His Lordships Daughter (5 page)

“And I can see you are not going to tell me her name.” Phyllipa hazarded. “Am I right?”

“Dea
d right” he pulled a wry face.
“It’s still very much of a secret. I don’t want my family to know at the moment.”

“Is it serious?”

“
Apart from you, she is the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

She
nodded knowingly. Clive was a warm generous guy, genial to the extreme, but she knew he was no match for her father, who
would probably go
crazy when his
marital intentions
became known. “
Clive. I need a favour.”

Sipping the last of his wine, he grinned. “I thought I just did you one.”

Phyllipa clicked her tongue in mock vexation. “Huh! And there’s me thinking I had granted you one. Silly me, eh?”

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I need a post restante. An address I can give S.G Packaging. I don’t wish to bring “Rosewood” into things. They just know me as Phyllipa Gore at the works and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Clive nodded. “I understand
. I’ve got a furnished flat that I don’t often use. You can have that one if you want it?”

“I don’t want to use it.” Phyllipa explained. “I just want the address. Where is it?”

“Knightsbridge.”

“Oh dear! That’s almost as bad as “Rosewood”.

“Tell them you live at the cheap end.” Clive suggested.

“There isn’t a cheap end.”

“Come on, Phyllipa wake up, a two up two down isn’t going to fit with your designer clothes, is it?”

“You’re right. O.K., Knightsbridge it is.”

Clive’s eyes narrowed. “
Since
meeting this new friend of mine, I’ve come to realise that if something is difficult to acquire a few white lies don’t come amiss.”

She
stood up, smoothing her clothing down. “I wouldn’t like my boss to think I am fibbing to him. It’s just sometimes it pays to keep a low profile.” She smiled. “Like your secret girlfriend.”

Clive left his chair and accompan
ied her to the door. “Exactly!
A
very low profile.”

“Keep in touch. I have a feeling that perhaps you and I may need one another’s help in the near future.”

“You’ll want this.” Scribbling on a business card, he handed it to her. “It’s the address of the London flat.”

Phyllipa thanked him, touching his lips with her own.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to marry me?” he asked again. A smile on his face.

“Bye, Clive.” Phyllipa said, leaving the bank. Walking back to her car she started musing about her friend’s mystery girlfriend. If he wouldn’t tell her who she was he must be keeping things very close to his chest. Clive could handle his mother, but breaking the news to his father could be quite different and dangerous. Lord Braseby was well known as one of the worst losers in London.

Reaching her car. Phyllipa climbed in, started the engine, and two minutes later joined the motorway traffic, taking the route home to “Rosewood”.

The factory was busy, the huge printing machine was thundering, shaking the very building as the staff rushed about their various tasks.

The Managing Director walked through the print floor and smiled. They were all on station!

A BT engineer with a pair of coloured telephones in his arms brushed past him and disappeare
d into the office allotted to Ms
Gore. Fitted with curiosity, Steven entered and watched her giving instructions on the positioning of the instruments
and shook his head in astonishment. He hadn’t given anyone instructions of any kind on additional telephones to be installed. In fact, he hadn’t given instructions on any additions of any kind to the spare office. But, someone had, the floor was covered in thick carpeting and surrounding the brand new desk, Swedish office furniture was dotted. Someone rudely pushed him out of the way as an outside supplier plonked a huge rubber tree down, whilst a strange face wired the latest fax machine to the wall. Suddenly Phyllipa saw him and waved a manicured hand. “How do you like it?” she asked, indicating the luxury of the renovated room.

Steven did his best with a frown. “I love it. But, I never authorised it.”

S
he
stared at him. “So?”

“Ms
Gore.” He spoke slowly. “The route of trouble-shooting within this company does not give you carte blanche to purchase a load of expensive furniture.” He worked on the frown again, but found difficulty in mat
ching the defiance in her
eyes. “Damn it!” He swore. “This is another armchair story! I don’t want you turning this place into a three ringed circus. This is a quality production unit.”

Phyllipa flicked a strand of hair back into line. “I’m sorry you think that.” She indicated the door to someone carrying a brass name plate. “I want it on that door, and I want it perfectly horizontal.” She smiled and turned back to Steven who waited patiently. “You were saying?”

“Ms
Gore, you are undermining my authority. The switchboard is already overloaded and….” He broke off as Phyllipa interrupted him. “These are outside lines and not touching your switchboard, Steven. They are outside lines.”

Steven rocked on his heels. “Oh, are they really.”

“And the furniture belongs to me.” She gazed at his face intently again expecting him to say something, but Steven just shook his head. He couldn’t think of the appropriate answer and there was a moment silence. “O.K.” he suddenly said, “But no curtains is that understood?”

Phyllipa’s face glowed with hidden laughter. “Of course not. Whoever heard of curtains in a production unit.”

The MD silently chucked to himself. “Well” it’s your ball game so you had better get on with it, but before you go, will you have dinner with me this evening?”

Phyllipa was taken by surprise but her face didn’t register anything. “
Y
es, alright
, I’d like that. Pick me up at eight.”

“Where?”

Phyllipa thought fast. “In the car park.” She replied nonchalantly, nodding to the workmen struggling with a large filing cabinet. “In the corner!” She shouted at him.

“The car park?” queried Steven.

“Yes! The car park, Mister Grant.” She moved past him “Now, if you will excuse me, I do have work to do.”

