tomorrow morning, offer her the position, and present the interviewee—and Sir George—with a fait accompli.

He pushed back the covers. He was too warm. The redoubtable Mrs Carr had experience, contacts and journalistic know-how on her side, he mused, though Kristin Blake scored in one area. As Rob had pointed out, she was far easier on the eye.

He recalled how she had looked earlier—elegant and yet oh, so sexy. Her dress had clung to her body like a second skin and there had been no sign of what his sister referred to as VPL—visible panty line. Did that mean she had not been wearing any panties? He gazed up at the canopy of the four-poster. The thought of her naked beneath the dress—all smooth curves and silky skin—was disturbing. And exciting.

Matthew rolled onto his side. Damp down the hormones and go to sleep, he instructed himself.

He was stretching out a hand to switch off the bedside lamp when someone tapped quietly at his door. Who could this be? he wondered.

As he levered himself up from the bed, his mouth curved into a grin. Sir George must have decided to speak to him again, and this time he had come to say that he had recognised his error in attempting to push Kristin Blake his way and wanted to apologise. Thank the Lord!

But as he opened the door his grin died. His visitor was a slender blonde in a brown satin dress. Her hair swung in loose buttery strands around her shoulders and her face had been cleaned of make-up—though this gave her an earthier appeal.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Kristin said, speaking softly because she was wary of disturbing the other guests.

A muscle knotted and unknotted in his jaw. To be confronted by her when he had just been thinking about her—naked—seemed like a dirty trick. It made him feel caught out and wrong-footed.