The Baby Scandal(8)

       
           



       

Ruth, inexperienced, marveled at how he could invest a single word with so many hidden, tantalizing possibilities.

"Have you told Alison about your idea...for me? I wouldn't want to rub anyone's back up the wrong way..."

"Absolutely,"  he said expansively, bringing the palms of his hands to  rest on the  desk and adopting a businesslike expression. "Alison thinks  it's a  fabulous idea and she's going to rally the other reporters to  start  working on similar contentious issues so that we can pull  something  together for the issue due at the end of next month. When  you've  finished your stint with me, you'll be pulled into a more  responsible  position … maybe occasionally working alongside one of the  reporters as  back-up."

"Oh!" Ruth said breathlessly, a little awed by the suggestion of such a tremendous promotion.

"Naturally,  this unexpected change of job will be reflected in your  pay." He  whipped a sheet of paper from underneath a paperweight on the  desk and  waved it in the air, talking at the same time. "An immediate  increase in  your salary, to be followed by another increase in three  months' time  if you prove yourself up to your additional  responsibilities...if,  indeed, you want additional responsibility.

"All you have to  do..." he leant across the desk and rapped his finger  imperiously at the  bottom of the sheet of paper "...is sign here..." He  produced a  fountain pen, seemingly from thin air, and handed it to her  before she  could open her mouth to protest at the sudden speed of  things.

Ruth's  eyes scurried over the closely typed page, briefly taking in the   description of her new role, containing an undignified gasp at the   enormity of her salary increase.

"At the bottom," he said. "Your signature. And then everything's formalized."

"I'm  still not sure..." she said on a deep breath, shifting her eyes  away  from the piece of paper in front of her with its frightening  promises of  adventure and money and excitement.

"Of course you are," he said gently. "Apprehensive, but sure."

Ruth frowned, uncertain whether she cared for his ten-second summary of her reaction and then irritated because he was right.

He  looked at his watch. "You're not putting your life on the line with   this assignment," he urged her, raking his long fingers through his   hair. "A weekend if you hate it, believe me, I won't force you to carry   on. But give yourself the chance to see whether this kind of thing   appeals to you."


A few more seconds of hesitation and then  she put her name at the  bottom of the piece of paper. Okay, so she  wasn't signing her life  away, but the minute she pushed the piece of  paper across the desk back  to him she felt as though she was signing  something away, though what  she wasn't too sure.

Or maybe it was  just that trace of smugness tugging the comers of his  mouth that made  her feel just a tad nervous about what she had agreed  to. She was very  nearly tempted to snatch the piece of paper out of his  hands, rip it  into a thousand pieces and then hustle back to her desk.  But, with a  speed that left her wondering whether the man was a  mind-reader, he  folded the paper in half, stuck it into his open  briefcase, which was  perched on the side of the desk and decisively  slammed it shut.

"Now  that's all settled," he said, standing up and shrugging on his  jacket,  Just one or two suggestions before we start work on Wednesday."

"On Wednesday?" she squeaked.

"Why  waste valuable time? No point meeting here. Meet me at The  Breakfast  Bar in Soho. Here's the address." He scribbled it down for  her and she  took the paper from him. "Eight p.m. sharp. I gather it's  where a lot of  young girls hang out when they hit London for the first  time. It's  cheap, in the center of things, and has a reputation for  being a useful  place to meet people."

"How on earth did you find all that out?"

"I'm  clever and talented. Hadn't you noticed?" he said in a silky  voice,  addressing, as it turned out, her down-turned head. "Anyway," he   continued crisply, "just a couple of suggestions."

That got her  attention. She looked up at him with her peach-smooth skin  and wide grey  eyes, now holding a hint of a question in them.

"Dress casually.  Jeans, trainers, nothing too...formal. If anything,  you'll want to  blend in with some of the girls we'll be meeting...that  way they'll be  more relaxed and more expansive about revealing  themselves to a couple  of reporters..."

"How do you know they won't laugh in our faces and walk away?"

"I  think, actually, they'll either be flattered or relieved that  someone's  taking an interest in them." He was by the door now, hand on  the  doorknob. "The way we'll play this is: questions in the night, and  the  following evening we'll debrief over dinner before we start again."  He  smiled at her. "And don't be scared.                       
       
           



       

I'll look after you."

CHAPTER THREE

"I Don't know if I'll be able to handle this."

She  had rehearsed a long speech about this, had even stood in front of  the  bathroom mirror and practiced, making sure to keep her eyes  focused, to  try and control the temptation to eat her words, and to  appear confident  and firm.

Now, sliding into the seat opposite Franco for the  first of their so  called debriefing meetings, she found that all of her  painstakingly  contrived self-assurance had vanished through the window.  Her words  came out in a rush, and from the expression on his face she  could see  that he thought she was deranged To be greeted by someone  whose opening  remark was, I don't know if I can handle this, must, she  conceded, be a  little disconcerting.

"Would you like a drink?" was his response, and she looked at him, exasperated.

"No, I would not like a drink. I would like to say what I have to say."

"Go  ahead then." He sat back in the chair, left ankle resting on right   knee, and proceeded to look at her with an interested patient  expression  that made her even more nervous.

They had arrange the night  before, to have their debriefing dinner at a  pub in Hampstead which, at  six-thirty, was still virtually empty. A  few lost souls were perched on  bar stools, drinking in a desultory way,  and a few more couples occupied  tables, but the crowds would not start  piling in until later.


Ruth  sat very straight on the chair and pressed her hands into her lap.   "I've thought long and hard about this," she began. "In fact, I've  spent  most of the day thinking about it..."

"Are you sure you don't want a drink? Dutch courage and all that?"

Ruth  hesitated and then nodded briefly. Perhaps a glass of wine. Making  her  speech had been considerably easier with only her reflection as   audience. She watched as he strode off to the counter, leaning against   it with his back to her.

He was wearing jeans again. As she had  discovered the night before, the  attire of jeans, on him, was even more  unsettling than a suit, which  rightly or wrongly, exuded more soothing  connotations of good behavior  and civilized self-restraint. Seeing him  in a pair of jeans for the  first time had made her realize that he was  younger than she had first  thought. He had appeared more overtly sexy in  them as he had sat  astride his chair, so that the denim tautened and  tightened alarmingly  over his powerful legs and thighs, chatting easily  with two girls who  couldn't have been older than seventeen or eighteen.

"So.  You were saying?" He handed her the glass, sat back down and  proceeded  to look at her questioningly over the rim of his glass of  lager.

Ruth  gulped down some of the wine and then licked her lips  thoughtfully. "I  don't think that I handled last night very well," she  began. I don't  know what I expected when I agreed to this assignment,  but the reality  of it was just a little too much for me."

"I thought you were  rather good, actually," he said, massaging the back  of his neck with the  flat of his hand. "Concerned, gentle,  unthreatening. Kate and Angie  seemed to be opening up to you quite a  bit."

"Yes, well, that's  the problem. I don't think I want to..." She  hesitated, tripping over  what was going through her head. "I'm not  gritty enough..."