o’clock!’
Mabel
Potter, reclining on a neighbouring settee with the air of one who has never
been so comfortable in her life, nodded composedly.
‘Yes,
you had a nice sleep.’
‘Why
didn’t you wake me?’
‘It
never occurred to me. I could see you were tired out, and no wonder after all
this excitement. A good sleep was what you needed.’
‘But
I’ve missed my lunch.’
‘Lots
of doctors say that’s a good thing. Charlie often skips lunch. He says it does
wonders for him. Makes him bright in the afternoon.’
‘He’ll
think I stood him up on purpose.’
‘He?
What he would that be?’
‘A man
named Pickering. He wrote a play and I interviewed him, and I met him again at
the lawyers. He’s a friend of one of the partners.’
‘And
you want to see him and explain?’
‘And I
don’t know where he lives.’
‘Well,
for heaven’s sake it’s quite simple. You’ve only got to ask the partner he’s a
friend of. Ring him up.’
Sally
relaxed. Not for the first time she found Mabel’s practical way of looking at
things helpful. She supposed secretaries of theatrical managers had to be like
that.
‘Of
course. He’s bound to know, isn’t he? But I must go to Barribault’s first. He
may still be there.’
‘Pickering?’
‘Yes.’
‘When
were you supposed to meet him?’
‘One
o’clock.’
‘And
it’s now two fifteen. If he’s still there after waiting an hour and a quarter,
which’ll be an hour and a half by the time you clock in, he must be something
quite out of the ordinary.’
And it
was as she spoke that it suddenly dawned on Sally that Joseph Pickering most
definitely was.
Chapter Seven
Joe was not still there.
There are limits to the staying powers of even the most enamoured, and he had
eventually been compelled to recognise that this was just another of the slings
and arrows and abandon his vigil.
The
emotions of an ardent young man who has asked the girl he loves to lunch and
has waited an eternity without the pleasure of her company are necessarily
chaotic, and he had them all. On the whole bewilderment predominated. She had
seemed so friendly, so eager to better their acquaintance. He found it
incredible that she could simply have decided on reflection to have nothing
more to do with him. But apparently she had, and all that was left to him was
to accept the situation, dismiss her if possible from his mind and concentrate
on this Llewellyn who, according to Jerry Nichols, was anxious to secure his
services. He was now standing outside the door of 8 Enniston Gardens, the bell
of which he had just rung.
The
door opened, revealing a tall thin man with gentleman’s gentleman stamped all
over him. He was carrying a suitcase.
Joe
said he had come to see Mr Llewellyn.
‘Go
right in. He’s in there.’
‘Perhaps
you will lead the way?’
‘Not
me. I’m through.’
‘You’re
leaving?’
‘You’re
right, I’m leaving. Remarks I can put up with. Tantrums I don’t object to. But
throwing porridge at a man, that I will not have.’
And so
saying the tall thin man passed on his way.
He left
Joe a little uncertain as to how to proceed. His late companion’s remarks had
been brief, even terse, but he had said enough to establish beyond a doubt that
behind the door which he had indicated with a jerk of the thumb there lurked
something rather unusual in the way of prospective employers. He had an
unpleasant feeling of being confronted with a situation to which he was
unequal, like a nervous knight of King Arthur’s court who, having undertaken to
engage in personal combat with a fire-breathing dragon, finds that he has
forgotten to bring his magic sword along with him. The years rolled away, and
he was once more a boy of eleven, standing outside the study of the headmaster
of his preparatory school, the latter having announced his wish to see
Pickering there after morning prayers.
Rooted
to the spot is a neat way of describing his
Mabel
Potter, reclining on a neighbouring settee with the air of one who has never
been so comfortable in her life, nodded composedly.
‘Yes,
you had a nice sleep.’
‘Why
didn’t you wake me?’
‘It
never occurred to me. I could see you were tired out, and no wonder after all
this excitement. A good sleep was what you needed.’
‘But
I’ve missed my lunch.’
‘Lots
of doctors say that’s a good thing. Charlie often skips lunch. He says it does
wonders for him. Makes him bright in the afternoon.’
‘He’ll
think I stood him up on purpose.’
‘He?
What he would that be?’
‘A man
named Pickering. He wrote a play and I interviewed him, and I met him again at
the lawyers. He’s a friend of one of the partners.’
‘And
you want to see him and explain?’
‘And I
don’t know where he lives.’
‘Well,
for heaven’s sake it’s quite simple. You’ve only got to ask the partner he’s a
friend of. Ring him up.’
Sally
relaxed. Not for the first time she found Mabel’s practical way of looking at
things helpful. She supposed secretaries of theatrical managers had to be like
that.
‘Of
course. He’s bound to know, isn’t he? But I must go to Barribault’s first. He
may still be there.’
‘Pickering?’
‘Yes.’
‘When
were you supposed to meet him?’
‘One
o’clock.’
‘And
it’s now two fifteen. If he’s still there after waiting an hour and a quarter,
which’ll be an hour and a half by the time you clock in, he must be something
quite out of the ordinary.’
And it
was as she spoke that it suddenly dawned on Sally that Joseph Pickering most
definitely was.
Chapter Seven
Joe was not still there.
There are limits to the staying powers of even the most enamoured, and he had
eventually been compelled to recognise that this was just another of the slings
and arrows and abandon his vigil.
The
emotions of an ardent young man who has asked the girl he loves to lunch and
has waited an eternity without the pleasure of her company are necessarily
chaotic, and he had them all. On the whole bewilderment predominated. She had
seemed so friendly, so eager to better their acquaintance. He found it
incredible that she could simply have decided on reflection to have nothing
more to do with him. But apparently she had, and all that was left to him was
to accept the situation, dismiss her if possible from his mind and concentrate
on this Llewellyn who, according to Jerry Nichols, was anxious to secure his
services. He was now standing outside the door of 8 Enniston Gardens, the bell
of which he had just rung.
The
door opened, revealing a tall thin man with gentleman’s gentleman stamped all
over him. He was carrying a suitcase.
Joe
said he had come to see Mr Llewellyn.
‘Go
right in. He’s in there.’
‘Perhaps
you will lead the way?’
‘Not
me. I’m through.’
‘You’re
leaving?’
‘You’re
right, I’m leaving. Remarks I can put up with. Tantrums I don’t object to. But
throwing porridge at a man, that I will not have.’
And so
saying the tall thin man passed on his way.
He left
Joe a little uncertain as to how to proceed. His late companion’s remarks had
been brief, even terse, but he had said enough to establish beyond a doubt that
behind the door which he had indicated with a jerk of the thumb there lurked
something rather unusual in the way of prospective employers. He had an
unpleasant feeling of being confronted with a situation to which he was
unequal, like a nervous knight of King Arthur’s court who, having undertaken to
engage in personal combat with a fire-breathing dragon, finds that he has
forgotten to bring his magic sword along with him. The years rolled away, and
he was once more a boy of eleven, standing outside the study of the headmaster
of his preparatory school, the latter having announced his wish to see
Pickering there after morning prayers.
Rooted
to the spot is a neat way of describing his
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