Original Sin (15 page)

De Witt said: “As long as you realize that’s all that we’ve settled. No more negotiations about selling Innocent House until we’ve had another meeting and you’ve provided us with the figures and a full business plan.”

“You’ve had a business plan. I gave you one last month.”

“Not one we could understand. We’ll meet a week today. It would be helpful if you could circulate the papers a day in advance. And we need alternatives. A business plan on the assumption that Innocent House is sold, a second on the assumption that it isn’t.”

Etienne said: “The second is easily provided. Either we do business with Skolling or we go bankrupt. And Skolling isn’t a patient man.”

Claudia said: “Keep him quiet with a promise. Tell him that if we decide to sell he will get first refusal.”

Etienne smiled. “Oh no, I don’t think I could make that kind of promise. Once his interest becomes public we could attract another £50,000. I don’t think it’s likely but you never know. The Greyfriars Museum is said to be looking for somewhere to house its collection of maritime paintings.”

Frances Peverell said: “We’re not going to sell Innocent House to Hector Skolling or anyone else. This house is sold over my dead body—or yours.”

In the secretaries’ office Mandy looked up as Blackie entered, stalked over red-faced to her desk, sat down at her word processor and began typing. After a minute, curiosity overcame discretion and Mandy asked: “What’s up? I thought you always took notes at the partners’ meeting.”

Blackie’s voice was strange, at once harsh but with a small note of triumphant vindication: “Not anymore apparently.”

Chucked out, poor cow, Mandy thought. She said: “What’s so secret then? What are they doing up there?”

“Doing?” Blackie’s hands ceased their restless weaving over the keys. “They’re ruining this firm, that’s what they’re doing. They’re sweeping away everything Mr. Peverell worked for, cared for, stood for, for over thirty years. They’re planning to sell Innocent House. Mr. Peverell loved this house. It’s been in the family for over a hundred and sixty years. Innocent House is Peverell Press. If one goes they both go. Mr. Gerard’s been planning to get rid of it ever since Mr. Etienne retired and now he’s taken over there’s no one to stop him. They don’t care anyway. Miss Frances won’t like it but she’s in love
with him, and no one takes much notice of Miss Frances. Miss Claudia is his sister and Mr. de Witt hasn’t the guts to stop him. No one has. Mr. Dauntsey might, but he’s too old now and past caring. None of them can stand up to Mr. Gerard. But he knows what I think. That’s why he didn’t want me there. He knows I disagree. He knows I’d stop him if I could.”

Mandy saw she was close to tears, but they were tears of anger. Embarrassed, anxious to comfort but uneasily aware that Blackie would later regret this unwonted confidence, she said: “He can be a right sod. I’ve seen the way he treats you sometimes. Why don’t you leave, try a spot of temping? Ask for your cards and tell him where he can stuff his job.”

Blackie, fighting for control, made an attempt to recover her dignity. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mandy. I’ve no intention of leaving. I’m a senior personal secretary. I’m not a temp. I never have been and I never will be.”

“There are worse things than temping. What about some coffee, then? I could make it now—no point in waiting—and a couple of chocolate digestives.”

“All right then, but don’t waste time gossiping with Mrs. Demery. I’ve got some copy-typing for you when you’ve finished those letters. And, Mandy, what I said is confidential. I spoke rather more freely than I should have done and I want it kept within these walls.”

Fat chance, thought Mandy. Didn’t Miss Blackett realize that it was gossiped about all over the building? She said: “I can keep my mouth shut. It’s no skin off my nose is it? I’ll be gone by the time you move from here.”

She was hardly on her feet when the telephone on her desk rang and she heard George’s worried voice, but speaking with such conspiratorial quietness that she could hardly hear.

“Mandy, do you know where Miss FitzGerald is? I can’t get Blackie out of a partners’ meeting and I’ve got Mrs. Carling here. She’s demanding to see Mr. Gerard and I don’t think I can hold her much longer.”

“It’s OK, Miss Blackett’s here.” Mandy handed over the instrument. “It’s George. Mrs. Carling is in reception screaming to see Mr. Gerard.”

“Well she can’t.”

Blackie took the instrument, but before she could speak the door was flung open and Mrs. Carling burst in, thrust Mandy aside and strode straight through to the front office. Immediately she was back confronting them.

