Hit and Run

Then there was the thought that from tomorrow for a possible four weeks I would be boss of the International with a hundred and fifteen men and women working under me, and two hundred and three clients who were liable to write or telephone about their problems any hour of the working day and expect me to have the answers at my finger-tips. Up to now this thought hadn't bothered me because I knew if the going got tough I could always go to R .A. and drop the sticky end into his lap. I could still do that, of course, but if I did, I knew he wouldn't think much of me. A man with a broken leg doesn't want to deal with anything except an emergency, so that bothered me too.

As I lay in bed with the moonlight coming through the window and hearing the sound of the sea breaking on the shore, all these problems seemed pretty overpowering until I took a look at them. It was then that I realized the real reason why I was sweating it out in the semi-darkness was because my mind was obsessed with the picture of Roger Aitken's wife as I had seen her standing before the mirror.

That was the thing that kept me from sleeping: the picture of her lifting her thick, chestnutcoloured hair off her white shoulders, the shape of her breasts under the frilly shortie, the young, fresh beauty of her, and the realization that she was Aitken's wife and the burning need I felt for her. It was that picture that kept my mind feverish and stopped me from sleeping. Why had Aitken married her: a girl young enough to be his daughter? I kept asking myself. More important still: why had she married him? Surely no young girl could fall in love with a man like R.A.?

Don't imagine I didn't try to snap out of this mood. I did my best to stop thinking about her. I told myself she was R.A.'s wife and therefore sacrosanct. She wasn't for me. She couldn't possibly be for me. I was crazy to think of her the way I was thinking of her, but it didn't help. I didn't sleep much that night. I just couldn't get her out of my mind.

I got to the office after nine o'clock the following morning. I arrived as Pat was entering the express elevator and I joined her. We were huddled against the wall, surrounded by other workers, and we smiled at each other, but we didn't speak because there were ears all around us.

It wasn't until we were in my office that I told her about the New York project.

'Oh, Ches, how wonderful!' she exclaimed. 'I've always wondered why he didn't set up on his own and in New York. To think you'll be in charge!'

'It's not certain. I could make a hash here, and then I'm out.'

'You won't make a hash here. You'll handle it. You mustn't even think you could make a hash of it.'

'I'll want you in New York, Pat. I couldn't handle the job without you.'

Her eyes sparkled as she said, 'You couldn't keep me away from New York. I've always wanted to work there.'

It was while I was going through the mail that Joe Fellowes wandered in.

'Hey, boss,' he said, grinning at me. 'How was the old man?'

'The only difference was he was lying in bed and not pacing up and down,' I said. 'Look Joe, I'm busy. I've got this board meeting in a few minutes. What do you want?'

Joe sat on the corner of my desk.

'Relax, boy. That board meeting isn't anything. I just want to be told the old man is writhing in pain. I like to think of him suffering. I bet he was screaming the roof off.'

'He wasn't. He's the original stoic. Sorry to disappoint you, Joe, and now if you'll beat it, I'll get on with the mail.'

Joe didn't move. He stared at me, a puzzled expression on his face.

'You look bothered. What's biting you?'

I had worked with him now for two years, and I liked him. He was the best layout artist in the racket. He had often said he wished I were his boss, rather than Aitken, and if ever I thought of opening up on my own, he would like to join me.

So I told him about the New York project.

'That's wonderful!' he said when I was through. 'You, Pat and me could make a world-beating team. If you don't land this job, Ches, I'll strangle you.'

'I'll do my best if it's like that,' I said and grinned at him.

He slid off the desk.

'Did you see R. A.'s wife when you were at the house?'

I felt myself turn hot. I was collecting some papers together so I didn't have to look at him otherwise I think I might have given myself away.

'His wife?' I tried to make my voice sound casual. 'No, I didn't see her.'

'Then you've missed something. Phew! What a dish! I've only set eyes on her once, but she's been haunting my dreams ever since.'

By now I had enough control over myself to look up and meet his eyes.

'What's so special about her, then?'

'Wait until you see her, then you will realize you've asked the silliest question of the year. What's special about her? For one thing she has more sex appeal in her little finger than any other girl I've seen. She can't be more than twenty, and what a beaut! It kills me to think she's married to that whisky-pickled, flint-hearted old sourpuss.'

'How do you know she isn't happy with him?'