Clementine sighed. “So what do I do? I don’t love Joe.”
“Do you like him?”
“After a couple of vodkas in the Dizzy Mariner he’s quite charming.”
“A bird in hand is better than two in the bush.”
Clementine screwed up her nose. “What’s that got to do with Joe?”
“You don’t want to end up alone. I’ve taken Freddie back, only because his whining was so boring.”
“But that’s such a tragic compromise.”
“Look who’s talking? If you don’t love Joe, bin him.” She shrugged. “You’re the one holding on to him. Ask yourself why?”
The telephone rang, and Sylvia picked it up. Clementine took her tray of correspondence to the filing cabinets. As she slipped each letter into the proper place she considered what Sylvia had said. She was right, of course. If she didn’t love Joe, why was she still with him? Was she so insecure that she would rather be with a decidedly average man than alone? Yet, her spirit aspired to greater heights. Her thoughts soared among the planets, and her heart longed for the burning white fire of the greatest love.
When she had finished, she realized that for the first time she had filed each letter correctly. Fueled by something she was unable to identify, she decided to tidy all the files, one by one, until everything was where it should be. It was a big job, for she had spent the last month shoving things wherever they fit, without a single thought to ever finding them again.
Mr. Atwood returned from a viewing to find the floor littered with paper. His jaw dropped at the mess. “What on earth is going on?”
“I know,” Clementine replied coolly. “I’m a little shocked myself. Ask Sylvia, I don’t know what’s got into me. But I’ll admit I’ve been putting things in the wrong files for weeks.”
Mr. Atwood didn’t know whether to be cross or grateful. He cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose I should be pleased you’re putting it right now, before you leave your chaos for Polly to find.” He stepped carefully over the islands of documents. “When you’ve finished, I have an errand for you.”
“Another present for Mrs. Atwood?”
He looked embarrassed. “Come into my office and don’t take all day about it.” He disappeared inside and closed the door behind him.
Clementine caught Sylvia’s eye and grinned. “Why doesn’t he just come out with it and say it’s for his lover?”
“A good secretary turns a blind eye.”
“Who is she?”
“Someone with very bad taste and no sense of smell.”
Clementine laughed. “He doesn’t smell, does he?”
“What do you think?” She pulled a face. “That kind of skin always smells, well, eggy.”
“Yuck!”
“I’ve had my fair share of eggy, and it’s not pleasant. Still, he’s rich and probably spoils her with presents. Some women will do anything for presents.” She pulled out her nail file and sighed heavily. “Oh, the things I’ve done for presents.”
“Let’s not go there, Sylvia.”
“You’re right. Let’s not.”
Once all the documents and letters were filed in their correct places, in order of date, and all the old, redundant ones shredded, Clementine stood back to admire her work. She felt an unfamiliar sense of pride. “There, all done,” she announced, walking back to her desk with a bounce in her step.
“Good for you,” said Sylvia. “I’m surprised. I didn’t think you were capable of doing a proper day’s work.”
“Neither did I.”
“Now you’d better go and find out what Casanova wants you to buy his mistress.”
“Can’t wait to spend his money for him. Whatever budget he gives me, I’ll spend double!”
Clementine was disappointed to find that her errand involved accompanying Mr. Atwood to a jewelry shop to choose a bracelet. “It’s our wedding anniversary,” he explained a little awkwardly.
“How many years have you been married?” she asked as they entered the quiet enclosure of Nadia Goodman, situated on the high street.
“Too many to count,” he replied tightly. “When you’re my age, you stop counting.” A pretty salesgirl brought out a tray of gold bracelets and smiled at Clementine. “Now, which one do you like?” Mr. Atwood asked. Clementine picked up a gold chain with emerald cabochons.
“Let me help you,” said the salesgirl. “There, such a pretty color against your skin.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Clementine agreed. “Daddy’s so generous.” She grinned at Mr. Atwood.