“Well, where is he? Where’s Gerard Etienne?”

Blackie, attempting dignity, flipped open her desk diary. “I don’t think you have an appointment, Mrs. Carling.”

“Of course I haven’t a bloody appointment! After thirty years with the firm I don’t need an appointment to see my publisher. I’m not a rep trying to sell him advertising space. Where is he?”

“He’s in the partners’ meeting, Mrs. Carling.”

“I thought that was only on the first Thursday.”

“Mr. Gerard moved it to today.”

“Then they’ll have to interrupt it. They’re in the boardroom I suppose.”

She made for the door, but Blackie was quicker and, slipping past her, stood with her back against it.

“You can’t go up, Mrs. Carling. Partners’ meetings are never interrupted. I have instructions that even urgent telephone calls have to be held.”

“In that case I’ll wait until they’re through.”

Blackie, still standing, found her typing chair firmly occupied, but remained calm.

“I don’t know when that will be. They could send down for
sandwiches. And haven’t you a signing in Cambridge this lunch hour? I’ll let Mr. Gerard know that you called and no doubt he’ll get in touch with you when he has a free moment.”

The recent contretemps, the need to re-establish her status before Mandy, made her voice more authoritative than was tactful, but even so the ferocity of the response surprised them. Mrs. Carling rose from the chair at a speed which set it spinning and stood so that her face was almost touching Blackie’s. She was three inches shorter but it seemed to Mandy that this difference made her more, not less, terrifying. The muscles of the stretched neck stood out like cords, the eyes blazed upwards and beneath the slightly hooked nose the mean little mouth, like a red gash, spat out its venom.

“When he has a free moment! You stupid bitch! You arrogant conceited little fool! Who do you think you’re talking to? It’s my talent which has paid your wages for the last twenty-odd years and don’t you forget it. It’s time you realized just how unimportant you are in this firm. Just because you worked for Mr. Peverell, and he indulged you and tolerated you and made you feel wanted, you think you can queen it over people who were part of Peverell Press when you were still a snotty-nosed school kid. Old Henry spoiled you, of course, but I can tell you what he really thought of you. And why? Because he told me, that’s why. He was sick of you hanging about and gazing at him like a moonstruck cow. He was sick and tired of your devotion. He wanted you out, but he hadn’t the guts to sack you. He never did have any guts, poor sod. If he’d had guts Gerard Etienne wouldn’t be in charge now. Tell him I want to see him, and it had better be at my convenience, not his.”

Blackie spoke through lips so white and stiff that it seemed to Mandy that they could hardly move. “It isn’t true. You’re lying. It isn’t true.”

And now Mandy was frightened. She was used to office rows. In over three years of temping she had witnessed some impressive squalls of temperament and like a stalwart little boat had bobbed happily among the strewn wreckage of tumultuous seas. Mandy rather enjoyed a good office row. There was no better antidote to boredom. But this was different. Here, she recognized, was genuine suffering, real adult pain, an adult malice welling out of a hatred which was terrifying. This was grief which could not be assuaged by fresh coffee and a couple of biscuits from the tin Mrs. Demery reserved for the partners only. She thought for a terrifying second that Blackie was going to throw back her head and howl with anguish. She wanted to hold out a hand in comfort but instinctively knew that there was no comfort she could give and that the attempt would later be resented.

The door banged. Mrs. Carling had swept out.

Blackie said again: “It’s a lie. It’s all lies. She doesn’t know anything about it.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” said Mandy sturdily. “Of course she’s lying, anyone could see that. She’s just a jealous bitch. I shouldn’t take any notice of her.”

“I’m just going to the bathroom.”

It was apparent that Blackie was about to be sick. Again Mandy wondered whether she could go with her but decided against it. Blackie walked out as stiff as an automaton, almost colliding with Mrs. Demery as she came in carrying a couple of parcels.

Mrs. Demery said: “These came in the second post so I thought I’d bring them in. What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s upset. The partners didn’t want her at the meeting and then Mrs. Carling arrived demanding to see Mr. Gerard and Blackie stopped her.”

Mrs. Demery folded her arms and leaned against Blackie’s desk. “I expect she got the letter this morning telling her that they don’t want her new novel.”

