Anne Mather - Bedded For The Italian's Pleasure

She glanced round the waiting room again, wondering what sort of qualifications her fellow applicants had. There were five other people in the room besides herself: two men and three women, all of whom seemed totally indifferent to their surroundings. If she didn’t know better, she’d have said they were indifferent to being offered employment, too. At least two of them looked half-asleep—or stoned.

Which could be good news or bad, depending on the way you looked at it. Surely after interviewing someone dressed in torn jeans or a grungy T-shirt, or that girl whose arms were covered with lurid tattoos, Juliet, in her navy pinstripe suit and two-inch heels, would be a relief. Or perhaps not. Perhaps unskilled jobs were more likely to be offered to people who didn’t look as if they could afford to be out of work.

‘Mrs Hammond?’

It’s Ms Lawrence, actually, Juliet wanted to say, but all her means of identification were still in her married name. Not that everyone who got divorced reverted to their previous identity. But Juliet had wanted to. She’d wanted nothing to remind her that she had once been Mrs David Hammond.

Now she got nervously to her feet as the woman who’d called her name looked expectantly round the room. ‘That’s me,’ she said, aware that she was now the centre of attention. She tucked her clutch bag beneath her arm and walked tentatively across the floor.

‘Come into my office, Mrs Hammond.’ The woman, a redhead, in her forties, Juliet guessed, looked her up and down and then led the way into an office that was only slightly less unprepossessing than the waiting room. She indicated an upright chair facing her desk. ‘Sit down.’ Juliet did so. ‘Did you fill in the questionnaire?’

‘Oh—yes.’ Juliet produced the sheet of paper she’d been rolling into a tube as she waited. When she laid it on the woman’s desk—Mrs Maria Watkins’ desk, she saw from a notice propped in front of her—it remained in its half-curled position and she offered a little smile of apology as Mrs Watkins smoothed it out. ‘Sorry.’

Her apology was neither acknowledged nor accepted. Mrs Watkins was too busy reading what Juliet had written, pausing every now and then to glance at her as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. So what? Had the slick business suit fooled her? Or was she admiring Juliet’s dress sense? Somehow, she didn’t think so.

‘It says here that you’re twenty-four years old, Mrs Hammond.’ Mrs Watkins frowned. ‘And you’ve never had a job?’

Juliet coloured a little. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

It was straight question, but Juliet had the feeling she shouldn’t have asked it. She had some pride. Did this woman have to rob her of every single drop?

Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘Is that relevant? I need a job now. Isn’t that enough?’

‘No, I’m afraid it’s not, Mrs Hammond. Would-be employers require CVs; references. It’s important for me to understand why a would-be applicant has none of these things.’

Juliet sighed. ‘I was married,’ she said, deciding that was the least controversial thing she could say.

‘Yes, I see that.’ Mrs Watkins consulted the sheet again. ‘Your marriage ended some nine months ago, did it not?’

Nine months, eight days, recited Juliet silently. ‘That’s right.’

‘But no job?’

‘No. No job.’

Mrs Watkins sucked in a breath through her nostrils that was clearly audible. It was the kind of sound her father’s butler, Carmichael, used to make when he disapproved of something she’d done. That Mrs Watkins disapproved of her lack of experience was obvious. Juliet wondered if she would have fared better if she’d come in a grungy shirt and jeans.

‘Well,’ Mrs Watkins said at last, ‘I have to tell you, Mrs Hammond, it’s not going to be easy finding you employment. You have no discernible qualifications, no employment history, nothing in fact to convince an employer that you’re a good worker. And trustworthy.’

Juliet gasped. ‘I’m trustworthy.’

‘I’m sure you are, Mrs Hammond, but in this world we don’t work on word-of-mouth. What you need is an erstwhile employer to vouch for you, someone who is willing to commit his opinion to paper.’

‘But I don’t have an erstwhile employer.’

Mrs Watkins gave a smug smile. ‘I know.’

‘So you’re saying you can’t help me?’

‘I’m saying that at the present time, I don’t have a vacancy you could fill. Unless you wanted to wash dishes at the Savoy, of course.’ She chuckled at her own joke. Then she sobered. ‘You’ll find details of courses you could take at the local college—classes for everything from cookery to foreign languages—in the waiting room. I suggest you take a few of the leaflets home and decide what it is you want to do. Then, come back and see me when you feel you have something to offer. Until then, I’d advise you not to waste any more time.’

Waste my time, was what she meant, Juliet decided gloomily, getting to her feet. ‘Well—thank you,’ she said, the good manners, which had been instilled into her since birth by a series of nannies, coming to her rescue. ‘I’ll think about what you’ve said.’ She paused. ‘Or find another agency.’

‘Good luck!’ The latter was said with some irony and Juliet left the office feeling even more of a pariah than before. But what had she expected? Who had she imagined would employ someone without even the sense to recognise a con man when she saw one?

Outside again, she looked up and down Charing Cross Road, considering her options. Although it was only the beginning of March, it was surprisingly warm, though a light drizzle had started to dampen the pavements. She lifted a hand to hail a taxi and then hastily dropped it again. The days when she could swan around in cabs were most definitely over.

Sighing, she started to walk towards Cambridge Circus. She would catch a bus from there that would take her to Knightsbridge and the tiny one-bedroom apartment where she lived these days. The large house in Sussex where she’d been born and lived for most of her life had been sold just after her marriage to David. He’d said the house he’d found in Bloomsbury was much more convenient. It wasn’t until he’d left her that she’d found out the house had been rented by the month.

She knew her friends had been appalled at her naïvety, but, dammit, she’d never encountered David’s kind of ruthlessness before. It was just luck that the apartment had been in her name and David couldn’t touch it. It had been her father’s pied-à-terre when he’d had business to attend to in town, and she’d hung on to it for sentimental reasons.

Halfway to her destination she passed a pub and on impulse she went in. It was dark and smoky in the bar, but that suited her. She hardly ever drank during the day and she’d prefer it if no one recognised her in her present mood.

Slipping onto one of the tall stools, she waited for the bartender to notice her. Short and fat, with a beer belly that hung over his belt, he managed to look both businesslike and cheerful. Much different from Mrs Watkins.

‘Now, then,’ he said, sliding his cleaning cloth along the bar, ‘what can I get you?’

Juliet hesitated. It didn’t look as if it was the kind of place that had a bottle of house white waiting to be poured. But who knew?

‘The lady would like a vodka and tonic, Harry,’ said a voice at her shoulder and she swung round, ready to tell whoever it was that she could choose her own drinks, thank you very much.

Then her eyes widened in surprise. She knew the man. His name was Cary Daniels and she’d known him since they were children. But she hadn’t seen him for years. Not since her wedding, in fact.