The Bedroom Incident. Elizabeth Oldfield

      CHAPTER TWO

      KRISTIN’S gaze travelled across walls of beautiful inlaid panelling, oil paintings and crystal chandeliers. Flytes Keep might be a castle with all the adornments of a stately home, yet it felt warm and lived in. A place of good vibrations. This was due to the bowls of fragrant white narcissi which were spread around, family photographs on the mantelpiece, but, most of all, to the easygoing affability of their host.

      Her gaze stopped at the head of the long, white-damask-clothed table where Sir George laughed over a joke. In providing a delicious meal, permanently flowing drinks and giving the whole party overnight accommodation, he was a most generous host.

      When inviting her, he had asked if she would care to bring a boyfriend along and she had said no; but the dozen or so business and newspaper men who were present this evening were accompanied by their wives or partners. Only Matthew Lingard and a man she had been introduced to as the arts editor, and whom she suspected could be gay, had come alone.

      ‘Splendid wine. You need some more,’ declared the man seated on her right, and before she could protest he gestured to a waiter who instantly stepped forward and refilled her glass.

      The man ran one of Sir George’s companies which manufactured industrial varnishes, and his name was Freddie. Earlier, as Matthew had told their host that they had met, a door had opened down the hallway and a middle-aged couple had stepped out. Sir George had introduced them and had immediately been called away to the telephone—and Freddie had begun to chat

      He had dominated the conversation over drinks. Clearly aware of this trait, his wife had taken the first opportunity to drift away, then Matthew had excused himself and gone to talk with members of his staff. Thus Kristin had been left alone with the balding wordsmith, and it had seemed impolite for her also to depart. She had hoped that when the party moved into the dining room she would be able to escape, but no such luck.

      ‘We’re sitting together!’ Freddie had exclaimed delightedly, inspecting the place names.

      Kristin took a sip of wine. An hour ago she had not known industrial varnishes existed, yet after being told at length about types, consistency and application she felt as if she could pass examinations on the subject. But now, in the pause after the main course of fresh poached salmon, her companion had begun to regale a man sitting opposite with the same numbing screed.

      Freddie’s enthusiasm meant she had barely managed to exchange two words with Matthew Lingard, who was seated on her left, let alone attempt to charm him. Though as soon as they had taken their places a matronly brunette who was on his other side had claimed his attention and she had been talking to him—at him—ever since.

      Kristin ran her fingers pensively up and down the stem of her glass. The vibrations which came from Matthew were not so good. He had plainly been shocked to discover she was in line for a job on the newspaper—and his anger was thinly veiled. But it was not her fault if Sir George had kept quiet about her interview, she thought rebelliously. Her brow crimped. Though it could be her problem.

      ‘How long have you known Emily?’ a low male voice asked, and she turned to find that the subject of her thoughts had been released from his verbal barracking, too.

      She smiled. ‘Since Wednesday.’

      ‘Wednesday?’ Matthew repeated, and frowned. He had decided to do some probing to discover how serious the proprietor’s promotion of Kristin Blake was likely to be—which would enable him to mount an appropriate offensive. ‘But I thought you said the two of you were friends.’

      Kristin looked along to the other end of the table where a dark-haired girl in a demure white broderie anglaise dress was chatting with guests. Chatting gamely, she noticed.

      ‘I said I was friendly with her and I am. When we met at the interview on Wednesday—’

      ‘Emily was there?’ he enquired, in astonishment.

      ‘Yes. She was eager to meet me—’

      ‘Hang on,’ Matthew instructed, cutting in again. ‘If you didn’t know his daughter, how come Sir George decided to interview you?’

      ‘Serendipity.’

      ‘You mean it was your lucky day at the job centre?’ he asked sardonically.

      ‘I mean he interviewed me because Emily reads my column, likes it and she’d suggested to him that I might be a suitable applicant for—’

      ‘Emily suggested you?’ he said, incredulity written all over his face.

      ‘Correct. And when we met at the interview we immediately hit it off,’ Kristin said, finally managing to complete at least one sentence.

      ‘So this is what makes you a special case,’ he muttered.

      ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘Which paper do you work for?’ he enquired, lifting up his glass.

      ‘I don’t work for a newspaper, I work for Trend.’

      ‘T-Trend?’ he spluttered. He had taken a mouthful of wine and suddenly seemed in danger of choking.

      ‘It’s a women’s magazine.’

      Matthew swallowed. ‘I know, I’ve seen it on the newsstands. Trend?’ he repeated. ‘Sweet mercy.’

      Kristin’s hackles rose. Typical male response, she thought. He was casually mocking her work—as it had been mocked by men before. She reminded herself of the hundreds of thousands of women who read and enjoyed the magazine, and tried not to care, but she did. The mockery hurt—and irritated.

      Keep calm, she told herself. No matter how tempted you are to retaliate—and a high-heeled jab at his shins would be immensely satisfying—you want to charm him, so a smile has to be the wisest option.

      ‘Poke fun if you must,’ Kristin said, her tone light, then stopped as a young waitress appeared at her shoulder.

      ‘Are you taking the pudding, miss, or the cheeseboard?’ the girl enquired.

      ‘Pudding, please,’ she replied, and a cut-crystal dish of chocolate mousse in a coffee sauce was placed before her.

      She eyed it with rueful delight, thinking of the calories it must contain and the extra miles she would need to cycle on the bike at the gym.

      ‘For you, sir?’

      ‘The cheeseboard,’ Matthew said.

      ‘Have you ever opened a copy of Trend?’ Kristin enquired, after he had made his selection and the waitress had moved on.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Have you ever read anything I’ve written?’

      ‘So far as I’m aware, I haven’t had the pleasure.’

      ‘Then why such knee-jerk horror?’ she asked, with a smile.

      He slung her an impatient look. ‘Writing a column for a women’s weekly magazine is a little different to running the features section of a national daily newspaper. A quality daily newspaper.’

      ‘I