Alison Fraser - Tainted Love

‘I try not to be,’ she answered drily, and it drew the merest flicker of a smile from him.

‘So, Lou,’ he continued to his sister, ‘if you could possibly have tea brought into the study, I’ll talk to Miss Anderson there.’

‘I...yes, fine.’ Louise’s eyes questionned Clare as to what was happening. Clare spread her hands in a gesture that said she didn’t know, before following him to the far end of the hall.

His study was a very masculine room, decorated in sombre dark colours and dominated by a large leather-bound desk covered in papers. He sat down behind it and waved Clare into the chair opposite. She sat reluctantly.

He slipped on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. They still failed to make him professorial. He had the looks of an actor, a hybrid of Robert Redford and Charles Dance. Clare thought it just as well he had neither man’s charm.

Pen in hand, he asked her point-blank, ‘Now, what experience have you of running a house?’

‘Not much,’ she admitted, then, before he could go on, said, ‘Look, I realise you’re giving me this interview because you promised Mrs Carlton, but I’d prefer not to bother. You don’t wish to hire someone with a prison record. I accept that. I’ll be able to catch an earlier train back to London.’

‘You’re very blunt, aren’t you?’ He leaned back in his chair and surveyed her, before asking, ‘Where do you live in London?’

Clare didn’t see the relevance of the question, but answered it all the same. ‘Kennington.’

‘In a flat?’

‘No, in a hostel...for ex-offenders.’

‘What’s it like?’ he enquired with passing curiosity.

‘A palace,’ she replied sardonically, resenting his interest.

He pulled a face. ‘Is there nowhere else you can go? Friends? Relatives?’

Clare shook her head.

‘How long have you lived there?’ he pursued.

‘Since I was released,’ she told him, ‘a week ago.’

‘And presumably you can stay there till you’ve arranged alternative accommodation,’ he concluded, wrongly.

Clare shook her head again. ‘There’s a three-month limit.’

‘So what happens if you haven’t found anywhere else?’ He frowned.

She shrugged. She hadn’t let herself think that far. ‘I’ll manage,’ she said on a defensive note.

But he wouldn’t let it go. ‘You won’t if you end up on the streets,’ he stated grimly. ‘No job, no home. It’s a vicious circle.’

Clare’s eyes narrowed at this little lecture. What did he know about it? ‘I’ll survive,’ she claimed with the hard confidence of someone who’d already been there.

‘I suppose you will,’ he said, giving her another measuring look that wasn’t entirely pleasant. ‘A good-looking woman never needs to starve.’

Arguably it was a compliment, but not the way he said it. Mr Fen Marchand clearly didn’t have a very high opinion of women.

Clare didn’t care enough to argue the point and remained silent. Let someone else deal with his hang-ups.

‘You certainly don’t seem too anxious to get this job, Miss Anderson.’ He switched back to his normal pomposity. ‘So far, you’ve said little to impress... You have no experience of running a house, and I don’t suppose you have any experience of handling wilful eleven-year-olds?’

Clare shook her head, then, recalling what Louise had told her, enquired, ‘Did your last housekeeper?’

‘As a matter of fact, she did,’ he announced crisply, ‘being a widowed lady with three grown-up sons.’

‘And how long was she with you?’ Clare already knew the answer.

‘I...well...I don’t think that’s relevant.’ He evaded the admission that the last incumbent had lasted a fortnight. ‘It seemed she had a weak heart and found the housework more of a strain than she’d anticipated.’

I bet , Clare muttered to herself, thinking of two reasons alone that might have hastened the woman’s departure: Marchand senior and his abrasive manner, and Marchand junior and his taste for pranks.

‘Anyway, Mrs Brown isn’t the issue,’ he said dismissively and rose from behind his desk.

Clare assumed the interview was at an end, but, when she made to stand, he waved her back in her seat. ‘I’m just going to see where Louise has got with the afternoon tea.’

Clare started to say, I think I should just go, but he’d left the room before she could get the words out. Rude man. She was left twiddling her thumbs and wondering if she shouldn’t give everybody a break and leave by the study’s French windows.

She was actually contemplating it when a figure blocked her escape route. He stood at the open window for a moment, staring at her, before deciding to enter.

‘Where’s my old man?’ he demanded in a manner so arrogant that his parentage couldn’t be doubted. The origin of his blond good looks was also fairly evident. The only difference between the two was one of accent—while Fen Marchand spoke with a perfect BBC accent, Miles had a slight American drawl.

‘I’ve no idea,’ Clare answered him offhandedly. She made no attempt to engage him in further conversation.

The young boy wasn’t discouraged. Instead he went round to sit behind his father’s desk. ‘Has he offered you the job yet?’

This time Clare didn’t answer, looking straight through him instead.

‘No? Well, I wouldn’t take it if he does,’ the boy advised. ‘The pay’s lousy, for a start, and my dad’s an even lousier boss. As for me, I can’t help it. I’m disturbed, personality-wise.’

‘You do surprise me,’ Clare said, irony in her tone.

It was lost on the boy. ‘I should have an analyst. All the kids in L.A. have an analyst, but my dad’s too mean to pay for one.’

‘Really?’ Clare sounded less than interested in this information. She didn’t have too much sympathy for poor little rich boys—not any more.

Miles Marchand frowned at her reaction. He was trying to shock, not bore his audience.

He tried again. ‘So, tell me, do you have the hots for him?’

‘What?’ Clare blinked at the leap in conversation.

‘My dad, do you have the hots for him?’ he repeated patiently. ‘That’s what they say in America. It means—’

‘I know what it means, and most certainly not!’ Clare denied, angered for the first time.

‘OK, OK. Keep your hair on.’ Miles Marchand shrugged off his suggestion. ‘I was only asking. Lots of women do. The last housekeeper but one was crazy about him.’

‘So, what did you do to her?’ Clare decided it was time to go on the offensive with this monster. ‘Frogs in the bed? Dead mice on the doorstep?’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he dismissed, ‘that’s kid’s stuff. I was much more subtle.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Clare lifted a sceptical brow. ‘Don’t tell me, you just concentrated on being as rude and obnoxious as possible, and that did the trick. Well, I wouldn’t bother wasting your talents on me, kiddo.’

‘Why not?’ he demanded.

‘Well, apart from the fact I’m tougher and meaner than you could ever hope to be,’ Clare claimed extravagantly, ‘it’s not likely your dad’s going to employ me.’

‘Why not?’ the boy repeated.

Clare was tempted to tell him. She was sure the boy would be thrilled to have a real live criminal in the house.

She eventually said, ‘I haven’t the right qualifications.’

‘Oh, that’s no problem,’ the boy replied airily. ‘He’s so desperate, he’ll take anyone.’

‘Thanks,’ muttered Clare and the boy grinned wickedly.

Marchand caught the grin as he returned to the study with a tray of tea things. ‘Miles, what are you doing in here?’ he asked rather sternly.

‘Nothing.’ The boy’s face changed to sullenness as he slipped from his father’s chair.