Specialist In Love

‘Tra-la!’ she sang. ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog!’

Ella glanced up again from her newspaper, only mildly perturbed—she was long used to Poppy’s excessive enthusiasm.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,’ repeated Poppy, grinning happily.

‘I should see your doctor about it if I were you,’ suggested Ella. ‘I always knew you were crazy—but now I’ve got proof!’

Poppy collapsed into an armchair, throwing her feet over the side. ‘No, silly. That was my typing test—do you realise that that particular sentence uses every letter of the alphabet?’

‘No, I didn’t actually!’

‘And this evening I got it word-perfect—over and over again—at fifty words a minute. I’m Mrs Johnson’s prize pupil and she’s even trying to fix me up with a job!’

Ella sighed and put the newspaper down, abandoning all attempts to read it. When Poppy was in this kind of mood she wouldn’t get a moment’s peace. ‘You’re not really going through with all this, are you? Throwing up your job at Maxwells and everything?’

‘It’s done! The deed is done!’ announced Poppy dramatically. ‘I’ve left. Seriously,’ she wrinkled her upturned nose, ‘I’m sick of being a beautician. Trying to convince women who need to lose thirty pounds that new Blanko face cream will make them look like Kim Basinger! Having to lie through my teeth every time they ask me whether such-and-such eye-shadow enhances their eyes—when a blindfold is about the only thing that would!’

‘Poppy!’

‘At least when I’m a secretary I’ll be doing something really useful.’ Her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway expression. ‘Who knows? I could end up as the indispensable right-hand woman of some archaeologist—searching for ancient tombs somewhere in Egypt. . .’

‘Hasn’t it already been done in a film with Harrison Ford?’ interposed Ella drily. ‘You’re much more likely to end up typing invoices for some importer in a ghastly windowless office somewhere in the town.’

‘Honestly, Ella,’ Poppy reproached her, ‘you’re the world’s biggest pessimist!’

‘Realist, you mean.’

‘Anyway,’ she announced airily, ‘we shall see. I register at Trumps Temporary Agency tomorrow. Mrs Johnson’s friend runs it.’

‘I hope you’re going to tone your image down a bit first,’ said Ella, in some alarm.

‘Nonsense! They’ll have to take me as I am.’

Which was why Mrs Johnson’s old college friend, a Miss Webb, blinked slightly as Poppy breezed into Trumps Temporaries.

She had, in fact, toned her image down slightly, but Miss Webb wasn’t to know that. She saw across her desk a very slender young woman, her endlessly long legs encased in tight black leggings and topped with a huge fluffy mohair sweater on which Winnie-the-Pooh was licking from a jar of hunny.

The pale blonde hair obviously owed little of its abundance of curls and startling shade to nature, and the large violet eyes were enhanced by a subtle shading of at least three different coloured eyeshadows. Fromjier ears swung two enormous silver ear-rings, and Miss Webb privately wondered how she managed to walk on such high heels.

But within several minutes of talking to her Miss Webb knew that her old friend’s lavish praise had not been unjustified. The girl was indeed talented—bright, witty and quite overwhelmingly honest, a point which Miss Webb commented on.

‘That’s one of the reasons why I want to leave,’ explained Poppy earnestly, leaning over the desk to emphasise what she was saying, silver bangles clanking like a brass band. ‘The whole business of being a beautician is one of deceit—people don’t want the truth. They want to believe that their skin is as soft as a rose petal. It’s one of the best kept secrets in the world that the only people lots of make-up looks good on are those who really don’t need to wear any.’

Miss Webb thought Poppy herself was one of those people, but refrained from comment. Instead she started to explain the uncertain world of ‘temping’.

‘I haven’t very much in at the moment, I’m afraid. The best I can offer you is going to be odd days here and there, which can be a little unsettling, but things should pick up soon.’

Poppy brightened a little on hearing this. ‘Oh, well. Just so long as I can pay the rent!’

Miss Webb began sorting through a box of cards in front of her. ‘Let’s just see what we have here. . .’ she began, when the telephone on her desk began to jangle noisily.

‘Excuse me,’ she murmured, and picked up the instrument. ‘Hello? Trumps Temporaries. How may I help you?’

Poppy then heard an intriguing one-sided conversation, peppered with half a dozen ‘oh, no’s!’ and several terse asides of ‘that man!’ When she eventually replaced the receiver, Miss Webb turned her eyes on Poppy.

