just inside the door.
When she saw him, sitting behind a desk heaped with folders and papers and forms, Marianne froze.
“Oh, no,” she said, and blinked. “It can’t be.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked abruptly.
She took some small satisfaction in the fact that his shock was as great as her own. Farmer Brown, for once, was at a loss for words.
“I’m here to interview for the job.”
He stared at her. “What job?”
“The veterinary assistant position,” she said. Was he thick as well as rude? “I sent my résumé in last month.”
He frowned and reached behind him, searched a table under the window, unearthed a folder, and riffled through it. He leaned back in his chair and scanned it. “Ah, here we are. No. The only interview letter we sent out went to an applicant named Mark Holland in Devonshire.”
“But I have a letter.” Marianne reached into her handbag and withdrew the letter she’d received and held it out. “Asking me to come in and interview for the job.”
He took it and glanced down. “Marianne Holland, of South Devon. Ah. There’s obviously been a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“You weren’t meant to get this offer. Mark Holland was.” He handed the letter back. “The files for Mark and Marianne must’ve got mixed up.”
“Did they, really? Or is the fact that I’m a female the issue?” she challenged him. “Did you offer Mr Holland an interview because he’s a man? Are you one of those sexist gits?”
His eyes narrowed. “No, I’m not ‘one of those sexist gits’, I offered Mr Holland an interview because he had excellent qualifications. But looking at this –” he picked up her résumé and scanned it. “Your qualifications are nonexistent. You’re not remotely suited for the job.”
“Why?” she bristled. “Because I’m a woman?”
“No.” He eyed her kitten heels, pencil skirt, and white silk blouse and leaned forward. “Because I suspect the only animal you’ve ever dealt with is one of those faffy little dogs you carry round in your purse like a furry accessory.”
She bristled at the astonishing injustice – not to mention sexism – of his assumption. “It’s not a
purse
,” she snapped, “it’s a handbag.”
And before she could form a further, more suitably scathing reply, he tossed her résumé aside.
“Have you ever worked in a professional capacity with animals before, Miss Holland?”
“Not…not as such, no.”
“Have you calved a cow, or foaled a mare?”
“No.”
“What do you know of animal husbandry?”
She blinked. She suspected he wasn’t referring to female chickens looking for rooster husbands. “A little,” she hedged.
“Good God,” he muttered, and ploughed a hand through his hair. “Do you know what colostrum is? Do things like the sight of blood or open wounds or placenta make you queasy?”
She blanched. “It all sounds a bit horrid, to be honest.”
“Then how do you expect me to hire you on to help me in the surgery?” he demanded. “You haven’t any qualifications at all, have you?”
Marianne bit her lip. “I got a bit of work experience at the local veterinary clinic in Litchfield last summer,” she admitted. “And I’m a hard worker,” she added, and tilted her chin back, “and a quick learner. And –” she hesitated. “And I really need this job.”
“How long did you work in the clinic?”
“Two and a half months.”
“And what, exactly,” he inquired, his eyes like flint, “did you do there?”
She thought of lying, or fudging the truth; but she’d already told him she had no real experience. “I kept Dr Edmund’s diary,” she confessed, “and answered the phone and dealt with customers, and I filed insurance forms.”
“You worked the reception desk.” It was a statement of fact.
“Yes.” She drew herself up. “It’s true I haven’t much experience tending to animals. But I can learn. I’ll do whatever needs doing. And I promise, I
When she saw him, sitting behind a desk heaped with folders and papers and forms, Marianne froze.
“Oh, no,” she said, and blinked. “It can’t be.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked abruptly.
She took some small satisfaction in the fact that his shock was as great as her own. Farmer Brown, for once, was at a loss for words.
“I’m here to interview for the job.”
He stared at her. “What job?”
“The veterinary assistant position,” she said. Was he thick as well as rude? “I sent my résumé in last month.”
He frowned and reached behind him, searched a table under the window, unearthed a folder, and riffled through it. He leaned back in his chair and scanned it. “Ah, here we are. No. The only interview letter we sent out went to an applicant named Mark Holland in Devonshire.”
“But I have a letter.” Marianne reached into her handbag and withdrew the letter she’d received and held it out. “Asking me to come in and interview for the job.”
He took it and glanced down. “Marianne Holland, of South Devon. Ah. There’s obviously been a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“You weren’t meant to get this offer. Mark Holland was.” He handed the letter back. “The files for Mark and Marianne must’ve got mixed up.”
“Did they, really? Or is the fact that I’m a female the issue?” she challenged him. “Did you offer Mr Holland an interview because he’s a man? Are you one of those sexist gits?”
His eyes narrowed. “No, I’m not ‘one of those sexist gits’, I offered Mr Holland an interview because he had excellent qualifications. But looking at this –” he picked up her résumé and scanned it. “Your qualifications are nonexistent. You’re not remotely suited for the job.”
“Why?” she bristled. “Because I’m a woman?”
“No.” He eyed her kitten heels, pencil skirt, and white silk blouse and leaned forward. “Because I suspect the only animal you’ve ever dealt with is one of those faffy little dogs you carry round in your purse like a furry accessory.”
She bristled at the astonishing injustice – not to mention sexism – of his assumption. “It’s not a
purse
,” she snapped, “it’s a handbag.”
And before she could form a further, more suitably scathing reply, he tossed her résumé aside.
“Have you ever worked in a professional capacity with animals before, Miss Holland?”
“Not…not as such, no.”
“Have you calved a cow, or foaled a mare?”
“No.”
“What do you know of animal husbandry?”
She blinked. She suspected he wasn’t referring to female chickens looking for rooster husbands. “A little,” she hedged.
“Good God,” he muttered, and ploughed a hand through his hair. “Do you know what colostrum is? Do things like the sight of blood or open wounds or placenta make you queasy?”
She blanched. “It all sounds a bit horrid, to be honest.”
“Then how do you expect me to hire you on to help me in the surgery?” he demanded. “You haven’t any qualifications at all, have you?”
Marianne bit her lip. “I got a bit of work experience at the local veterinary clinic in Litchfield last summer,” she admitted. “And I’m a hard worker,” she added, and tilted her chin back, “and a quick learner. And –” she hesitated. “And I really need this job.”
“How long did you work in the clinic?”
“Two and a half months.”
“And what, exactly,” he inquired, his eyes like flint, “did you do there?”
She thought of lying, or fudging the truth; but she’d already told him she had no real experience. “I kept Dr Edmund’s diary,” she confessed, “and answered the phone and dealt with customers, and I filed insurance forms.”
“You worked the reception desk.” It was a statement of fact.
“Yes.” She drew herself up. “It’s true I haven’t much experience tending to animals. But I can learn. I’ll do whatever needs doing. And I promise, I
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