Читать книгу Husband-To-Be - Linda Miles - Страница 9

CHAPTER FOUR

IN THE week before her appointment Rachel brought order to the chaotic office. She managed, through sheer obstinate perseverance, to get through on the phone to the firm handling the network, and got the computers connected to the London headquarters. She set up a filing system. She made a number of recommendations about requirements for the conference centre. She also spent a surprising amount of time talking with her eccentric, easygoing employer about things that seemed to have nothing to do with business.

Though Grant had abandoned an orthodox scientific career, he still had an active, wide-ranging interest in an extraordinary variety of scientific subject. The reception area was soon piled high with periodicals he pretended to think visitors might like to consult. He seemed to be unable to visit a bookshop without bringing away five or six things that ‘looked interesting’; this was his explanation, at any rate, for the large number of books that soon cluttered his office. He encouraged Rachel to borrow anything she liked; then he argued with her about it.

This was not, of course, for the most part in office hours. Olivia had gone back to London, since the upstairs was still uninhabitable. That didn’t stop Grant from camping out there—it just meant he had his evenings free. Just as Rachel was getting ready to leave for the day, he’d come in and ask a casual question about something she’d been reading. The next thing she knew three or four hours would have gone by.

One night he might bundle her into the Jaguar and take her off to a three-star country restaurant. On another he’d remember he had a couple of tins of baked beans and a carton of eggs upstairs. Either way, Rachel realised she hadn’t had such a good time in years. Grant had a knack for spotting what was original and interesting in new work; it was wonderful talking with him! In fact, she sometimes thought guiltily, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d talked about new developments in any field with Driscoll. Driscoll talked about the jobs that were going, and who was likely to get them. Well, of course you had to be practical, but it was wonderfully refreshing to talk to someone who was just interested in the subject.

If she was honest, Rachel had to admit that there was more to it than the thrill of discussing the latest developments in DNA research. She’d never spent so much time in the company of such a spectacular physical specimen, and there was no point in pretending she didn’t enjoy it. A fact was a fact, and as a scientist Rachel had a great respect for facts.

There was also no point in pretending she didn’t enjoy going into the office and getting a daily expression of aesthetic appreciation from said spectacular physical specimen. It was just a joke, of course, but it cheered her up anyway. The mosquitoes had never had much time for aesthetics: they’d just gone for blood.

Since he was engaged, and she was engaged, it was a lucky thing that there was no danger of her falling in love with Grant. He didn’t always talk about science. Sometimes he talked instead about hair-raising escapes he’d had.

Rachel didn’t know whether Olivia knew what she was getting into; maybe she didn’t believe she would ever personally be in danger. Rachel knew better. She might get short of breath sometimes at a certain look in those blazing blue eyes, she might sometimes feel her pulse quicken when he stood close to her—it didn’t matter. All it took was one blood-chilling reminiscence to expose these for the trifling physical phenomena they were. This man was trouble. Rachel did not like trouble. Therefore, this man was emphatically not her type.

Still, even if she didn’t want to marry him, she couldn’t imagine a more delightful, stimulating employer. This was the job for her. By the end of the week she was even more reluctant to accept the environmental assessment assignment.

The Tuesday night before the fateful interview was another three-star restaurant night. Grant came into the front office at five-thirty, finger in the middle of a book on alternative medicine, paced up and down for two or three hours talking heatedly about various questions it raised, and suddenly remembered he was starving. Rachel had told her aunt days before that she couldn’t count on being home in time for dinner; she was now able to rush down to the Jaguar with Grant without even an apologetic phone call.

Half an hour of expert driving through the country lanes brought them to one of the most famous restaurants in the county. Another fifteen minutes and they were devouring an appetiser of roasted vegetables while they argued about genetic engineering. Rachel had been thinking all day about the interview, and then trying not to think about it Now, as she gazed across the candlelit table at Grant’s blazing eyes and infectious smile, she decided for the fifteenth time that day not to think about the interview but just to enjoy herself while she could. And just as she’d reached this sensible decision she looked across the room, and saw Olivia at a table with a group of stylishly dressed older people.

Grant’s eyes followed hers. Rachel wondered for a moment whether he would mind being found having dinner tête-à-tête with another woman, but Grant seemed to have other things on his mind.

‘Oh, no,’ he groaned. ‘Did you see what I just saw?’

‘Olivia?’ hazarded Rachel.

‘My fiancée, yes,’ he agreed. ‘And, more to the point, my fiancée in the bosom of her family, and, as if that weren’t bad enough, in the company of her family’s friends. Well, we can’t pretend we haven’t seen them—we might as well get this over with. Come on.’

He stood up and escorted Rachel to the other table, where he performed introductions with an unusually subdued manner. ‘You remember Rachel,’ he told Olivia.

