The Bedroom Incident. Elizabeth Oldfield
impact, and in this dress—boy, oh, boy—she would.
On being shown to her room, she had first unpacked. She had marvelled at the carved four-poster bed with its silver-pink drapes and matching coverlet, gazed out at the formal gardens and the rolling Kent countryside which unfurled beyond, then gone through to the luxurious en-suite bathroom.
Filling the tub, she had tipped in a generous helping of the lavender bath grains which were provided, stripped and carefully skewered her hair onto the top of her head. After enjoying a long soothing soak, she had dried herself, dressed and fashioned her hair into a sophisticated tawny twist.
Kristin headed back into the bathroom to fix her make-up. A bronze eyeshadow was finger-tipped onto her lids and a line of kohl applied. The more she thought about it, the more certain she felt that Sir George had not told his . editor about her interview. And although he had assured her he would be delighted with his choice, he had also mentioned that Matthew Lingard had the final say.
She cast an anxious look at herself in the mirror. He would say yes to her appointment. Wouldn’t he? He must. Her track record was good. She had shown herself to be imaginative and hard-working, and had enthusiastic references to prove it. The paper’s proprietor had been impressed and, surely, Matthew would be impressed, too? She gave a decisive bob of her head. She was worrying unnecessarily.
She had always imagined her long-ago victim to be a cold, arrogant, loutish man, Kristin reflected, but he had seemed surprisingly warm and unassuming and pleasant. Wielding a wand of brown-black mascara, she brushed at her lashes. He was also a first-rate journalist. She could remember reading articles which he had written about politics and world events, and they were always a beat or two ahead of the others.
As she sprayed on a light floral perfume, her thoughts switched to her own writing. Before she went to join the other guests for drinks—and to wow Matthew Lingard—she wanted to jot down a few notes. Notes describing how it felt to be greeted by a butler, and about the excitement of staying in the splendour of a castle, and—she wrinkled her nose—about her plastic bags. She might never use the notes, but over the last few years scribbling down the events of her day had proved to be a worthwhile habit.
Standing beneath the jet of the high-velocity shower, Matthew massaged shampoo into his hair. He felt the thickness at the nape of his neck. He had meant to get his hair cut when he was up north, he thought ruefully, but he had not managed to find the time—thanks to Charlie.
As he rinsed away the bubbling foam, he frowned. Every time he saw his family—his parents also lived in Cheshire—he was faced with the same old demand. When was he going to settle down?
‘You love Charlie, so why don’t you get married and have kids of your own?’ Susan, his sister, had asked, a couple of days ago. ‘In a few years you’ll be forty and then—’
Her shrug had indicated that once he reached the big Four-O he would be past his sell-by date. He did not agree. He ran a hand over his chest, down to the flat plane of his stomach and along a firm, muscled flank. He was in good shape and he planned to stay that way.
Switching off the water, he reached for a towel. He fully intended to marry, but it would be at a time of his choosing—which meant, as his career was currently so demanding and so absorbing, not for the next year or two. Or three.
Though he had yet to meet a woman,who attracted him enough to want to love and live with her for the rest of his life. He had thought he was close on a couple of occasions, but had realised his mistake and sidestepped.
Matthew rubbed at the dark hair on his chest. Perhaps he was becoming choosy in his old age, but it was rare now that he met anyone he fancied, seriously fancied—though he had done today.
Dry, he ran a comb through his hair and walked back into the bedroom. Taking a pale pink shirt and a charcoal-grey suit from the wardrobe, he began to dress. When he met an attractive woman, he noticed the eyes first, then her breasts and next her legs.
Kristin Blake’s eyes were large and light hazel, encircled with lush lashes. The breasts beneath the cream jacket had been high, not too small, not too heavy, and her legs were long. Add fine bone structure, the dusting of freckles over her nose, that wide, soft mouth and everything met his criteria. He had known more classically beautiful women, but there was a freshness about her—combined with a certain vulnerability—which stirred something inside him. She had been instantly and gesiuinely likeable.
Forget Kristin Blake and think about finding an editor for The Ambassador’s features section, he told himself. He had hired a journalist whose work he admired, but she had discovered she was pregnant and had been forced to pull out at the last minute. However, he now had someone else in mind.
There was a knock at his door.
‘Coming,’ Matthew called and, pulling on his jacket, he went to answer it. He smiled. ‘Good evening.’
His visitor was a short, conspicuously substantial man in his early sixties, with apple cheeks and a corona of grey hair. He wore a dark, rather old-fashioned three-piece suit with a snowy white shirt and gold watch chain.
‘Good evening, Matt,’ Sir George said, in his rolling Scottish accent ‘Sorry I was unable to welcome you, but there’s a major breakdown at my bottling plant in Perthshire and the phone’s been humming. Settled in OK?’
‘Perfectly, thanks.’
‘Did you enjoy your holiday?’
‘Very much,’ he said, ushering his visitor into the room. ‘It’s a while since I last saw my folks and it was good to see them again.’
‘You should see them regularly. Families are what life is about, and all work and no play—’ Sir George wagged a reproving finger. ‘I wanted to have a wee word before we go into dinner. You know you need to recruit someone else to run the women’s pages?’
Inwardly wincing at the phrase, Matthew nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ he said. ‘Have you heard of Angela Carr? She’s a good solid journalist who’s worked on several dailies in her time. She went freelance a while back, but—’
‘I’ve interviewed someone,’ Sir George cut in.
His brows lifted. ‘You have?’
‘Someone young, bright and with plenty of fizz.’
Matthew felt a stab of irritation. Before agreeing to take on the role of editor, he had made it clear that his acceptance would be on the strict understanding that he had full control over the editorial content of the paper—which included the hiring of staff. He had insisted he must be allowed to run things his way. He made the decisions, not the proprietor.
‘I realise I was overstepping the mark,’ the older man said, with a smile, ‘but this is a special case and I won’t do it again. I promise. I consider the young lady’s ideal for the job and so will you.’
He was not so sure about that, he thought grimly. Sir George might have made a fortune out of bottling spring water, selling stationery, manufacturing industrial varnishes et cetera, but he knew damn-all about how to run a newspaper. And damn-all about journalists.
‘What did you say to the woman?’ Matthew enquired, wondering if a rash commitment might have been made.
In their dealings, the businessman had shown himself to be hard-headed, thoughtful and conservative, yet with the occasional flash of flamboyance. If his flamboyance had had him offering the job, the offer would be withdrawn, smartish. He refused to be landed with some ‘fizzing’ female.
‘That you’d like her and you will.’ Sir George shepherded him towards the door. ‘I’ll introduce you.’
‘She’s here?’ he protested.
The dinner was a ‘welcome on board’ to the journalists who had been newly appointed and to those who were continuing on The Ambassador’s staff. A muscle tightened in his jaw. The woman was not being welcomed on board. Far from it. Yet her presence signalled an expectation on Sir George’s