with a confidence no doubt born of long experience, Mr Woodhead had known what her answer would be, and already hung up.
An hour later, hair all over the place, no time to organise it properly after the shampoo, blouse minus a button (not discovered until she was halfway to the Royal Garden) and a skirt she’d had for yonks, she just managed to make it on time, to find Mr Woodhead, unmistakable even without the pink carnation, already waiting for her at the bar.
“My dear, how clever of you to have made it on time and at such short notice.” Elegantly uncoiling from his stool, he rose to greet her. “I’m sure we’re going to get along famously.”
“Er, hi.” Beatrice found herself smiling fatuously, proffered her hand (Mother always said, when in doubt, shake hands). Mr Woodhead took it in his, looked into her eyes, smiled.
“Now my dear, I’ve a dinner engagement at eight with my agent, a necessary chore I’m afraid, a poor hack’s work is never done, so we’d better put our skates on and get down to business.” He was quite tall, and despite his age had kept his figure, she noticed as he led her to a reasonably quiet table near the door, raising a sort of valedictory hand as he passed by tables of people who obviously either knew him, or had seen him on TV. Once there, without consulting Beatrice, he ordered two dry martinis from a respectfully hovering waiter.
And despite her initial nervousness, she had to admit it had all turned out to be rather fun. He might have been a bit pretentious, and obviously very conscious of his celebrity, but he was entertaining and kind and what he had to offer sounded intriguing, not to mention the salary, which was, considering she would be living in, enormous.
“I write, for my sins,” he told her as she sipped her ice cold and extremely powerful martini, “and from time to time make the odd appearance on the box; not acting of course, but as a sort of peripatetic presenter. Someone needed to host a team game in the Outer Hebrides, judge a beauty contest in Skegness, host a supper for old folk in Penzance, send for good old Selwyn – that sort of thing. Currently, however, as I don’t happen to have any TV commitments,” (when he said this Beatrice noticed his voice took on a certain waspishness hitherto missing), “my publishers have commissioned me to write what they describe as a popular history of sex life in Britain; possible serial rights in the Daily Mail , that sort of thing. ‘Start as far back as you like,’ they said, ‘cave men, whatever, but make it easy to understand and just a little naughty.’ The whole to be completed in three months.”
“Goodness, that’s a tall order, isn’t it?”
“It is, my dear, it is, but with your help not, I hope, impossible.”
“You’re offering me the job, then – just like that?” The drink was making her bold. “You don’t want references? I mean I could be anyone…”
“You could indeed.” He was smiling at her now; his shrewd intelligent eyes appraising. “But I like what I see and that’s what’s important. You’re a beautiful, I think rather lost, young woman. I’m sure you’re efficient, you wouldn’t have applied for the job if you weren’t. And if you’re worried about sex rearing its ugly head between us, don’t be. I have a beautiful wife to whom I am devoted, I lead a busy life, have a great many interests, not to mention irons in the fire, and no time nor indeed inclination for extra-marital affairs. Does that satisfy you?”
Feeling a conceited idiot, Beatrice nodded. “Yes, of course, I’m sorry. It’s just it sounds such a great job I can’t believe you’re offering it to someone like me.”
“Well I am, dear, and a formal letter saying so should arrive on your door mat in a day or so, or at least when I can get some kind soul to type one for me. Meanwhile here’s the deal…”
And this was the deal. He and his wife had recently purchased a country retreat
An hour later, hair all over the place, no time to organise it properly after the shampoo, blouse minus a button (not discovered until she was halfway to the Royal Garden) and a skirt she’d had for yonks, she just managed to make it on time, to find Mr Woodhead, unmistakable even without the pink carnation, already waiting for her at the bar.
“My dear, how clever of you to have made it on time and at such short notice.” Elegantly uncoiling from his stool, he rose to greet her. “I’m sure we’re going to get along famously.”
“Er, hi.” Beatrice found herself smiling fatuously, proffered her hand (Mother always said, when in doubt, shake hands). Mr Woodhead took it in his, looked into her eyes, smiled.
“Now my dear, I’ve a dinner engagement at eight with my agent, a necessary chore I’m afraid, a poor hack’s work is never done, so we’d better put our skates on and get down to business.” He was quite tall, and despite his age had kept his figure, she noticed as he led her to a reasonably quiet table near the door, raising a sort of valedictory hand as he passed by tables of people who obviously either knew him, or had seen him on TV. Once there, without consulting Beatrice, he ordered two dry martinis from a respectfully hovering waiter.
And despite her initial nervousness, she had to admit it had all turned out to be rather fun. He might have been a bit pretentious, and obviously very conscious of his celebrity, but he was entertaining and kind and what he had to offer sounded intriguing, not to mention the salary, which was, considering she would be living in, enormous.
“I write, for my sins,” he told her as she sipped her ice cold and extremely powerful martini, “and from time to time make the odd appearance on the box; not acting of course, but as a sort of peripatetic presenter. Someone needed to host a team game in the Outer Hebrides, judge a beauty contest in Skegness, host a supper for old folk in Penzance, send for good old Selwyn – that sort of thing. Currently, however, as I don’t happen to have any TV commitments,” (when he said this Beatrice noticed his voice took on a certain waspishness hitherto missing), “my publishers have commissioned me to write what they describe as a popular history of sex life in Britain; possible serial rights in the Daily Mail , that sort of thing. ‘Start as far back as you like,’ they said, ‘cave men, whatever, but make it easy to understand and just a little naughty.’ The whole to be completed in three months.”
“Goodness, that’s a tall order, isn’t it?”
“It is, my dear, it is, but with your help not, I hope, impossible.”
“You’re offering me the job, then – just like that?” The drink was making her bold. “You don’t want references? I mean I could be anyone…”
“You could indeed.” He was smiling at her now; his shrewd intelligent eyes appraising. “But I like what I see and that’s what’s important. You’re a beautiful, I think rather lost, young woman. I’m sure you’re efficient, you wouldn’t have applied for the job if you weren’t. And if you’re worried about sex rearing its ugly head between us, don’t be. I have a beautiful wife to whom I am devoted, I lead a busy life, have a great many interests, not to mention irons in the fire, and no time nor indeed inclination for extra-marital affairs. Does that satisfy you?”
Feeling a conceited idiot, Beatrice nodded. “Yes, of course, I’m sorry. It’s just it sounds such a great job I can’t believe you’re offering it to someone like me.”
“Well I am, dear, and a formal letter saying so should arrive on your door mat in a day or so, or at least when I can get some kind soul to type one for me. Meanwhile here’s the deal…”
And this was the deal. He and his wife had recently purchased a country retreat