Harriet by Jilly Cooper Page A

a man like Mr. Widnell at a distance. But I suppose keeping men at a distance isn’t quite your forte, is it?’
        Harriet clenched her hands together. She could feel the sweat rising on her forehead. Keep calm, she told herself. Don’t shout at her - it won’t do any good.
        ‘You must have something,’ she repeated. ‘I mean we won’t survive unless I get a job.’
        Mrs. Hastings’s neon smile flashed on again. ‘You should have thought about that before you left Mr. Widnell in such a hurry. Come back on Monday.’
        Harriet was about to plead with her when the telephone rang. Mrs. Hastings picked it up.
        ‘Mr. Erskine? Oh, not again! All right, put him through.’ Her voice turned to honey. ‘Hullo, Mr. Erskine. How’s it all going?’
        There was a pause. ‘None of them will do? But I must have sent nearly a dozen girls along to see you. Well, yes… I fully appreciate your going to France tomorrow, Mr. Erskine, but what can I do? I’ve sent all my best girls along…
        ‘What about my worst girls? We don’t have any of that sort on our books!’
        Suddenly, her eyes lit on Harriet. ‘Just a minute, Mr. Erskine.’ Her tone became conciliating. ‘How would you feel about a girl who’s - I might say - rather tragically placed?’
        Harriet squirmed with mortification.
        ‘What sort of circumstances?’
        The red-nailed hand rearranged the cacti on the desk. ‘Well, I have a Miss Poole on my books who has a young baby… no, quite by chance she’s not married. You’ll see her?’ The neon smile was really flashing now. ‘Marvellous! You’ll find her a charming person. Very quiet and refined, not at all the type you’d expect. She drives a car, cooks, she’s got a degree in English, lots of experience with children.’
        She waved away Harriet’s exclamation of protest.
        ‘All right, Mr. Erskine, I’ll pop her in a taxi right away.’
        She put down the receiver.
        ‘Well, Miss Poole, you’re in luck. That was Cory Erskine.’
        ‘The writer?’
        Mrs. Hastings nodded.
        ‘I love his books,’ said Harriet.
        ‘He’s obviously better at writing than getting it together with people,’ said Mrs. Hastings. ‘His marriage has just come unstuck.’
        ‘Unstuck?’ said Harriet in amazement. ‘But he’s married to Noel Balfour, isn’t he? They’re always being held up as a model couple. She keeps being interviewed in magazines on how to keep one’s husband happy.’
        ‘No one,’ said Mrs. Hastings sourly, ‘could keep Mr. Erskine happy. He’s one of the most difficult men I’ve ever had to deal with. You won’t get the job but, if by some miracle he does offer it to you, mind you take it. People in your position can’t afford to be choosy. And do smarten yourself up before you go round there, and try to be a little bit more positive. His address is Number Nine, Chiltern Street.’
        How can you smarten yourself up, thought Harriet dolefully, as she frantically combed her hair, when you’ve run out of cleansing cream, deodorant and eye make-up. When you can’t afford to get your shoes mended, and you’ve taken the sheen out of your hair washing it in soap powder.
        

CHAPTER NINE
        
        
        NUMBER NINE stood out from the other houses in Chiltern Street, because it was painted cobalt blue with an emerald green door. Quaking with nerves, Harriet gave her last pound in the world to the driver and rang the bell. After some delay the door was answered by a tall angry looking man in a black polo-necked sweater.
        ‘Yes?’ he said unhelpfully.
        ‘Mr. Erskine? I’ve come from the agency about the job.’
        ‘Come in. I’m on the telephone.’
        She followed him upstairs into a large, untidy room. Books covered the walls, littered a very large desk, and were strewn all over the rose-coloured carpet.
        ‘I won’t be long,’ he said.
        Lighting