The Secretary's Scandalous Secret

‘So, when can I see you again?’

Agatha looked at Stewart who was pressed a bit closer to her than she would have liked—unavoidable because they were both sheltering under his umbrella. She had made sure that the buttons on her coat were done up to the neck. Whilst it had been flattering to be the object of his compliments, she had felt uncomfortable under his roving eye, even though she knew that this was what she should have expected. Several times she had caught him addressing her cleavage.

Also, her mind had been all over the place, analyzing and re-analysing everything Luc had said to her, then picking apart what she remembered of their conversation so that she could begin the process all over again. She had had to ask Stewart to repeat himself several times, had failed to notice the quality of the wine, which he had brushed aside—although she knew that he had been offended from the mottled colour of his neck—and had left most of her main course because she had accidentally ordered the wrong thing from the menu, which was in Italian.

She had no idea why he wanted to see her for a second date, and it felt almost churlish to have to think about it when he had been so good to overlook her little lapses and show so much interest in everything she had to say about every aspect of her life and job, however insignificant the detail.

‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ he murmured. ‘I know a great little club in Chelsea. Anybody who’s anybody is a member. You wouldn’t believe the famous faces I’ve spotted there; you’d love it.’

‘Maybe we can do something next week.’

Stewart pouted with disappointment but picked himself up with remarkable ease, and as he reached out to hail a cab he pulled her close to him and, before she could wriggle away, planted a hot, laughing kiss full on her mouth.

‘Sure I can’t tempt you back to my place? I make a pretty good Irish coffee, if I say so myself.’

Agatha laughed and declined, and was guiltily relieved when he slid into the taxi, taking his umbrella with him, cheerily insouciant to the fact that she was now in the process of being drenched. And would therefore have to hail a cab, even though a taxi ride back to North London would be a ridiculous waste of money.

And, now that she did require one, there were none to be spotted. Although…

A familiar silver car pulled up to the kerb and she found the passenger door pushed open, waiting for her to oblige.

‘Get in, Agatha. Or risk pneumonia.’

‘Wow. How did you do that—show up just when I was about to start walking to the underground? Anyway.’ she straightened ‘…I can’t have you messing up your Friday night to give me a lift home because you feel sorry for me.’ She dug her hands into her pockets and began walking towards the underground while the car trailed her, sped up and then the passenger door was flung open again and Luc was glaring out at her from the driver’s seat.

‘Get in or I’ll have to get out, lift you up and chuck you in. Do you want that? Do you want that kind of scene in the middle of Knightsbridge? ‘

‘Have you been here the whole time waiting for me?’ she asked as soon as she was inside the car, luxuriating in the warmth and dryness.

‘Don’t be crazy, but I had to come back here for you.’

‘Why on earth would you have to do that? I know you think I’m a hopeless case, but I’ve been getting to and from work every day on public transport. I know how to use the buses and tubes! Course, it took a little time, but I got there in the end. Mum hates it. She keeps telling me that tubes are a breeding ground for muggers. And she’s only been to London a handful of times—and never on a tube! Gosh, sorry; I’m talking too much again.’ But like a bad dream all thoughts of her date had disappeared like a puff of smoke.

‘I got Antonio to call me when you were about to pay the bill.’

‘Who’s Antonio?’

‘The owner of the place. We go back a long way.’

‘What if Stewart and I had decided to move on to somewhere else—a club, or a bar? Or I could just have decided to go back to his place.’

‘Did he ask you to? ‘

‘As a matter of fact, he did.’

‘And you turned him down. Good girl. Wise decision.’

‘Who knows what I’ll say the next time he asks, though?’She looked across at him. He had changed out of his work clothes into a pair of dark jeans and a thick, black jumper. His coat had been tossed to the back seat. She was ashamed to admit even to herself that if she had all the time in the world, she would never tire looking at him.

He opened his mouth as though on the verge of saying something, only to think better of it.

‘So you’ve arranged another date, have you?’

‘Not as such…’ She teased those three little words out as long as she could. ‘Who knows?’

