Francine giggled politely.
‘We’re not on first-name terms yet,’ she said.
‘First-name terms!’ said the man after a pause. ‘Ha! Gary! Gimme Lancing, honey. That all right for you?’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’ said Francine, keeping the warm edge of humour in her volce.
‘Jim — no, Mr Vernon. Ha! Tell him Mr Vernon’s on the line for him.’
‘Just a moment, Mr Vernon,’ said Francine.
‘Nice to know you, Francine,’ said Jim as she put him on hold.
‘Mr Lancing!’ she called firmly, humming with success. Jane’s examination burned beside her and she turned away slightly, blocking her out. Mr Lancing looked up, his mouth agape.
‘Somebody call me?’ he said.
‘Mr Vernon for you,’ said Francine. He appeared confused and she waved the receiver helpfully.
‘Put him on.’
Mr Lancing gripped his phone expectantly and Francine ran her eye down a list of numbers attached to her extension. She located his number and put the call through.
‘Hello?’ said Mr Lancing loudly, as if uncertain whether his voice would travel down the wire without reinforcement.
‘Well,’ sniffed Jane as Francine turned triumphantly to face her. ‘You seem fairly confident. You shouldn’t have any trouble coping.’
‘Oh, I’m used to this sort of thing.’
‘I think you’ll find this position rather more demanding than what you’re used to, actually. Mr Lancing is a very important man.’
‘I think I’m going to like him.’
‘Well, I think the point is rather more whether he likes you, isn’t it?’ Jane’s teeth made a menacing reappearance. She stood up and smoothed her furrowed skirt tightly over her hips. ‘Let me know if you have any problems.’
She eased herself out from behind the desk and walked towards the door.
‘Bye, everyone!’ she called out when she reached it. One or two people looked up but there was no audible reply. Jane smiled widely and disappeared.
As soon as she had gone, Francine saw Mr Lancing’s colleague move smoothly from behind his desk and approach her across the office, his eyes fixed with studied absorption on a piece of paper in his hand. She sat down, busying herself with Mr Lancing’s diary. He loomed before her and she bent her head in concentration.
‘I haven’t had the pleasure,’ he said finally.
She looked up and he smiled urbanely. He was younger than Mr Lancing and quite good looking, Francine thought, but his handsomeness was fatigued through over-use and his skin had a slightly thickened, curdled quality suggestive of decline. His belly strained at the waist of his trousers. As if sensing her looking at it, he pulled it in sharply without removing his eyes from her face.
‘I’m Francine.’
‘Roger Louche, co-Director,’ he said, putting out his hand. She shook it, and was surprised to feel coarse hair on his skin beneath her fingers. The intimacy of her discovery seemed inappropriate in the atmosphere of the office and she felt herself begin to blush. ‘Glad to have you with us, Francine.’ He sat down on the edge of her desk, his manner abruptly changed. ‘So how long do you think you’ll stay?’
‘As long as I’m needed,’ said Francine, shrinking from the proximity of his bulk. From its fringes she could see one or two of the other secretaries watching them. ‘I’m only temporary.’
‘Oh, don’t say “only”! We need girls like you around here, otherwise we’d die of boredom. It’ll be nice to have something good to look at for a change. No, don’t be embarrassed!’ He lowered his voice and leaned towards her. Close up, his face was large and porous. ‘You’re a very attractive girl. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
Francine giggled with mingled pleasure and anxiety. At the sound he stood up again suddenly and dropped the piece of paper on the desk in front of her.
‘Type that up for me by lunch-time, will you?’ he said, turning and walking back to his desk.
Francine watched his retreating back with astonishment. The piece of paper had slid from her desk to the floor and she bent to retrieve it. When she re-emerged she saw Mr Louche watching her from his podium. She caught his eye and he looked away. Francine sat with a beating heart. She wished Jane would come back. An older woman sat at a desk identical to Francine’s at the foot of Mr Louche’s podium. She was plump with short permed hair and wore a cardigan over her shoulders instead of the tailored jacket worn by most of the other secretaries. Francine hadn’t noticed her until that minute, but now she realized that the woman must be Mr Louche’s own secretary. She sat for a moment, paralysed by the necessity for asserting herself.
‘Hey you!’ said Mr Lancing suddenly. ‘You!’
Francine looked up and saw that he was speaking to her.
‘Yes, Mr Lancing?’
‘Get me Bill,’ he said, picking up his telephone and dialling a number.
Francine waited for further instructions but Mr Lancing had begun speaking into the receiver. She searched her desk for a list of numbers which might help her and soon found a plastic wheel bristling with hundreds of cards at the far end. She began to flick hopelessly through them. Beside her, Mr Louche’s letter lay unresolved.
‘It’s a vanilla reit, dumbo,’ said Mr Lancing into the phone.
Her own telephone rang and she froze at the sound. It shrilled again and she picked it up, but as she opened her mouth to speak she suddenly lost all memory of where she was.
‘Hello? Hello?’ said a man’s voice impatiently.
‘Yes, hello!’ said Francine. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Don’t they teach you how to answer the phone over there?’
‘I’m sorry, I was—’
‘I need Lancing,’ said the man.
‘He’s on the phone,’ said Francine shortly, desperate to be rid of this latest interference.
‘Well, do you take a message too, or do they just programme you to pick it up?’
‘Who may I tell him called?’
‘Tell him it’s Bill.’
‘Oh, Bill!’ gushed Francine gratefully. ‘I know he’s been trying to get hold of you!’
‘I was here,’ said Bill, audibly shrugging.
‘I mean, I know he wanted to speak to you, I don’t know if he’s actually tried—’
‘What is this?’
‘I’ll just see if I can get him off the phone for you,’ said Francine, jamming her finger over the hold button. Mr Lancing was still talking, his back turned towards her. ‘Mr Lancing!’ she said. ‘Mr Lancing!’ When there was no response she snapped her fingers in desperation and the other secretaries raised their heads in horrified unison. Eventually Mr Lancing looked round.
‘What?’ he said, holding the receiver against his neck.
‘Bill’s on the line for you.’
‘Oh, put him on!’ he said, waving his arm. ‘Dial the other phone. Larry, can you hold a second? I gotta talk to Bill,’ he added, although the telephone was still pressed to his neck.
‘Just putting you through,’ said Francine, releasing the hold button. To her despair, the handset was emiting a dull tone. ‘Hello?’ she said, pressing buttons indiscriminately. ‘Hello?’
‘Where’s Bill?’ said Mr Lancing.
‘I think I lost him,’ admitted Francine.
‘Well, get him back!’
‘But I don’t have his number—’
‘Larry? You still there? Sorry, we got a new girl here. Look, like I was saying—’
Francine replaced the phone and fixed her eyes on the desktop. They stung with tears and she held herself rigid until they receded. Finally she stood up, Mr Louche’s letter in her hand, and walked determinedly to his desk.
‘Excuse me?’ she said, standing before him. He was reading something and didn’t look up. Beside him his secretary sat neatly tapping at her keyboard, her eyes fixed on the screen. Apart from her fingers, her soft body was motionless. ‘Mr Louche?’