Authors: Lucinda Riley
By the end of her first week she had settled down and was enjoying her job. The clients who came in were friendly and courteous. Moira, the middle-aged secretary, was very helpful and Terence,
the office boy, was a cockney lad with a wisecrack for every occasion. She rarely saw old Mr Sallis, who only came in three days a week. Mr Pickering was either locked away with a client or rushing
off for a lunch appointment. To her relief, the dreaded Veronica did not make an appearance.
Cheska seemed quite happy with her new routine and, although Greta arrived home tired from her day’s work, she always found the energy to cook a nice supper, then read to her daughter for
an hour before she went to bed.
At the weekends, even though money was very tight, Greta made a special effort to organise treats. Sometimes they visited Hamleys toy shop and went for tea afterwards at a Lyons Corner House.
And once, she’d taken Cheska to London Zoo to see the lions and tigers.
Greta was surprised at how easily they had both adapted to their new life in London. Cheska rarely mentioned Marchmont, and as for Greta, her busy new schedule meant she had far less time to
think about the loss of her precious son. She felt a pang of guilt each time she received a badly spelt letter from Mary telling her of Owen’s continuing decline. He’d had a couple of
nasty falls and Dr Evans had tried to admit him to a hospital, but he’d refused to go. Morgan, his beloved Labrador, had died recently, and this had apparently sent him into further sustained
bouts of drinking. He was too sick to look after the estate and Mr Glenwilliam, his solicitor, had taken over the running of Marchmont.
Mary stoically told Greta not to worry, that she’d done the right thing for Cheska by leaving. Greta wondered when Mary would write to say that she was resigning, especially as she’d
mentioned that Huw, the young estate worker who’d been courting her, had asked her to marry him. They were engaged and saving up for the wedding, but for now, Mary still seemed to be taking
her master’s erratic behaviour in her stride.
It was a month after starting her job that Greta first met Mr Pickering’s wife. She had just arrived back from her lunch break and sat down at her desk when an elegant woman dressed in a
luxurious fur coat and matching hat walked through the front entrance and into reception without ringing the bell. Greta smiled up at her.
‘Good afternoon, madam. May I help you?’
‘And who might you be?’ The women’s gimlet eyes swept over Greta.
‘I’m Mrs Simpson. I replaced Mrs Forbes a few weeks ago. Did you have an appointment?’ asked Greta pleasantly.
‘I hardly think I need to make an appointment to see either my husband or my father, do you?’
‘No, of course not. I do apologise, Mrs Pickering. Which of them would you like to see?’
‘Don’t bother. I’ll go through and find my husband myself.’ Veronica Pickering peered down at Greta’s hands. ‘And I rather think you should find yourself an
emery board. Those nails look dirty and unpolished. Can’t have our clients thinking we employ riff-raff, now can we?’ She gave Greta one last patronising glance, then turned and swept
through the door leading to her husband’s office.
Greta looked down at her perfectly clean, if unmanicured, fingernails and bit her lip. Then a client appeared in reception and she was kept busy making tea and chatting to him.
Ten minutes later Mrs Pickering emerged with her husband in tow.
‘Take Mr Pickering’s calls, Griselda. We’re going out to buy me a Christmas present, aren’t we, darling?’
‘Yes, dear. I’ll be back by four, Greta.’
‘Very good, Mr Pickering.’
As they walked towards the front door Veronica Pickering turned to her husband. ‘Not sure about that accent, James dear. Don’t they teach standard English in schools these
days?’
Greta gritted her teeth as the door shut behind them.
Meeting Veronica Pickering unsettled her for the rest of the day. Mr Pickering didn’t return to the office, and the next time she saw him was the following morning. He stopped beside her
desk as he walked through reception.
‘Good morning, Greta.’
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘I just wanted to apologise for my wife. I’m afraid it’s the way she is, and you mustn’t take anything she says to heart. We – I mean, Mr Sallis and I – are
very pleased with your work so far.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Good. Carry on, then.’ Mr Pickering smiled at her in that sweet way of his and Greta wondered why on earth he had married such a ghastly woman.
After that, Mr Pickering would often stop and have a chat with Greta when he passed her desk, as if to reassure her that he did not share his wife’s opinion of her. During one such chat
Greta asked if she could have a typewriter so she could help out with any extra letters. Mr Pickering agreed and, with Moira’s patient assistance, she began to teach herself to type.
