got a new girl here. Look, like I was saying—’
Francine replaced the phone and fixed her eyes on the desktop. They stung with tears and she held herself rigid until they receded. Finally she stood up, Mr Louche’s letter in her hand, and walked determinedly to his desk.
‘Excuse me?’ she said, standing before him. He was reading something and didn’t look up. Beside him his secretary satneatly tapping at her keyboard, her eyes fixed on the screen. Apart from her fingers, her soft body was motionless. ‘Mr Louche?’
‘Sorry, yes?’ he said, looking up in surprise. His face was blank.
Francine felt herself grow cold with anxiety. She held the letter before him.
‘Mr Louche, I don’t think I’m supposed to do this.’
He was silent for a moment.
‘Why not?’ he said finally, as if he were interested.
‘I’ve been employed to do Mr Lancing’s work.’
‘You’ve been employed,’ said Mr Louche slowly after a pause, ‘to do whatever you’re told.’
A sudden faintness stole over her.
‘But surely,’ she persisted, smiling in an attempt to infuse her words with charm, ‘surely your own secretary should type your correspondence?’
‘Barbara has enough work to do,’ said Mr Louche.
At the sound of her name, Barbara turned her head and stared at Francine with mute eyes. Her face was very plain. The three of them were locked for a moment in silence. Francine turned and went back to her desk, the letter still in her hand.
At 11.25 Francine reminded Mr Lancing of his haircut. He hadn’t spoken to her since her earlier mistake with the telephones, and although she feared that his silence was the signal of his displeasure, she was relieved at least that he seemed to have forgotten about Bill.
‘See you later,’ she said foolishly, as he put on his suit jacket. The collar was turned up and she wondered if she should tell him.
‘I’ll be back!’ he said with a crooked grin.
Their eyes met as if by mistake, and she saw his dim with the lack of recognition. After he had left the office, sheimagined him seeing his upturned collar in the barber shop mirror and wished that she’d told him. He would know that she had seen it. She turned to her computer screen and began to type Mr Louche’s letter. His writing was neat, and she was glad that she didn’t have to go to his desk and ask him to explain anything. Before long she had finished, and seeing how easily the task had been accomplished she felt oddly warm with gratitude for her humiliation. She fussed with it, adding touches on the screen to improve its appearance. In a moment of inspired alertness, she took down one of the files of past correspondence from the shelves behind her and looked at one or two of the letters to make sure that she had typed Mr Louche’s according to the correct format. Finally she printed it out and, crossing the office, placed it before him on his desk. He read it while she stood there, without looking up. After a long time, he raised his head.
‘Good girl,’ he said, smiling brilliantly.
Four
Ralph unlocked the door to his flat and as he entered the dark, motionless hall experienced that momentary qualm of ownership which, even after three years of it, still lightly besieged him sometimes when he returned alone at the end of the day. When he had first bought the flat, he used to come home in an eager, questioning mood – often as early as he could – as if it were a lover or a new child, wondering what it had been doing during the hours he had been away. In those days it had represented a form of welcome to him, a region in which his focus was undisputed and reliable. He supposed that he should have worried about intruders or burst drains in that moment of reunion, and prepared himself for the sight of the spilled guts of drawers, the sounds of dripping and desecration to greet him with their anarchic protest at his absence; but his flat had always been as good as gold, sitting waiting for him with an
Francine replaced the phone and fixed her eyes on the desktop. They stung with tears and she held herself rigid until they receded. Finally she stood up, Mr Louche’s letter in her hand, and walked determinedly to his desk.
‘Excuse me?’ she said, standing before him. He was reading something and didn’t look up. Beside him his secretary satneatly tapping at her keyboard, her eyes fixed on the screen. Apart from her fingers, her soft body was motionless. ‘Mr Louche?’
‘Sorry, yes?’ he said, looking up in surprise. His face was blank.
Francine felt herself grow cold with anxiety. She held the letter before him.
‘Mr Louche, I don’t think I’m supposed to do this.’
He was silent for a moment.
‘Why not?’ he said finally, as if he were interested.
‘I’ve been employed to do Mr Lancing’s work.’
‘You’ve been employed,’ said Mr Louche slowly after a pause, ‘to do whatever you’re told.’
A sudden faintness stole over her.
‘But surely,’ she persisted, smiling in an attempt to infuse her words with charm, ‘surely your own secretary should type your correspondence?’
‘Barbara has enough work to do,’ said Mr Louche.
At the sound of her name, Barbara turned her head and stared at Francine with mute eyes. Her face was very plain. The three of them were locked for a moment in silence. Francine turned and went back to her desk, the letter still in her hand.
At 11.25 Francine reminded Mr Lancing of his haircut. He hadn’t spoken to her since her earlier mistake with the telephones, and although she feared that his silence was the signal of his displeasure, she was relieved at least that he seemed to have forgotten about Bill.
‘See you later,’ she said foolishly, as he put on his suit jacket. The collar was turned up and she wondered if she should tell him.
‘I’ll be back!’ he said with a crooked grin.
Their eyes met as if by mistake, and she saw his dim with the lack of recognition. After he had left the office, sheimagined him seeing his upturned collar in the barber shop mirror and wished that she’d told him. He would know that she had seen it. She turned to her computer screen and began to type Mr Louche’s letter. His writing was neat, and she was glad that she didn’t have to go to his desk and ask him to explain anything. Before long she had finished, and seeing how easily the task had been accomplished she felt oddly warm with gratitude for her humiliation. She fussed with it, adding touches on the screen to improve its appearance. In a moment of inspired alertness, she took down one of the files of past correspondence from the shelves behind her and looked at one or two of the letters to make sure that she had typed Mr Louche’s according to the correct format. Finally she printed it out and, crossing the office, placed it before him on his desk. He read it while she stood there, without looking up. After a long time, he raised his head.
‘Good girl,’ he said, smiling brilliantly.
Four
Ralph unlocked the door to his flat and as he entered the dark, motionless hall experienced that momentary qualm of ownership which, even after three years of it, still lightly besieged him sometimes when he returned alone at the end of the day. When he had first bought the flat, he used to come home in an eager, questioning mood – often as early as he could – as if it were a lover or a new child, wondering what it had been doing during the hours he had been away. In those days it had represented a form of welcome to him, a region in which his focus was undisputed and reliable. He supposed that he should have worried about intruders or burst drains in that moment of reunion, and prepared himself for the sight of the spilled guts of drawers, the sounds of dripping and desecration to greet him with their anarchic protest at his absence; but his flat had always been as good as gold, sitting waiting for him with an
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