Elizabeth Oldfield - Dark Victory

The general consensus that modelling was her forte had been because of her looks. In all modesty, Cheska knew she was pretty—the oval face with fine bone-structure and huge grey eyes which she saw in the mirror every morning told her so, likewise the compliments which had been coming her way since she was knee-high. But, all in all, her looks had been something of a liability, and were a sore point right now.

‘And having been talked into it, after just a year or so you decided you wanted out. Why?’ Lawson asked.

‘Because I found standing in front of a camera, mute and striking poses day after day, deadly boring,’ Cheska replied, and her chin lifted.

She had given him an ideal opportunity to come back with some crack about her having a short attention-span—in other words, to imply that she was a bimbo—and she was prepared. But, to her surprise, he nodded.

‘I’ve always thought that modelling must be a hell of a strain on any thinking person’s sanity,’ he said. ‘Was boredom the reason why you swanned around?’

Not expecting such acuity, Cheska nodded. ‘If anything came along which seemed like it’d be more fun, I went.’

‘And you had the means to do so. Life’s a bed of roses for some people,’ Lawson remarked drily, then, turning his broad wrist, he inspected the steel and gold watch which was strapped to it. ‘Someone might be at the office, so I’ll ring and see if the wheels can be set in motion for locating a substitute assistant.’

‘Before you use the telephone, don’t you think it would be polite if you asked permission?’ Cheska said, as, having offloaded his camera and binoculars on to the carved hall table, he started to walk away.

She was not in the habit of pulling rank, but, as a stranger in the house, his behaviour seemed just a little too familiar.

Lawson stopped to bow a dutiful head. ‘Please, ma’am, may I have your permission to use the telephone?’ he recited.

‘You may,’ she replied stiffly, for his tone and the smile which tugged at the corner of his mouth were mocking.

‘Thanks. However, there’s really no need for me to ask, not when you consider that, as from yesterday, the production company’s been responsible for Hatchford Manor’s telephone account.’ He strode away. ‘And that,’ he was tossing the words back at her across his shoulder, ‘also as from yesterday, the library’s been doing duty as my office.’

Cheska stared at him along the length of the hall. ‘Your office?’ she said weakly.

‘Just until Monday, when phones are being installed in the oasts,’ Lawson replied, and vanished.

Cheska sank down on one of the high-backed chairs beside the table. The morning had been a long procession of surprises. One after another they had hit her, until now she was feeling shellshocked and, due to the lack of sleep, also a little weary. Were there any more surprises in store? Please, no. Cheska plucked at the damp edges of her shorts. Not only had Rupert’s ladyfriend established herself at Hatchford Manor, but Lawson Giordano appeared to be well entrenched, too. And if she remained here for the next week, there was no way she could escape him. She wanted to remain, Cheska thought wistfully. After so long away, she had been looking forward to renewing her acquaintance with the house which occupied such a fond place in her heart. Besides, why should she feel hounded out?

Stretching out her legs, she frowned down at her feet. Much as it went against the grain to admit it, Miriam’s ‘ideal answer’ would solve one of her problems—for a while. Television companies were known to pay good wages, and if she acted as Lawson’s Girl Friday the cash she received would enable her to make two, three or maybe more weekly contributions towards her keep. Her grey eyes became steely. Now that Mrs Busybody had raised the issue, she was determined to pay, even though Rupert would not be fussy. Her pride insisted. And, after all, Cheska acknowledged ruefully, she had been pampered for far too long.

As the murmur of Lawson’s baritone sounded from the library, she wiggled her toes. In order to keep up the weekly contributions she would need to find herself a permanent job. Smartish. On the flight home she had decided that she had had her fill of both working abroad and of the big-city hustle-bustle of living in London, and that she would prefer to work locally. Maybe for a vet, or a village solicitor, or a farmers’ co-operative. Cheska sighed. Such jobs were thin on the ground and finding one could take time.

Abruptly she looked up, alerted by the creak of the floorboards to the fact that Lawson had completed his call.

‘Any luck?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘The woman in charge of personnel had gone in early so I managed to speak to her, but she reckons there’s no chance of finding anyone who comes within a mile of Janet’s efficiency at such short notice. She says she can send me a temp or a girl from the typing pool, and I guess ’

Cheska rose to her feet. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll be your assistant,’ she said. ‘I’m efficient, plus—’ her jaw took on a blockbuster slant “—I’m good-natured, amenable and everlastingly willing, whatever the strains and stresses.’

OK, you’re hired,’ Lawson said.

Her grey eyes widened. She had expected barbed observations and heavy sarcasm, not straightforward acceptance. She had expected to have to battle. But he must have listened to what she had said and accepted that, in her, he was being given the opportunity to employ a first-rate assistant.

“You’ve changed your mind?’ Cheska enquired, with an arch smile.

‘Haven’t you? Look, I’m tied to a tight budget,’ Lawson said impatiently, ‘and if someone comes down from London it means paying for them to stay in a hotel, whereas you—’

Her nostrils pinched. ‘Whereas I’m cheap?’ she demanded.

‘You said it, not me. Cheaper,’ he amended, before she could protest. ‘How does two hundred pounds a week sound?’

Cheska considered his proposal. She might have offered her services, but she would not be working for Lawson Giordano willingly. On the contrary; she approached the week’s employment with strong reservations. As she knew to her cost, the man was a blackguard and, although there was absolutely no risk of her making the same mistake she had made in the past, she reckoned that this entitled her to ‘danger money’.

‘Three hundred sounds better,’ she replied.

He swore. ‘Who on earth do you think is funding the film, the Getty family?’ he demanded.

‘What I think is that it’s the tourist season and a week in a hotel’ll cost over a hundred pounds, wherever anyone stays,’ Cheska told him coolly. ‘Not only that, if your assistant works late then a taxi will be needed to ferry her back each night, and another to ferry her here each morning. That means more expense. However, I’m already on the premises, so—’

‘Three hundred it is.’ His dark eyes narrowed as they focussed on her. ‘But you’d better be good.’

‘I’m the best,’ Cheska assured him.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Lawson said drily, and picking up his camera and binoculars, he hooked them over his shoulder again.

‘Rupie, dead’ Miriam bustled out from the kitchen to stand at the foot of the staircase. ‘Rupie, dear,’ she cooed again, “breakfast is waiting.’

‘Down in a minute,’ a muffled voice replied.

As if in anticipation of his arrival, Miriam dabbed at her lacquered champagne-blonde head, then click-clacked her way along the hall towards them. ‘Have you agreed terms?’ she enquired, clearly having taken it for granted that their protests had been no more than froth and that the merits of her suggestion would be speedily recognised and endorsed.