There were only a few days to go until Christmas and Greta was looking forward to the week she had off over the festive season. She had already spent far too much money on
Cheska’s presents, not wanting her little girl to think Father Christmas had forgotten her, and had booked two seats at the Scala Theatre to see Margaret Lockwood in
Peter Pan
. Greta
was determined to make sure their first Christmas without Owen and Jonny was as happy as the circumstances permitted.
‘Father Christmas will know where I am, Mummy, won’t he?’ asked Cheska anxiously as Greta tucked her up in bed for the night.
‘Of course, darling. I wrote to the North Pole and told him we’d changed our address. Next week we’ll go out and buy a tree and lots of nice decorations to hang on it. Would
you like that?’
‘Oh yes, Mummy.’ Cheska smiled in pleasure and snuggled down under her covers.
Moira went down with influenza and was sent home the following afternoon, and Mr Pickering began to hand Greta piles of typing.
‘I do apologise, Greta, but there are so many loose ends to tie up before the office closes for Christmas. Mr Sallis has already gone to the country, so I’m having to do everything.
You couldn’t by any chance stay late tomorrow night, could you? We’ll pay you extra, of course.’
‘Yes, I think that will be all right,’ she replied.
That evening Greta asked Mabel if she’d give Cheska her tea tomorrow, then put her to bed and stay with her until she arrived home.
‘I’d be so grateful, Mabel. I’ve seen a gorgeous doll in Hamleys that I’d love to buy her, and the extra money will pay for it. And you will be joining us for Christmas
lunch, won’t you? Cheska has asked if you could come. She adores you, you know.’
‘Then I’m happy to help you out. As long as you don’t make a habit of it, mind,’ Mabel replied.
It was past seven the following evening before the last letter was neatly typed, ready for Mr Pickering to sign. Greta picked them up and knocked on his door.
‘Come in!’
‘Here you are, Mr Pickering. All done.’ Greta put the letters on his desk.
‘Thank you, Greta. You are a wonder, really. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’ He scrawled his signature at the bottom of each letter and passed them back to
her.
‘Well, that’s it for the day, I think. Now, how about I buy you a drink for all that hard work and to celebrate Christmas?’
‘I’d love to, but—’ Greta was just about to say that she ought to be getting home to Cheska, but managed to stop herself.
‘We could hop to the Athenaeum.’ Mr Pickering was already reaching for his overcoat. ‘I can’t stay long, as I’m meeting Veronica in an hour to go to a
party.’
Greta knew she ought to say no and go straight home, but it was a very long time since she’d been out anywhere in the evening. Besides, she liked Mr Pickering. ‘All right
then,’ she agreed.
‘Good. Grab your coat, and I’ll meet you out front.’
‘Fine, but I need to put these letters into their envelopes and stamp them.’
‘Of course. We’ll post them on the way.’
Ten minutes later the two of them were walking along Piccadilly to the Athenaeum. The cocktail bar was crowded, but they managed to find seats and Mr Pickering ordered them two pink gins.
‘So, what are you doing for Christmas, Greta?’ he asked as he lit a cigarette. ‘Oh, and by the way, please call me James now we’re out of office hours.’
‘Oh, nothing much,’ she answered.
‘Going to your family, are you?’
‘Er, yes.’
Their drinks arrived and Greta took a sip of hers.
‘They live in London, do they?’
‘Yes. And you?’
‘Oh, the usual stuff. We’ve a party at our place in London tomorrow to celebrate Christmas Eve, then we go down to Mr and Mrs Sallis’s house in Sussex until the New
Year.’
‘You don’t sound terribly thrilled about going to your in-laws,’ Greta ventured.
‘Don’t I? Oh dear. That’s what Veronica keeps saying.’
‘Don’t you like Christmas?’
‘I used to, when I was a boy, but these days it just seems to be one long round of socialising with people I rather dislike. I suppose it would be different if we had some little ones. I
mean, that’s who Christmas is really for, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Greta. ‘Have you . . . I mean, are you and Mrs Pickering planning to have children?’
‘I’d like to think so, one day, but my wife is hardly the maternal type.’ James sighed. ‘Anyway, tell me more about you.’
