Sara Craven - Fugitive Wife

He put it down on his desk, removed the heavy hornrimmed glasses he wore and wiped them carefully on a spotless white handkerchief while an unnerving silence lengthened.

He said at last, ‘Miss Trevor, I’ve a friend in the Midlands who runs a small group of weekly papers. It’s a good training ground, and if I recommended you to him he would give you a chance.’

Briony said, ‘But I thought …’ and paused.

Hal Mackenzie said drily, ‘You hoped your relationship with the Chairman would open doors for you at U.P.G. Well, I’m afraid not, even if you’d been incredibly talented, which you’re not. But you could probably learn to be reasonably competent in time, with a sound provincial training behind you. Well, shall I write to my friend on your behalf?’ He waited, watching as the embarrassed flush deepened in her cheeks, then sighed. ‘Miss Trevor, I’m old enough to be your father, so may I give you some sound advice? Don’t read too much into a few moonlight kisses.’

Briony said lamely, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘No?’ His brows rose. ‘I saw Logan follow you, you know. Fortunately your father didn’t. He’d already made his views on what had happened earlier quite clear.’

‘Mr Mackenzie,’ Briony made a belated grab for the remnants of her poise, ‘it really isn’t what you think …’

‘Isn’t it?’ His tone was sceptical. ‘You’re a very lovely girl, Miss Trevor. Believe me, I’m not trying to censure either Logan or yourself. Good God, if I was twenty years younger, I’d probably have tried to beat him to it, no matter who or what your father was. Does he know you’ve come here to ask for a job, incidentally?’

Briony bit her lip. ‘We’ve—discussed it, naturally …’

‘In other words, no.’ Mackenzie sighed again. ‘It won’t do, Miss Trevor. I can’t imagine Sir Charles tamely accepting a life in journalism for you. I shall speak frankly to you. He’s a good chairman, but his heart is not in newspapers, the way your grandfather’s was. I often think your father would have been just as happy—happier even—making cars, or sewing machines. Something that couldn’t talk back. Sometimes he acts as if journalism was a dirty word.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘And even if he didn’t, I wouldn’t consider passing over some of the good people who apply to me for work in order to give a start to an untrained girl with no particular flair. As it is, I’m afraid your father’s known views would have to weigh with me—plus my own misgivings about your possible motivation.’

‘I hardly think that’s any of your business.’ She felt hot with humiliation.

‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ He gave her a shrewd look. ‘I like my newspaper to operate efficiently, with my staff giving me their best efforts. That’s why I don’t encourage—personal situations, shall we say? They tend to get in the way in office hours. Sometimes, of course, relationships become established, and I have to accept them. All my staff are adults, after all.’

Briony said coolly, ‘If you’re trying to bestow a paternal warning that Logan Adair has a—relationship with Miss Wellesley, then please don’t bother. I already know. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time. And there’s no need to write to your friend. I’m sure they need someone with flair—even in the provinces.’

He rose, as she did. ‘You make me sound an insensitive brute, Miss Trevor, and I’m sorry. But it wouldn’t work, believe me—oh, for all sorts of reasons. It may seem a glamorous life from the outside, but it’s hard work and pain with very little room for idealism, whatever pious platitudes we editors may utter from time to time. I think you’re still young enough to have ideals, so why not find yourself a star to hitch your wagon to? And please forgive me for having spoken so frankly on matters which were—not my concern.’

There were tears stinging Briony’s eyes as she hurried across the outer office and out into the corridor, ignoring the embarrassed secretary. She paused for a moment to snatch a pair of dark glasses from her handbag and cram them on to her nose to hide the most visible signs of her discomfiture. There were people waiting at the lift, so she took the stairs down to the ground floor. There was a women’s cloakroom there, and she slipped inside for a few moments, to effect a few repairs to her make-up. When she was sure she was in complete control once more, she walked out into the reception area and towards the massive glass doors which guarded the main entrance to the building.

And Logan Adair crossed the reception area just in front of her and went out into the street, pausing to hold open the doors for a group of women who were entering.

Briony stood stock still for a minute, hardly able to believe her eyes. To see him so suddenly, and unexpectedly, seemed like a sign, a good omen. If she’d taken the lift, if she hadn’t waited to fix her make-up, then she would have missed him. She hurried to the door and out on to the pavement. He was just ahead of her waiting to cross the road, flicking the folded newspaper he carried against his leg in slight impatience as he watched the stream of traffic. There was no reason in the world why she shouldn’t approach him, say something light and laughing about coincidences, and it being a small world, but she couldn’t do it, so she held back slightly, and then followed him as he crossed the road. She’d no idea, of course, where he was going. He might even be working on a story, but she didn’t think so. After all, he was in the foreign news department, not the City desk. Far more likely, she thought, glancing at her watch, that he was taking an early lunch. He did not seem to be in any particular hurry, strolling along in the pale sunshine, and Briony had little difficulty in keeping him in sight. Meanwhile a couple of disquieting thoughts occurred to her. What would she do if he turned and saw her skulking after him, and—which was infinitely worse—what if he was going to keep some lunchtime appointment with Karen Wellesley?

Her heart sank, but her spirits revived miraculously a moment later when Logan turned quite casually into the entrance of a large street-corner pub. After only a moment’s hesitation she followed him. After the brightness of the street, the interior seemed dim. Although it was still relatively early, many of the tables and velvet-covered benches along the walls were already occupied, and an appetisingly savoury smell hung in the air. Briony took a deep breath, then walked up to the bar.

Logan was just turning away, drink in hand, as she reached it. He saw her at once, and recognised her immediately in spite of the dark glasses, and his brows rose with amazed incredulity.

‘Slumming, Miss Trevor?’

‘It hardly looks like a slum to me, Mr Adair.’ Her voice sounded cool and composed, and she even managed a smile to match.

‘But hardly your usual stamping ground, I would have thought.’ He smiled too, but the cool eyes held a puzzled, almost reflective expression as he studied her. ‘Will you let me buy you a drink?’

‘Thank you.’ She hastily suppressed a feeling of glee. ‘You—you’re not expecting anyone?’

‘No one,’ he said, a touch drily. ‘The house wine is good here, and so is the food—unless you’re going on somewhere for lunch.’ His eyes wandered over the simple chic of the cream wool suit, and the dark green blouse she wore beneath it, all designed to convince Hal Mackenzie of her mature efficiency.

‘I’d heard the food was marvellous,’ she fibbed hastily. ‘That’s why I thought I’d try it.’

‘How word does get around!’ He did not bother to disguise his scepticism. ‘But it isn’t patronised much at Board room level. They have their own dining room, I believe.’ He handed her a menu. ‘I can recommend the shepherd’s pie.’