‘I think we may be able to help one another, my dear. I think I have just the job for you.’

‘You do?’ Poppy sat up in her chair.

‘I do indeed, working for Dr Fergus Browne at Highchester Hospital.’

‘But I’m not a medical secretary,’ protested Poppy. ‘I couldn’t possibly work for a doctor.’

‘You’ll soon pick it up—a bright girl like you,’ said Miss Webb soothingly. ‘And besides, I have no one else to send—his latest girl has just walked out.’ She saw Poppy raise her eyebrows enquiringly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t deny he’s a difficult man, Miss Henderson. Very difficult. He’s used about seven girls from my agency, and not one of them has agreed to stay. Quite the opposite, in fact—they seem to leave in a flurry of tears. He seems to have quite a ridiculous effect on them, though for myself, I fail to see why. I’m being frank with you, Miss Henderson, because I believe you’re the kind of young lady who stands up for herself.’ She gave a kind smile. ‘And on no account are you to allow him to bully you.’

Poppy gulped. Did she have any choice? ‘OK, Miss Webb. I’ll do it. When do I start?’

Miss Webb gave another smile, more apologetic this time. ‘In about ten minutes?’

The hospital was within walking distance of the agency, and it was the first time Poppy had ever been inside. She shivered a little. The long corridor seemed to be very dark and draughty. She felt as though she needed a dregree in map-reading to find Dr Browne’s offices, and she was slightly taken aback by the information proffered by the jokey girl at the reception desk whom she had asked for directions.

‘Working for the Professor, are you?’ She pulled a face. ‘Rather you than me!’

Poppy set off in search of the lift. A Professor! Miss Webb hadn’t told her that. He must be really high-powered, and ancient, no doubt. What was he going to say when he discovered that the girl they had sent him had only recently passed her typing test after a year of going to evening classes?

The offices on the tenth floor of the building were like a labyrinth, and she got lost about four times, wandering around in circles through identicallooking corridors before eventually locating an undistinguished door which bore the legend ‘F. Browne—Dermatology’. Poppy was surprised. For a Professor’s it looked a very dismal kind of office. Why, when she had worked at Maxwells, even the catering supervisor had resided in a far grander-looking room than this one!

She knocked on the door and waited, but no one replied. She tried again, but there was still no answer. Well, there was no doubt that Professor Browne was expecting her. She turned the handle and walked in.

It was not as she expected—inside there was total chaos, with books absolutely everywhere. Poppy had never seen so many books. They stood in high piles on almost every inch of the floor, so that she had to pick her way over them gingerly. They almost obscured every bit of the surface of the enormous mahogany desk that stood at the far corner of the room. And there was still no sign of her new boss.

At that moment the door flew open, and Poppy turned round to confront a very tall, lean man who was staring at her as if he’d just seen an apparition. Light grey eyes came to rest first on her ear-rings, and then, with open astonishment, on the high black patent shoes she wore.

‘Good grief,’ he said faintly. ‘Don’t tell me you actually walked here in those things?’

She didn’t know who he was, but judging from the extremely crumpled shirt he wore and the faded cords she guessed he was one of the maintenance men. And one who needed putting in his place too—he needn’t think he could be so rude to the Professor’s new secretary!

‘How do you think I got here?’ she demanded. ‘Flew?’

‘I should think that if you shook your head violently enough, the centrifugal force generated by the momentum of those ridiculous ear-rings would be enough to propel you into the outer stratosphere!’ he returned.

She could see that sarcasm was going to be wasted on him. And on second thoughts, he didn’t sound a bit like a maintenance man—why, the sentence he had just snapped back at her sounded as if you would need an ‘A’ level in physics just to understand it! Surely he couldn’t be. . .?

No. She quashed the idea firmly. Well-spoken he might be, but a doctor he most definitely wasn’t. Doctors wore suits, and looked responsible. Staid and trustworthy—like dear old Dr Evans at home. They certainly didn’t tower at over six feet, lean and fit, making them look as if they’d be more suited to skiing down the side of some mountain. And quite apart from the crumpled shirt and the too-casual cords, no doctor on earth would be seen wearing a pink tie with purple spots all over it!

She decided to try a different tack. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked him, rather primly.