Olivia’s eyes widened. It was clear that she hadn’t recognised the scruffy spider-catcher in the dark-haired, beautifully groomed girl with Grant.

‘Of course,’ she said smoothly. ‘And you remember Rupert, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Grant said. He glowered at the distinguished, silver-haired man to Olivia’s right. ‘Rachel, I’d like you to meet Rupert Matheson, managing director of Glomac. Rupert—my secretary, Rachel.’

Matheson extended a beautifully manicured hand and shook Rachel’s. ‘Delighted,’ he murmured. ‘You’ll join us for a drink, of course.’ He pulled over a chair for Rachel before Grant could demur; Grant drew up a chair for himself and sat down with evident reluctance.

Matheson seemed somewhat amused by Grant’s ill-concealed distaste. ‘How are you getting on with raising funds for the science park?’ he asked.

‘Well enough,’ Grant said curtly.

‘It’s not easy sometimes for a small operation like yours,’ Matheson commented. Rachel stared at him in astonishment, then remembered that Glomac was one of the largest pharmaceuticals companies in the world.

‘I don’t see any problem,’ said Grant. ‘Of course it’s early days. The environmental impact assessment should be pretty straightforward, but obviously we’ve got to deal with a few formalities before we really get going.’

‘Quite, quite,’ agreed the older man. ‘Well, you’ve got a marvellous location. We may be interested ourselves.’

Grant merely raised an eyebrow.

‘And if the investors don’t come as fast as you’d hoped...’ Matheson paused and took a sip of his drink ‘...you might reconsider leasing the rights we spoke of. You know Glomac can develop the product on a much bigger scale; it would be worth our while to make it well worth your while.’

Grant drained his glass and set it down. “Thanks, but I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to leave you; our dinner has come.’

He stood up and stalked back to the other table, Rachel trailing behind him in perplexity.

‘A bigger scale,’ Grant said tightly. ‘Couldn’t they just. My God, he makes me sick.’ His face was black.

‘What was he talking about?’ Rachel asked.

‘I helped an Amazonian tribe to get some land rights a few years back. Now I’ve got an agreement with them to research and develop use of some of the native plants as medicines—there’s one that looks like it might be the next wonder drug.’ He gave her a grim smile. ‘Well, naturally Glomac would love to get its hands on it. More specifically, Matheson would love to be able to chalk up a spectacular money-spinner to himself—the company’s been stagnating since he took charge.’

‘And you don’t trust him?’

Grant shrugged. ‘He can’t afford to deal fairly with the tribe. To make the kind of money he wants, he’d have to get them off the land. They’ve had enough contact with civilisation so that they don’t have the kind of cash-independent existence they once had; Glomac would refuse to pay them a decent price for the product until they were desperate, then offer them an attractive deal to sell the land outright. I’m not saying Matheson would admit in so many words that it was acceptable for the tribe to end up in the slums of Recife, provided Glomac made enough money out of it, but he’d look the other way while it happened.’

He glanced contemptuously across the room. ‘It’s not easy for Olivia,’ he added. ‘He’s a friend of her father, so she can’t really cut the acquaintance.’

‘I see,’ said Rachel noncommittally. She took a sip of wine. It didn’t seem to her that Olivia’s friendliness to the man had been forced, but this was hardly something she could say to Grant.

The sparkle and spontaneity of their conversation seemed to have been quenched by the short visit to the other table. They ate quickly, not saying much; neither felt like lingering over dessert or coffee, and they left by mutual consent after another twenty minutes.

Rachel got into the car the next morning in a gloomy mood. Even Grant’s enthusiastic reunion with the pink suit failed to raise her spirits. If only Bell Conglomerates would listen to reason and take Driscoll instead. But would they?

The drive to London passed largely in silence. Grant seemed preoccupied by the encounter of the previous evening; Rachel was full of foreboding at the prospect of her interview. The more she thought about it, the less she thought Bell Conglomerates was going to take a substitute on her say-so. If she wasn’t careful, they’d suck her back into fieldwork before she could bat an eye—they’d sponsored her graduate work, after all, and might try to make her feel she owed them one.

That was problem number one. The second problem was her hair, or lack thereof. She still hadn’t broken the news to Driscoll—what if the shock put him off his stride? What if it lowered her credibility as a reference with Bell Conglomerates?

Well, she could do nothing about problem number one, but she could spare Driscoll’s sensibilities. She asked Grant to drop her off in Oxford Street, bought a shoulder-length black wig in Selfridges, and had plenty of time to arrange this artfully on her head before setting off to meet Driscoll. It wasn’t exactly her usual style, but Driscoll wasn’t exactly the noticing type.

They met in the lobby of Bell. Driscoll didn’t notice the wig. He did notice, and disapproved of, the pink suit, which he thought had too short a skirt. He explained that he’d confirmed the appointment in her name with the head of the company.