‘Who knows indeed? ‘ Luc intoned in a peculiar voice.

‘What have you done this evening?’ she asked a little breathlessly.

‘Work. I’ve been working on, eh, a very interesting project, let’s just say.’

‘Do you know, it’s great that you enjoy your job so much,’ Agatha said warmly. ‘Although it’s a little sad that you want to spend your Friday nights doing it.’

‘Your honesty is beyond belief, Agatha. I would have entertained myself in the usual way, but there was something a little more important I had to do. After doing that, I realised that I needed to have a little chat with you. Let’s just say that one thing gave rise to the other.’

‘Why are you being mysterious? What do we need to chat about?’ Why did the words ‘little chat’ inspire such feelings of dread? Was he about to sack her? Had she overstepped the line with her beyond-belief honesty?

Agatha quailed at the thought of returning to Yorkshire as a failed charity case—but London, even a bedsit in London, was impossible without a pay packet at the end of the month.

‘This isn’t the right place. I am going to take you to your house, you are going to ask me in for a cup of coffee and we can have our chat then.’

‘Can’t it wait until Monday? ‘

‘I think it’s better to get it out of the way. Now, relax; tell me about your evening. Take me through how a guy who leaves a woman standing in the pouring rain sees fit to entertain her.’

Now out of a job, Agatha didn’t think she had anything to lose by being totally, one-hundred percent honest. People were never honest with Luc, with the exception of his mother. They tiptoed around him, bowing and scraping, ‘yes, sir’, ‘no sir’. He was one of those lethally good-looking men who were just too powerful for their own good. He was unapologetic in his arrogance and in his assumption that he could play by his own unique set of rules.

‘I don’t want to be having this conversation with you.’

‘Why not? Are you embarrassed? There’s nothing to be ashamed of because it was a flop. These things happen. You just have to shrug it off and move on.’ Furthermore, she would be glad of his sterling advice when he filled her in on a few missing jigsaw pieces. His Friday night had been ruined, but he was upbeat about it.

Without the hassle of traffic, it took them less than half an hour before he pulled up outside her house, and Agatha hadn’t said a word for the brief drive. Her evening out had been disappointing, but there was a slow resentment building inside her at the way Luc had showed up for her, like a parent collecting a child from a birthday party. And then to hear him dismiss her date as a flop, something unfortunate that she should step over and forget with a shrug, made her even more angry.

She hadn’t asked him to start interfering in her life. He had barely noticed her for the past eight months, but now that he had been forced to he had decided to give the project his full and complete attention. But he still couldn’t conceal the fact that he found her annoying and a nuisance. Everything about her offended him, starting with the way she didn’t seem to know how to suck up to him sufficiently, and ending with the way she looked—and Luc, being Luc, he made no bones about hiding his reaction.

And now he needed to chat to her. It could only be about her job. He had gone away, added up all the reasons why she didn’t belong in his company and was going to break it to her that, however indebted he felt to her mother, having her as dead weight in his office was too steep a price to pay.

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ she burst out as soon as he had killed the engine. ‘And you can just tell me right here.’ She had unclasped her seat belt, and now she swivelled round to look at him.

‘You know what I’m going to say?’

‘Yes. I know what you think of me, and I know exactly what you’re going to say.’ The words tumbled out with feverish urgency.

‘I don’t think you have a clue what I think of you,’ Luc informed her huskily. ‘And you certainly don’t know what I’m going to say to you. And, no, we are not going to have this conversation in my car.’

‘I just want to get it over and done with,’ Agatha implored, but he was already out the car and she hurriedly followed suit, fumbling in her bag for the house key and feeling the tension escalate with every step up to her bedsit.

Stepping back into the room, she switched on the light and looked around it with new eyes, Luc’s eyes. She took in the discoloured walls, which she had tried to hide by sticking up two large, colourful posters, the sagging, tired furniture, the stained carpet peeping out from behind the thin Moroccan rug she had put over it and the seeping cold. He was right; who else would put up with all that?