One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [19]
‘I might go and work for him,’ I said, unable to resist.
‘No!’ she breathed ecstatically.
‘Well, not sure yet,’ I said hastily, seeing her lurch forward and almost sprint across to wring his hand, check out his tie. ‘Hal’s going to try and fix it up for me.’
‘Hal?’
‘His younger brother, the one you met. We share a flat.’
‘Ah, yes, the peaky-looking one. I must say, seeing them together, you’d never guess they were—’
‘Shh.’ Dad silenced her as the organ started.
‘See you later,’ I whispered, as I shot away to join the rest of the robed, mortarboarded crew waiting to go up on stage to face the proud parents. I muscled through to where Hal had secured me a seat beside him.
‘Well?’ I breathed, as we sat down.
‘Well, what?’
‘Oh.’ My face fell. He grinned.
‘He said he’d be delighted to have you on unpaid work experience for a couple of weeks. Can you type?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well then, he said you never know, after that you might get some typist going sick, and then you can fill in. And then if another goes on holiday or something one thing could lead to another. He can’t promise anything, but as in all these clubby places, it’s getting a toe in the door that counts. He can at least do that for you. Then it’s up to you.’
‘Oh, Hal. Thank you!’ I gazed at him, covered in delight.
He gave an odd little smile and shrugged. ‘My pleasure.’
I couldn’t resist looking over to where Dominic was sitting with his wife, in the audience. At that moment he looked, and I caught his eye. He smiled. Half a gallon of adrenalin shot up the back of my legs. I grinned broadly back: winked too, which, in retrospect, perhaps I shouldn’t have.
5
Everything about it was seductive; everything. As I stepped off the tube at Westminster and climbed the steps to emerge into hazy summer sunshine, crossed the road under the dappled shade of dusty plane trees, the Thames flashing before me, Big Ben looming, I felt excitement mounting. The air may have been full of blaring horns and toxic fumes, but as I skirted the cool oasis of green that was Parliament Square, hemmed in on all sides by Thursday morning commuter traffic, it seemed to me it was heady with possibility. A stationary white van, window open, blared out reggae music and I fancied I fell into step with London’s heartbeat as I strode past it, bass note thumping, blood pumping. Parliament, in all its ornate gothic splendour rose to greet me, windows flashing in a honey-coloured limestone façade, and even the policeman, stationed at the towering iron gates, had just the right amount of amiable old-fashioned-English-bobby about him. I flashed him one of my very best smiles and we exchanged a cheery good morning as he checked my pass: through the archway I fancied I could see right into the lobby beyond; people were already gathering, hustling, barking into mobile phones and oh… my… god… wasn’t that the journalist with the big ears? The one on News at Ten?
‘You’ll be wanting Portcullis House, luv.’ He handed my pass back to me.
‘That’s it.’
‘Back around the corner,’ he turned, ‘and across the square. See that tower block over the road there?’ He pointed in the distance to somewhere slightly less picturesque; slightly more chrome and concrete. ‘First left through the big glazed doors and take the lift to the fourth floor.’
‘Oh.’
Not quite the oak-panelled corridors of power I’d envisaged then. Nevertheless I obeyed orders and crossed back over the road, around the square, through the doors, and took the elevator. I squeaked along the linoleum passageway, floor-to-ceiling plate glass on one side, a row of closed doors that looked faintly clinical and forbidding on the other. No matter: the atmosphere may be subdued and humdrum, but at least – I turned my head wistfully before knocking at the door to which I was bidden – at least there was a view of Big Ben.
Katya, Dominic’s private secretary, attractive