They went to the top floor, and were shown to a reception area outside the director’s office. Driscoll stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking out of the window; Rachel sat leafing through an old copy of Nature. Footsteps came bounding down the corridor.

‘Hawkins!’ exclaimed a familiar voice. ‘This is a real pleasure—I can’t tell you how glad I am to meet you at last. Terrific that you’ll be working for us. Won’t you come into my office?’

Under Rachel’s bemused stare, none other than Grant Mallett advanced on Driscoll and shook him heartily by the hand. A handshake was insufficiently cordial to express the intensity of his delight; he slapped him even more heartily on the back, then steered him through the door of the office. The door closed behind them.

Rachel expected them to bounce out again immediately, but the door remained shut for some time. Presently it opened again. Driscoll’s face was flushed; Grant’s, she was surprised to see, was uncharacteristically grim.

‘I’m afraid that’s not the way I do business,’ he said. ‘But, in any case, I particularly want Hawkins for this job, and as it was one of the conditions of the Bell grant that the recipient be prepared to do something of the kind there’s really nothing to be discussed. If you’ve brought Dr Hawkins with you I’ll have a word now—’ He broke off, and looked blankly about the reception area, then at Rachel, then around the room again, as if a stray zoologist might be hiding under a sofa, and then back, again, at Rachel.

‘Rachel?’ he said. He gave her a rather preoccupied smile. ‘I’d know that suit anywhere, but why, in God’s name, the wig?’ Before she could answer, he did a sudden double take, and looked again at Driscoll. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said. ‘You don’t mean...?’

‘Yes,’ Rachel said resignedly.

‘Your fiancé,’ said Grant. ‘Driscoll. I should have known there couldn’t be two. I’m sorry not to have better news for you both,’ he said, with painstaking politeness, ‘but I’ve someone else in mind for the job. Any idea where Hawkins might have gone?’ He flicked a glance at Driscoll. ‘I’d like to get this sorted out today.’

Driscoll stared at him. ‘I’ve already explained,’ he said rather sulkily, ‘that Rachel is not interested in the work. If you don’t believe me, ask her.’

There was a short silence. Grant looked at Driscoll. ‘Rachel?’ he said.

‘She would rather not take on any more fieldwork,’ said Driscoll. ‘I understand she’s working as your secretary down in the country; I think it’s a waste, but it’s what she prefers, and I can’t see why you won’t accept her recommendation for someone to take her place.’

Grant looked at Rachel. ‘Dr Hawkins?’ he said. ‘Dr R. K. V. Hawkins?’

Rachel sighed.

‘Let’s go into my office,’ Grant said grittily. ‘We have a few things to discuss.’

He stalked into the office, holding the door for Rachel, then slammed it behind them.

‘How could you?’ he growled.

‘How could I what?’ said Rachel, trying not to think of Driscoll stranded in Reception. Something told her that Driscoll would not appreciate this chance to catch up on missed issues of Nature and National Geographic.

‘I don’t know where to begin,’ said Grant, pacing up and down and glaring at her. ‘Wear that wig? Take the damned thing off, will you? Entertain for even two minutes the thought of marrying that unconscionable prat? Throw away a brilliant scientific career to advise me on how many bars to have, and whether to have a vending machine for biscuits? Pretend,’ he roared, ‘that you’d never heard of R. K. V. Hawkins?’

‘If you weren’t so sexist you wouldn’t have assumed it was a man,’ Rachel retorted. ‘And then you’d have made the connection yourself.’

‘What connection?’ snapped Grant. ‘Your uncle’s last name is Bright. It didn’t occur to me—’

‘That my aunt might be my mother’s sister,’ Rachel completed helpfully.

‘You’re right,’ said Grant. ‘In fact, you’re right about everything. I should grill prospective secretaries. Then I could squeeze out of them closely guarded secrets, like their last names. Next time some scientific genius comes along professing a little knowledge of scientific terminology I won’t waste money on a clothes allowance. You must have laughed your head off.’

‘Of course I didn’t,’ Rachel protested, suppressing a smile. ‘Well, only a little,’ she admitted. ‘But I was so tired of fieldwork. I wanted to work in an artificially controlled environment. I thought if I told you who I was you’d make me stand in some wretched swamp,’ she concluded bitterly.

Grant thrust his hands in his pockets. He smiled reluctantly. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘Sorry, R. K. V., but you’re definitely the man for the job.’

‘You told me never to wear jeans again,’ said Rachel.

‘You’ll have to waste some of your assets whatever you do—and no sacrifice is too great in the cause of science.’

Rachel sighed. She leant gloomily against the side of his desk, this time an immense block of glass and black marble which was about what you’d expect of a millionaire and company director. Gloomily she crossed her ankles and stared down at the long, Lycra-clad legs so soon to be encased in muddy jeans and Wellington boots.