‘I do know where it is,’ he answered at once. ‘I’ve played on those courts many times.’
She finally got into the car and closed the door, winding down the window and glancing up. ‘Do you need me to fetch any papers or figures from the office for our discussion later?’ she enquired pertly.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said. ‘I merely want a more general outline of how everything—everyone—ticks. I’m not looking for statistics.’ He paused, then added casually, ‘It’s black tie this evening, by the way. One night in the year when they expect that sort of thing at the Laurels.’
Cryssie nodded as she started the car and prepared to reverse slowly. ‘I’ll be ready at eight,’ she said airily through the open window. Then she pulled away and drove out into the rush-hour traffic, her mind in a complete and utter whirl!
The whole day had been surreal enough, she thought, from the morning’s bombshell to the non-stop chattering and analysing of the situation, and finally being practically accosted by her new employer and invited out to dinner on New Year’s Eve! And why her, for heaven’s sake? But then, why not her? she asked herself. As he’d said, they had met before—were acquainted in a funny sort of way. He obviously thought it a sufficient enough opening that he could use for the purpose he’d said—to find out about his staff on a more personal level than he was likely to do through discussion with the Lewis brothers. Especially as she’d proved herself to be not backward in coming forward!
She kept thinking of all the things she’d said to him on Christmas Eve, trying to recall whether she’d been as off-hand and uncomplimentary as her memory now told her she had. One thing was certain—she was a marked woman…Her outspokenness had made her stand out from the crowd, and not in an exactly flattering way!
As she contemplated the evening to come a sudden thought struck her, and she nearly swerved off the road in horror. What on earth did she have to wear? It was obvious that his mentioning he would be appearing in evening dress was to give her a clue as to what she should do about it herself. He probably thought that without some prompting, she’d turn up in jeans and a sweater! And the horrible fact was she didn’t have anything to wear! She never went anywhere that made it necessary to buy pretty clothes, so normally it wasn’t a problem. Her wardrobe consisted entirely of skirts, shirts, tops and denims. She wasn’t into clothes. She left all that sort of stuff to Polly—even though her sister never went anywhere, either. And it was no use thinking that anything of Polly’s would fit her, because there was a five inch difference in their height and she’d only trip up and fall headlong and embarrass Jed Hunter even further!
Perhaps she could plead a sudden migraine and not go after all? she thought desperately—then realised she had no idea how to contact the man. She groaned, and had a terrible sinking feeling that this was going to be one of the worst nights of her life.
When she got home, Polly had already put Milo to bed, and was curled up on the sofa, reading.
‘I’ve got to go out tonight, Poll,’ Cryssie said casually, as she went into the kitchen with some shopping she’d collected.
‘Where to?’ her sister asked, without looking up.
‘Oh, just a meeting—a work thing,’ Cryssie said.
Presently, in her bedroom, she opened her wardrobe door and stared at the rather anonymous array of clothes—as if hoping that something suitable would magically appear. But she knew there was nothing! Panic set in, and she sat down silently, her head in her hands. She didn’t need this!
Suddenly, her heel touched the edge of the large cardboard box holding the only ‘occasion’ dress she’d ever possessed. A deep ocean-green number she’d bought in a charity shop for her eighteenth birthday party, seven years ago. And after her A level results they’d all gone to the end-of-school bash, and everyone had dressed up. She had truthfully not given the dress a thought since that night…Could it possibly still fit her? And what would she look like in it after all this time?
Dragging the box out, she wiped the fine layer of dust from the lid with a tissue, then removed the garment and, standing up, shook out the folds, holding it against her and staring at herself in the mirror. Well, the colour was still good, and, being of a satin-type material, it hadn’t attracted the attention of any moths, and the creases would press out okay. It had a simple boat-shaped neckline, and drop-waisted full skirt—which she knew was horribly old-fashioned—but that was just too bad. It was this or nothing. As for her feet, the best she could do was wear her flat brown summer sandals.