Steven ran his hand throu
gh his hair. “Yes, of course, Ms
Gore. Eight o’clock it is then.” Looking around at the plush luxury of the office he had given her, he smiled, shaking his head in the disbelief at the brass printed plaque bolted to the door. “Phyllipa Gore, Trouble-Shooter.”

When Phyllipa got back to her office, her boss had gone and she breathed a sigh of relief, it wasn’t that she didn’t like him around, because she did, but in her own time. Sitting at her desk in her high backed leather chair she surveyed her office. The firm which she had hired had done a good job and the place looked comfortable. Especially the chairs. Suddenly picking the telephone up, she dialled a number.

“It’s Phyllipa Gore, Michael! I would like you to have lunch with me, tomorrow. Twelvish! Just a chat. The Davenport Hotel. Until then, goodbye!”

Opening a desk diary, she filled in names, times and dates, then putting her feet up on a small table and picked up the Times newspaper and turned to the crossword page
, but her mind wandered to Steven Grant. His dinner invitation had surprised her. She could have refused him. She could have said, thanks but no thanks, but she was a little fed up with dining at home and a meal out would break the monotony. For a few moments she mused, wondering once again what sort of lover he would make. Gossip had it that he was celibate. Married to his overdraft. A twenty four hour a day workaholic, immersed in the intricacies of a demanding profession. Suddenly, grunting, she emerged from her dreaming to pencil another nine letter word into the crossword.

Phyllipa, gearing down her Aston Martin, passed through the entrance into the car park. Glancing at the clock on the dash, she saw it just on eight o’clock and by the time she looked up again, Steven Grant was parking his BMW alongside as she bought the car to a standstill.

“I like that.” She stepped from the vehicle.

“What’s that?” he asked her, opening the passenger door to invite her in.

“On time people.” She climbed into his car and made herself comfortable. “Where are we going?”

“I’ve booked a table at Martino’s.” he replied, as the car glided from the car park. “I don’t know whether you know it or not but they are rather good with fishy things.” Phyllipa shook her head and stared at him, noting once again his strong jaw line. The latter usually denoted a resourceful character. “It sounds nice, but I don’t know the place.” She sank into the deep cushions of the seat as the car,
disciplined by a red light, slowed to a halt.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, the green light winking as they quickly pulled away.

“Yes! And thirsty. I’ve had a busy day.”

“Good! That makes two of us.” The car slid into a railed off private car park, stopping outside a small restaurant with leaded Georgian windows. Wide flower beds running the full length of the building were crammed with an explosion of bright colours.

Long legged iris formed a misty blue backdrop as they stood guard over old fashioned violets. Disciplined lupins nodded an acquaintance with wide eyed pansies. Flowers of reds, blues, yellows, flashed with rainbow magenta separated laid back greens festooning the purple scabious, while diminutive forget-me-nots roamed restlessly among their friends.

Phyllipa stood and stared as they left the car, transfixed by the loveliness. “I thou
ght you would like this.” he
said.

“It looks wonderful.” Phyllipa agreed, narrowing her eyes and looked at him with an innocent expression on her face. “They say it makes you thirsty.”

“What, looking at flowers?”

“It’s a psychological feeling, colour plus shape plus scent.” Phyllipa went on. She cleared her throat for effect and her companion eyed her suspiciously.

“Are you sure you’ve got that right?”

Phyllipa stared at him, accusingly. “Are you thirsty, Steven?”

He nodded “Yes, I am.”

“I rest my case!”

The inside of the restaurant was cool and friendly. The white napery on the tables was spotless, the cutlery was Elizabethan silver and the crockery was English bone china. Phyllipa nodded her head in appreciation. Martino’s were experts in art of making important patrons even more important. A white shirted waiter showed them to a secluded table.

“Champagne madam
?
”

Phyllipa shook her head. “No!
Thank
you.
.”

“I was hoping you would say that.” Steven said happily.  “What is wrong with the Dom Perignon. It’s Vintage!”

“It’s expensive!”

Her boss looked at her in astonishment. “Are you pulling my leg?”

She shook her head. “No, not at all, the price of bubbly in this country is well over the top, and I do know when I am being ripped off and I object to it, and so should you. I admit it is my favourite drink but I have promised
myself not to buy any until the price comes down. It’s just a question of principal, that’s all.” She looked at him defiantly as if expecting an argument. “I do have a few you know.”

Steven shook his head in admiration “I’m sure you do, and I do admire your stand. So, what else would you like to drink?”

“Soda wate
r with lots of ice. and
the house claret to follow.”

“You are easily satisfied.”

Phyllipa smiled and shook her head. “No, I’m not.” She said, softly but firmly.

The hovering waiter scribbled and looked at Steven. “Scotch on the rocks.” He ordered. The waiter bowed and vanished.

She
studied the menu and then looked across at her companion. The dimmed light was throwing shadows across his face and she thought how attractive he looked.

“Something wrong?” he asked, noting her attention, she shook her head. “
No! I am fine
.”

Suddenly their drinks were in front of them and they were toasting
one another. The waiter coughed discreetly, lifting his pen. Phyllipa caught his eye. “I’m going to have the mackerel, with a fresh leafy salad.”

“Make that two
.”   The waiter nodded and left
.

Phyllipa put her d
rink down and looked into his eyes. “Now,
let me ask you a question.”

“It’s not about more money, is it?” he asked, suspiciously.

“No,
. Although it goes without saying that I will expect to be paid commensurate to my worth.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve lost me, what is the question?”

“How would you like to do all the packaging for “Kristex?”