‘There’s nothing much to tell.’
‘Surely a lady as attractive and intelligent as yourself must have a man in tow?’
‘No, I’m single at the moment.’
‘I find that most difficult to believe. I mean, if I were a single man, I’d find you hard to resist.’ He took a sip of his pink gin and eyed her over the rim of the glass.
Greta, lightheaded from the alcohol, blushed and realised she was enjoying the attention. ‘What did you do during the war?’ she asked him.
‘I have asthma so the army refused me. Instead, I worked at the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall and studied for my law exams at night. Mr Sallis made me a junior partner on VE Day, just
after I passed,’ said James.
‘Did it help that you were Mr Sallis’s son-in-law?’
‘Of course it did, but I’m actually quite a good solicitor too, you know.’ He smiled, taking her pointed comment good-naturedly.
‘Oh, I don’t doubt that for a moment. So, how did you meet your wife?’
‘At a party shortly before the war. I was just down from Cambridge. Veronica set her sights on me and . . .’ He laughed. ‘To be honest, Greta, I didn’t stand a
chance.’
There was a short silence as Greta digested this information. ‘I don’t think she likes me very much. She accused me of being slovenly and having an accent.’
‘That’s only jealousy, Greta. Veronica’s not so young any more and she resents anyone who is. Particularly someone as lovely as yourself. Now, I’m afraid I’m going
to have to leave you. The drinks party starts in fifteen minutes and it’s more than my life’s worth to be late.’ He paid the bill, then handed Greta some coins. ‘Here, take
a taxi home, will you?’
They stood up, walked through the lobby and out of the front entrance.
‘I enjoyed that,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’d like to have dinner with me one evening?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Well, for now, Merry Christmas, Greta.’
‘And to you, James.’
He waved back at her as he walked briskly along the pavement. The hotel doorman hailed a taxi for Greta and she stepped inside. As it drove off, she allowed herself to think back over the
conversation. She found James attractive, and there was little doubt the feeling was reciprocated. It had been such a long time since she had been in the company of a man who had complimented her.
For a few seconds Greta imagined James pulling her into his arms and kissing her . . . then stopped herself abruptly.
It was madness even to think about it. He was married. And not only that, he was her employer.
Even so, as she lay alone in bed that night, her body tingling with desire for him, Greta knew it was doubtful she’d be able to resist the temptation if it was offered to her.
Over the Christmas holidays Greta struggled to put thoughts of James to the back of her mind and concentrated on giving her daughter the best Christmas she possibly could.
Cheska’s face on Christmas morning was a picture of wonder as she unwrapped her numerous presents, including the doll from Hamleys whose eyes opened and closed. Mabel came upstairs to share
their small roast chicken and the day was very cheerful. But after Cheska had gone to bed and Mabel had left, Greta felt a wave of emptiness wash over her. She looked up at the stars and sent a
whispered message to her lost son: ‘Happy Christmas, Jonny, wherever you are.’
On Boxing Day she took Cheska to see
Peter Pan
at the Scala Theatre.
‘Do you believe in fairies?’ cried Peter Pan.
Cheska jumped out of her seat in her eagerness to save Tinkerbell. ‘Yes! Yes!’ she shrieked with every other child in the theatre.
Greta spent more time watching her daughter’s face than she did the stage. The sight gladdened her heart and made all the sacrifices worthwhile.
When she returned to work after New Year James was not yet back from the country.
A week later, when he walked into reception, her heart almost missed a beat.
‘Hello, Greta. Happy New Year to you,’ he said, then strode through the door to his office and closed it behind him. A deflated Greta spent that evening wondering if she’d
imagined the way he’d been at the Athenaeum.
Ten days later the telephone on her desk rang.
‘Hello, Greta, it’s James. Has Mr Jarvis arrived yet?’
‘No, he just telephoned to say he’d be slightly late.’
‘Fine. Oh, and by the way, are you doing anything tonight?’
‘No.’
‘Then let me take you out for that dinner I promised you.’
‘That would be lovely.’
‘Good. I have a meeting at six, so hang on for me here until it’s finished.’
Heart beating with excitement, Greta made a quick phone call to Mabel, who said she was prepared to babysit, and that evening, when James’s meeting was finished, she walked with him round
the corner to Jermyn Street.