“How on earth do you know that, Mrs. Demery?”

“There’s not much happens around here I don’t get to know about. There’ll be trouble about this, mark my words.”

“If it’s not good enough why doesn’t she revise it or write another?”

“Because she doesn’t think she can, that’s why. That’s what happens to authors when they get rejected. That’s what they’re terrified about all the time, losing their talent, writers’ block. That’s what makes them so tricky to deal with. Tricky, that’s what writers are. You have to keep on telling them how wonderful they are or they go to pieces. I’ve seen it happen before more than once. Now old Mr. Peverell knew how to deal with them. He had the right touch with authors had Mr. Peverell. With Mr. Gerard it’s difficult. He’s different. He doesn’t see why they can’t get on with the job and stop whining.”

It was a view with which Mandy had considerable sympathy. She might tell Blackie—and indeed believe it—that Mr. Gerard was a sod, but she found him difficult to dislike. She felt that, given the chance, she could cope with Mr. Gerard. But further confidences were interrupted by the return of Blackie much sooner than Mandy had expected. Mrs. Demery slipped away and Blackie, without a word, sat again at her keyboard.

For the next hour they worked in an oppressive silence broken only when Blackie issued orders. Mandy was sent to the copy room to make three copies of a recently arrived manuscript which, judging by the first three paragraphs, she thought was unlikely to appear in print, was handed a pile of extremely dull copy-typing and then told to weed out any papers more than two years old from the “Keep a Little While”
drawer. This useful compendium was used by the whole office as a depository for papers for which no one could find an appropriate place but which they were reluctant to throw away. There was little in it under twelve years old and weeding the “Keep a Little While” drawer was a deeply unpopular chore. Mandy felt that she was being unjustly punished for Blackie’s burst of confidence.

The partners’ meeting ended earlier than usual and it was only half past eleven when Gerard Etienne, followed by his sister and Gabriel Dauntsey, came briskly through the office and into his own room. Claudia Etienne was pausing to speak to Blackie when the inner door was flung open and he reappeared. Mandy saw that he was containing his temper with difficulty. He said to Blackie: “Have you taken my private diary?”

“Of course not Mr. Gerard. Isn’t it in your right-hand desk drawer?”

“If it were I should hardly be asking for it.”

“I made it up to date on Monday afternoon and put it back in the drawer. I haven’t seen it since.”

“It was there yesterday morning. If you haven’t taken it you had better discover who has. I presume you accept that looking after my diaries is part of your responsibility. If you can’t find the diary I should be glad to have the pencil returned. It’s gold and I’m rather attached to it.” Blackie’s face was scarlet. Claudia Etienne looked on with an amused sardonic lift of her eyebrow. Mandy, scenting battle, studied the outlines in the shorthand notebook as if they had suddenly become incomprehensible.

Blackie’s voice was hovering on the edge of hysteria. “Are you accusing me of theft, Mr. Gerard? I’ve worked in this office for twenty-seven years but—” Her voice broke off.

He said impatiently, “Don’t be a little fool. No one’s accusing you of anything.” His eye hit on the snake curled over the
handle of the filing cabinet. “And for God’s sake get rid of that bloody snake. Chuck it in the river. It makes this office look like a kindergarten.”

He went into his office and his sister followed. Without a word Blackie took the snake and shut it in her desk drawer.

She said to Mandy, “What are you staring at? If you haven’t any typing to do I can soon find you some. In the meantime you can make me some coffee.”

Mandy, armed with this new gossip for the delectation of Mrs. Demery, was happy to oblige.

Declan was to arrive for the river trip at half past six, and it was 6.15 when Claudia went in to her brother’s office. They were the last two people in the building. Gerard invariably worked late on Thursdays, but it was the night when most of the staff planned to leave early and take advantage of Thursday late-night shopping. He was sitting at his desk in the pool of light from his lamp, but stood up as she entered. His manners to her were always formal, always impeccable. She used to wonder if this was one small ploy to discourage intimacy.

She seated herself opposite him and said without preamble: “Look, I’ll support you about selling Innocent House. I’ll go along with all your other plans, come to that. With my support you can easily out-vote the others. But I need cash: £350,000. I want you to buy half of my shares, all of them if you like.”

“I can’t afford to.”